Exclusive Excerpt #3

From BESPOKE (the first book in a new Victorian series).

....

            Deverell lit a candle with a Lucifer match and took his clean shirt into the tiny adjoining cupboard. With the door shut he had just enough room to wash himself with the cold water from the ewer and then change into his fresh shirt. It was a tight squeeze, but quicker and more convenient than going to his lodgings several streets away, where the nosy landlady insisted on inane conversation before she let him pass her on the stairs, and his damp room (one shilling and sixpence a week) was so depressing and bare it physically hurt to enter it. Yes, it was even emptier than his "office".

            "Is this your family, sir?" she called out through the door. "In the photograph?"

            He banged his elbow on an empty shelf and winced, caught a curse before it escaped his tongue.

            She took his grunt for agreement. "And are they here too?"

            "No."

            "They stayed in London?"

            His throat felt tight. He pulled on his waistcoat over the clean shirt and buttoned it quickly. "They died," he said flatly. "Both she and the child."

            The child.

            At night, when Deverell closed his eyes, he saw their grey, bloated faces again— Emmaline's long, stringy hair stuck to her brow, matted with the floating detritus of the Thames. The child was still in its mother's arms when they found her, its limbs tangled in a woolen shawl.

            "We'll have a good life, don't you worry," Emmaline had written in the short note she left. "Truth is, she is not your daughter to bring up, but you were handy at the time and willing...I thought you would have guessed by now..." and the haunting words, "We need more than you can give to us."

            Apparently Tolly Deverell had, at first, promised a more stable existence than the real father of her child, and so she married him, letting him believe an egregious lie. Having sought that immediate sanctuary for herself and her daughter in his sheltered port, Emmaline then waited until, weary of what little entertainment his safe place afforded her, she went searching for the excitement of danger, leaving behind a curtly worded letter, addressed to him and set upon the chenille table cloth beside a cold plate of ham and potatoes.

            As Miss Greenwood said, men did not have to be in love. But they could be fools of hope too, driven by a sense of duty. And find themselves led by it into a dark, dark corner.

           "I am so very sorry," said Miss Greenwood. Her face was flushed when he came out of the cupboard in his shirt and waistcoat. "How dreadful that they are both...gone." At least she did not ask him the hows, whys and wherefores.

            He tied his cravat and then hurriedly shrugged back into his jacket. "Such events are not uncommon in this world," he said. No need to tell her more than that.

            He probably kept that photograph on his desk to punish himself, he thought grimly. There could be no other reason why he made himself look at it every day.

            Lucy Greenwood was still watching him with large, sorrowful eyes, but Deverell did not want pity, so he directed the subject back to Lady Isolda's secret. "Even Doctor Barraclough, the family doctor for forty years, knew nothing about her ladyship's disability."

            "I am not terribly surprised at that. I do not think his expertise goes much farther than leech-craft. I'm sure he has no formal qualifications. But you must not think we are backward here compared to London. The new young doctor at Quipsey Thorpe is very well educated in all the most recent advances in medicine. Doctor Fielding is his name. He is much better informed than old Barraclough," she said proudly. "And he stays awake when one talks to him. He's quite charming."

            "Oh?"

            "Handsome and very polite."

            He sniffed. "That's nice." Yes, Doctor Fielding probably did not wash his basics in a cupboard by candlelight. Probably had good clothes, well maintained and a comfortable, non-obtrusive housekeeper. Must have women queuing up to sew on his buttons and rescue his drooping coat hem.

            "If I were you I would ask him about prosthetic limbs and such. I suspect there is very little he doesn't know. He's just one of those people who makes his patients feel secure and in good hands. He has that way about him. Bedside manner, do they call it?"

            "He sounds like a paragon of the medical community."

            "He is incredibly clever. I think he's from Cheshire."

            "Oxfordshire."

            She looked surprised. "Oh?"

            "Doctor Fielding and I met yesterday when he assisted at the post-mortem. Doctor Barraclough refused to participate."

            She pursed her lips tightly and then they flew open again to demand, "Why did you not tell me? Why let me blabber on about the man, if you'd already met him?" Very prim, she put up her chin. "Another of your jokes at my expense, I suppose."

            "You seemed to enjoy yourself describing his charms. I wouldn't want to suspend your pleasure, madam. I know how you young women can be."

            "How we can be?"

            "About the cherished subject of your latest, unhinged romantic fancy."

            She got up and came toward him with a determined look upon her face. "The only fancy I cherish is enrobed in fondant." He flinched, but to his surprise, she walked by and into the cupboard, where she picked up the lint brush. "You must come to the shop and try one. It's based on a French petit four. Actually I got the idea from Mary, who is always trying to sneak a bite of cake without being caught. One of my fancy Fondant Dainties, being much smaller, leave no crumbs."

            A second later she was sweeping the lint brush across his shoulders with firm strokes. He did not know how he felt about this unsolicited assistance, but Miss Lucy Greenwood in motion was a force with which one simply did not argue. Before he could get away, she turned her attention to his cravat.

            Apparently he had not tied a good enough knot. Not to her standard, in any case. She would be particular, of course, her own appearance being so smartly styled and tailored.

            It was a long time since a woman put her hands on his clothes—when he was still in them, in any case.

            His fingers curled into loose fists at his side and he focused his attention over her head.

