If you are looking for a great Historical mystery to read, you might want to check out this list of titles on this Book Funnel promo. They are all in KU, so won’t cost anything, but even if you’re not in KU, a click on a cover will take you to the cover and blurb and on to that book’s Kindle or print-version page so you can order a copy.
As you can see, Guardians of the Poor is on the list (along with the other two series starters, Deviant Desire and Finding a Way.) I was really pleased to see Guardians has already picked up over 70 interactions on Amazon, has a review score average of 4.6 there and on Goodreads (not that I have much faith in these things), and the reviews continue to be favourable. This, I hope, bodes well for the success of the Delamere series.
I am still editing book two, and today will contact my proofreader to find a suitable date to start proofing. I must then turn my mind to a cover idea and get in touch with Andjela. After that, the process will rumble on until sometime in October when the second in the Delamere series will be released. In the meantime, head over to the promo and pick up some other historical mysteries from some very talented authors.
The theme of the promo is historical mystery, and the required theme is: The plot must centre around historical events and locations AND have a mystery or crime involved.
Well, as soon as I saw that, I thought of everything from Deviant Desire to Guardians of the Poor and beyond.
The Clearwater Mysteries
These stories start in 1888, with Deviant Desire centred around the Ripper murders of 1888, and continuing into Twisted Tracks. Then comes, the Royal Opera House season of the same year in Unspeakable Acts, and as the series continues, we have all manner of historical events and locations, including, the Lyceum Theatre (1889) and the Cleveland Street Scandal, not to mention the characters, Henry Irving, Bram Stoker, Sir Arthur Sullivan and others of the time.
The Larkspur Mysteries
The follow-on series does the same, starting with life in the Hackney workhouse, and various real-life locations from 1890 onwards, the standing stones of Cornwall, historic inventions and science, the railways, and various real-life trials and scandals.
The Delamere Mysteries
Beginning in 1892, this series is separate from the Larkspur Mysteries, but continues from the same time in the same world, with some of the same characters making appearances, but it focuses on three new MCs who will drive the future stories forward. There’s certainly a mystery and some thrills in ‘Finding a Way’, and also a lot of historical accuracy, particularly around the life of Jack Merrit, a London cabbie.
The Promo
As you’ll see if you head to the promo page, there are mysteries and thrillers set in various times throughout history. There are novels by Olivia Le Roux, K C Sivils, and Joni Swift among others including myself, with stories set in various time periods with the 1930s in particular being popular.
All titles are available on KU, so if you’re already subscribed to Kindle Unlimited, they won’t cost you a penny. If not, you can still get them at prices ranging from $0.99 to $3.99 ($9.99 for the box sets).
Check out the promo through the following link, and add some more historical, mystery and thriller reading to your list.
Hi. Just a short note today as I suddenly have a lot of work on, including editing a short story for a magazine, three hours of article writing, and a website review, plus the continued editing of ‘A Fall from Grace.’
Neil has started the beta read for me and already raised an issue that I had nagging at the back of my mind. It’s about the first four chapters of the book which include a lot of necessary backstory to the case to be investigated. I thought perhaps I’d put all of this is in too much detail, but, actually, I haven’t. The detail is fine, and the backstory makes for an interesting read on its own. What I have done, however, is put it in the wrong order, logically speaking. So, my job yesterday, and today, is to reorder the chapters. Easy? Not exactly.
It’s not a case of swapping chapter two for three etc. The info, dialogue and narration need to be chopped about and altered because of the new order of the story. To do that, I have all four chapters open, I copy a section I want from Chapt 3 and copy it to the clipboard, change the font colour of the original to red, so I know it’s been moved. Then, I paste it, in black, in Chpt 2, say, and take what I want from Chpt 2, highlight it, put it in red, and paste it in Chpt 1 in black. And so on, and so on. When all this alchemy is done, I then take out the red, read through, adjust the text, or simply rewrit the chapter as ‘they’ say it’s best not to fiddle with written text but simply to rewrite it, as you get better results. I do both. If it’s a short edit, i.e. a line or two, I’ll do it within the existing chapter. If it’s a case of telling the story in a different way, I’ll rewrite the whole thing.
So, the work is progressing, and once the beginning is sorted out, I’ll plough on through with the rest. We’re probably looking at October for a release date now, rather than the last few days of September, but tbh, that was probably always going to be the case.
Meanwhile, I found this photo of a young chap online and to me, it looked a little like the character Will Merrit (except his tie would be straighter). What do you think? (Just realised I posted this pic before. Well, I am in rather a hurry this morning…)
Before you settle into read this short excerpt, here’s a reminder about the Book Funnel Promo for LGBTQ+ Romantic Mysteries. Included in this list is ‘Guardians of the Poor’, the first of the Larkspur Series, plus many other titles that offer a mix of LGBTQ romance with a mystery plot or subplot. As you know, all of my Clearwater, Larkspur and now, Delamere novels/series are mysteries with romance, or romantic mysteries. I decided to put the first of each series into this promotion, as each series fits with the theme.
You’ll find many other established authors, and some who may be new to you, and there are great many ideas for new reading. Click the image to take a look at the list.
Finding a Way, unpublished chapter two (first draft)
Sleep, coloured by memories, and broken by Mary knocking up, looked forward to after one hour studying, twelve hours labouring, and five hours driving, was less welcome to Jack than it had been, because the date had been set for his test, and like a runaway horse, it came at him faster than he could control.
On the day, the rain held off, and he hired Charlie to take him to the examination office, expecting to sit at a table and fill out documents. Instead, he met with an official-looking man, who, rather than wish him a good morning, asked him to recite a route before the pair had shaken hands. Jack told him the information he wanted, and recited several others, making no mistakes.
