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.
It’s just six weeks until Them Without Pain is published. It’s a twisting tale with its foundation ir real Leeds history, and by the end, one of the main characters will have their life changed completely.
Intrigued? Good. Come on, take five minutes and read a very short extract. You can pre-order it at all the usual places (and indie bookshops are alwasy best). For online, Speedy Hen has the best price with free UK delivery. See it here. I know many can’t afford new hardbacks, but ask your library to get it in for you (and others). It all helps.
Thank you – and enjoy
Jane spotted Simon, dressed in a good suit, and Constable Porter in his best swallowtail coat, with a fresh, crisp stock tied around his neck. Mrs Shields had been right to insist that she wore her best dress; she fitted in. Another man stood with Simon and Porter, someone older, with a sprawl of grey hair and expensive, unfashionable clothes, an eager expression on his face. She touched the gold ring on her right hand that Mrs Shields had long ago given her for luck.
‘This is Miss Jane Truscott’, Simon introduced her. ‘Mr Armistead.’ The man had fine manners, taking her hand and bowing.
‘It’s time,’ the constable said as he glanced at his watch. He picked up a heavy hammer and started to lead the way up the creaking wooden stairs to the galley. Eagerly, Armistead skipped ahead of him.
Jane had been up here before; she knew every crevice of Leeds in her pores. Yet never inside any of the workshops. She watched as Porter selected a rusty old key from a heavy ring of them looped over his arm, and turned it in the lock.
Simon kept his eyes on Armistead. The man was full of anticipation, shifting from one foot to another as the constable opened the door, then scurrying to be first into the room.
He paused, feeling the tiny sliver of fear return at the edge of his mind. Stupid. It was a bright morning, an empty room with others around; there was no danger here.
The workshop was almost bare, only a scarred old wooden table under the dirty window that looked out over Briggate. A thick layer of dust covered everything, cobwebs across the glass and in all the corners. He breathed in the smell of neglect and dereliction, years of scents piled on top of each other. Simon watched Porter gaze around, unimpressed.
Armistead was running his hands across the dirty wooden panelling on the far wall, his face so close to it that he looked to be studying the grain. Very lightly, he tapped his fist against the wood. Simon heard. So did the constable; he raised his head. Hollow. There was space behind there.
‘I can’t see any catch to open it,’ Armistead said.
‘Doesn’t matter. It’s going to come down, anyway. Stand back.’ He was reluctant to move until Porter brought the hammer down close to his hands and he slid away to safety.
The first blow fell like thunder, dry wood shattering as splinters flew around the room. Simon realized his throat was dry. He was holding his breath in anticipation. From the corner of his eye he saw Jane, standing, silent, gaze fixed on the scene. He’d done right to ask her. Neither Rosie nor Sally had seemed too interested, but she was rapt.
A second blow, then a third turned into a rhythm of booming. By the fifth he’d made a small gap, enough for an arm. Finally, sweating from the effort, the constable lowered the hammer. Space for a man to wriggle through.
Armistead was the first. That was only fair; he was the one who’d been so certain this hidden room existed. A small shout of delight became a wail of horror.
Simon looked at Porter, then squeezed through the hole.
The secret workshop ran the width of the room. No windows. No light beyond the little that came through the gap. Four feet wide at most, hard rat droppings all over the floorboards. A small wooden bench held two rusted pairs of shears and a tarnished silver coin.
The body was sprawled face down across the floor.
Not an ancient wastage of bones and dry, leathery skin. This one was fresh, barely the start of a high summer stink. The rodents and insects had begun to feast on him, but he guessed the corpse hadn’t even been here a full day.
Simon squatted. In the gloom he could make out two pale lines about an inch apart on the back of the corpse’s left hand.
He knew of one man with scars like that. He’d read about them just the day before.
Here we are, finally, and The Dead Will Rise is officially released into the wild. I’m hugely proud it it, I feel it’s the best Simon Westow book so far, and there’s a lot of Jane in there – she really comes into her own in this one, and not before time. I do hope youi’ll buy it, or borrow from a library. But however, I’d love it if you read it, and even more of you left a review somewhere. Those honestly do all help, believe me.