            That fragrance, sweet and delicate, but just a little spicy too, drifted up from her scarlet gloves. Her touch was light, swift no more than the brush of scattered dandelion seeds blown through the air, but it was enough to waft away every last, lingering speck of annoyance he'd felt that morning. Lucy Greenwood was there before him and everything changed. When such a woman entered one's life and fixed the knot of one's neck tie, taking command so smoothly and naturally, it was highly unlikely she might ever walk out of one's life again without leaving an indelible mark.

            Did she know this, or was it merely a casual gesture prompted by her creative and demanding eye for appearances?

            "You'll have to try one of my Fondant Dainties on your next visit," she said.

            "Hmm." Deverell looked down at her from beneath half-lowered lashes as she stepped back and gave a quick nod of smug approval for her own handiwork. "Now that you've corrected that pressing matter," he muttered gruffly, "there is something else you might do for me, since you're here, madam."

            "Oh?" Her eyes widened again as she gazed up at him, and he felt himself in danger of drowning in caramel. A curious death. Definitely preferable to being shot at or stabbed. As he should know, having suffered both.

            She held out his coat, and he slid his arms into it. "I'd like you to come with me to the morgue and identify a body, Miss Greenwood. If you feel able."

            "A body?" Her expression was full of curiosity. "Lady Isolda's?"

            "Another body we found early this morning at Welford Hall. Hidden under a bed." He liked arousing her curiosity, he realized in that moment. Enjoyed seeing her eyes widen, little stars sparking to life within them. Far better that than her sympathy for a widower or pity for a man who couldn't bear to study his reflection long enough to tie his own knot. "Chopped up into several pieces. That's if you're not squeamish, of course, Miss Greenwood."

    

        "I told you I'm not," she exclaimed. As she patted down his coat, her hands alighted on a pocket bulge and before he could stop her she had slid her bossy, prying fingers inside. "What's this? Meat pie? Do you often walk about with pie in your pocket?"

            He scowled. "I saved it from my supper last night, in case I found the Welford Hall scullery maid on the street. She's missing. Poor mite must be hungry by now."

            "Well, unless you want every dog in York taking chase, I suggest you leave it behind for now." She set the little bundle on his desk. "Make haste then, Deverell. Take me to the body pieces." She was already heading for the door. "See? I knew you'd need my help. Thank goodness you put your intolerable pride aside long enough to ask me. Didn't hurt that much, did it?"

* * * *

Go on, I dare you - you know you want to read more. Take a chance on a copy of BESPOKE now available as an e-book from all the best online stores and soon to be in print. Please leave a review -- they are always appreciated by a hard-working author!

(Image: Portrait of a lady reading a book, by William Oliver II 1823)

Exclusive Bespoke Excerpt #2

            The grandfather clock in the hall read three o'clock, but nobody had yet looked at it today. In fact, nobody had glanced at that face for some time. Indeed, had they been asked, it was unlikely that any soul who lived there could even have described the two French enamel griffins and the rolling moon face that travelled back and forth between them every day. The clock had been there as long as the house itself and was, like most faithful servants, taken for granted, its cogwheels steadily chopping the hours and minutes away, its pendulum swinging with a quiet, dull thud inside the tall cabinet. A sound so constant that it was ignored.

            But today something different was about to happen.

            Perhaps it had already begun.

            Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack.

            No, that ticking sound was not the clock; it was the housemaid's boot heels striking the garden path with a brisk trot, two flints close to sparking, her forward motion all bustle and twitch, propelled as if by steam engine with no safety valve. The only pressure released sputtered forth in tiny, puttering curses through a thin, resentful spout of a mouth. But it was not enough relief. The rest of her being swelled to bursting point even as those whispered breaths escaped— broken and chipped gasps as fragile as the teacups that bounced and rattled on the tray she carried.

            The gardener, hearing her approach, opened his eyes, scrambled as upright as any man could with three jugs of scrumpy inside him on an unseasonably hot day, and made a half-hearted attempt at resuming his work. Although a number of unconvincing denials were poised upon his sloppy lips, none were needed. Whether or not she had seen him napping there in the shade of the privet hedge, the housemaid had no time to berate him for once; indeed, she made no acknowledgement of his presence at all today. Her cheek, he noted, was striped with the scarlet ghost of finger marks and, a loose, dark curl of sweat-dampened hair, having escaped the white lace cap that was knocked slightly askew, stuck there across her skin like a question mark.

            His hedge shears hung useless in the air, the blades swinging wide open, as he watched her go, admiring the tight sway of her hips beneath the grey skirt of her afternoon uniform. Two wide, broderie anglaise apron strings fluttered in her wake, crisp and virginal white. He hiccupped, exhaling a hot cloud of cider fumes.

            Why hadn't she seen him there? It wasn't like Florrie not to flirt or chide. Usually both at once. Since he could barely feel his own fingers, or the tongue in his mouth, perhaps he was not really there.

            But then he felt the first drop of rain on that sticky afternoon and knew that he was indeed still flesh. Something made him look up. A shadow flew across the sky, but not with purpose like a bird. Its trajectory was a wild arc that seemed too slow, as if it fell through clear paste rather than air. A stray shuttlecock perhaps, from the riotous game of battledore taking place on the lawn? With the hedge shears in his hands he had nothing with which to shelter his gaze and the sun's glare was a blinding white veil.

