Here’s a note for anyone else who might have published a book or two, and it’s about the way scummy scammers are using AI to make money. Here’s the start of an email I received this morning:
I recently explored *Snake Hill (The Delamere Files Book 9)*, and I was captivated by the way you weave suspense, rural legends, and complex character dynamics into this installment. The tension around the mysterious disappearances, the fire snake folklore, and the responsibility placed on both Jack and Simeon makes this book an engrossing read for fans of crime and mystery. Even with such a thrilling narrative, it seems this book hasn’t yet reached he wider audience it could captivate…
Do they think I am daft? Explored a book? What, you set out from the Royal Geographical Society with a brief to…? The rest of it is generated by an AI thing using my blurb, the text you can read on Amazon, which I wrote. All the person behind this is doing is generating dodgy text based on a book’s blurb, and having their system send out an email. These things then go with text like: Have you found it challenging to connect *Snake Hill* with readers who would enjoy the depth of your series, the unfolding mysteries, and the suspenseful twists…
This email suggested I contact ‘Mary’ and, like most, it promised promotion leading to untold wealth. It wanted me to reply and beg them to help me publicise the book(s). Then, what they would do is take my money and get AI to send out a few random spams to random email addresses and move on to the next victim.
Bring the Past to Life with Historical Fiction
I am now receiving at least one of these emails every day, But, because I use Mailwasher, I see them before they get to my laptop, not that they are dangerous or anything, but Mailwasher comes with various commands. I can permanently mark and report the email address as spam, and I can also bounce it back, so the person/machine at the other end thinks my email address doesn’t work. Hehe.
I don’t reply because I will only get more spam from the same AI if I do, but I’d love to reply: ‘So, tell me, as you have read the book and see its potential, can you tell me, a) what is the first full sentence on page 213? And b) why you started a series at book nine and not book one?
I bet, for every one of me (who is slightly experienced in this self-publishing game) there is a newbie out there who falls for this trick and parts with money because their book isn’t selling as well as they thought it would – and they thought it would because AI wrote it for them. Believe me, I have published over 40 full-length novels (every word of which I have written myself), and without a massive publisher and their publicity machine, you ain’t going to make a living, so don’t waste your cash on AI-generated spammers.
Well, my dears, it’s here. The front cover for Delamere nine, ‘Snake Hill.’ Hang on, though, or as Baxter would say, Hold your pony, mate, not so fast. First you have to promise to click the promo link and check out a few titles that should open on another page.
MM & MM+ Romance
You’ll find 179 MM titles in this collection of MM romances. So many topless hunks I don’t know where to start. Maybe with one of my own, and ‘The Mentor of Wildhill Farm,’ probably, of all my 50 books, the one with the most heat. In fact, it’s probably 60% heat, and the rest is story. It was my first Jackson Marsh and has a twist at the end you either love or hate.
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Wildhill Farm
Talking of the Mentor of Wildhill Farm, yes, it was my first ‘go’ at a queer romance, though there’s more heat than there is romance, and I had an idea towards the end to turn it into a series set in the same place. Then, I realised that it would soon be repetitive, and decided it was the place that was important. However, also vital was the old/younger mentor/mentee pairing, but that couldn’t always happen in the same location, so… Barrenmoor Ridge, Lonemarsh House, Lostwood Hall came next (maybe not exactly in that order), and onwards to other standalones like ‘The Stoker Connection’ which gave me a chance to play with ‘Dracula’, as it were, and to relive something from my teens. (I used to work in the theatre where the two MCs meet.) You can find all my titles here.
Anyway, I’m wandering from the point. The cover for Snake Hill, where is it? What is it? What’s the blurb?
The cover is coming in a moment, but as for what is it? That will become apparent when you read it, which I hope you can start to do next week – soon, at any rate. What’s the blurb? Here’s the blurb:
Albert Arbon collapses at Delamere House after a three-day trek. His only son, Robert, has vanished after seeing a strange light in the Suffolk sky, and Arbon is desperate to find him.