I did promise a video bonus, and I’m not going to let you down. All those little courts and yards feature in my books, whether it’s Richard Nottingham, Simon Westow, or Tom Harper. I know many of your have never experienced them, so come with me and talk a little walk along one. I think you’ll see why I love them.
We’re close to the end of 2022, hard to believe. That means it’s time to take a peek into what the next 12 months promises in books. Well, my books. Before I do, though, I’d like to recommend the best thing I’ve read this year. It’s Demon Copperhead, by Barbara Kingsolver. A modern Appalachian retelling on David Copperfield, it’s both harrowing and redemptive and very beautifully written. Tell them I sent you (and it’s not too late to catch up with Thomas M Atkinson’s Tiki Man, in my estimation the best thing to appear in 2021).
So…
March is set to bring the fifth Simon Westow book, The Dead Will Rise. It’s a series that definitely grows dark; by now it’s living up to the Regency Noir tag I gave it.
What’s it about? Here’s the blurb.
Leeds. April, 1824. Wealthy engineer Joseph Clark employs thief-taker Simon Westow to find the men who stole the buried corpse of Catherine Jordan, his employee’s daughter.
Simon is stunned and horrified to realize there’s a gang of bodysnatchers in Leeds. He needs to discover who bought Catherine’s body and where it is now. As he hunts for answers, he learns that a number of corpses have vanished from graveyards in the town. Can Simon and his assistant Jane bring the brutal, violent Resurrection men who are selling the dead to medical schools to justice and give some peace to the bereft families?
In case you’re wondering, there really were bodysnatchers in Leeds. But that’s a tale for another time.
Then, next autumn, there’s the big one: Rusted Souls, the eleventh and final Tom Harper. It takes place in 1920, in the aftermath of the Great War and the Spanish flu. It’s 30 years since the series began with Gods of Gold and now Tom has become Chief Constable.
This book mean a lot to me. I’ve spent three decades with the Harpers. They’re family to me, and saying goodbye was hard. I’ve written in the region of 800,000 words about them. Being able to round it properly was important to me, and I feel I’ve done them justice. But time will tell. They’re crime novels, a saga of a family, but also an exploration of a changing Leeds, I think. I’m proud to have written these. No cover design yet
But that’s all for next year. Meanwhile, I wish you and your happy holidays and a peaceful, healthy New Year – and thank you for reading. And remeber – books make great gifts, for yourself as well as others.
Hard to believe that time barrels along so fast, and that The Blood Covenant will be out in just a few weeks, on the 30th of December. If you order it for Christmas, though, there’s a very fair chance it will arrive in time (just a hint and a nudge).
It’s a very angry book, about finding justice for those who’ve been abused. Those who don’t have the power to fright for themselves. For Simon Westow, it’s more than it job, it becomes something very person, and very, very dark. But not only him. Jane, too, is going to have to face demons she thought long since vanished.
Here’s an abridged extract from near the opening. A way to whet your appetite and have you clicking online to order, I hope. Remember, please, every time you buy from an independent bookshop, all the angels cheer. The cheapest price, with free postage, is here.
‘You testified to the commission that was in town three years ago, didn’t you?’ Dr Hey asked
‘Yes,’ Simon answered.
Oh, he’d talked to them. Men sent from London, part of an investigation around the country into child labour and abuse. Simon knew all about that; he still carried the scars on his body. As he spoke, seeing them sitting safe behind their polished table, he relived all the punishments and torture he received as a boy, at the mill, as an inmate of the workhouse. Year after year of it, from the time he was four until he turned thirteen, when he could take no more and walked away, knowing that even death would be better. Just the memory made the skin of his hands turn clammy and his heart beat faster. He’d talked. But he didn’t believe they’d ever really listened.
‘What made you think about that?’ Simon asked
‘A pair of deaths I had to examine recently.’ Hey pulled some papers from the inside pocket of his coat. ‘I made a few notes I wanted you to see. Read them and come to see me when you have chance.’
