Tag: historical crime

Rogation Day Part Four

On By chrisnickson2In UncategorizedLeave a comment

After missing last week, I’m back with the fourth episode of the Elizabethan serial. Need to catch up or refresh your memory? Just scroll down for the earlier parts…

            ‘I was busy,’ he replied as if it was nothing at all and glanced at the body. ‘Why would anyone murder Tenche?’

            ‘If we knew that, we’d know who did it,’ I replied sharply. He’d missed the beating of the bounds, vanished without trace for a few hours when I needed him as part of the Waits and the watch.

            ‘What about his wife?’ He peered down at the wounds, frowning. I told him the little we knew.

‘Alderman Skyes is with her now.’ That made him raise his eyebrows.

‘Putting his case for a quick marriage?’

‘None of my business. If you want to help, see if you can discover where Tenche went last night.’

He gave me a doubtful look, opened his mouth as if to speak, then nodded and left. What could I make of that? I’d think about it later, when I had time. For now I had to inform people about the murder, then be out there hunting for the killer.

4

At home, the little house on Marsh Lane, on the other side of the beck from the town, I penned letters, one to the county sheriff, the second to Walsingham’s man in the West Riding, detailing what little I knew about Tenche’s murder, the possible reasons behind it, and those who might be suspects. I’d never written a good hand, but it was legible. After I read each one through, I sanded and folded them and applied the official seal of the watch before locking my door and walking back into Leeds and leaving the letters with Harmon Javeson at his shop on Vicar Lane.

            It was a place of oddments and curiosities that nobody was likely to buy. A horse harness where the leather was cracked. An empty old wooden scabbard with an inscription that had faded beyond reading. More, much more. Everything covered in a patina of dust, cobwebs hanging in the corners of the ceiling, so ancient the spiders had dried to husks.

            But Harmon didn’t need to sell anything. He was Lord Cecil’s man, the government’s eyes and ears around here, paid to pass on information, to keep aware of all that was happening. He was older than me, with lank, grey hair and wisps of a white beard, looking like someone in need of a hearty meal.

            I passed over the letters. He’d arrange the delivery and pass on any reply.

            ‘Bad business, yon. Word’s all over.’ He shook his head. ‘Walter Tenche.’

            ‘Any ideas?’ I asked, but he shrugged in reply. He’d always been a miser with his thoughts, keeping them to himself until he could play them to advantage.

            As I turned away, hand on the doorknob, he said: ‘The upright man’s looking for you.’

            ‘Is he now? I’m easy enough to find.’

            Everyone called him the Upright Man. There were probably some who didn’t know his real name. Bartlett Wilson. Sly as the devil, cunning. He ran much of the crime in Leeds, with the young cutpurses and whores all giving him some of their takings, on pain of beatings or worse. If they were caught, they knew to take their punishments and not mention his names. A sentence of hanging over on Gallows Hill meant Wilson would tend to their families if they kept their mouths shut. For a while, at least, then his care would ebb to nothing.

            He was the bane of my life; I’d never mange to catch him in crime; out of fear, nobody peached. He had money, a home, such as the hovel was. I couldn’t charge him as a vagabond. Very careful about showing his hand. We kept a distance from each other.

            Why would he want to see me?

The fifth part will arrive in a week or two – if you want it. Meanwhile, both the Cathy Marsden WWII novels, No Precious Truth and The Faces Of The Dead are currently £1.99 on Kindle – the first is just 99p (free with Kindle Unlimited). That’s two books for around the price of a coffee. You’re not likely to find a better bargain this week. I truly hope you’ll but them – because they’re good. I sweated blood and tears over those books!

Rogation Day Part 2

On By chrisnickson2In UncategorizedLeave a comment

A number of you seemed to like the first part of Rogation Day, which I posted last week (if you missed it, catch up here). Here’s the second installment, and it appears to be turning into a serial. That’s both good and bad. I nered to keep it going and make sure there’s enough to keep you interested. But I’m also getting caught up in the tell of it and what might happen. No, honestly, I don’t know; I’m truly making it up as I go. But Elizabethan Leeds is a new era for me, so we’ll discover it together, shall we?