‘How long have you been learning?’
‘A year, Sir.’
‘A year?’ The examiner’s face flushed red around his full beard. ‘Impossible. Come back in twelve months.’
‘I can’t, Sir. I need to start earning.’
‘Impossible, I say.’
‘Let me prove myself, Mr…?’
Mr Whoever—Jack never learnt his name—remonstrated, but Jack held his ground until the examiner gave in.
‘If you can tell me this, I’ll let you pass,’ he said through gritted teeth, and announced the start and finish locations for an imaginary but complicated journey.
Jack visualised his maps, saw the streets in his mind, thought of his brother, and the empty rent jar, and started at the beginning. Along the route, he added asides, contingencies against men working on the road, difficult traffic depending on the time of day, and highlighted his shortcuts, until his fare was safely delivered to the correct destination, where he gave the appropriate price.
The examiner’s face turned from red to pale.
‘One year?’ he muttered. ‘Never seen it before.’
‘But have you seen it now, Sir?’
‘I have, I’ll be damned. You made not one error, and you gave an accurate price. How old are you?’
‘Recently turned twenty-five. Is that important?’
‘It means you’ve at least another fifty years ahead, if you live that long, and it means you’ll do better than older men in the cold weather. Do you drink?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Why not? No money?’
‘That is one reason, I admit, but even when I am in pocket, I use my earnings to pay for my brother’s care.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘No-one knows. As my grandfather Reggie Merrit said, my brother is special.’
‘Reggie Merrit? Of Limehouse?’
‘Yes, Sir. My grandfather. Died last year.’
The examiner’s mouth dropped, and for a second, Jack thought he saw sadness cross the colourful face.
‘We started on the same day,’ the examiner said, reaching for a sheet of paper. ‘Didn’t know he’d died. Bob Hart still living?’
‘Yes, Sir, and working. He and the others who work from Limehouse have been teaching me.’
‘Tell him he owes me three shillings from ten years ago.’
‘I shall, Sir. May I know your name?’
‘Old Reggie had a son, didn’t he?’
‘Samson Merrit. Died last year…’
‘Right before me eyes. Best thing about the turn, if you ask me. Never like that Marie Lloyd woman.’
‘You were at the music hall?’
‘Aye. Seems our paths are intertwined, Mr Merrit. I can see you got your knowledge and tenacity from Reggie, and your looks from your father. You’ll be popular on the ranks.’
Jack’s heart picked up its pace as the man began to write, but not wishing to pre-empt what he hoped would be good news, he said nothing.
‘I’ll put you out a green card. Present it whenever a policeman asks for it, be careful who you hire your rig from, never take a grey horse, and stay sober. That’s me advice to the grandson of the fairest cabman I knew. Sorry to hear about Reggie, but remember to tell Hart about the three shillings.’ The examiner thrust a piece of paper, and Jack took it before he changed his mind. ‘Present that at the desk, and come back to pick up your card and number when they say. After that, you’re on your own, Mr Merrit. Except you’re obviously not. One year? Out of Limehouse? Who’d-a-thought it? Go.’
Jack had entered the office as nervous as a bag of kittens being held over a river and left it a confident cabman with a new career. All that remained to be done was to save for his initial rig hire, which, Will had calculated, would take him only a couple of weeks. After that, to rent Reggie’s old rig from Mr Harris at the yard, and give up the dock work. Then, he could follow in his grandfather’s footsteps and start earning decent money.
He had accomplished the first part of his plan, the next would take more time; to keep his promise to Will, and find the family decent lodgings further west, away from the soot, and the stink of the sugar refinery. That done, he would find someone willing to offer Will employment, and Ida a decent retirement.
Some of what he hoped for would come true before the year was out, but it would not come without heartache and a whole heap of trouble.
You can discover what that trouble turned out to be in ‘Finding a Way’, and while you are doing that, I continue to work on part two, ‘A Fall from Grace.’ There will be more news in my Wednesday blog.
Hello, and welcome to your update on ‘A Fall from Grace’, the Delamere Files book two.
The first draft is finished! I’ve been through the story and transferred it from my head to my typowriter, but I am still surrounded by notes stuck to my writing station, and my notebook overfloweth with more.
Now, I begin the task of editing the story before going back to edit the text. There are many fine details in this story which, although the reader doesn’t need to remember them, need to add up and tie in for the overall picture to accurately emerge. Not only am I developing three characters I only created in the last novel, and developing some of those we met in previous series, but I am also introducing a couple of new ones, for the purpose of this story alone. Each character must be themselves, and that’s easy to do with my quirky, eccentric folk, but not so easy with a protagonist and antagonist neither of whom are onstage for long.
As for those quirky characters who have a scene here and there (or in this case, only here as they only appear once), they are fun to write. You will meet mad Mrs Hogg and her famous hat, and the decrepit chairman of the Old Sinfordians who suffers from a, then, undiagnosed condition we, today, would call something else. A bit like Will who has OCD, but which, in 1892, wasn’t called that but probably considered some kind of mental deformity which it isn’t. In Will’s case, he calls it his ‘preciseness’, which is a far more appealing term than compulsive or obsessive and I don’t consider it a disorder either… But, let’s not get into all of that…
I found this chap online and wondered if it might be Will Merrit.
What you came here for is to learn that draft one is finished and topped off at 104,000 words, with about 95% of them correctly spelt. The first editing job will take me a week or so, and the second, a little longer. Meanwhile, I must turn my attention to blurbs and covers and saving to pay the proofreader and layout designers and all that jazz, while being aware that if I want any clues laid down in ‘A Fall from Grace’ that impact book three, I need to get them in there now.