            What time was it? By the strength of that brightness it must be after one o'clock.

            His back ached as if he'd been at work for hours; his stomach grumbled. He could not recall when he last ate. But nor could he recall his own name. Was it Jonah or Jack? One name he was christened, the other was given him by his employer because she didn't like the first. Such was the way the world ran, he had no say in what they called him; he was their property as much as the plants he pruned. At that moment he felt resentment at his place in life, as if something had given him an uncustomary jolt and he recognized the injustice for the first time.

            Distracted then by a noise through the open terrace doors to the conservatory, he stumbled around to see what it was. But his eyes, still smarting from the bite of the sun's teeth, could see naught but a watery blur. His mind, fogged by too much cider, could make no sense of what little blotchy shape and form it recognized. What he really wanted was to sleep. The heat was too much. Knees bent, shears forgotten, he resumed his weary squat behind the bushes and pressed his back to the wall, yawning.

            Indoors, beyond sight of any observer, the butler let a bottle of port slip through his usually steady palms, so that it shattered on the flagstone floor of a downstairs passage, leaving a weeping, blood-red stain that trickled deep into the cracks, seeping into the very foundations of the house. One drop bled under his well-polished shoe, while he watched it spread a crimson web, his own movements frozen in place, trance-like.

            Farther below, in the kitchen, a large saucepan of eggs had been left untended until it almost boiled dry, the shells banging against the sides of the pan in half an inch of fiercely bubbling water, the cook and kitchen maids nowhere to be found. The scullery maid crawled in among the pickle jars on the bottom shelf of the still-room, hiding her face against her knees and stuffing an apron into her mouth, biting down on the cloth to muffle a cry of anguish. By the servants' entrance, the hall boy, sluggish in the heat, took pause to lean one shoulder and enjoy a stolen, roasted chicken leg. But even as his mouth opened for the first bite, he glanced back and then upward at the top of the house, his body stilled, as if he heard a rumble of thunder from above. Or a sound unusual, out of place.

            Meanwhile, the youngest son of the family, who stormed through the hall and out of the front door, laughed loudly and mirthlessly at the invitation in his hand.

 

Lady Isolda and Mr. Ezra Welford

request the favour of your company,

for tea, frolics and delicacies

at one o'clock in the afternoon, on Sunday, September 24th, 1893

at

Welford Hall

Quipsey Thwaite, York

 

            "Frolics?" he hissed. "They do not know the meaning of the word." With a sneer he ripped the invitation into halves and then quarters, before letting the pieces drift to the gravel under his riding boots. He looked around, wondering where his sister had gone. Damn her. Once again she'd stuck her nose into his business and got him into trouble. Or tried.

            In this intolerable heat, he ought to strip naked and swim in the ugly, bloody fountain. Show them a true "frolicking". Make them spill their tea and lemonade. Serve them all right.

            Blind with anger, he did not see his sister escaping through the bars of an iron, trellis-work gate. Avoiding everybody by hovering in the rose garden, the daughter of the house reached to pick a late blooming flower and felt the vicious stab of a lurking thorn. And as she watched the red bead bulge against her pale skin, she muttered softly, "By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes."

            On that humid afternoon she shivered and looked up, frowning.

            High above, in a turret of the house, an old man with the mind of a child played with his doll house— an exact replica of Welford Hall— in which the tiny figure of a lady in a grand hat sprawled at the foot of some stairs, surrounded by crumbs of bread and with a smudge of rhubarb jam from his afternoon sandwiches smeared upon her head. A twig, snapped in two, lay by her side. The nurse charged with his care came up behind, breathing heavily, wiping perspiration from her forehead with a handkerchief.

            Shrill and cross in the thick heat, she exclaimed, "Lord Percival! How many times must I tell you not to play with your food?"

            "'Tis not my food," he replied with a giggle, as she wiped his sticky fingers on her handkerchief. "'Tis for the foxes."

            At that same moment, downstairs in the house, the eldest son of the Welford family paused to approve his handsome appearance in a looking-glass. Realizing he'd lost the diamond stick-pin from his ascot, he leaned forward, annoyed. The reflection of something dark fell behind him in the tall window. A dead bird, perhaps, its heart stalled by an arrow. But who would practice their archery on such a day, with the lawns full of people?

            "Did you see that, dear?" he asked his wife, belatedly aware of her presence in the drawing room behind him.

      

      "I never see anything, dear," came the reply, wielded like an ice-pick. "If it can be helped."

            The thing that flew through the air tumbled and tumbled for what seemed like forever. Until it finally landed with a smash into the tray of teacups carried across the lawn by the housemaid, the surprise causing her to drop everything and exhale all her steam at once.

            It was neither a shuttlecock, nor a dead bird.

            It was a boot. A new ladies boot.

            Still worn by a foot that had been squeezed into it for the first and last time earlier that morning.

 

* * * *

 

BESPOKE available at all online bookstores now. In print soon.

(Image: Tea Set by Jean-Etienne Liotard c.1781-83 and Letter Writer by Johanne Mathilde Dietrichson (1837-1921).)