Detectives Jack and Baxter, with young Simeon, accompany Arbon back to his remote Suffolk farmhouse, only to find themselves faced with a combination of rural legends seemingly tied to a series of unsettling events. A body lies inexplicably in the middle of an untouched wheat field. Other children have gone missing. There is talk of a ‘fire snake’, and no-one dare share the secrets of what can be seen from Snake Hill.
As the investigation deepens, Jack must navigate more than the mystery. He must also face the burdens of responsibility — not only for uncovering the truth and doing the right thing, but also for guiding Simeon, a boy on the cusp of manhood, who’s willing to risk everything to prove himself.
The next Delamere book, ‘Snake Hill’, mostly takes place in Suffolk. To keep things as authentic as I could, I trawled around for a dictionary of Suffolk words and phrases, and came upon:
A Glossary of Words Used in East Anglia (1895)
Author: Rye, Walter (1843-1929)
The subtitle reads, Founded on that of Forby. With Numerous Corrections and Additions. It was published for the English Dialect Society by Henry Frowde, and the version I used was transcribed by Universidad de Salamanca.
You know how I like dialect. ‘Holywell Street’ comes with Baxter’s glossary, if you ned to revise his East End expressions, but in ‘Snake Hill’, we have an East Anglian glossary. For those who may not know:
East Anglia is an area of the East of England often defined as including the counties of Norfolk, Suffolk and Cambridgeshire, with parts of Essex sometimes also included.
The name derives from the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of the East Angles, a people whose name originated in Anglia (Angeln), in what is now Northern Germany. East Anglia is a predominantly rural region and contains mainly flat or low-lying and agricultural land. [Wiki]
So, ahead of publication, here are some of the words I have used in the story. I put this here so you can do some background reading before the book arrives on your Kindle or doormat later in the month.
Badly In ill health. Sometimes sadly badly.
Barley-bird The nightingale, which comes to us in the season of sowing barley.
Biddie Young chicken.
Black Shuck In English folklore, Black Shuck, Old Shuck, Old Shock or simply Shuck is the name given to a ghostly black dog.
Brank Buckwheat
Buck To spring or bound with agility.
Carre A stoat.
Clamp A mound of earth lined with straw to keep potatoes or mangold wurzel through the winter.
Clevers, or Cluvers Tussocks or tufts of coarse grass.
Closen Enclosed fields; plural of close.
Clutter Confusion, disorder.
Cob-boy One who is between boy and man.
Dere Dire, sad.
Doker A diminutive used with respect to young animals.
Duffy dow Young pigeon not fully fledged.
Fleck The down of hares or rabbits torn off by the dogs.
Flick Hare’s or rabbit’s down.
Heads and Holls Prominences and hollows tumbled confusedly together.
Hingle To snare. Poachers hingle hares and rabbits.
Hoven Swollen.
Huckle To bend down with pain.
Jug To squat, and nestle close together, as partridges at night.
Mamble To eat with seeming indifference.
Maul Clayey or marly solid, adhering to the spade or ploughshare.
Mawth-dog The phantom of a dog (in Norfolk).
Mewting The whistling of a boy without any regard or idea of time or harmony.
Mump A hop and a jump.
Nabble To gnaw.
Needles A common weed among corn.
Pin basket The youngest child in a family.
Plounce To plunge with a loud noise.
Quackle To interrupt breathing.
Ranny The shrew-mouse. (Plural, rannies.)
Ravary A violent mad fit of passion.
Roblet A young cock.
Sadly Badly Very ill.
Smouching men Smugglers (Smouch, 1) to kiss 2) to smuggle.
Smuddered Smothered. Choked to death.
Springer A youth.
Stour Stiff or stout.
Tom Poker The great bugbear and terror of naughty children, who inhabits dark closets, holes under the stairs.
Traptles The small pellets of the dung of sheep, hares, rabbits, &c.
Trunket A game at ball, played with short sticks.
Wiff/Wiffing The sudden turning of a hare when coursed. Wishly Earnestly, wishfully, with longing.
I want to quote from two emails I received yesterday. I have put what was sent in italics to make it easier to differentiate between my bleating and theirs. Here’s the first line:
Thank you for writing Holywell Street a story that doesn’t just confront hidden darkness but does so with an emotional undercurrent that lingers.