Back in the old stone house on Swinegate, Simon read as he ate supper, then spent the evening quietly brooding. For once he scarcely paid attention to Richard and Amos, the twins. Little else existed beyond the thoughts in his head.
‘What is it?’ Rosie asked after she’d put the boys to bed.
‘No need to worry. It’s nothing like that.’ Simon took a deep breath and told her. ‘He made a copy of what he’d written when he saw the children’s bodies. The older boy was ten. He’d lost two fingers on his left hand when he was younger. His body was covered in bruises, it looked like he’d been beaten with a stick or a strap. It was much the same with the younger one. He was just eight.’
‘Who did it?’ Rosie asked. Her fists were bunched, fingernails digging into her palms.
‘A mill overseer,’ he replied.
‘Which mill?’
Simon shook his head. ‘He didn’t put that in there.’
Now he was out here, walking as he tried to stay ahead of his memories and pain.
The sky had cleared. It was colder now; his breath bloomed in front of his face. The remnants of rain dripped slowly from gutters. The stink of the manufactories had returned to fill the air.
Simon walked.
Damn Hey. He’d released the past from its cage. Now it was out here, hounding him, snapping and snarling at his heels. All these years and still it wouldn’t leave him. But better for Simon to be doing something than be restless and wakeful at home.
He’d gone from Sheepscar across to Holbeck, along the river all the way to the ferry landing as he tried to exhaust his mind. He’d sensed Leeds grow silent around him as people gave up on the last dregs of night. He was tired, his legs ached and his feet were sore. But he knew he’d be out here for a long time yet. Bloody Hey.
Simon made his way past the warehouses on the Calls. Bone-weary, needing to sleep. But the images, the history, the pain kept raging through his head. He was just a few yards from the river, able to hear the water lapping and smell the low, thin perfume of decay.
A sound cut through, the creak of oars in their rowlocks. Late to be out, he thought. Maybe someone was stealing from the barges moored at the wharves. Never mind, he decided; it wasn’t his business. Not until someone paid him to retrieve what might be taken.
‘Grab him under the arms. Get him out of there.’
The night watch, taking care of some drunk who’d fallen in the river. It happened at least once a month. A man would grow fuddled, lose his way and walk into the water. Some jumped, dragged down by despair. A very few were lucky; they were pulled out and survived. Most drowned, found bobbing downstream when morning came.
‘He weighs a bloody ton.’
‘You don’t need to be gentle, he’s already dead. Just grab him. Oh Christ, his throat’s been cut. The constable’s going to want to see this one.’
Simon felt a chill rise through his body, colder than the night. The men were on Pitfall, only a few yards downriver from Leeds Bridge. Two of them, standing and stretching their backs. Between them, lying on the stones, a shape that had once been a man. Simon could make out the jacket and the trousers, soaked and stained by the water. The men from the watch turned at his footsteps, surprised to see another living soul out at this hour.
‘Can I see him?’
One of the men shook his head. ‘You don’t want to do that,’ he said. ‘The dead are never pretty, mister.’
‘I know,’ Simon told him. ‘I’ve seen my share.’
A short silence. In the glow from a pair of lanterns, he caught the two men glancing at each other. A penny for each of them helped make up their minds.
The light caught the corpse’s face. Simon knelt, brushing away some dirt and a piece of cloth that was caught in man’s hair. He lifted the chin. A straight, deep gash across the neck. Clean and quick. But definitely no accident. Murdered and tossed into the river. He hadn’t been dead long, either; it couldn’t be more than an hour or two. Nothing had nibbled at his eyes yet, the flesh still intact and fresh.
He didn’t recognize the face.
One of the men coughed.
‘There’s something else, sir.’ He raised the lantern. ‘You see? Down there.’
The right hand was missing. Severed at the wrist. It looked like a single, swift blow had gone through the bone. For the love of God. Before or after he was dead?
‘The constable will be wondering who you are, sir. He’s going to want to know about someone asking to see the body.’