 

The Latest Scandal

            Yesterday the latest scandal hit the romance writing community. Authors Courtney Milan and Tessa Dare, among many other romance writers, uncovered a case of blatant, shameless plagiarism produced as "books" by somebody who calls herself Christiane Serruya. (Incidentally, I'd never heard of Serruya until all this news blew up yesterday, but apparently she is a USA Today bestseller.) In short, Serruya has been taking whole chunks, paragraphs and plots from genuine writers' books and then putting them into a product she repackaged, renamed and called her own, despite the fact that she claims also to use -- wait for it -- ghostwriters.

            Now, I don't know which part of that sentence is the most remarkable. Thievery on such a scale? A ghostwriter? For romance fiction? It seems as if the "author" does not, in fact write anything. Yet her "books" have become bestsellers on Amazon and other places. And, as mentioned above, the USA Today bestseller list.

            It boggles the mind. This person also claims to be a lawyer (incredible), a wife, a mother - many things, including, most interestingly, being a "judge" for book awards handed out by the Romance Writers of America. Make of that what you will. But looking at her tweets and other posts following these accusations, I strongly suspect that one thing she cannot do is speak English very well. She certainly doesn't present herself in social media as somebody with a great command of the language, yet her "books"--written, it seems, in English-- have earned her a great deal of money.

     Surely there are not people using computer programs to write books, buying "reviews" by the package (as I would buy warm, cider donuts in October) and using stock photos to create an author persona, stealing bits and pieces from the biographies of other writers?

            I've learned not to pay too much attention to speculation and gossip about what other people are doing - or not doing - in this business. I simply plod on writing my books, telling stories I would want to read myself. Otherwise, as I have often said, what's the point if you're not enjoying it? If you're only writing to suit a market you might as well be working in an office somewhere, staring at the grey walls of a cubicle from 9 to 5, going home at the end of the day, forgetting everything and saving yourself all the stress. Certainly you wouldn't be spending your time in the shower talking to yourself as, I suspect, most writers do.

            But to keep moving forward and loving what you do, it takes guts and talent and perseverance.

            So I feel deeply for those authors who have been plagiarized in this fashion. I do not know any of these ladies, but I do know how much work, heart and struggle goes into writing a book. Then to have some unscrupulous person steal it, because they think they've found the easy goose that laid the golden egg? Unconscionable.

            Writing may look like a breeze, but this is not an easy world to get into or to stay in. It may not be popular to suggest this -- writers aren't supposed to come close to complaining about anything these days, especially not to compare our books to babies -- but writing a book actually takes work. We don't sit around in pink fluffy slippers, eating bonbons and sipping champagne. I know writers who manage to put out a book a month (and yes, it is their own work), but I'm lucky to manage four a year and that "low" output puts me behind a lot of authors these days.

            To see this man or woman (who knows if it's even a real person?) by the name of Christiane Serruya brazenly stealing the work of so many good writers and churning it out as "her" own is horrifying, sickening and surely -- please, this time, let it be -- a wake-up call to those of us who truly love books. Real, honest to goodness books.

            If we want good, original stories to go on being written by authors who live for what they do and aren't simply in it to make a "quick buck", we need to stand up and start calling out the fakery.  

            If you write, please support your fellow authors. Encourage the newbies. Put a hand on somebody's shoulder to encourage them, not just to see if it can bear the weight of your foot. Be an honest friend and a true support, not one that is only there in fair weather. If you're a reader, support your favorite authors with genuine reviews and by purchasing their work or ordering it from the local library. If you've read something you loved, pass the book on with a recommendation. Spread the word to your friends. I know how much I rely upon word of mouth, since I  have no budget for marketing and promotions. My mother-in-law spends a great deal of her time in airports, marketing my books, but she can't be expected to do that forever. The poor woman needs, and deserves, a rest.

            This latest storm is not the only case of plagiarism uncovered in the past few years, although others have inexplicably been hushed up and forgotten about. Since it has happened to so many high-profile, popular authors this time, maybe it will actually lead to punishment for the perpetrator and "she" won't be back in twelve months with a new name, two hundred five star reviews and another Franken-monster stitched together from the work of less well-known authors.

            I usually stay out of these scandals and debates to concentrate on my own work, but this time I find that I must stick out my introverted tortoise head and speak up, for authors who struggle, like me, to be noticed in a swarm of books -- some of which, we now know are not books at all, but patchwork, plagiarized quilts. We are authors who don't have a huge fan base and an unlimited marketing budget, but we sit down to write, every day, our own books. From our own addled brains.

            I may never hit the  USA Today bestseller list myself -- I don't even know how such lists are formed -- but at the very least let's please be sure that the books which do make it to those exalted heights are written by the person whose name is on the cover. Otherwise it's making a mockery of the publishing world. And it's a flagrant insult to every true author and honest reader out there.

            In closing, I can assure you that I write  my own books. I create my own characters and plots, and I'm proud of every one of them. So yes, they are my babies and I will defend them accordingly.

            I am not a big-name writer with a huge following, consequently very few people will read this post - maybe 2 cousins and some robots from Russia - but I still had to write it. I guess that tells you something about the intensity of my feelings on this subject, and the same can be said of everything I write. I have to do it, because I'm a writer, even though few people will read it. I'm not in this business to steal from others, to win awards, or make bestseller lists. Certainly not to make a fortune or I would have quit long ago.

            But I'm here to write. Because it's what I do best. It's the only reason I'm here. The only reason I am still here.