Apparently, I’ve confronted hidden darkness. If I’ve confronted it, it can’t be hidden, surely? It goes on with more AI generated jargon including phrases such as caught between justice and personal consequence, the path forward, and leaves a lasting weight.
Leaves a lasting weight…? What, like too many cream cakes?
I was then asked a couple of questions, including: how did you keep Jack’s emotional core grounded without losing momentum in the plot’s twists?
Answer: You tell me – you purport to have read the book.
Then we get to the meat of the thing with: I help authors build ripple-effect visibility…
Ripple-effect visibility?
Apparently, my story has emotional depth beneath genre. Sorry, love, don’t understand.
I’d be glad to send over a visibility outline…
A what outline? I looked it up and am none the wiser. I’ve heard of visible panty line; it comes about after eating too many cream cakes and creating a lasting weight that ripples beneath.
Anyway… I replied with a couple of questions and a lot of cynicism, had another reply, and then followed that up with ‘So, what’s the cost?’ To which I received a breakdown of levels of ‘support’ and how much I could expect to pay for each one, and it was all so well written, I had to reach for a glossary:
In-depth alignment assessment. Custom reader discovery map. Quiet outreach. Curated spaces with reflective readers. Organic outreach. Immersive visibility layer. Ongoing traction. Gentle book visibility audit. And my fave: 30-day soft ripple tracking. I am now thinking of ice cream.
If pressed to respond to this softly rippling enquiry into whether I want to waste money, I shall reply, Do us a favour, love. I ain’t stupid.
On the same day, I received another email from someone with a strangely similar-but-different name. This one was about my godfather’s biography, ‘Bobby,’ and began:
I knew Bobby: A Life Worth Living was more than memoir. It’s a testimony. Raw, rich, and revelatory.
I can’t even say the word revelatory without breaking it down. Re-vel-a-tory. Revel a Tory? Rhymes with la-va-tory. (Well, it does and it doesn’t.)
There then followed a mashup of the blurb which I suspect was created by AI and was clearly based on the blurb I had written by using my own brain and creativity. This was followed by the almost punchline: I run a visibility service…
Oh, here we go. In this case, I was offered a personalized visibility snapshot.
No, not a clue, and I’m not going to ask or even bother to look it up as it’s clearly something to do with corporate publicity speak as spoken by machines and twiddled with by chancers “feeding off vulnerable self-published authors who don’t have the usual publishing house/agent/publicist infrastructure to protect them,” as a friend of mine put it when we discussed the emails. He also suggested “They’re not going to offer you anything you couldn’t organise for yourself with a little bit of work…” and I agree. So, I shall ignore them from now on. In fact, I will mark them as spam in Mailwasher, and if they persist, I shall bounce them back so they can confront their own hidden darkness, and I will do it with an emotional undercurrent that lingers.
It does make me wonder, though, how many people will fall for these scams, and scammers who are being more and more helped by AI. It’s so obvious to me when someone has used Crap GTP to create a paragraph or even an entire email. The writing is just too… too… Well, it’s just not normal. Considering it’s been spewed from a machine, it’s too emotional at times, too florid to have been written by anyone with self-respect. Makes me shudder.
I am starting a new project and sharing one of my novellas. This will appear chapter by chapter over time. (When I can’t think of anything else to write as a blog post.)
I’ve set up a menu page you can click to and find new chapters as and when, and when I work out how to do the drop-down menu, I will add the chapter list to the main menu… Anyway… Honestly is a comedy coming of age novella I wrote after writing the gay/straight bodyswap comedy ‘Remotely’, which stars an enigmatic character called Miss P.
Having cured Shakespeare of writer’s block, Miss P finds herself in the 20th century attending to a similar problem in a small fishing village. The timeless and slightly magical Miss P knows that the only way to solve the problem is to cause a friendship, and the only way to do that is to cause the whole village to speak honestly. As you can imagine, comedy ensues.
Chapter One
“There’s always been something missing from this village, and it ain’t the stink of fish.” Mrs Marigold Lumpsucker, a resident of Carping Bay.
It is a little-known fact that Miss P was the first woman in history to find a cure for writer’s block. The event took place in London, backstage at The Globe Theatre in 1594.