So, back to work for me, and don’t forget to tune into Saturday’s blog when you can read more of the original, unpublished, opening of ‘Finding a Way.’
Also, don’t forget the Book Funnel promotion and the wealth of LGTBQ+ romantic mysteries on offers from a wide range of authors. Here’s the link to click:
Over the last two Saturdays, I’ve shown you the original first chapter of ‘Finding a Way.’ Today, you have the first half of the original, unpublished second chapter. If you’ve read the book, you’ll notice that some of what is in here made it into the final draft. It wasn’t until I was about halfway through the story that I realised a couple of events in this cut chapter were needed after all, so I took the sections from here and reworked them into a later chapter. That’s how it goes!
The second part will be up next Saturday. On Wednesday, I will tell you the latest news about ‘A Fall from Grace’, the Delamere Files series part two.
I also have a promotion running, or rather, am part of one. You should have received a newsletter email about this (if you’re not on the list, the link is at the top of the page in the menu). If you want, you can head straight to the Book Funnel page and see what LGBTQ+ Romantic Mystery novels are currently on offer.
Here’s the first half of the original second chapter of Finding a Way:
TWO
1892
The cabmen kept their word, and Jack kept his. Rising at five each day to study maps by lantern light, he followed Uncle Bob’s instructions, and learnt the street names one square at a time. The younger cabbie, Charlie Flex, who Jack took to instantly, gave him the tricks of linking streets in his mind, remembering patterns, and told him what to listen for.
‘A list of names ain’t no good no no-one when the fog’s in, you can’t see a dog’s dick’s length ahead, and you’re travelling blind,’ Charlie told him on their fourth night out. ‘It’s then you need to know how the roads sound.’
‘Sound?’
‘Yer. Listen to the wheels and the nag’s hooves. We’re on Kingsland Road, see? Pits, knocks, gravel here and there, get it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Now, turn next left by the Dodgy George, and we’ll be in Harman Street, and how do I know that?’
‘’Cos Pearson Street’s on the right going north.’
‘Good man. Listen how the sound changes. Getting towards poorer parts here, see? Dreadful road. Not flat. What’s next?’
‘Straight on and we’ll cross Hoxton Road.’
‘Good man. So, what if I want Ivy?’
‘Street or Lane, Sir?’
Charlie had told Jack to treat him as a customer, and to be polite no matter how drunk, obnoxious or hostile his fares were, and had worked with him on previous nights to better his language.
‘I want the Lane, but wait a minute. Close your eyes. It’s alright, Blister knows what she’s about. Go on, and you’ll know when you’re in Ivy Lane.’
Jack did as he was told, and with the ribbons slack in his hands, allowed the horse to lead. When he felt a jolt, he thought his companion had unbalanced the hansom, but it was the cab dipping, twice, and then the only sound came from Blister’s horseshoes.
‘Double drain beside the Turkish bathhouse,’ Charlie said, as Jack looked behind. ‘A good marker on a dark and foggy night, and there’s loads more to get to know. Now, let’s say I want to get to De Beauvoir.’
‘Square, Crescent or Road, Sir?’
‘Square. How will you get me there?’
‘Easy, Sir. Quickest is back to Kingsland, north, over the canal…’ A while later, Jack continued his commentary. ‘Next right’s Hertford, but it’s a dead end, and I ain’t leaving my fare to walk, not if he’s rich enough to live in De Beauvoir. Two right turns on is De Beauvoir Road, but before that, there’s Mortimer, and that leads straight into the square where I’ll ask him which side.’
‘Well done,’ Charlie said, and gave him a matey hug before letting go to tighten his coat against the night.
It was only a touch, but it meant something. The pair were snuggled in close on the bench. Built only for one, the space was cramped, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, there was something reassuring about being forced close to Charlie, a married man in his thirties, a supporter of the temperance movement and a nonconformist churchgoer. However, it wasn’t the thought of Charlie’s abstinence or piety that thrilled Jack and made his heart skip, nor was it the praise he gave when Jack made the turns with accuracy. Nor was it the friendship shown to him by Uncle Bob and his colleagues, and particularly by Charlie, who had encouraged and praised him the most. There was something else; something undefinable caused by the brief hug. It was only a show of manly support, and as affectionate as anyone had been with him, but because it came from a man and not doting old Ida nor daft young Will, it brought a sensation that chilled as much as it thrilled. If Charlie knew what reaction his touch had caused, he’d likely throw him from the bench and drive the hansom over him, church-going or not, because that was how men were taught to react to the abnormal interests of other men, an interest that had been stirring within Jack for some years now. Always denied, never expressed, but impossible to ignore, the thought that he was somehow different to normal men plagued his mind when he allowed it to, and although he kept the thought as deeply covered as he could, it rose to the surface in moments such as the one that had just passed.
To send it back to the depths, he remained silent and listened to the wheels and hooves.
‘Smoother road,’ he said. ‘And here’s the square, Sir.’
‘Good. Now, you got the Hackney map in your head?’
‘I have.’
‘Then, cabbie, I want to go first to Haggerston Park, then on to Limehouse. We’ll finish there. Quickest route, if you will, it’s damn freezing.’
The weather became colder as the weeks passed, but no matter if the night was marred by rain or was clear of cloud, and no matter if there was fog or snow, Jack took up his place with one of the cabmen, and drove. His days became a routine of learning maps, walking to the docks, doing his duties there, returning home, putting pennies in the food jar, and shillings in the rent pot, spending an hour with Will, and walking to Limedock station to start his five hours learning the knowledge. Ida was successful in claiming a little from the church to see them through Reggie’s illness, and Will took in some sewing, using what little he earnt to pay doctors. A stream of learned men came to the dwelling, each one poking this and asking that, but all any could say was that Reggie’s condition would never change. In fact, he would deteriorate, one said, and Ida should be saving for a funeral in the spring.