‘Tell him it’s Simon Westow. The thief-taker. He knows me.’
It’s just over three weeks until The Hanging Psalm is published in the UK (Jan 1 in the rest of the world).
That means I’m trying to tempt you into ordering a copy. All the big retailers have it, and if you’re in Leeds there’s going to be a very special launch event. Meanwhile, it’s now available on NetGalley for authorised bloggers and reviewers.
And it’s the Severn House Editor’s Pick of the Month. Read about that here.
Meanwhile…take a step back to 1820. The Regency. But it’s not Assembly Rooms and genteel manners at the Pump Rooms in Bath.
This is Leeds. It’s Regency Noir.
Enjoy.
The night was quieter than the day. Shops were shuttered. Lamps flickered in the houses. People safe behind locked doors.
But another Leeds arose in the darkness. A different population that came to life with the shadows. Simon had known them for years, people like Colonel Warburton, the former soldier who always wore the tattered French officer’s coat he claimed to have stripped from a corpse on the battlefield at Waterloo. He held court in a back room of the Boot and Shoe, a bottle of good brandy on the table, quietly buying and selling stolen bonds.
Or Hetty Marcombe. She looked like a harmless, vacant old woman wandering forlornly around the yards of the coaching inns. But she had quiet cunning behind the empty eyes, ready to make off with any case that passengers didn’t keep close. Josh Hartley, Silver Dexter, all the flash men and burglars, and the whores who strutted up and down Briggate. Once the daylight faded, Leeds belonged to them.
Simon was at ease in their company. He talked a little and listened as they spoke. With a word or a nod, one person often led him to another. He learned who’d stolen what, if it had been sold and for how much. Information he’d be able to use in the coming weeks. But tonight his eyes were open for a particular man.
At the Cross Keys, just across the river in Holbeck, he stood inside the door and watched the crowd. Almost every face was young, drinking with the grim determination that dashed headlong towards oblivion. A few more years and most of them would be gone. Violence, disease, the gallows, a ship to the other side of the world. Something would carry them away. And deep inside, they knew it. So they forced out their pleasures like duty.
Strange, Simon thought, Harry Smith didn’t seem to be anywhere tonight. People called him the Vulture. He’d earned the name; he relished it like an honour. Smith fed himself on the weak, the gang of young boys who worked for him, picking pockets and robbing shops.
But Harry heard things that didn’t reach other ears. He was sly, he understood that knowledge brought a good price. And he always knew who’d be willing to pay.
Simon moved on. By the time the clock struck ten he’d gone all round the town. No word of anyone anticipating a fortune soon. Finally, close to midnight, he turned his key in the lock and climbed up to bed.
‘You’re a pretty thing. How much do you charge?’
Jane turned away and the man laughed.
‘Don’t play coy, luv. Tuppence and you’ll get the bargain. You might even like it for once.’
She began to walk down Kirkgate, but he staggered along behind, drunk, cursing her. She’d survived the nights out here for too long. She knew the men who populated them. This one was harmless, all drink and bluster and noise. Still, she reached into the pocket of her dress and curled her fingers around the handle of her knife.
The voice faded and she forgot he’d ever been there. No one behind her now. With the shawl over her head, she slipped in and out of the shadows. People passed without a glance. The only light came from gaps in the shutters, but she knew her way around in the darkness.
Lizzie Henry lived out on Black Flags Lane, the far side of Quarry Hill. The building stood alone, looking as if it had once been a large farmhouse. Now, as she entered, she saw a series of rooms off a long hallway. The lamps had been lit and trimmed, the floorboards swept, paintings on the walls; everything was clean and tidy. The faint sound of talk leaked from behind closed doors. But she had no sense of joy from the place.
Jane had heard tales. This was a house that catered to the worst things men desired, anything at all if the fee was right. From somewhere upstairs there was a stifled scream, then silence. She paused for a second, feeling the beat of her heart and the breath in her lungs, then walked on to the open door ahead. Beyond it, a neat, ordered parlour and Lizzie herself sitting in an armchair, close to the blazing fire.
