While we eagerly await the publication of ‘Snake Hill’ (any day now), I have come up with a working title for the next instalment of the Delamere Files, ‘A Depraved Indifference.’
I was doing some legal research the other day, as you do, when I came across something I’d not seen before. There was no reason why I should have done because a) I am not a lawyer, and b) it’s to do with American law, but I liked the term and what it implies. The paragraph was this: If the risk of death or bodily harm is great enough, ignoring it demonstrates a “depraved indifference” to human life and the resulting death is considered to have been committed with malice aforethought.
A depraved indifference to human life… I wondered if there was an English law equivalent in 1893, and I am still researching that, but the story I am now embarking on may not have anything to do with law or that phrase in the way it is meant. What I might do is use that expression/term/whatever to inspire the rest of the story. In Delamere 10, Will has already cited it (and I’m only on chapter two) while settling a case for the CID. Anyway, the point was to let you know I have started on some ideas for the next book, which has had me locked into this view for a while…
And this is the first draft text for chapter one of the next book, in case you want to zoom in and read.
I will be interrupted soon by the arrival of the files for number nine, which I will check through and upload as soon as we’re all happy that Snake Hill is good to go.
Meanwhile, you may have noticed I put three new links at the top right of the page, just beneath the newsletter sign up. My Facebook page, my BluSky profile, and now, my BookBub link, so if you use that service, you can follow me there. I ought to add my Goodreads link too, I suppose. (Note for later.) Meanwhile-meanwhile, a new promo has just arrived, so if you want to be among the first to see these new spy, mystery and suspense titles, just click the banner.
I am currently at 82,000 Holywell Street… Well, 82k words written for ‘Holywell Street’, the Delamere book number eight. Funnily enough, the plot revolves around number eight Holywell Street, mainly so I can say here’s book number eight Holywell Street as though it’s an address as well as part of the sequence. Also, according to the 1891 census, that address was vacant, as were others around it, so I can be more creative with its description. I suspect the buildings were left empty for a good reason, like they were falling down, because the street was demolished in 1901. It was quite picturesque by all accounts and some buildings there were from pre-1700 or very early 1700s.
Anyway, I am having fun and working through the climax, which isn’t really a climax in the usual sense. There’s no death-defying leaps of faith, zip lines onto music hall stages, or people falling off burning towers. What there is, though, is a bit of fun (I hope) as part of the ‘towards the end’ section is seen from Ronny’s point of view, and we know what a little oik he can be. As that’s going on, I am waiting for the first draft of a new reel to come back from the guy who is working one up for me, and I am about to send off for a new pencil sketch to go in the front of the next book. I am also considering the cover, though the final draft won’t be ready for some weeks yet. Meanwhile, I believe Holywell Street will be my 48th book, including my ‘living on a Greek island’ books and those written under my real name. I know it sounds like a lot, but it’s what I do! This is one of my shelves and contains all the Jackson Marsh titles, except for ‘Bobby’ which is on the shelf above.
In the world of film, a tracking shot is “A camera movement that follows the action, typically moving alongside or with the subject to create a dynamic, immersive view of the scene.” [Adobe.com]
You know the kind of thing: When the shot opens on someone walking left to right and we follow them, then the camera stops at the two people talking at a table, as if the crossing person brought us there.
This is a technique I use in my books, and I mention it today because I’ve just written one into Holywell Street, and while doing so, I wondered when I first started using them…
I think it was during The Clearwater Inheritance, because that involved a great journey, and it inspired the scene on the front cover. It may have been before, but this is the one I remember most because it takes us from the Orient Express across Europe, across the English Channel and to Cornwall.
If Archer’s insane brother dies, their distant cousin, the evil Count Movileşti, will inherit everything, and with the influenza pandemic threatening the brother’s asylum, the outlook is grave. The only thing that can ensure Archer’s future is a legal document left behind by his grandfather, but the clue to its location is hidden within two pieces of music. Archer has one; the other is in Movileşti’s collection at Castle Rasnov.
Rather than describe it, I thought I would put it here, so you’ve got something to read or reread over your morning coffee. (I’ll be back with more news on Wednesday. Watch out for a newsletter that should be out today with a heap of new ideas for your TBR pile.)
The Clearwater Inheritance Chapter Thirty (part)
Between Szeged, Hungary and Vienna, Austria Saturday 18th January – Night
The locomotive steamed west from Budapest, its steel plough slicing snow and hurling it aside in swathes. Its pistons pumped an incessant pulse, while the chimney belched a constant stream of smoke that billowed from tunnels and trailed behind to hover above the sleeping countryside.