When it came, spring brought no change in Jack’s routine, though, by then, the long days had begun to take their toll. Sleep was the only break from the grind, and it came quicker and deeper. If it weren’t for Mary the knocker-up, he’d not have seen the mornings, and if it wasn’t for Will’s meticulousness in preparing Jack’s clothing and meal pack for work, he’d not have eaten. When he caught influenza, Will and Ida rallied around, forced him to stay abed for three whole days, while, despite his lame leg, Johnny Clarke from next door took Jack’s place at the docks, so he wouldn’t lose his job. Johnny took the wages for those days, of course, but his mother, Elsie, had a good run on her straw bonnet making, and was able to lend the family the shillings Jack had lost. There were no rides out during those nights. Instead, Jack studied his maps and had Will test him, even though his head thumped, his stomach was weak, and he could hardly speak.
‘Essex Street to Trafalgar Square,’ Will challenged.
‘Essex Street, Temple?’
‘Yes, from that Essex Street.’
The image of several squares flashed across Jack’s internal vision, black and grey lines, blocks, typeface and symbols, quickly replaced by the actual image of the streets, and Charlie beside him for the first part, Albert Cranny for the second.
‘It’s a dead end, so I’d turn her north, up to Saint Clement Danes, left into the Strand and straight down to Trafalgar. Try something harder.’
‘I will when you get that one right.’
‘I did. Ain’t no easier way.’
‘Ah, but there is a faster way,’ Will said, mopping Jack’s brow. ‘You could have turned left into Little Essex Street, right at the printworks on Milford Lane, and reached the Strand without having to wait for the traffic coming out of Temple Bar. You’d have saved a couple of minutes.’
Jack wasn’t surprised he’d missed a cut-through, he was surprised that Will had given him the correction without looking at the map.
‘You been learning these with me?’ he croaked.
‘Of course,’ Will replied, seemingly just as surprised that Jack needed to ask.
The influenza still had a grip on Jack when he returned to work, but he sweated it out, as Elsie Clarke said he should, and he returned to his routine of study, labouring, driving and learning, until one day in April, when, on returning from the docks, he found Uncle Bob, Albert and Charlie gathered at Reggie’s bedside. Ida was crying in the kitchen room, and Will was pacing the few steps from the sink to the window agitated, and counting seconds.
‘What is it?’ Jack said, throwing down his lunch pale, instantly knowing something was wrong.
‘The doctor just left,’ Ida sniffed. ‘You best go in.’
Reggie was dying, Uncle Bob said, and seeing Jack’s consternation, laid a hand on his shoulder and told him he’d not got long.
‘You’re nearly there, Skip. You’ll get your licence in a week or so. Believe me.’
‘Believe in yourself,’ Charlie said as he also prepared to leave. ‘I’ll miss our time on the bench, Jack, but if you ever want to ride out, just to be alone, you can call on me, yeah?’
It was a troubled moment. On the one hand, Jack’s eyes were fixed on Reggie’s white face, and his drooping, sunken eyes, while all he could hear was Charlie offering to be alone and giving a strange message as if in code.
‘Just to talk,’ Charlie said, and left Jack wondering if he’d read his thoughts.
Alone with his grandfather, Jack sat beside him and took his limp hand, while in the background came sobs and numbers.
‘You going, Reggie?’ he whispered.
Reggie’s reply was a mumble, and a gasp, but the head made a tiny nodding movement, and his face screwed up as he concentrated.
‘You… Willie…’ the words were more than faltering, but Jack listened with patience. ‘Take care… My… Ida. Your… Brother…’ A sucking-in of saliva, a faint gasp. ‘Need you.’
‘I’ll look after your Ida, Granddad, don’t you worry.’ Determined to be the man, Jack held back tears. ‘I’ve nearly got it. I’ll have your old hansom back on the streets right soon.’
‘Promise you’ll… remember… Willie… is… Special.’
‘I know. He’s very special to me.’
‘Not stupid. Special.’
‘Shush, granddad. Rest.’
‘No… Point. Will… Special’
Ida and Will joined them, standing by the death bed, their sadness wrapped by acceptance, and with Will now silently mouthing his numbers as he counted the time from the doctor’s diagnosis to the moment Reggie Merrit drew his last breath.
‘Sixteen minutes, twenty-two seconds,’ he said, as Ida closed her husband’s eyelids, and lay her head on his chest.
Jack stared at the scene, hollow, exhausted, and frightened for what he now had to take on, but trepidation vanished when Will, his counting concluded, took him in his arms, and hugged him tighter than he’d ever done.
‘We’ll manage,’ he said. ‘I got my brother, you got yours. I love you, Jack.’
Jack filled his lungs, gripped his brother, and swallowed.
‘Love you too.’
‘Was it the enemas?’
Jack found it hard not to chuckle. His brother was one moment sincere, the next, innocent, but always, as Reggie had said with his last breath, special.
‘No, it wasn’t that.’
‘He’s with God now.’ Ida stood, and straightened her apron as if they’d just finished a meal and the table had to be cleared. ‘I best get the neighbours in. Willie, put water to boil for washing him, and fetch the towels from the drawer. He picked out his suit and his cabbie’s tie. Bob will tell the others at the rank, Jack, so you find the vicar. We’ll bury him proper at Tower Hamlets. I’ve been saving. The men’ll want to follow in their cabs, tell the vicar that, and say we only need a short service by the grave. It’s in a decent spot and there’s a place for me alongside.’