While scouring the fields and lanes of Shoreditch in search of some delicious and potent tobacco leaves, she sensed that something nearby was not as it should be. It didn’t take her long to track down the problem, and she found young Will within minutes. He sat at a small table in the yard, staring at the barn, a quill in one hand and a blank page in the other. She could tell from the air that the man was struggling. If it sounds strange to say that she could sense someone’s difficulty in the air, that’s because she was strange. Unusual, at least.
As Miss P approached, she could see that Will had nothing on his page apart from a title and a few lines. As she read them and pondered, she spied a rolled tobacco leaf on Shakespeare’s table and politely asked if she might try it.
Shakespeare waved his hand as if he were seeing off a fly. He meant that she should help herself, which she did. The yard had the tang of dung about it, and there were flies about. A swarm of them fought over some recent droppings. The sight reminded Miss P of the Siege of Pyongyang, an event she had recently arranged. For the good of everyone, you understand.
She rolled the leaves into a cigar shape and lit it, enjoying the rich taste and the way the smoke tickled her nose. She turned her attention back to the title page of Will’s new work.
‘When is opening night?’ she asked, pointing a slender finger towards the paper.
‘Seven days hence this must be done by, Lady. Else no income shall my company have. ‘’Tween times I must take up arms against the slings and arrows of Richard III, two Shrews and a Titus Andronicus matinee for the elderly.’
‘I see.’ Miss P did see. She saw all kinds of things that no-one else could. That’s why she did what she did. ‘A tragedy?’
‘I do agree, my block is so. And such a sad tragedy it be that I fear this play be nought but a farce. No words hath my quill. No new syllables sprout from my imagination like buds to the dawn. No passion flows in this dead bird’s coat.’ He waggled the feather, slumped his head onto the table and banged it twice.
‘May I…?’ Miss P took the quill from him.
Shakespeare turned his head and opened one eye suspiciously on the elegant, hard-to-age and impossible-to-place lady. She brushed the feather down her cheek while studying his words. He snapped his eye shut when she caught him looking.
‘I don’t think the world is quite ready for this. That is your problem.’
He raised his head to her. ‘My problem, handsome stranger, is that I find scene one a mountain as impenetrable as Olympus. There is nothing here.’ He beat his fist against his head.
Miss P drew in another drag of the burning leaves. As she let the smoke out, she angled it towards the playwright. A thin wisp snaked away from the cloud and spiralled before Will’s face. He crossed his eyes to focus and gasped. It was a dark green colour with flecks of sparkling silver. As he opened his mouth to ask what this lady had done to his tobacco, he inhaled the smoke and coughed.
‘May I suggest we address the title?’ said Miss P. ‘Once that’s found, you will see that the story unlocks itself.’
Shakespeare looked at the title. ‘But this, smoke-angel, be the tale my heart aches to tell. There be riches in this story. Worth in all its mighty forms, honour as worthy as Prince Hal at Agincourt. This tale must be told.’ He was adamant on the subject.
‘Indeed, it will, Mr Shakespeare,’ Miss P assured him. ‘But in time. The story you ache to write now will be possible in years to come. And yes, your story will throw light through the world like dawn breaking through yonder window. But, alas, the good people of Shoreditch, to say nothing of Her Majesty, are not yet ready for a tragic love story about,’ she checked the page, ‘Romeo and Julius.’
Shakespeare groaned and sat back in his chair.
‘Sad but true,’ Miss P continued. ‘But this is not the time or place to break this kind of ground.’
‘It is meant a comedy.’ Will snatched the paper from her. ‘It be not what it seems. Two old friends, both alike in dignity, are at war with each other. Magic intervenes, and they wake up realising they are no longer in their own bodies but in those of each other…’
‘And to get back, they must learn how it is to be each other. One man is destined to be a father, and the other to love only men. Yes, a most engaging plot, and yes, there is a remote chance that story will be told. But not now.’ She was also quite adamant on the subject.
A few more strands of smoke drifted from her near-spent leaves and found their way into Will’s nostrils.
‘And you suggest?’
‘Romeo and Juliet, perhaps? A love story. No, the love story.’