JF

Release day is here! Bring on the cake.

BESPOKE is now available for purchase and immediate devouring. Grab your copy to enjoy with a cup of tea and a slice of cake this afternoon.

Twisted E-Publishing: https://twistedepublishing.com/products/bespoke-bespoke-1-by-jayne-fresina

Universal Amazon: http://mybook.to/Bespoke_JayneFresina

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/922340

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/bespoke/id1451976291

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1130541215

Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Jayne_Fresina_Bespoke?id=TvaGDwAAQBAJ&hl=en

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/bespoke-4

Bookstrand: https://www.bookstrand.com/bespoke-mf

 

Let me know if you already guessed the perpetrator! I'm sure some of my sharp readers think they already know.

 

If you haven't already, check out the list of suspects from Detective Inspector Deverell's notebook here on my blog, and read the excerpt. Can't wait to hear what you think of this start to a new series.

Happy reading!

 

Jayne

 

 

Exclusive Excerpt from "Bespoke"

            Miss Lucy Greenwood was tidily put together, with an unpainted face and a covered bosom. She couldn't be much more than twenty-five. Her dress was not overwrought with fluffs and folderols, as he'd been led to imagine, but stylish in an understated way. If not for the bright color of her gown, she might have been a curate's wary, sharp-tongued daughter introduced to him over a cream tea and sandwiches bereft of their crust. One who would much rather be anywhere else and had decided that instead of succumb to the inevitable boredom of his company, she would make entertainment for herself by laughing at him.

            But that luxurious, deep, pinkish red was not suited for tea with the curate. It had a certain... arousing quality for one's appetite, which, he supposed, was useful for the proprietress of a cake shop. He might not possess much of a sweet tooth himself, but he would never again be able to look at a raspberry mousse with quite the same nonchalance.

  

          "I'm very fond of mysteries and detective stories," she said brightly. "Perhaps I might help you with the case. Because I'm very good at clues. I read a lot of Arthur Conan Doyle."

            He sighed deeply. "Of course you do."

            "Have you read his work, detective inspector?"

            "I have little time for novels."

            "What a pity." She walked by him to reach for her apron, which hung upon a hook beside the door. A drift of light rose and almond oil followed her movement, but whether it came from her or the baking he could not tell. The kitchen was full of fragrance, all of it stirring a hunger within.

            Must not be distracted.

            Her hands, he noted, were pale against the vivid color of her gown, but they were not frail or delicate. Her nails were short and scrubbed clean, a few marks across her knuckles proof of working with a hot stove.

   

         "I generally solve the mystery before Sherlock Holmes gets around to it," she said. "I suppose, it may sound smug to say it, but it's actually quite a tiresome habit, when one merely wants to enjoy a play or a good book without immediately knowing who perpetrated the crime. So you see, I could be useful."

            "How could you possibly solve a Sherlock Holmes mystery when all the most important facts are withheld from the reader until the very end?"

            "Aha! So you have read the books!"

            Begrudgingly, he admitted, "I skimmed one. Once. Purely by accident." He sniffed. "When it was left forgotten on the seat beside me on the train. Somebody found it too tiresome to finish, I daresay. For want of anything else to read, I picked it up. "

            Her lips tightened, and her eyes sparked. A small dimple appeared in one cheek.

            With a scowl he added, "I'll let you know if I feel overwhelmed with clues, Miss Greenwood."

            "I'd be delighted to consult. I'd even bring cake— just as soon as you've determined it's not poisoned, of course."

            He shot her another wary look, but she smiled as she slipped the white apron over her frock and tied the ribbons behind her back. "You say you saw her ladyship yesterday, madam, when you delivered the cake to Welford Hall?"

            She began to unbutton her cuffs. "Yes. She stood in an upstairs window, looking out." Briskly she rolled up her sleeves, baring her forearms so suddenly that he lost the path of his thoughts for a moment. She paused, hands on her waist. "Should you not be taking notes?"

            He squinted. "Should I?"

            "I thought that was what detectives did."

            "I don't like to miss anything." He looked at her arms. It was often what people did as much as what they said to him that told a story, so he kept his gaze lifted rather than lowered to a notebook. "I'll write it down later. If it's all the same to you and Mr. Holmes."

            "What if you don't remember later?"

            "I never forget."

            "Like an elephant?"

            "Like a reasonably attentive man with a good memory."

            She looked thoughtful, head tilted, eyes sparkling with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. "I daresay you've heard a great deal of gossip about me. Rumors flourish around here with the wiry and stubborn strength of weeds. And although, being a man, you would claim never to pay heed to gossip, as a detective I suppose you must. Therefore, you have formed an opinion of me already."

            "As a lady who determined to set up her shop here, on a street full of businesses catering to gentlemen, I'm sure you knew the likelihood of trouble, gossip and speculation, before you took the lease."

            "I'm not a troublemaker," she replied archly. "I simply thought Charles Place required enlivening with the presence of a lady."

            As if butter would never melt in her mouth. "But you concede that your presence here ruffles feathers?" he pushed.

            "They ruffle their own feathers. I do nothing except live my life as it pleases me." Her eyes darkened with a sultry shade which, while it should have cooled the temperature of her gaze, only increased its heat. "Wait until I purchase a bicycle. That will give them something to cluck about."

            Butter would not only melt, he mused, it would sizzle.