Jane had always pictured the woman as a hag. Instead, the woman was slim, darkly attractive, dressed in an elegant, fashionable gown whose material shimmered and sparkled in the light. She had power and wealth, and wore them easily, a woman who held her secrets close – the names of the men who came here, what they did, those who went too far.
She’d never have difficulty finding girls to serve in the house. Too many were desperate. All it took was the promise of a meal and a bed. And then enough gin and laudanum to dull the pain of living and the agony men inflicted. If a few died, there was ample land for the burials. Girls without names, without pasts; no one would ever ask questions.
Lizzie Henry looked up and her mouth curled into a frown.
‘Who are you? How did you get in?’ Her voice had a harsh rasp. But there was no trace of worry or fear on her face. Beside her, a decanter, a glass and a bell sat on a small wooden table.
Over here, August Bank Holiday has been and gone, a sign that autumn is coming soon – from the weather it feels like it might have arrived.
That means it’s four weeks until The Hanging Psalm is published. And yes, I am excited by it. The series starts here, and it feels very electric and wonderfully jagged to me.
Last week I made the book trailer, presented for your pleasure – and to get you to place your pre-orders for the book, of course. Or if you’re around Leeds, come to the launch at Waterstones on Albion Street, 6.30 pm on Thursday, October 4. No guarantees, but on past experience they might even have free wine. Not that you need the inducement, of course.
Filming the trailer was definitely an interesting experience. Walking around the wild parts of the park at 7 am, trying to find a low enough branch for the noose that could still look high, and doing it without anyone seeing me and calling the police. Luckily, I managed it, with less than a minute before a dog walker came along. By that time the noose was already tucked away in my backpack.
Later the same day, a return trip to the park with my partner, who filmed me tying the noose. So now I have that as a life skill that might come in useful.
The second in the series has just gone to my agent, so fingers crossed for the future on that. Of course, it will help if you all buy the first one.
But the read-through has made realise something I should probably have seen earlier.
Simon Westow, the main character in The Hanging Psalm, is a thief-taker. He searches out items that have been stolen and returns them for a fee. The book is set in 1820, during the Regency, but this isn’t the world of Georgette Heyer, or even Blackadder 3. No silver-tongued gentlemen highwaymen. No balls at the Assembly Rooms in Bath. It’s all Northern. It’s all Leeds.
And the Leeds of the time is a dangerous, deadly place and its crooks mean business. The Industrial Revolution has firmly arrived, on the brink of having the town by the throat, but the transition isn’t complete yet. It’s just a few years since the Luddites shook the country, and there’s still plenty of unrest. Prices for staples are high and wages are low. People are flocking to the industrial towns, looking for work as there’s little opportunity in the countryside. There’s not enough housing to meet the demand.
The rich are few, at the top of the heap and growing wealthier all the time, and the poor…they have little chance.
But down these mean streets a man must go who is himself not mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. He is the hero; he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. (Chandler talking about the private detective in fiction)
And that man is Simon Westow.
In my imagination, Leeds in 1820 is somewhere between the London Dickens describes and the wide-open Los Angeles of Chinatown and Raymond Chandler. It’s a town where danger is always present. And Simon is the early 19th century equivalent of a private investigator. The law is the constable and the night watch; a proper police force is the best part of twenty years away. He’s the best hope people have. He’s an honest man, with principles and morals, who can make his way from the highest to the lowest in society. And he’s a man full of anger at the way he was brought up, in the workhouse and the factories. He’s done well for himself in spite of that, not because of it.
And Jane, who assists him. Well, you’ll have to read for yourself. She intrigues me and she terrifies me at the same time. I’ve no idea where she came from, but the second book digs into her past more.
So yes, it’s the Regency. But not the way we it’s been looked at in fiction.
If you like, think of The Hanging Psalm as Regency Noir.
It’s the Severn House Editor’s Pick of the Month for September. Read more here.
And now, here’s that trailer. And here is the cheapest place to order the book.
Chris Nickson 