‘Oh, Madam. You are thrusting greatness upon me.’ Shakespeare rubbed his beard. He glanced from Miss P to the page.
‘Some are born to it, Mr Shakespeare,’ she said. ‘While others…’
She offered the quill, he took it, and for a moment they held it together. His body trembled. His eyes flashed wide, and his lips moved. She released the quill, and it flew to the page where Shakespeare scratched inspired words.
‘Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair London, where we lay our scene…’ he spoke as he wrote, the story falling into his mind like gold from a cut purse.
Miss P smiled. The yard smelt so much cleaner now. The air was crisp and had a delicious tang of cigar about it. She was ready to leave, but there was still one thing unsettled. She reached into the bag that hung from her elbow and took out a small glass figurine. She put it on the page, right where Will was scribbling. He drew back.
‘What’s this?’
‘I picked it up on some recent travel. You should keep it. It’s just an elephant made from jade. It will make sure you never forget your words again.’
‘Well, gracious kind, and my heart accepts the warmthness of your gift, Madam.’
‘Maybe, in return, I could…?’ Miss P plucked a quill from Shakespeare’s tankard.
‘It is old and worn, but thine with thanks,’ he said, and dipped a superior nib into his ink.
‘By the way,’ Miss P added as she turned to leave. ‘I bought it in Verona.’ She paused for emphasis and stuck the feather in her hat. ‘Fair Verona?’
‘Of course!’ Will was back to his writing. ‘Nobody dies for love in London.’ He started the scene again.
That was the last time Miss P saw him. It was the last time she needed to.
You might have been following this story on my Facebook page or on BlueSky, but in case you don’t use social media…
Recently, I spent ages making up a short reel to put on my social media, and it showed the first few Delamere books with static images, covers, text, etc, over some mysterious music. Having done that, I realised I wasn’t very good at it and it was time-consuming, so I thought I’d find an artist via People Per Hour and pay someone to put together one for the Clearwater mysteries. I chose a guy who lives and works in Sri Lanka, we had a chat about it, and he set to work on the first five books because all 10 or 11 would have meant a whole film. I was expecting a similar thing to the reel I’d made, but what came back was nearly two minutes of adventure, as you will see in a minute.
There are only a couple of things that are a little awkward about this. The first is that I think Facebook cuts off the reel at 90 seconds, so we miss the last of the video unless you find it under my videos, rather than reels. The second is the voice. We tried a British narrator voice but, tbh, the best he could find sounded like someone who’d been in a punch up and was still pissed from a week last Saturday. Most of my readership (70% approx.) is in the USA in any case, so we went back to the gravy American VO voice. I will post the English voice version on my social media soon so you can hear it. Obviously, the artist used AI to help him create the images, but the AI debate is for another day. I’m just putting this here so those who don’t follow me on social media can take a look. Enjoy!
I think I mentioned that I would let you know about the new layout at Delamere House as described throughout book eight, Holywell Street. Well, here are my notes and some borrowed images. I’m not sure how you imagine each room, but I know I have a picture of each one in my head as I wrote, and they don’t really look anything like these images, but they were the closest I could come. Delamere House is a mirror image of Clearwater House which is attached to it on the east side. They stand on their own plot of land (roughly where the Household Cavalry Barracks and stables are now situated), in an imaginary street called Buck’s Avenue, and are Georgian in aspect.
April 1893
Ground floor.
Central front door into hall, single stairs opposite becoming double at the turn.
Clients wait in the hall, which now has more comfortable chairs.
Immediately right from the front door, the drawing room is now an office for Baxter and Charlie, and through it, is Jack’s office, though he prefers to work in the main office with them and uses his sparsely furnished office for private talks.
Left from the front door, the dining room is now the sitting room/drawing room and has the billiards table in it at the far end.
At the stairs, turn right and towards the back of the house, the cloakroom is on the left under the stairs, and the library is on the right, with double doors leading into the large, long room.
This is now the research department, with all the books, some of the newspaper archives, the files and the partners’ desk now occupied by Will and Ned.
A writing desk in the library. (That typewriter would not have been there.)
On the other side of the stairs, at the back of the house is the boardroom, which they use as an incident room when necessary, or for larger meetings, or to spread out plans and maps.