‘Grandma…’
‘No time to grieve, son. We’ve work to do.’
As Ida predicted and wanted, Reggie was escorted to his grave by a line of hansom cabs, with Jack driving behind the funeral cart supervised by Uncle Bob, and Reggie’s other friends following. The service was simple and silent, save for the vicar’s words, but the gathering at the Waterman’s Arms afterwards was a boisterous celebration of one man’s long life.
That done, and the black crepe removed from the kitchen mirror, Jack’s life returned to what it had been as if the man who’d brought him up hadn’t existed. The only reminder was a photograph of Reggie in his coffin, donated by his cabbie colleagues as a memorial, and placed above the bedroom mantelpiece by Ida.
‘You boys will soon have this room to yourself,’ she said, looking at it with fondness. ‘I can’t leave him to his own devices for long.’
‘Don’t say that, Grandma,’ Will complained.
‘A bed to yourself, Willie. Look forward to it,’ she replied. ‘No, you won’t have to wait long.’
No not that. I’ve been here before, climaxing at around 90,000 words with the end of the first draft in sight, and, today, that’s exactly where I am with ‘A Fall from Grace’, the second book in the new Delamere Files series.
I’m pleased to say that ‘Finding a Way’ is doing well, and has already received one glowing review, which includes: I was hooked on this story from the very first sentence. As always, great characters are introduced to the reader and some cameo appearances of characters from previous series just tied everything so perfectly together.
Thank you for that Charles!
I am aiming to have A Fall from Grace first draft completed by this time next week at the latest.
Meanwhile, I am taking part in a book promotion or two during September, and there will be news about this in a newsletter in the next couple of days. If you’ve not subscribed to my (very) occasional newsletters, you can do so from the Newsletter Page. https://jacksonmarsh.com/newsletter/
Today, as promised, you have the second part of the first chapter of ‘Finding a Way’ that was cut and replaced with the first chapter as you have it now… Confused? Don’t be.
Last Saturday we had part one, and today part two, so you can always go back to last week’s post to start from the beginning. This chapter (and the one I will post next week), constituted the original opening for the book. I later decided they were more about me telling myself the backstory, and I ditched them, using only the salient parts in the final draft.
Just to remind you, this is 1st draft material and has not been properly proofread.
Will was more than Jack’s best friend and brother; he was also his responsibility and had been since he was born. On the outside, his younger brother was as fit and able as any twenty-year-old, as bonny as any other young man who lived on a diet of whatever Grandma Ida could find for the few shillings remaining after Reggie’s cab week, and although narrow of body, he was not underfed and never looked starved. It was inside that his problem lay, a problem no doctor had yet been able to name or treat.
Whatever the name for his strangeness, Will was not an imbecile. Jack had taught him to read and write, their grandmother had taught him to sew and wash clothes, but no employer would entertain him on account of his mannerisms; the way chairs had to be square-on to the table, the cutlery perpendicular, the plates washed twice, and the bedding turned down just so. There were never complaints or tantrums if these things were not done to Will’s satisfaction, he would merely move the furniture he thought out of place, or brush the dust from the blanket, turn the pot on the stove to the correct angle, or untie Jack’s boot laces when left by the door, and set them straight. To the family, this was just how Will was, but to anyone else, they were signs of inherent madness, and to strangers, that made him untrustworthy.
When his brother was twelve, Jack persuaded his foreman to give Will a day ticket to work. He wanted to prove to himself and the family that his brother could do more than read books, or stare at the embroidery hanging over the mantelpiece until, driven by frustration, he took it down, unpicked every strand, and sewed it back together because one stitch had been incorrect. Jack had faith in him, and Will was keen to show he could be useful.
The foreman was not impressed. Charged with stacking the sacks Jack was unloading from a clipper, Will was set to work in a warehouse where older, gruffer men swore and whistled as they hauled and handled. Having delivered his first load, and shown Will what to do, Jack returned to the ship to take on a second wagon-full and drove the cart back to the stores. There, to his dismay, he found Will had set the sacks in a line, opened them, and was transferring grain from one to the other so that each was exactly the same level. They were discovered before Jack could put things right, and Will was dismissed on the spot. Had Jack not spent years in the docks lifting and carrying, tending horses, and making himself invaluable, he too would have been out of work, but he was strong, reliable and never complained. The foreman docked him two day’s pay, and told him to ‘Get that idiot out of my stores,’ and he never tried the experiment again.
Will was not an idiot, and neither was Jack. It was clear to see that without two incomes, the family would soon be homeless. The rooms were not big enough to take in lodgers, although apartments with ten in two rooms was not uncommon in their street, but Ida had standards, and they were to be kept no matter the pain in the stomach or the chill in the air. It was bad enough for four of them to sleep in one room, live and eat in the other, and share the privy with four families, so renting out space was not an option. Nor was increasing his hours at the docks, because the company didn’t allow that, and neither would it have been possible for him to find night work and labour twenty-four hours a day.
There was only one way Jack could think of to earn enough to support everyone, and it involved a walk, a lot of thinking and a risk. If the first stage of his barely thought-out plan was a success, several months of hard work would follow, and that would have to be done while he continued to work his docker’s ticket. At some point, there would be a test, and he would need a license, but he was a fast learner, and already knew the layout of the East End. Learning the rest would take time, but it was not an impossible task and, thanks to Reggie’s years on the rank, he had contacts.
One of them was exactly where Jack knew he would be, smoking his pipe outside Limehouse railway station, chatting to another cabman, and complaining about the weather. On seeing Jack, the old man removed his cap and waved it towards his hansom while throwing up his arms.
‘Reggie can’t work,’ Jack called ahead. ‘Had a fit.’
‘What?’
