I finished THE BOOKSELLER'S SONNETS. I had hopes it would be a top ten book but it's predictability weighed it down. And it's angst. The concept was good: a lost diary of the daughter of Thomas More and a secret. And the Holocaust. But the execution of the concept... not so much.
I'm currently reading DEVOURED by D.E. Meredith. This is a debut historical mystery, perhaps series, set in Victorian England. Here is a description:
One of London’s first forensic detectives chases a grisly killer in this stunning debut mystery rich in period detail and sinister intrigue. London in 1856 is gripped by a frightening obsession. The specimen-collecting craze is growing, and discoveries in far-off jungles are reshaping the known world in terrible and unimaginable ways. The new theories of evolution threaten to disrupt the fragile balance of power that keeps the chaotic city in order—a disruption that many would do just about anything to prevent. When the glamorous Lady Bessingham is found murdered in her bedroom, surrounded by her vast collection of fossils and tribal masks, Adolphus Hatton and his morgue assistant Albert Roumande are called in to examine the crime scene—and the body. In the new and suspicious world of forensics and autopsy examinations, Hatton and Roumande are the best. But the crime scene is not confined to one room. In their efforts to help Scotland Yard’s infamous Inspector Adams track down the Lady’s killer, Hatton and Roumande uncover a trail of murders all connected to a packet of seditious letters that, if published, would change the face of society and religion irrevocably.
It was published in October 2010 and has 304 pages.
Here is an excerpt:
St. Bart’s Smithfields, London 1856
Professor Hatton lay slumped. His silhouette devoured by thrown shapes from an ebbing fire which was burning low in a grate. The morgue was completely quiet. And in its chasm, Hatton’s eyes were shut, shielding out the peeling walls around him. One lamp burned on his desk. He was still awake, but only just, exhausted by the great task before him, knowing his science, forensics, was forever in doubt.
“Professor Hatton. Open up, sir. There’s a carriage waiting. You are needed urgently, sir.”
He shuddered, gathered his thoughts, wondering what the dev il time it was, but knowing Monsieur Roumande must have gone home already. Hatton found his surgical bag. He took his hat, cane, and coat down from one of the meat hooks; opening the mortuary door, he stepped into a moonlit yard. Lantern light illuminated folding drifts as he tumbled into the waiting carriage. There was no need to find his pocket watch because a bell was chiming somewhere, three times, across the velvet skies of London.
“Good evening, Professor Hatton. My name is Inspector George Adams of Scotland Yard. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
Hatton looked at the man sitting before him, who thumped the roof of the hansom with his cane and lit a cigarette, offering one to him. Hatton shook his head, his eyes still bleary with sleep. The coach lurched towards the river, which was nothing more than a tapered line, soon lost in a swirling pall.
“All will reveal itself when we arrive in Chelsea. Are you sure you won’t join me, Professor? They’re Turkish, you know.” Hatton shook his head again. The Inspector shrugged.“ It could be a very long night.”
Hatton took note of his companion, saying, “Your reputation goes before you, Inspector Adams. I presume this is a medical jurisprudence matter?”
“Yes, Professor,” said the Inspector, stretching his legs out, partly enclosed in a gabardine coat. “It’s a case of the upmost sensitivity. But I’ve been wanting to work with you for some time now; I’m intrigued by your new science, Professor.”
Hatton nodded. He knew a little of this man, but Albert Roumande knew more. Hatton had many times heard his Chief Diener talk of Scotland Yard’s new celebrity detective, reading bits out of the papers about various cases.
To work with Inspector Adams? Hatton allowed himself a smile.
“As I said, I’ve followed your work with some interest,” continued the Inspector, in what Hatton guessed was an eastern drawl, not unlike his own accent once, when he was a boy, but this man seemed to relish in his drawn- out vowels, whereas Hatton had long since rubbed the edges off, keen to meet the requirements for a new professorship at St. Bart’s and a position of limited standing. But here was a man who clearly took no prisoners, nor apologised for what he was. A man to admire, then.
“I’m flattered,” answered Hatton. “Perhaps it is the series of articles in The Lancet you refer to? We are so misunderstood, Inspector. Forensics needs all the friends it can get, and I understand from my fellow pathologists that you are indeed a friend. So, I’m delighted to finally make your acquaintance.”
“The Yard is modernising. Look at me, for example. Do you think I would have stood a chance ten years ago? A lad from Cambridgeshire? An out- of- town Special? But I’m a regular working- class hero now, if you follow the crime pages. Although, don’t believe everything you read about me, Professor.”
The horse whinnied as they reached their final destination.
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It has been a very good weekend. Steve and I exchanged gifts the morning of Christmas Eve and he seems to have liked his I gave to him. Yay! Small things but cool. I also liked what I received (including a gift card for my Kindle!). We have visited both sets of parents over the past couple days. Watched the Cowboys lose (big surprise). Today, we will just relax. I will finish the laundry and take Tug for a walk (probably very soon, he's getting restless). I finished watching the second episode of PBS Mystery's Sherlock and will view the last one today before it's gone tomorrow. And then it's back to work (another short week -- woot!).
Much love,
PK the Bookeemonster