            "You've raised a few eyebrows— and hackles— with your business venture. Perhaps you've made a few enemies. You were described to me as a difficult woman. Truculent and opinionated, I believe, were other words used."

            "Opinionated?" She chuckled dourly. "Don't you find that folk really only like opinions that agree with their own? Otherwise they are utterly in the wrong and not to be heard?"

            "Perhaps."

            "I would rather be a difficult woman with something going on between my ears, Detective Inspector, than an empty automaton, universally inoffensive, easily overlooked and entirely forgettable. I may be a challenge to know at times, sir, but I hope I am worth it." Then she paused. For a moment she looked vexed, but she shook it off. "I'm sorry. But I am heartily tired of being told what I should do, what I should want to be, and how, as a woman, I should seek to please, no matter what pleases me. As I said, I'm not interested in conforming to a mould. If all that upsets certain people, then I apologize, but I do not intend to change. So, as my cousin would point out, that makes me not truly repentant and therefore a hopeless case. Truculence and all, take me or leave me, I'm sure I'll survive either way."

            He squinted, left a little breathless. It was as if, while he walked along the beach, the tide came in unexpectedly, caught him round the knees and then tried to suck him down and under. He felt the splash of salt water in his face. For just a brief flickering moment he was a boy again, watching sunlight catch upon the white sail of a toy boat as it bobbed teasingly out of reach, carried on a strong wave.  Such a bold little thing, that boat— the sail waving back and forth but staying upright as it stubbornly rode the wild sea, racing free.

            That toy boat, a gift from his father when he came home on leave, had been the beginning of a lifetime love affair with the sea and sailing. Not that he'd had much chance in recent years to indulge the hobby.

            "I simply create cakes, Mr. Deverell," she said. "Cakes are for pleasure, not political statement. If I wanted to lecture from a podium then I would go into a different line of business, but this is what I chose. Cakes: unique, many-layered, extravagant, magical creations, to awaken, expand and delight the appetite. I intend my bespoke creations to be remembered and sought after for another taste, not forgotten as soon as they are eaten. That is all I want out of life. That hardly makes me a revolutionary, knitting by the guillotine and waiting for heads to roll." Still she tried to convince him of her innocence, while her eyes betrayed the attempt.

            "More Marie Antoinette than Madame Defarge then?"

            "Your countenance suggests you find something amusing about that, sir."

            "'Tis merely the unfortunate, unprepossessing placement of my features that gives this impression. I beg you, pay no attention to my face. Even I don't know what it does most of the time. Probably for the best."

            When she turned away with a stout "huff" and reached for one of those jars on the dresser, his gaze took a fumbling path downward, following the long row of tiny, fabric-covered buttons that caressed the length and dip of her spine, before running away beneath the bow of her apron.

            The opinionated Miss Lucy Greenwood and her rustling, raspberry gown were certainly intriguing. As tempting as her bespoke cakes. Perhaps that was what really worried her Charles Place neighbors, particularly the men. They must not know where to look for their own good.

            "How did her ladyship come to learn of your services then, I wonder? Was it by coincidence that she came upon you that first day you were open? I am told she was not generally a lady who left things to chance or acted spontaneously. Indeed, the purchase of your cake was considered so unusual that it rather upset the household that day."

            "I daresay she found one of our cards somehow. Mary and I spent several weeks distributing them in the area."

            "You left one at Welford Hall?"

            "No." Then, as if she realized she'd answered too sharply, her eyes went to black— a thick blind drawn over their brilliant light. She shook her head and added, "I do not recall that I did leave a card there. I think not."

            "Surely you would remember Welford Hall in particular." It was not a house easy to forget with all those ugly, gargoyle-rimmed turrets and the grandiose, confused mixture of historical styles.

            "I do not recall going there to leave a card," she repeated. "Do you, Mary?"

            The nervous assistant shook her head and stared at the flagstone floor.

            "Why would you not leave a card at the hall, if you went to so many places? You would not miss out on the opportunity of such a wealthy customer, I think, unless...unless you had some reason not to go there." He smiled briefly, with a serviceable politeness.

            "I really cannot remember, sir." Her returning smile failed to conceal a flutter of impatience. "I must say—" She took a wooden spatula out of the drawer and pointed one end at him. "I had the distinct impression yesterday that there was something not quite right at Welford Hall. I dismissed it as being an affect of the terrible heat, which was so unusual for the time of year. Everybody was rather short-tempered and the air was dreadfully thick. Suffocating. As if time stood still. Yes—" She waggled her spatula at him. "That was the impression I got at Welford Hall yesterday, Detective Inspector. Time standing still and nothing moving ahead as it should. Nothing being real. I can't say why I felt that, but I did." Like a steam engine rumbling down a steep hill, she picked up speed. "You will be looking for any enemies the lady might have had, of course. Or debtors and creditors. Or lovers. Most murders are committed for love or money, are they not? You say you spoke to her solicitor this morning, presumably about the terms of her will?"

            He frowned. "I am not at liberty to share details of the investigation with you, Miss Greenwood. I'm sure you understand."

            "But I'm very good at puzzles and reading people and I'm not at all squeamish."

            "I'll bear it in mind."

            "You don't believe a woman can be useful in that way?"