Meanwhile, on with Part 2…

            ‘Where should we take him, Gil?’ I was the inspector of the night watch; the decision and the investigation was mine.

            I thought for a moment. ‘The house of pleas,’ I said. Plenty of room to gather the witnesses and hear testimony and have a proper view of the corpse. ‘Everyone there and wait.’

            They made their way in twos and threes, reluctant to be a part of this. But this was murder, plain to everyone with eyes in their face.

            My mind was galloping. Men ended up in brawls, wounded in pain. That usually came after drinking. Straightforward crimes. This was going to be much harder.

     I strode out ahead of the others, back into Leeds along Mabgate, banging on Richard’s door once again before going in. I knew I’d find nothing, but I had to check.

            Tenche dead, Richard missing. I didn’t know of any connection between them, but there had to be something; I’d never believed in coincidence.

2

The body was laid out along the table and stripped, just a sheet for modesty. I’d sent for the coroner, Mr Bateson, to come and examine it, offer his judgement, and given a boy a farthing to gather the aldermen. I could hear voices outside as a crowd gathered, drawn by the horror of the news.

            ‘He was stabbed.’ Bateson’s words filled the expectant silence in the room. He was the apothecary, the only man in Leeds with any knowledge of medicine. ‘There, under his ribs.’ The man pointed it out for everyone to see before turning to me. ‘My fee?’

            God’s love. A lost life in front of him and all he could consider was a few pennies.

            ‘Send your bill,’ I told him. ‘You’ll be paid.’

            As soon as he’d gone, I raised my voice. ‘Any doubt this was murder?’ Nobody dissented.

            We needed to find the killer, and the reason. Tenche’s Catholicism, or his position as cloth searcher? Where was Richard? With each passing moment, my doubts grew.

Richard had never been in a fight, as peaceable a man as they came. A fine musician and a good carpenter; he’d completed his apprenticeship, never an argument with his master, and solid in his work. Our wives died within a year of each other, his Bertha in her childbed after a stillborn baby, my Lizzie taken by the sleeping sickness. Neither of us had remarried. We’d never discussed it, but I suspect our reasons were the same: we couldn’t face heartbreak again. Both of us were find alone, meeting two or three evenings a week to practice with the Waits or play for dances. A few drinks afterwards.

            Not a violent bone in his body. What had happened to him?

I noticed Alderman Sykes stood at the back of the hall, looking quizzically down at the floorboards, hat in his hand, the plumes fluttering as they caught the small breeze from the open window. He was well-dressed as ever, a black doublet, sleeves artfully slashed to display the blood red material beneath. Black hose and buckled shoes, a small white ruff around his neck. The starched pleats neatly ironed.

   I pulled off my cap as I approached him, bowing my head for a moment.

            ‘Good morrow to you, master.’

            ‘Hardly that with Tenche dead,’ he said.

            ‘It’s murder.’

            ‘I see.’         

‘We’ll need to tell his wife,’ I said.

            ‘I imagine she already knows,’ he replied. ‘Don’t you think the whole town will have heard by now, Gil Craven?’

            ‘Mrs Tenche might have information to guide us, sir.’

            ‘Possibly,’ he agreed after a few seconds’ consideration. ‘She’ll need to arrange the burial.’

            ‘You knew him well, didn’t you?’

            ‘I knew him,’ he said cautiously. ‘I wouldn’t say well.’

            In a town like Leeds, every face was familiar. With a little over three thousand souls, each day you saw the same folk day after day. Friendships, though, were different. I’d often seen Sykes and Tenche in the alehouses, heads together as they talked.

            ‘Do you think it had to do with his position?’ Sykes asked.