Cities fell away to become dense forests topped with silvery-blue moonlight that bathed the land from the hedgerows to the star-showered horizon. The Danube glinted beneath the cloudless sky until the train left the river to its meandering and sped away on its own path. The warm throw of yellow light from the dining car brushed banks and fields, the silhouettes of the wealthy rising and falling over cuttings in distorted shapes and vanishing as the carriages pounded across bridges. Firemen shovelled, stewards served, and passengers dreamt of elegance in gently rocking bunks, unaware of the rise and fall of the hills, and the urgent night-cry of the whistle.
The Orient Express kept its times, crossed the borders, and made its destinations. It saw its passengers on and off through a night that held the continent from Constantinople to Calais in an icy grip as brittle as the thinnest crystal. Night ferries crossed the channel miles from the locomotive and its precious passengers, and the same moon glowed as full over them as it did over Larkspur Hall. The same light bathed the moor, its rises and valleys a patchwork of grey and silver shadows, the countryside blanketed in a fine covering of pristine snow.
An owl swooped from an ancient, weathered oak to glide across a frozen stream. Alert for movement but finding none, it rose on silent wings to watch over the estate where Larkspur waited in the pensive darkness, shuttered and blind. The owl circled the tower and followed the parapet, passing rooms where footmen slept, and dormers under which maids turned in dreams of sweethearts and summer days. Attracted by a solitary light, the bird landed on a cornice washed by the throw from an oil lamp and twitched its head, intrigued by and concerned for what took place inside.
Beneath the sloping roof, a young man sat on the edge of an older woman’s bed, holding her hand and mopping her brow. Her lips moved weakly, and her pale flesh was uncoloured by the lamp-throw which lit the man’s hair in shades of russet and bronze. Light caught the tears that dropped from his cheeks as, leaning closer to listen, he gripped the frail hand tightly, made promises, spoke comforting words and said thanks, until the life in her dulling eyes faded.
His head hung, and his shoulders heaved as he placed her hands across her chest. Wiping his cheeks, he closed her eyes before lifting the sheet to cover her head and said a final goodbye.
When the man approached the window and placed a candle there to flicker in remembrance, the owl dropped from the parapet and continued its flight. It passed the tower where a younger man slept beside a dying fire with a letter in one hand. Building plans, fallen from the other, lay on the floor abandoned to sleep.
The owl passed into the depths of night, while in the corridor beyond the tower, a butler turned down the gas until the passage was a monochrome path of dimly glowing glass and careful footsteps. Pausing at a door, he listened for sounds from within, but his master was sleeping, and he continued to where the two wings of the house met. There, with the grand hall in darkness, he slipped through the baize and followed the winding, stone steps to the ground floor, dimming lamps and securing locks.
The servants’ hall was deserted, but in a few hours, would begin another day as the hall boys laid the fire and stoked the ovens, swept the floors, and washed the tables long before the day considered dawning. The butler met his steward there and learnt his news. The men consoled each other, reminded themselves of their positions and responsibilities, and went their separate ways.
The steward took the path the butler had recently taken, along concealed passages, up the winding stairs, and emerged in the grand hall, there to pause for a moment to relive a memory before climbing to the first floor. Like his colleague, he stopped outside the master bedroom but didn’t disturb its occupant. Instead, let himself into his own room, there to mourn alone.
Throughout the Hall, bristles of moonlight investigated curtain edges and stole around them to play on rugs and furniture. Clocks ticked, and springs wound towards release. The considered chime of a tall clock struck regretfully from the library and echoed through the stillness, while the drawing-room carriage clock tinkled, polite and distant. In the smoking room, the Willard lighthouse clock tolled beneath its dome, and the brass spheres of the anniversary timepiece swung relentlessly back and forth.
In the study, soft ticking on the mantlepiece counted away the seconds, as the last of the embers shuffled through the grate to their rest. Gently, the hour passed, the echoes died, and Larkspur slept in darkness.
But not in silence.
At some time during the night, when clouds had put the moon to bed, and the owl had retaken its perch on the faraway oak, the wood and brass telegraph shocked itself into life. In the alcove beside the moon-forgotten desk, the steel pins snapped their delicate jaws in urgent rhythm, and the wheel turned.