            "Real life is not quite like the books you read, Miss Greenwood, that is all. Enjoy them, by all means, but don't imagine those stories bare any resemblance to the way we do our work. Or the challenges we face."

            "Then what, exactly, does a real Detective Inspector do?" she asked, slapping the spatula against her palm. "Do tell. I've never met one before. A real one." Smack! "In the flesh."

            "I wouldn't want to worry you about what I do. As long as you stay out of trouble, Miss Greenwood, you don't need to know." He couldn't resist adding, "It's hardly fit for your maidenly ears."

            "Now you're deliberately trying to intrigue me. Or annoy me." Her eyes narrowed, the dark lashes hovering slyly. "Perhaps both."

            He allowed a semi-smirk before making his face somber as the grave again. "Mr. Doyle's tales are far more romantic and colorful. More drama, shooting and chasing about in the fog; fewer scenes of slow, one-fingered typing, endless filing and the excessive scraping of filth off one's boots. That sort of thing. But I suppose real life wouldn't make such an exciting story to grasp the distracted attention of young ladies in need of vicarious thrills."

            "We're lucky to have you here then," she remarked with an arch smile. "A man to put us all to rights and show us how it's really done."

            "All I meant to say is that I'm no Sherlock Holmes."

            "I know that because you're not wearing a deerstalker hat. According to illustrations in The Strand, Mr. Holmes is seldom without one."

            "It's a minimum requirement for the post."

            "Then where is yours?"

            "I save mine for special occasions."

            When those glittering, caramel eyes melted another few degrees in amusement, he realized that she must have watched him reach for his hat three times and yet he had not yet taken it up. Even now he withdrew his fingers from the chair seat again, hesitating.

            "When Lady Isolda came here on Wednesday, did she walk with the aid of a cane?"

            She frowned, twirling her spatula around with the long, lithe fingers of one hand. "I believe so, although she did not rely upon it heavily. I thought it more decorative than practical. Of course, had I known the poor lady's destiny, I would have paid far greater attention. But I can tell you that she wore a tweed brown coat with a velvet collar and a silver brooch on the lapel— fashioned to look like a spray of wheat. A hat with a little grey veil. Gloves, naturally. Lilac kid. Smartly dressed, but not quite as grand as one might expect. Of course, it was a rainy day and I daresay she was not wearing her best just to go shopping."

            All that from paying only a little attention?  He hid another smile. "And did you see a walking cane when you witnessed the lady standing at her window yesterday?"

            "No, I did not. She appeared to be leaning against the window frame to look down at something on the ground outside, however, and I could not see her hands." She paused. "I do hope that is helpful."

            "Very."

            "Like you, I'm excellent at remembering details, you see, spotting clues and such. I could be a great help with your investigation."

            He ran a thumb along his eyebrow. "Some details you remember, it seems. But not whether you left a card at Welford Hall or what reason you might have not to do so."

            That wiped the little smile from her face.

            Dangerous? Probably. Trouble? Undoubtedly. Keeping secrets? Of course, and he knew at least one of them.

* * * * *

Want to read more? BESPOKE is available now for pre-order from Amazon in your country, as well as other online book stores, and will be released officially this Wednesday the 20th of February. Hope you enjoy the adventures of Lucy and her Detective Inspector. I'm very fond of them both already and looking forward to their next mystery.

(Images: Strawberries and Cream by John F. Francis 1808 - 1886; Muja Ventana by Carl Holsoe c. 1900, and Still Life with Cake by Raphaelle Peale 1818)

The Tortoise

            In my new release "Bespoke" (the first in a series of Victorian mysteries), Detective Inspector Deverell has just been promoted and sent north to Yorkshire, where he is expected to benefit from some well-earned rest and recuperation -- whilst also solving crimes, of course.

            Over the past few years, Deverell has not only been stabbed and shot at in the line of duty, but has suffered great tragedy in his personal life. Somehow he survives, plodding onward determinedly, and throws himself into work. He's a private man who keeps his troubles to himself and prefers to deal with problems alone, on his own terms. One day, he thinks wistfully, he'll retire somewhere south, where the climate is milder, so he can grow fruit trees. But that is all far off in the future and he's a realist. With the way his life has gone lately he knows he'll probably never make it that far.

 

           The "powers-that-be" believe a sojourn in Yorkshire will give Deverell a chance to get his breath back, away from London's grim streets and the busy world of Scotland Yard. But Deverell suspects he's simply in the way at the moment and nobody knows what to do with him. Truth is, he was not expected to pull through after being left for dead in an alley, shot by an assailant. When he survived not only the bullet but the surgeon's knife and a stay in hospital— nothing short of a miracle itself in late Victorian London— returning to work as if nothing much had happened, he took everybody by surprise. They'd already given his desk and chair to another man. Packing him off to the "wilds" of Yorkshire, therefore, was the best solution they could come up with -- that and a hasty promotion, of course, to make him think it was planned all along. Just part of his career trajectory.