‘Had a fit,’ he repeated when he arrived, hot but not out of breath after the long walk. ‘Can’t work no more.’
‘Why, you be pulling a me leg, ain’t you, Skip?’
Mr Hart had called Jack that name since he could remember. Skip Jacks were the boys of nag dealers, employed to ride them during sales, and Jack was good with horses.
‘Ain’t, Mr Hart. Grandad got a shock and fell down. Doctor says there’s no getting him right.’
Jack told him what had happened, and Hart passed on the news to his fellow cabmen, all of whom offered their sympathies and promised to visit when they could.
‘Yeah, well, he don’t need sympathy and hellos,’ Jack said, filling his pipe as the men returned to their groups and fares. ‘He needs a favour, Mr Hart. Rather, I do, and I was hoping you’d help me out with it.’
‘I’ll do what I can, son, but I’m guessing you’re heading for the lend of money, and I can’t ask the Mission to help you with that.’
‘That’s not it. I got my six days a week at West India. It won’t keep us for long, and I ain’t got none put by, none of has, but I got a plan, and I need your help with it.’
‘Not following you, Skip,’ Mr Hart said, holding a match to the bowl of Jack’s pipe.
‘Knowledge, Mr Hart, that’s what I want. Can you help me with it?’
‘Now you’re thinking I’m some schoolteacher? You sure it ain’t you what’s had a fit?’
‘No. I need to learn the streets.’
One of the first things Jack remembered about his grandfather’s oldest friend was the way his eyebrows met in the middle when he pulled a face. He was sure he’d done it to him as a baby, because behind him in the distant vision, were Reggie and Ida, laughing, and Jack could recall stretching out a hand and touching the strange man’s side whiskers. They had been black then, but now they were as white as a new sheet, as were his eyebrows which met, not to cause laughter, but in confusion.
‘What?’
‘How long will it take me? I know most of Whitechapel and Limehouse, Millwall of course, and far up as Mile End, but…’
‘Now hang on, Skip. What you saying? You want to take over Reggie’s cab?’
‘That’s the measure of it.’
‘You can’t just do that. ’Ere!’ Hart called to another on the rank. ‘Skip thinks he can get up there and nick our job quick as you like. Wants to learn the knowledge.’
‘Let him,’ one of the others called down from his seat before snapping his whip and clattering into traffic.
‘Yer, get started now, Skip, and you might be driving come Christmas,’ another encouraged. ‘You understand the nags, you only got a learn the rest.’
‘Christmas next year at least,’ Mr Hart said. ‘You can’t just get in a cab and off you go, Son. You got a learn…’
‘The streets. I know, and you know them, and you know what’s the easiest way for me to remember them. Will you learn me?’
‘What, just like that?’ Hart flicked away the match and laughed. ‘Getting the test’ll take you two years, and you never stop learning. They keep putting in new roads, new buildings going up, even new bloody bridges, which, I admit, are easier to find. You got a know not only your patch, but anywhere from Enfield to Epsom, what theatres chuck out what time, what master’s yard offers decent rates, and none of them do, not no more. Then there’s your charges. How you going to start if you ain’t got nothing put by? No, Son, you want to step into Reggie’s shoes, then get yourself better docking. You’re built for that, so stick to it. You’ve always been good at lifting and carting, you don’t want a be sitting up there in all weathers freezing your Tommy’s off, and getting the rheumatism from the wind. You’ll turn to drink when you’re bored, and there’s never a guarantee you’re going to make any more than the East India pays you.’
Jack had expected this and, on his way, had made his calculations.
‘I see it this way, Mr Hart. I get twenty-four shillings a week from the docks. If Grandma Ida can get some poor relief on the rent for a couple of months, my pay’ll cover all else, with some put aside. Hold on…’ Pointing his pipe prevented the old man from interrupting. ‘I know what you’re going to say. Reggie was putting out over a hundred and fifty pounds a year to rent the hansom and horse, right? It’s twelve shillings a week for winter, up to nineteen ’round Derby and Ascot weeks, but at that time, I can make three quid on each ride to the races, and it’s back to eleven a week come August. To pay the hire, yard and boy, I got to make ten shillings a day, six days a week to keep even, but there’s more than five million potential fares a day out there, so I reckon there’s room for me. I got the costs in me head, and I know what I’ll need to pay for the house and Will on top. You know Will can’t work much on account of his strangeness, but he’s been taking in some sewing, and now we’re going to need medicines for Reggie, and Ida’s getting along towards seventy, though she takes in a bit of washing. I thought it through, Mr Hart. I just need to know how to learn the streets, and how to get me licence. I’ll rent from Harris on me own badge same as you and Reggie. Now then, you’ve been Reggie’s best man since before me dad was born—Oh, he died last night, by the way, but none of us is bothered. So, I reckon, if you want to help your oldest mate, right now dribbling down his chin cos one half of him’s not working, the least you can do is point me in the right direction.’
‘That was quite a speech,’ someone said after a moment’s silence. ‘The lad’s thought about it.’
Other cabbies had come to listen, because there was never much to do at that time of day in Limehouse, and the next train wasn’t due in for ten minutes.
‘Yeah. Thought about it for the half hour it took him to walk over,’ Mr Hart said, studying Jack with his yellowing eyes and sympathetic frown. ‘Your dad died?’
‘Yeah. Fell down at the feet of Marie Lloyd halfway through the gallery song. Dead as a donkey. Probably got the biggest applause of his career, but I ain’t bothered about him. Now, what d’you say?’
‘I say it’s a pretty rubbish song in any case, Skip.’
‘The knowledge?’