That’s the working title of the next Delamere Files mystery. Actually, it’s Eight, Holywell Street, because the file I have started is titled 08 Holywell Street, but I am not sure if there was a number eight in that street in 1893. There was a number 10, and it was inhabited by a bicycle shop, but I’ve not been able to find number eight on the 1891 census. I have the rest of the street and will be using some of the occupier’s names when I start to write the first draft, and that will be in about 30 minutes from now.
What’s it to be about? Well, that’s an interesting question. I know the subject, the background, if you like, but not yet the detailed story, except that I want it to present my team of mainly gay detectives with a moral dilemma. They are already solving cases and fighting crime while being inherently criminal themselves (as it was illegal for men to have sex with men), but now, I want them to pick up on another side of that subject. I can’t say more than that or else I will either give the story away or let you down by changing my mind later.
So far in my research, I have been trawling newspapers and publications of the time, looking through the census to get an idea of what businesses were in the street and the kind of people who lived there, and I have been reading some history sites about the area, the churches of St Clement Danes and St Mary le Strand which stood at either end of Holywell Street, and (here’s a hint) I have been reading some papers on male prostitution and the early days of pornography in London.
If you are interested in the former subject, I can recommend this well-written and easy-to-understand thesis on the subject:
So, that’s where I am with ‘Holywell Street’, and I shall shortly be typing the first words of chapter one. While that’s going on, I have seven different promos to tell you about this month, so bear with me. They will all be in Saturday’s newsletter, but let’s get the ball rolling by telling you about this one:
Hello everyone, I am back from my travels and I have started back to work on ‘Acts of Faith’, the Delamere Files book seven.
We had a great time away, despite Neil going down with the flu and me having a dodgy allergic reaction to something I ate in London. We caught up with my old cabaret partner, had lunch in Garrick Street, went to see ‘The Book of Mormon,’ surprised my nephew on his 30th birthday, Neil’s sister too, and my brother, I called in on my mother and stepfamily, and we stayed overnight in a pod in Gatwick airport. Now, we’re back, and both have colds, but we’re battling on.
I have some photos of Clearwater-related places in London that I took while I was there, and I will share them with you in time.
Today though, as my Wednesday work-in-progress blog, I wanted to run by you the first draft of the blurb for the next book. This, like the 1st draft, is still a work in progress, but this should be enough to give you the gist of the story and whet your appetite to know more. As for the writing, I am at 75% and am coming up to the smoking gun realisation, crisis and climax. It’s all in my head. It’s just a case of getting it down. So, here’s the blurb – and I’ll be back on Saturday.
Acts of Faith
The Delamere Files Book Seven
Jackson Marsh
When the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police assigns a personal case, failure is not an option. However, what starts out as a simple mystery soon turns into something far more complicated. An opera singer dead in her bath, a Smithfield butcher skinned alive, an unknown man found locked inside a steam locomotive… What is the connection?
With Benny Baxter’s help, the Clearwater detectives begin investigating the gruesome and seemingly unrelated murders, fully aware that failure could spell disaster for the agency.
Bringing in a handsome young constable seems to do little to aid the investigation, but Baxter recognizes in PC Inning a man trapped in a loveless marriage, with desires that lie elsewhere. As Baxter strives to prove his worth both in the case and in winning Inning’s affection, his search for a better life and love takes a chilling turn. He makes a horrifying discovery: the killer may be far closer than he ever imagined.
It was market morning. The ground was covered nearly ankle deep with filth and mire; and a thick steam perpetually rising from the reeking bodies of the cattle, and mingling with the fog, which seemed to rest upon the chimney tops, hung heavily above…
Not my writing, I’m afraid, but Dickens (Oliver Twist, 1838). I am currently researching Smithfield Market because two of my investigators will be going there later today, and I want to give an accurate picture of what one of London’s most famous markets was like in 1893. However, so far, I have only found accounts from earlier in the century and passages from authors such as Dickens. Having said that, I have not yet read everything on my go-to website, the Dictionary of Victorian London.
One of my challenges is to describe the same thing again and use accurate facts without sounding like a lecture. This is where Will Merrit comes in. I have fallen on this handy tool of using him to provide Jack and Baxter with background information about destinations they visit. It’s happened in previous novels, and there’s a little bit of it happening in the next one, ‘Acts of Faith,’ which is ticking along nicely in first draft form (see Wednesday’s blog for updates). So, to let readers know the facts of a place, I might slip in a snippet like this:
In form, the Meat Market is a parallelogram. It is 631 feet long, and 246 feet wide. It covers 3½ acres of ground. The architectural style of the building is Italian. The external walls of the market are 32 feet high, and for the purposes for which it was erected it is both in appearance and arrangements a model market.