Off this is the old servery.
There are servants’ stairs at the end of the house and the baize door beside the staircase.
First Floor
To the left front, above the new sitting room, is Ned’s room and his sitting room is being used as the evening room mainly for the boys.
To the right front, above the new office and study is Jimmy’s suite – like the rest it’s a large bedroom, sitting room, dressing room and bathroom, though these days, Jimmy is hardly there. (We think he has taken rooms at the Inns of Court or nearby, and when he is not studying there, he’s off to Cornwall to spend time with Tom, because they are still together after five years and many trials.)
To the back, left, is Jack’s room which connects to Will’s via the dressing room and bathroom.
To the back, right, is the ‘spare’ suite which now houses the archive, because Charlie has decided to share the coach house with Baxter.
Could be part of the downstairs drawing room.
Second Floor
Under the eaves, front from left to right are two bedrooms and one bathroom, then the connecting door, then another two rooms (that was the butler’s suite) and a bathroom.
The same happens at the back, though there, one of the bathrooms is now Ned’s darkroom, and the other also houses some of the old archive. The other upstairs rooms are used for storage.
Simeon and Ronny may get to use one of the left-side suites one day.
Servants’ stairs at either end of the house lead down to the basement.
Basement
The back door is at the left end of the property, nearer the gates and opposite the stables.
Max has his suite of rooms at the front with a bathroom, sitting room, bedroom and a door into his pantry/office, which also houses the plate safe.
The right-hand front basement area is for Mrs Sparks, though she has no plate safe, but an extra room which the boys are using as a bedroom.
At the back, though, the scullery, kitchen and stores are at the left end of the house, the servant’s hall (now the dining room) is in the centre, and there are more rooms for stores or bedrooms at the right-hand end, back.
There are plenty of cupboards in the basement, and a door leads down to the cellar.
The Yard
The stables with three horses are opposite the backdoor across the yard. There are three stalls, a tack room, a tiny office with a desk, and a storeroom.
The coach house is above, with the stairs up (enclosed) at the right-hand end of the building.
Beside this and back towards the rear wall is the machine room with the two boilers, and other equipment, stores, etc.
This yard takes up half the length of Delamere House and is separated from the garden by a wall. A gardener keeps the garden.
The Coach House
Entering the upstairs apartment from the stairs, you’re faced with a corridor. First, on the right is the kitchen, while the sitting room is on the left.
Next to the sitting room, front, is Baxter’s bedroom. The spare room (now Charlie’s) is at the back overlooking the park. Both are a decent size. The bathroom is in the middle/back between Charlie’s room and the kitchen. There is also an attic space, which isn’t much used.
This is roughly how I see the house from the front, though there would have been nothing 21st century about it. There may have been a flag on Clearwater’s house next door, but Delamere in 1893 wasn’t an embassy or whatever this is…
The other day, I spent an hour or so fiddling with a movie maker, some photos and some royalty-free music, and came up with another reel for my Facebook page. It’s basically an attempt to publicise the books, and I ought to do more; one for the Clearwater series and one for the Larkspur collection, and then, maybe, I should look at the other books, the romances and standalone mysteries and adventures. It’s all rather time-consuming, and I’m not brilliant at working with the video technology, nor do I have much patience when it comes to searching out useable images from the past, but I’ll see what I can do.
I’ve also been working on Holywell Street, and my print of it from the Museum of London has arrived, so I can have that printed and framed (purely for my own interest). I am now up to chapter 10 of the first draft, around 35,000 words, and the mystery is deepening as Jack and Baxter investigate. They are being ‘assisted’ by Ronny in this one, who is keen to better himself, learn about horses and driving, and who is, apparently, on his best behaviour because he wants to have a bedroom of his own. (He’s still swearing, though.)
Today, I am over the water in Rhodes, but I thought I’d jot something down for today ahead of time, and include two new promotions, one of which starts today.
Firstly, though, Holywell Street, The Delamere Mysteries book eight…
I have started on chapter four of the first draft, and so far so good in terms of flow. However, I need to take a pause to get a few things straight in my head, or else I will be typing for hours only to rip the pages from the invisible typewriter and have to start again.