Mr Hart stared at him and shook his head in resignation. ‘Two year at least,’ he warned. ‘That’s what it’ll take you. You got over two hundred miles of streets, more than twenty thousand street names, the routes, cut-throughs, tolls, the way the police watch you, and how things work. That’s without trying to make ten bob a day. Think you can do it?’
‘I don’t need you to put me off, Uncle Bob, I need you to help me out, and help out Reggie and Ida, but mainly, I need you to help me help Will. What d’you say?’
Maybe it was because he’d called him Uncle Bob, and been familiar rather than polite, but the old man’s eyes narrowed as he sucked on his dead pipe, and he glanced at his colleagues gathered to the side, his white eyebrows asking the question on his behalf.
‘If he’s got the stamina and the brains,’ a cabman said.
‘He’s got them alright,’ Hart muttered as if jealous. ‘But the time?’
‘I can put in five or six hours a night, and all day Sundays,’ Jack said. ‘That’d still give me time to sleep.’
‘The nipper’s got it all planned, Bob. No changing his mind.’
‘There ain’t.’
‘But I got to sleep an’all, Skip.’
‘Ah, you’re getting old,’ another cabman laughed. ‘The way I see it, young Jack, is this. Us men what wait and drive, drive and wait, we look after our own, and Reggie’s one of us, so that makes you family an’all. I’d be happy to take you out a couple of hours one night a week.’
‘Yeah, and me on Sundays,’ said another. ‘Least, a few times.’
‘Scottie’s the best for the cut-throughs,’ another said. ‘He’ll do it, won’t you?’
‘Who’ll pay me?’
‘God.’
‘Keep your bible out of it, Stan,’ someone laughed. ‘The lad’s keen, he’s quick, and most of all, he’s Reggie’s boy. I’ll learn him the West End.’
Charlie, a younger cabbie, volunteered to teach Jack south of the river and the bridges, while others offered their time here and there, but only because he was Reggie Merrit’s grandson, and cabmen were a fraternity, and before Jack had a chance to thank them, or take in the enormity of what he’d started, even Mr Hart agreed to teach him one night each week, although they all decided Jack would have to pay part of the cab hire because they would be working longer hours.
‘Study hard, Jack, and you’ll get your badge,’ Hart said. ‘I’ll have a word with Harris, he’s slippery, but the easiest to hire from, and he’s got a lad at the stables who’ll teach you the tack and traces.’
‘I’m ahead of you there, Uncle Bob. Been carting nearly ten years, ain’t I?’
‘True enough, but it’s different.’
‘When can I start?’
‘You can start right now,’ the younger driver said. ‘You can ride with me. Me nag ain’t called Blister for nothing, she’ll pull the extra weight.’
Mr Hart gave a final sigh of defeat. ‘Alright, Skip. There’s more than seven thousand of us on the stands, another won’t make a difference.’
I released the first in the new series of The Delamere Files last week, and the story is up and running. Finding a Way introduces us to new characters in the Clearwater world of London in 1892, and sets the scene for things to come with a case involving a London cabbie, a criminal gang and a couple of characters from the previous two series. It is too early to say how the series will run in terms of popularity, but it’s off to a reasonable start after its release.
A Fall from Grace
The second book continues the main relationships between the principal characters with a change in circumstances and a new investigation. I am still working through the first draft, and my desk is still covered with notes and charts as I keep an eye on all the details developing through the story.
I am now at 77,000 words and approaching the crisis, climax, ‘smoking gun’ reveal, and the aftermath sections, which should take me nicely to the target 100,000 words, before I set about the rewrites and tidying up. Last night, I had something of a ‘that’s too obvious’ moment, which I have noted and will address as I progress to the crisis, which I aim to do later today.
As for a release date… I am aiming to have this book finished and ready to go by the end of September, so if you are reading book one, you won’t have to wait too long for book two.
The Clearwater Calendar
Also this week, I have been putting together a wall calendar for 2024. We have just released Neil’s Symi Dream calendar, a thing he has done every year since he had his photo business on the island. We use a company that produces good-quality products that showcase Neil’s photography, and the calendars have proved very popular. We were talking about it the other day when one of us suggested I make one based on the Clearwater front covers. Lo and behold, when I returned to the computer, I’d had exactly the same suggestion from one of my supporters (thanks, Loz, great minds and all that). I have spent the last few days putting something together and have ordered a trial one to see how it looks. All being well, you will be able to order a Clearwater calendar in plenty of time for the end of the year. More news to come in time. For now, it’s back to the keyboard, my new mystery, and my approaching crisis which will, after a twist, lead to a climax, and the Delamere Files will move forward.
For the next four weeks, I’m going to post the first two chapters of ‘Finding a Way’, the first of the Delamere Files series. These are not the first two chapters you will read in the published book, they are chapters I cut from the final book.
This was how I started writing the story. However, I soon realised that this was all backstory and didn’t make for a very punchy opening, and I was writing it to secure Jack Merrit’s history in my mind. This is why I cut them from the final draft.
Rather than post each 3,000-word chapter in one go, I have cut them in half to make it easier to read online. Remember, this is first draft material, so it’s not been honed or proofed or even worked on very much. It might, though, give you some background to how Jack became a cabbie, and it will tell you a little more about him and his brother Will. These first two chapters don’t give anything away, so reading them won’t spoil the book for you, though some of what’s in them, I later put into the final draft of ‘Finding a Way’ because it was necessary to do so.
Here is the first half of the original Chapter One of ‘Finding a Way.’