That’s actually from John Fletcher Porter, London Pictorially Described, [1890], and thanks again to the Dictionary and its compiler, Dr Lee Jackson. Click that link and you will find all his books about Victorian London. I have a few of them and have read others. They are fascinating, though not necessarily my period of late 19th century.
So, my workload today includes writing chapter 18 and making sure there is a PoC (Point of Chapter) so that the story moves or the characters develop and we don’t end up with a shoe leather chapter where you get fab description but no story movement.
I also have to put out the month’s newsletter which will contain this month’s promotions for new books from many authors. (Sign up for the monthly newsletter from the link at the top of this page.)
I’d also like to get to the bottom of why, in my new PC, my autocorrect options sometimes use ‘straight quotes’ and other times use ‘curly quotes,’ there seems to be no rhyme or reason for it. The problem is the straight ones in words like don’t, come out as reversed curly quotes in the final printing of the book and look odd. (A minor niggle, but a niggle all the same.)
I also have some other bits and pieces to take care of so this Saturday looks to be already filled up with work and typing, just as I like it.
At least, Delamare seven has a title, ‘Acts of Faith.’ There are many other books out there with that title or a variation of it, but none of them that I can see are gay historical fiction set in March 1893, so hopefully, I won’t cause confusion when this one is released. When will that be? I can’t yet say. I am up to 51,000 words, so halfway through, and someone’s about to make a link which will start the ball rolling downhill towards the crisis.
I am having a mild crisis of my own as I bought a new laptop last week, and I am still in the process of transferring things over. Setting Outlook for emails was a nightmare but it’s done now, and most of my most-used programs are installed. What I am now finding are the niggly little things that I added and changed over time are suddenly not there. For example, my file explorer used to save the four most recently used folders in the side menu and that was very handy. Now it doesn’t and even though I have set the box to do so, the programme doesn’t. I also have a thing where the autocorrect options I created (and there are many) are no longer there so I have to start that process again and add them one at a time when I see them. Strangely, though, when I do this, the resultant changes use ‘straight’ quotes and not the curly ones I want. Again, I have changed the auto-correct boxes so this shouldn’t happen and yet it still does. It’s not a great issue but I notice that when there’s a – for example – I don’t know, printed in the bokos the ’ comes out the wrong way around.
Anyway… The good news is, I am typing away and creating another complicated mystery throughline set against a growing friendship/love story, and it’s all going rather well. Oh – and I might have the face of a new character whose first name I want to change, but otherwise… Meet PC Charles Inning:
You can also meet a heap of novels and authors on the last promo push of this month, simply by clicking the banner below. I will be involved in more of these next month, and there will be a newsletter soon to give you more details.
As regular readers of my Victorian mystery series will know, I often refer to publications of the time for ideas, research and details. In the case of the currently untitled, seventh Delamere File, I have one of my detectives reading the Illustrated Police News from roughly the time the story is set. I say ‘roughly’ because there was only one copy of that month/that year on the British Newspaper Archive site when I looked, so I used one from a nearby month for the book. Here’s the front page of the IPN from the 4th March 1893:
And here’s a closer look at one of the drawings.
The illustrations were mainly on the front cover, with a few drawings inside, but nowhere near as many. This, for example, is page three of the same publication.
Apart from its lurid stories, what this publication gives me is an idea of policing methods of the time. Then, of course, you have the surrounding news, such as what the weather was like on the day, what was happening in overseas crimes, and, in the illustration, a look at what the scenery was like. By that, I mean, this one has a drawing of Poplar Town Hall as the artist saw it back then, rather than as someone might have photographed it in the 20th century. There are also short, dramatic stories which help give a feel for the creative writing style of the time, but they are also fun to read for the scandal and gossip.
They also lead me to new discoveries, and these can lie among the advertisements as well as the text. For example, I’d never considered an ‘Organette’ until I reached page four.
I’ll try and work one of these into the next Delamare. I often wonder what Jack, Will and the rest do of an evening. I know they play billiards, read, and go to the theatre or pub, but what about background music? There is no music in the house because no-one plays an instrument, and the gramophone was only a few years old. The first ‘records’ didn’t come out until 1892, and the first seven-inch record in 1895. I can imagine Jimmy having a phonograph if he needed to, and they now have three telegraph machines at the house. When telephones become more accessible, they will no doubt have at least one of them.
The first telephone came about in 1667 when Robert Hooke created an ‘acoustic line telephone’ like we did with tin cans when we were children. It wasn’t until the late 19th century that things really started to pick up (the phone), and not until the early 20th century that the call to invest more in home phones was answered. Great technology which, in the UK today, allows you to listen to Vivaldi for two hours while trying to reach a doctor.
You see how it goes? I started off talking about the Illustrated Police News and ended up talking about telephones via the organette. Now, I’m going to delve into chapter eight of the next book, where, I believe, someone has just experienced the first pangs of falling in love, while examining where a woman died in a bath. The mind of an author, eh? Have a good weekend!
I have just received the first draft cover for Grave Developments, plus, the character sketch came in as well. I will save that, and the full cover, for later, but for now, here is the title of Delamere Six:
Doesn’t give very much away, I know!
By my reckoning, I have two more chapters to finish, and the story should be complete. My aim is to complete this draft by Monday morning at the latest. This is because, on Monday afternoon, I am going to Rhodes and won’t be back until Friday evening. Neil gets back from Scotland on Tuesday, into Rhodes, and I have some appointments, plus, I need to do some shopping. Here, on Symi, we have a few shops, but nothing like H&M or Zara.
The timeline I’ve set for publishing for Grave Developments means we are probably looking at the week before Christmas as the publication week. I don’t know if that’s a good time to publish a new book or not, but when it’s number six in a series, I don’t suppose it matters. It’s not as if anyone will leap into an ongoing series at that point. I know with many detective novels the order you read them in isn’t vital. For example, you could pick up a Miss Marple novel (Agatha Christie) and not need to know what’s happened in her past, but my series work differently.
Are there character developments in this book? Yes. If we think that when the series starts, Jack Merrit is coming to terms with being gay, and that path to self-understanding continues in books two, and starts to settle in book three. By book four, he’s secure and by book five, he and Larkin are ticking along like a married but not living together couple. In book six, he comes across that well-known issue of temptation, and we see how he deals with that. Meanwhile, we’ve also got Baxter. He started out as the hired stable hand and is now fast becoming a detective in his own right. He’s turned his back on his slutty past (or has he?), is now 20, still madly in lust with Jack, the ‘Boss,’ and still as chirpy as ever, but now, he has more to do. So, Bax is developing, Will is settling down and is more able to control his anxiety and OCD. The occupants of Delamere House have also changed slightly, as Dalston and Joe have left and Nes, Sparks, Simeon and Ronny have joined, and, in book six, even the horses are different (Shadow is still with us).
As well as all that going on in the background, we have the mystery to solve, and I should have it wrapped up by Monday, ready for a beta read, and, in the first week of December, do the final drafting.
So, that is where I am, here is a view of where I am and how the weather is.
Yesterday afternoon while on a walk (wearing shorts and a t-shirt).
I will be away for a week or so, but will be on Facebook, and will be back here in due course. There will be a December newsletter soon too, with links to more promos for new titles and authors, and I’ll leave you with this one, in case you haven’t already explored it.
I haven’t posted here for ten days! That’s because I had to take a week off due to an arm injury. Well, RSI caused by too much typing, so this will be brief so I can save my typing time for writing the next book – which still doesn’t have a title! Very unlike me, as the titles usually come during the writing of the first half of a new MS. I still only have ‘Snapshot’ as my working title, but I am now thinking about something to do with a play on the word grave. Why? That will become clear when you read the story.
While I am working on it (50,000 words so far, so halfway through), I am pleased to say that ‘A Case of Make Believe’ is doing well, as is the whole series. So is the Clearwater series, and Larkspur is coming in close behind in terms of page reads and books ordered.
I wasn’t lazy while I was sofa-bound. I read two books about Jack the Ripper, and a couple of short stories by Thomas Hardy I’d not read before.
Thomas Hardy
The JtR books were interesting. One was a collection of all theories and the various ‘solutions’, which, of course, are not solutions, because there never can be a solution, and that’s why the mystery endures. The other was a book written by ex-policemen, and this one doesn’t say ‘This is the solution’ but gives the facts as they were known to the police at the time, and that’s it. We then make up our own minds. The Thomas Hardy shorts were completely different though if you like colloquial language and West Country legends, try, ‘The Withered Arm.’
I thought that title was appropriate considering I was off work with just such a thing.
And today’s highlighted promo is this one (below). Click the banner to find a selection of women’s lit, mystery, time travel and bio books to keep you busy reading.