            ‘I don’t know, sir. That’s why I need to ask questions.’

            He nodded. Walter Tenche had been serving his year as cloth searcher. It was a position of honour among the merchants, voted by the others for his honesty and integrity. He examined the cloth offered for sale on Leeds Bridge on market days, every Tuesday and Saturday, making sure the quality of the worsted and northern dozens was high enough to be sold as Leeds cloth. We didn’t have guilds like York, so our merchants could sell more cheaply. The cloth searcher could refuse pieces and ensure the reputation of everything offered here was high. A dispute over that could well be a reason for murder.

            Sykes was a merchant. He’d been born to it. His father had made money in the wool trade and Charles Sykes has seen business expand. He’d built a stone loom house behind his home on Briggate, three apprentices working for him. A wealthy man with a heavy purse dangling from his belt, next to the sharp dagger in its sheath.

            He was very aware of his status in the town, but a good man for all that. Did he know about Tenche’s hidden Catholicism? Unless it was important, that was something I hoped to keep quiet; no need for it to taint him in death.

            ‘I’ll go and see his widow,’ Sykes said. I could see the calculation behind his eyes. He had three children, the oldest ten; his wife had died last year. Mrs Tenche had two young children of her own. Very soon she would need the protection and money of a husband.

The third part will arrive in a week or two – if you want it. Meanwhile, both the Cathy Marsden WWII novels, No Precious Truth and The Faces Of The Dead are currently £1.99 on Kindle – the first is just 99p (free with Kindle Unlimited). That’s two books for around the price of a coffee. You’re not likely to find a better bargain this week. I truly hope you’ll but them – because they’re good. I sweated blood and tears over those books!

Everything Must Go

On By chrisnickson2In Cathy Marsden, dark briggate blues, gods of gold, leeds, richard nottingham, simon westow, tom harperLeave a comment

Want some cheap books? Want to spend next to nothing for hours of reading? Well…

My publishers have put all my books in Kindle Unlimited. That means the ebooks can only be read or bought through Amazon, for Kindle (sorry, but that’s out of my hands). However, if you subscribe to Kindle Unlimited, they’re free. Or, if not, you can buy them, and I don’t believe any of them costs more than £2.99 (cheap in the US, too, where thney’re also on KU).

What does that mean? The two Cathy Marsden book, including The Faces Of The Dead, which only came out in April, are a bargain. Same with the eight Simon Westow books, all 11 Tom Harper novels, and seven Richard Nottingham books. That’s on top of another publisher offering the Dan Markham book and all four Chesterfield novels at a bargain price.

I’m not s\aying you should, but really, you should.

Thanks good – and good reading.

Out In The Wild

On By chrisnickson2In Cathy Marsden, leedsLeave a comment

Yesterday, The Faces Of The Dead was published. Not my first book and hopefully not my last. But I’ll tell you something, the thrill never goes. It’s never mundane, or an ordinary day.

But each time, it’s a gamble. We write, hope the publishers wants the work – that’s the first hurdle. The true test, though, is when it’s in the hands of the readers. They – you – are the ultimate judges. We hope you like the idea of the book enough to buy it or borrow it from the library. Obviously, buying it is better, as we get the royalties from sales. Still, times are tough and books are a luxury; I understand. Still, request it from the library and if they don’t have it, they’ll buy a copy. The upside to that is that many more people can read it.

I keep gambling on people liking my books, and so far, you have. I’m incredibly grateful for that, believe me. These constant leaps of faith can be draining, but I’ll keep on making them.

Meanwhile, thank you for reading. As we all know, books are better from independent shops. If that isn’t an option for you, Speedy Hen has the best hardback price, plus free UK postage.

Need another nudge to convince you? How about this review from Booklist?