Limehouse, London
1891
Jack Merrit’s grandfather began work as a cabman on the day that Brunell launched the SS Great Eastern at Millwall in eighteen fifty-eight. Some said it was an unlucky ship, because a previous launch attempt had caused two fatalities, and the great steamship, the largest ever built at that time, had become wedged on the ramp. This, however, did not deter the civil engineer, and nor did it discourage the then forty-year-old Reggie Merrit from attending the second launch, having arrived there with his first fare-paying passengers in his hired hansom. The birth of the massive ship marked the beginning of his thirty-year career on the London streets, sitting high above his cab, transporting the good, the wealthy and the misbehaved from one location to another.
Reggie had been married for twenty tears by then, and working as a labourer on the very ship he watched clank and grate into the river that January morning. With the ticket to labour concluded, however, and with no other prospect of dock work, he’d used his savings to learn the trade of a cabman and secure a vehicle rental from a dispatch office.
‘It’ll be far better money,’ he told his wife, Ida, as he left to collect his hansom on his first day. ‘We’ll have something to give the young’un for his marrying, and soon be out of Limehouse and somewhere further west. You’ll see.’
When their only son, Samson, married the following year, they were still living in the rented tenement by the Isle of Dogs, where the stink of the river choked, and the walls ran black with factory soot. Four years later, their first grandson, John Anthony Merrit, screamed into life on the parlour floor, delivered by Ida and a midwife who offered nothing more than rebuke for not pushing harder and a mug of gin for the pain.
The smell of the river and a new sugar factory were still tainting the washing two years later, when Samson’s wife gave birth to a stillborn, and two years after that, when the second grandson, William, came. His arrival was quieter than his brother’s, and he was slower to arrive, but at least he was breathing.
The factory whistles continued to slice into the family’s life even when Samson found good work in the theatres and became a popular artiste in the music halls. Although well paid and highly thought of, much written about in the newspapers and lauded for his ability to entertain, Samson Merrit did not entertain the idea of being a father. With Reggie and Ida bringing up two children he hadn’t wanted, and with his wife vanished as soon as she’d dumped the second boy on him, he moved himself to digs in Clapton, and ultimately, to a finer part of Hackney. There, the only way his parents or children heard of him was from the variety newspapers and bill posters, and, when Jack was twenty-four, via a messenger from Shoreditch who brought news of a tragedy.
Samson Merrit suffered an untimely but entertaining death on the stage of the Shoreditch Music Hall early in ninety-one. He left behind his two sons, a shocked audience, and an even more shocked Marie Lloyd, with whom he had been performing a duet version of ‘The Boy I Love is up in the Gallery.’ The coroner said the cause of death was heart failure and had nothing to do with his fellow performer. Ida Merrit said he’d had it coming and good riddance, but on hearing the news, Reggie suffered apoplexy that brought an end to his cabbing career the moment he staggered backwards into his chair and collapsed.
Thirty-three years after promising his wife he would better their lives, and despite his son’s success, Reggie had continued to work his cab, and Ida never reminded him of his promise, but kept their rooms as best she could, while caring for two grandsons she had nurtured into men. Working at the docks like his grandfather had, Jack’s income helped the four survive, but there was never a chance William would work and contribute. When Samson died, there was no will, and even if there had been, and even if he had mentioned in it his children, it would have amounted to nothing, because all he owned were debts.
Thus, on the day his grandfather became immobile, while the doctor advised Reggie to take plenty of enemas and drink dark ale, Jack stood thinking and knew something had to be done. His wages as a carter and shifter at the Millwall docks barely covered his contributions for food and left nothing for the care of his brother. With Grandfather Reggie unable to work, his grandmother now nearing seventy, and Will being unemployable, he had, in the stroke of Reggie’s apoplexy, become the breadwinner, and he needed a better job.
His mind worked as fast as his eyes as he scanned the cramped parlour, the shared bedroom through the torn curtain, the stone sink and pot-bellied stove until they came to rest on his brother, sitting vacant in the corner, staring, as he always did, at the pages of a book. The only indication young Will understood their predicament came in the flow of a solitary tear, possibly for a father he’d never known, but more likely for his grandfather. It trickled over his pale cheek, and dropped onto his once-white shirt, while he blinked as though trying to understand what was happening around him, and failing.
Jack’s gaze next fell on the pantry shelf and the half loaf of bread and two wrinkled potatoes, and thence beyond the curtain to the bed, where his once cheerful and lively grandfather, the man who had cared for him, educated him, and paid for Will’s doctors, now lay incapable of doing anything but wait for death.
‘I’m going out,’ Jack told his grandmother. ‘I won’t be long.’ ‘Where to? Your father’s to be buried, your grandad’s not far from it, and you’re off down the Waterman’s Arms?’ ‘No, to see Bob Hart.’ ‘What for? The Cabmen’s Mission won’t give us no charity. They only give out God, and what use is that?’ ‘I’m not looking for either, Grandma. I’ll be back before dark.’
Turning to Will, and taking his hands as he crouched, Jack made the same promise to his brother as Reggie had once made to Ida.
‘I’m going to find good work, Will. One day I’ll get us both out of this place. You stay and look after Grandma. You’ll behave, won’t you?’
Will gave one of his common smiles; a sideways twist of the mouth that suggested acquiescence, but usually meant mischief. It was not what anyone would expect of a twenty-year-old, but then, Will was only that age in body; he was much older in mind. ‘Promise me, Will?’ ‘Yeah, alright. Where you going?’ ‘You’ll see soon enough.’ ‘Can I come?’ ‘Not today.’ ‘But where you going?’ ‘Just out.’ ‘Will granddad die?’ ‘Not today.’ ‘Samson was our dad, yeah?’ ‘Yes, Will. Now, look after grandma.’ ‘What’s an enema?’ Jack took his brother’s cheeks in his hands and turned his face away from the bed. ‘You’re my best mate, remember?’ ‘Yes, