Forgotten Book: DEATH IS A RED ROSE, Dorothy Eden

This week's contribution to Pattinase's Friday's Forgotten Books.

Sometimes these books that I have listed in my little green book are well and truly forgotten, not just by me, but also by the publishing world.

This one dates from my reading in 1978, but I have been able to find out very little about it. I'm hoping that someone who reads this blog post will know this book.

I remember that back then I read a lot of Dorothy Eden. DEATH IS A RED ROSE was published in 1956.

Dorothy Eden (1912-1982) was born in New Zealand and moved to England in 1954. She was a prolific writer of novels and short stories, and generally wrote mystery, suspense and Gothic novels.
By the time she published DEATH IS A RED ROSE she had already published 12 novels, so you could say she was well-established. She would write over 40 novels.
There is a comprehensive list on Wikipedia and an impressive array of covers on Fantastic Fiction. Dorothy Eden wrote two books under the pseudonym of Mary Paradise.

My memory is that she set her novels all over the globe, even in Australia.

So who has a copy of DEATH IS A RED ROSE on their shelves, and can contribute the blurb from the back cover?

The blurb (many thanks to Deb who found the book in her local library):
When Cressida Lucy Barclay decided to take the vacant flat on the ground floor of the large decaying London house, she knew the terms of her tenancy were odd, the other occupants distinctly unusual, and the landlady the strangest of all. With her parrot, her tarnished finery and her passion for camels, Arabia Bolton was the kind of person one could only describe as fabulous. Flamboyant and impulsively generous, she remained unpredictable, especially in her obsession with the memory of her long-dead daughter.

There was a story here, thought Cressida, so in spite of the strangeness of the house and its residents she decided to stay. But the more she delved ito the past, the more she became involved with them all.

Cressida gradually began to feel as though a net were closing round her, a net whose strands were closely interwoven with the mystery of a dead girl whose name was also Cressida Lucy and of a room where the scent of red roses hung heavy in the air.

Thanks also to Margot who copied this blurb from another edition:

When Cressida Barclay rented a flat in a large decaying London house she got more than she bargained for. Her fellow tenants were an eerie lot and her landlady a strange old widow, who identified her new lodger with her long-dead daughter also named Cressida. Someone else in the house also felt that way and, afraid for her life, Cressida was further weakened by the overpowering scent of roses associated with a long-dead girl.