… When her boss is badly injured during a raid, Cathy’s as shocked as she is proud to take over as his temporary replacement, although there’s extra pressure—her “being a woman and all”—to crack the case. But her local connections, ingenuity, bravery, and intuition pay off. A plucky female cop, wartime drama and romance, and a look at how the war gave women new opportunities give oomph to Nickson’s slow-burning police procedural.

Go on, you know you want to.

And thank you.

Less Than Three Weeks…

On By chrisnickson2In Cathy Marsden, leeds2 Comments

…until The Faces Of The Dead is published (out April 7).

As some of you probably know, it’s the second in the Cathy Marsden series, the sequel to No Precious Truth. Set three years later, in early spring 1944, a few months before D-Day. Not that the buildup greatly affected Leeds; the difference was down South, with thousands of troops – British, American, from all over the Commonwealth – gathered for the opening of the second front.

Up North, Cathy, along with the other members of the Special Investigation Branch (SIB) squad here, has her own problems: a Jaguar owned by a criminal has run off the road near Harewood, killing himself and the female passenger. A tragedy, but hardly something for SIB – until the car is examined. It’s filled with stolen good…including British and American guns.

Now it’s their business.

But the accident unleashes a power battle between the gang leaders in Leeds, one with control of crime in the city at stake. And it quickly turns deadly as one man tries for dominance. Cathy and the squad need to bring him down, and work alongside a couple of officers from the American miliary CID, with the tensions between nations on display.

Meanwhile, her boyfriend is home on leave after serving in North Africa and Italy. He springs a big surprises, but both he and Cathy know what lies ahead for him, looming on the horizon.

It’s a relentless, supercharged ride – but in a Leeds style.

I’d be very grateful if you’d pre-order The Faces Of The Dead from your favourite place (especially an independent). After that, hang on to your hat. It’s going to be a wild ride.

A Taste Of Words To Come

On By chrisnickson2In leeds5 Comments

I know I have a new book coming out in April. It’s calledThe Faces Of The Dead, and it’s the second Cathy Marsden thriller (and bloody good and tense, if I do say so myself). I truly hope you’ll buy it; those pre-orders are important.

For today, though, I’m looking further ahead – that taste of words to come. It’ll be a while before they’re here, though. January 2027, in fact. There isn’t even a cover yet. You’re among the first to read these words. The book is called The Ascent Of Lies, with Mrs Virginia Cooper and Mr Asa Daniels, set in Leeds and York. I gave a small taste a while ago (find it here), and I thought you might like another tease. Come with me to Leeds Assembly Rooms in June 1862.

The man danced wonderfully well. William Fontaine held her politely at arms’ length and led them through a waltz as the small orchestra played. Quick and light on his feet, he had the skill to make even someone like her feel graceful. All around them, the brilliant shimmer from hundreds of candles gave a warm glow to the old assembly rooms.

            As the tune ended, Virginia stepped back, eyes shining, breathless and giddy with pleasure, and curtsied to her partner. He bowed deeply, took her hand and kissed it with a smile that veered close to a flirt. Studied and smooth, but done with poise and style, the actions of a man who’d experienced the world.

            In a warm accent, he said, ‘It was an honour, ma’am,’ before leading her back to the table where his wife was waiting, richly dressed in burgundy satin and sitting next to an awkward, stiff Chief Constable Broadbent, Virginia’s companion for the evening.

            It had been his idea to treat the Fontaines as favoured guests in Leeds, representatives of the government of the Confederate States of America. A gracious gesture, but very carefully judged; welcoming, but not official. They claimed they were in England to travel around, conduct business, give talks and drum up support for their secessionist cause. Broadbent was suspicious; he believed there might be more to their visit. What, though, he didn’t know yet.

He’d arranged the invitation to the assembly, then asked Virginia to accompany him and befriend Fontaine’s wife. She’d accepted without a second’s hesitation; it was utterly different to anything else she’d done for the police, a chance to be swept up and carried away to a different, sparkling world.