Having what I call first draft ideas on the page isn’t a bad thing, but you have to be able to tell the difference between talking to yourself and writing a novel. For example, by the time Holywell Street opens, the dynamic in Delamere House has shifted, and so has some of the furniture. I write out a couple of pages of what was what, and what room has changed to what, but this isn’t for the book, it’s to get things straight in my own mind.
As an example, what was the sitting room is now an office housing Baxter and Charlie, with a desk also for Jack who, though he now has the study, often prefers to work alongside his men.
One day, I’ll put up a fuller description so you can take a walk with me around Delamere Houe, but I shall need to draw a plan, and I’m not very good at that. If anyone has an architect’s program that will draw rooms/layouts and wants to draw me a floorplan…
Never mind, I’ll get to it one day. So, the news is that Book Eight is progressing at the rate of roughly half a chapter a day, and I hope it’s another intriguing case. Meanwhile, ‘Acts of Faith’ is doing well and proving popular – thank you for the private messages! And I am off to get ready for a day on a different island, so… back soon.
If you want to help these indie authors by clicking these two new promotions and having a browse or a buy, feel free to do so. The second one only comes online today – which is tomorrow as I write, which is why the image is faint. It will be fine when you click through.
Historical Fiction Romance & Mysteries
Genres: General Fiction / Historical Fiction, Mystery & Suspense / Historical Mystery, and Romance / Historical
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Tales to Devour. Begin Reading This Hour!
Genres: General Fiction / Literary Fiction, Mystery & Suspense / Mystery, and Sci-Fi & Fantasy / Science Fiction
Today, I want to share a gallery with you. When I was in London briefly in February, we stayed in Drury Lane, and as we only had a day and two evenings there, we stayed around the Covent Garden area. While there, I attempted to take some photos of places mentioned in the Clearwater, Larkspur and Delamere mysteries, and so, what I have today are some of them, with notes to explain what they are.
Before you venture into the gallery, though, you might like to know I have, this morning, completed work on ‘Acts of Faith’ and will be sending it to the layout team later today. They are going to do their best to have it back to me in time for me to send up to Amazon on Wednesday – but they are busy, and I may yet find issues with uploading (rare, but not unknown). All being well, you’ll be able to start on it next week. So, here’s the gallery in no particular order.
Bow Street Magistrates Court and police station. This appears in several books, but Fallen Splendour in particular, when Silas is arrested. I think it is now some kind of hotel or restaurant, and there is/was a police museum there too.The Royal Opera House, Covent Garden. This is the setting for the grand finale of ‘Unspeakable Acts.’Neil having lunch at La Garrick, not, sadly, the Garrick Club which you can see through the window. Archer, Lord Clearwater, is a member of this club.Charing Cross railways station features in several of the books.This is beneath Charing Cross station. The row of arches used to house the entrance to the famous Heaven nightclub, but also, still houses the entrance to what was the Charing Cross Music Hall, as visited by Jack Merrit and Max Pascoe where they interview Marie Lloyd in ‘Follow the Van.’A bust of WS Gilbert on the Embankment, near the Savoy Theatre.The Embankment looking downstream.A plaque on the side of the Savoy Theatre, the venue for the climax of ‘Speaking in Silence.’The cobbles of Covent Garden that Silas, Micky-Nick, Fecker and other homeless lads would have walked back in the 1880s.The Palace Theatre, Cambridge Circus. Now home to a Harry Potter play, Clearwater and others including Jasper Blackwood, attended the opening performance of ‘Ivanhoe’, by Sir Arthur Sullivan in 1891.A Penhaligon’s shop in Covent Garden. Archer and Silas both wear Penhaligon’s, and when I was there, I was very tempted to buy the perfume they wear, Hamam Bouquet, but the only size they had was too big for my carry-on luggage, and the price too big for my pocket. I went for a smaller bottle of Halfeti instead.This isn’t London. In fact, it is the proposed interior of a block of flats in Folkestone. However, it is/was the auditorium of the theatre I worked in back in the late 1970s, The Lease Pavilion Theatre. The gallery and arches are the same, and form a classic music hall style setup, as often described in my stories.