            So there he is, sent to investigate some blackmail letters lately received by one Ezra Welford, wealthy, self-made businessman, who also happens to be a member of the same London gentleman's club frequented by the police commissioner. Welford has complained that the local police are incompetent and he wants one of Scotland Yard's finest to take the matter in hand. When Detective Inspector Deverell arrives and begins to work with his slow, meticulous methods— including an eccentric fixation on the most insignificant of details, Welford thinks he's been sent a dud and he's not best pleased. He's not the only one. The local people are distrustful of strangers, especially "foreigners", and Deverell, with his darker, dangerously exotic looks stands out like a sore thumb in the Yorkshire Dales. As for the local police, they are mostly resentful of the suggestion that they need anybody from London to show them how to do their jobs. It looks like another uphill climb for Deverell. Never mind. He's used to those. In fact, if he was ever welcomed somewhere with open arms and smiles he'd only be exceedingly suspicious. He doesn't much care what these folk think of him. He merely plans to bide his time here until his bosses decide he is mentally and physically fit to return to his duties at Scotland Yard. He'll get by; he always does. He's not expecting fireworks and fanfare.

 

He knows everybody calls him The Tortoise and not always with fondness.

            But when blackmail turns into a case of murder and the corpses start piling up, it soon becomes clear that Deverell, with a steady, methodical brain to untie all the knots, is the best man for the job after all. He'll even surprise himself, just when he thought such a thing was quite impossible.

            And he'll discover a few other new things about himself. Including the fact that he has a sweet tooth.

* * * *

Read more about Detective Inspector Deverell on February 20th! Stay tuned to this blog for an exclusive excerpt from "BESPOKE" next week. Have a great weekend, my lovelies!

 (Image: Self portrait by the artist Charles Wesley Jarvis 1812-1868. It was impossible to find a close likeness of D.I. Deverell, so this one must suffice, despite its lack of "exotic" features. And yes, the clothes are a little outdated for Deverell, but he's never been very aware of fashion and has not looked at himself in a mirror in thirty plus years, so you'll have to forgive him. Personally, I think he'd like this portrait since it looks so little like him. He can continue with his desire to go unrecognized and we have thrown you utterly off the scent.)

           

The Rebel in Scarlet Gloves

Suspect: Miss Lucy Greenwood, creator of bespoke cakes for special occasions. (Part-time sleuth)

Age: 28

             As the daughter of a cook, Lucy grew up with a love for baking. From a young age she learned how talent in the kitchen can make a person valuable to any household and much sought after by employers. But she is also far too independent and stubborn to stand being given orders for long, so she has spread her wings, invested her savings and opened her own shop—"Bespoke Temptations" in York. Here she makes marvelous creations to order and also serves tea, coffee and chocolate in a little tasting room where ladies can sample her cake and enjoy a quiet gossip without a male escort. It is the first shop of its kind in this part of the country and one of the very few anywhere that welcomes unaccompanied women.

        

    But her revolutionary ideas are not appreciated by everybody in that town. In fact, the other tradesmen on her street take offence at this attractive young woman, in business for herself, brazenly pushing her way into their exclusive little group. The outside of her shop is decorated with a sophisticated sort of subtlety that only hints at the delights within (no, they would certainly never enter the place to see for themselves) and the bow window is swathed in rich silk curtains, parted just wide enough to reveal a careful arrangement of dainty, mouthful-sized, chocolate and strawberry pink, fondant cakes. But beyond that tempting offering, nothing more can be seen of what goes on behind the curtains. Her male neighbors would prefer to keep women in their place, out of the business world and certainly not wandering around town without the protective guidance of a gentleman companion. As far as they're concerned, everything about this haughty cake shop proprietress --including her modern, independent manners, exotic ingredients (yes, she's been known to use coconut)and elegant, secretive draperies -- suggests wickedness afoot.

 

Certainly nothing about this woman or her cakes can be called plain. The turmoil she's created simply by moving in to the premises on Charles Place is little short of anarchy.

            They know nothing about her past or where she came from, but one look at her striding proudly down the street in one of her fashionable outfits is enough to start the rumor mill churning. They've heard she's a member of the Rational Dress Society and that she attends lectures by the National Society for Women's Suffrage. That's bad enough, but she also reads popular novels without hiding the covers. She carries them boldly in the street, alone, holding these scandalous books in her scarlet leather-clad hands. There is simply no excuse for it.

     

       Their wives feel much the same about Lucy Greenwood. She is an unmarried woman with no apparent desire for a husband and an equal disdain for gossip. So how can she fit in with them? She dresses far too fashionably. What's more, they hear from the postmaster's wife that she orders expensive, fancy, lace underthings from Lockreedy & Velder's Emporium in London. What, exactly, does she need them for, if there is no man in her life to see them?

            Surely these extravagances do not fit with her membership of the Rational Dress Society— a group that means to be rid of corsets altogether.

            They simply cannot make her out.

            Crimson gloves, lurid novels and decadent amounts of lace, indeed! This is Charles Place, the finest parade of gentlemen's shops in York, not the Montmarte in Paris.

            Just who does this prim miss think she is?

            Finally, we come to the name of her shop; the very apex of her mischief.

            Bespoke Temptations? As Detective Inspector Deverell thinks before he's even met the young lady accused of poisoning the victim, Now that was trouble, if ever he'd heard of it.

And he is soon to find out how very right he is.

           

* * * *

Get to know the mysterious Lucy Greenwood on February 20th, or pre-order today!

(Images used here: Public domain graphic of Victorian lady and "Plain chocolate caramels" c. early 20th century recipe book. Also author's own photograph of her gloves. Photo of cake -- and, indeed, cake itself-- provided by author's sister)