            Their table had been busy. Men kept arriving for a few quiet words with Fontaine; one or two accompanied Mrs Fontaine around the dancefloor. All the while Virginia felt as if she’d walked into Cinderella. She was glamorous, flattered by the light, plenty of partners for a country dance or a polka, wearing a luxurious gown of royal blue silk lent by Broadbent’s sister and transformed into a beautiful fit over the crinoline hoop by Ellie’s skill with a needle. Who could ever have believed the idea of Virginia Cooper dancing with an agent of the Confederacy, a Johnny Reb? And all in the line of duty, keeping Mr Fontaine occupied while her husband searched his hotel room.

Are you intrigued? I hope so. I’m despearely proud of this book. It seems to bring together everything I’ve been trying to do throughout my writing – but on a slightly broader canvas.

And I hope you’ll get in your order for The Faces Of The Dead.

Lots More Cathy Marsden

On By chrisnickson2In Cathy Marsden, leeds1 Comment

Two big Cathy Marsden pieces for you. The first is that the second book with her, The Faces Of The Dead, will be out next April. Here’s a taste of the opening:

Leeds, late March, 1944

‘This had better be very important,’ she said as she slid into the passenger seat of the Humber.

            George Andrews started the car, put it into gear and  set off down Brander Road.

            ‘Boss’s orders. He wants us all in the office as soon as possible.’

            Cathy glanced over her shoulder, seeing Tom standing alone on the pavement.

            Even perfect weeks had to end.

*

A sunny March Monday that held the promise of an early spring, and she was stuck in the office with the rest of the squad, reading over reports that needed to be filed. The door with Special Investigation Branch painted on the glass stood open, but by afternoon the air was warm, thick and sultry. All she wanted was to be outside, doing something beyond the routine of paperwork. The telephone bell jangled and Smithy handed her the receiver.

            ‘For you,’ he said. ‘Some bloke.’

            ‘This is Sergeant Marsden.’

            A rough, crackling connection, booming with background noise. Suddenly she heard a voice she’d often dreamed about during the last three years. The words flooded out; he’d just landed in England, he had two weeks’ leave and he’d be back in Leeds tomorrow. Before she could reply, the line died.

            Her head was suddenly whirling in twelve directions at once, heartbeat galloping in her chest. Less than twenty-four hours and Tom would be here. It didn’t seem possible. Not after all this time.

            She took slow, shallow breaths, trying to calm herself.

‘We don’t have anything big right now, do we?’ Cathy was a bag of nerves as she stood by Faulkner’s desk. He was the boss; he made the decisions. But he’d seemed distracted lately. If there was any problem at home, he’d never discuss it in the office; he kept work and personal life separate.

‘You already know that,’ he answered, narrowing his eyes. ‘Why?’

‘That was Tom. He’s just stepped off the boat and he has a fortnight up here.’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t give you that long.’

‘A week,’ she said. ‘Come on, you know I have more leave than that due. We all do.’ She gazed at him hopefully. ‘I’ll come back if anything happens.’

            Faulkner chuckled. ‘Go on, then. I must be getting soft. A week. Make the most of it. But,’ he added, ‘be sure you’re available in case something comes up.’

First thing Tuesday morning she was at the salon on the parade, begging Edna to squeeze her in and tidy up the pageboy cut.

            At home, her clothes were strewn across the bed as she tried on one after the other, wanting the perfect outfit to welcome him back. She was desperate to see him, but scared, too. Questions kept spinning through her brain: after so long apart, could they fit together again? Those censored letters they’d exchanged were all very well, but so much had happened to them both that they could never start to explain on a page.

            By four o’clock she was ready. She chose a burgundy cotton frock with white piping that she’d bought shortly before clothes rationing began. Five minutes with the iron to take out the wrinkles, top it with a thin cardigan, a few touches from her tiny stock of rationed make-up and that was it. She felt the anticipation surging through her body. She was excited. Hopeful. Overwhelmed. Terrified. Everything jumbled together as she tried to drink a cup of tea.

            The knock came at six just as the sound of Big Ben announced the news on the wireless. Butterflies fluttered around her stomach as she turned the doorknob.

It’s a twisted tale and you can see why: Cathy Marsden’s happiness at her boyfriend Tom’s brief leave from the army and marriage proposal is short-lived as she embarks on a new case in the Special Investigation Branch.

Eric Carr, a local gangster, is dead after crashing his car on the outskirts of Leeds. Not only that, but an alarming discovery is made in the boot: weapons, including guns, stolen from a US military base, to be sold on the black market.

Was the crash simply an accident, or something more sinister? One thing’s for sure – Eric’s death has set a chain of murder and gangland chaos in motion. As the number of people disappearing increases, and men start dying, Cathy must work out who is pulling the strings, and why.

You can pre-order the book right here. But before you do, why not read No Precious Truth, the first book in there series. The Kindle version is currently just £4.99 ($9.99 in the US). Almost as cheap as a coffee…go here and click buy. I promise you won’t regret it.

Oh, before I forget, here’s the cover from The Faces Of The Dead. Now, don’t you want to read it?

A Week After Publication And A Special Offer

On By chrisnickson2In leeds, simon westowLeave a comment

A Rage Of Souls has been out in the world for just over a week. I’m grateful to everyone who’s bought it and (hopefully) enjoyed the book.

I’ve attempted some wit in marketing it in photos, puns around the theme of rage. Has it worked? Who can tell. But it amuses (me, if nobody else), and perhaps it jogged one or two people into buying.

All the Rage

That first week is crucial for a book. It’s when that critical first momentum takes place. This book has been off to a good start. The trick is to try and keep that going.

Maybe this can give sales a little boost. None of it is my doing; I’m not sure my publisher had a band in it, either. Whatever the reason, I’m not complaining.

Out- Rage

In the UK, the price for the Kindle version has dropped to £7.99 – you can buy it here. A hair over two cups of coffee. It’s $9.99 in the US (follow this link). If you’ve been thinking about a punt on it but felt it was too expensive before (it was, in my view), now is your time. I honestly think the book will convince you once to start reading. You can always download a free sample and try it out. How’s that for a deal.

It does get better. If you like that, Them Without Pain, the book that preceded it in the series, is only £8.54 in the Uk (look here) and £8.99 for the hardback. The US hardcover is $18.54. The entire series is very reasonably priced; the first two are just £2.99 for the ebooks.

A Rage Of Souls is the final Simon Westow novel. I’d be very grateful if you gave him a grand send-off.

Thank you.

Let Me Pique Your Interest

On By chrisnickson2In leeds, simon westowLeave a comment

Two minutes, that’s all…two minutes out of your busy day to travel back 200 years and peer into the darkness and mystery with A Rage Of Souls. Go on…you know you want to. It’s the final Simon Westow novel.

Leeds, April 1826

Simon Westow looked up from the Leeds Intelligencer. The house was quiet, their twin sons Richard and Amos off at their lessons at the grammar school.

‘Do you remember Frederick Fox?’ he asked.

Rosie was stirring a pot on the range. ‘Of course I do. What’s happened? Have they finally hanged him?’

‘He’s been pardoned.’

 ‘What?’ She let the spoon clatter against the pan. ‘Why?’

He folded the newspaper and placed it on the table. ‘It doesn’t give the reason. All done at the last minute, apparently. He was standing on the scaffold in York when the message arrived.’ ‘That’s probably an exaggeration. You know they always try to make it sound dramatic.’

Rosie pressed her lips together. ‘Still, I wonder what happened. Maybe he knows someone important.

A man in dark, sober livery was standing on the step, a serious look on his face. Someone’s servant, Simon thought. He made a hasty bow and handed him a folded note.

‘Mr Barton said to bring you this, sir.’

‘Thank you.’ He fumbled in his pocket, found a halfpenny and pressed it into his hand. With a smile and a thank you, the man drifted away.

At the kitchen table, Simon broke the seal.

Mr Westow,

No doubt you saw the news that Fox was granted a reprieve from death. When that happened, I imagined he and his wife would go somewhere nobody knew them and find a new life. However, since last week, I believe I’ve seen him following me three times. At first, I decided it had to be my imagination. With the second instance, I was a little less sure. The third happened yesterday morning, and I’d swear an oath it was Fox. Always at a distance, with no attempt to speak to me or threaten me. I’m not a man easily given to fright, but this worries me, more for my wife than myself. I will gladly pay you to discover what’s happening and to keep us safe.

Your servant,

James Barton

He read it through once again and began to plan.

It’s out in under a month. You can pre-order it right here, but if you can, please buy from an independent bookshop. In the UK, this place has the best hardback price, plus free postage.

What are the critics saying?

“Nickson vividly evokes the atmosphere of nineteenth-century Leeds and keeps the plot tense and twisty throughout. A good pick for historical-mystery fans.” Booklist

“A first-rate, complex mystery that delves deeply into the many social injustices of the
time.” Kirkus Reviews

Ask your library system to order a copy. That way it’s there for everyone.

Go on, click those links…

The Final Book

On By chrisnickson2In Cathy Marsden, leeds, simon westow2 Comments

October will bring the publication of A Rage Of Souls, the eighth Simon Westow novel. A couple of people who’ve read it feel it’s the darkest yet in the series – which surprised me; it never struck me that way when I was writing it. Shadowed and sorrowful, yes. But the series had always had shaded undercurrents and that sense that violence might explode.

Yes (I think) there’s always been hope in there too, some light amongst everything else.

She sat outside the cottage, quietly reading her book and relishing the warmth of the afternoon sun. Even through the fine layer of haze and smoke that always hung over the town, the heat was comforting.

When the bell at the parish church pealed half past five, Jane set the book aside and brought a knife from her pocket, spending five minutes honing its sharpness. She knew this blade. It had saved her life and served her well. Readiness could mark the distance between life and death. Her attention had slipped once, and she’d paid for it with her little finger. Simon had let down his guard for a single moment and now he walked with the consequences.

As she approached Barton’s house, she paused to study Sally. When they met, the girl had been a child of anger. It was fury that had kept her alive on the streets. But living with Simon and Rosie and their boys, she’d found a family who cared for her, and much of that hardness had blunted, tempered with compassion. She was growing, taller every month it seemed, and starting to fill out. How old was she? Thirteen, Jane decided. That, or perhaps a year older.

Still a strange one, a child of two families, one with the Westows and the other with the homeless children who relied on each other. God help her if she was ever forced to choose between them, Jane thought.

‘Barton left about an hour after you,’ Sally said. ‘The servant brought a gig from the coach house. He and a woman went off in it. I decided to stay in case Fox came sniffing.’

‘Any sign of him?’ Her gaze slid around, but there was little to see. The house was quiet, nobody visible through the windows. She shook her head.

‘Nothing at all.’ ‘I’ll stay for a few hours and come back again in the morning.’

When she turned her head again, Sally had vanished.

But I should probably announce something – this will be the last book in the series. I hadn’t originally planned it that way, but the one I had in my head as the final novel refused to come together, and, reading it again, this seems to make a good conclusion. I’m not going to force things

Perhaps I’m right. You’ll have to be the judge.

To be clear – no, this doesn’t mean I’m retiring. It’s simply the last Simon Westow book.

It’s available for pre-order, as hardback and ebook. I’ll give the Amazon UK links here, although Speedy Hen is cheaper for the hardback and has free postage. Find it here.

And while you’re at it, Cathy Marsden in No Precious Truth will appear in paperback in November for £9.99 ($16.99 US). Very easy to carry around and also makes a great extra Christmas present. You can pre-order that, too. Do it right here.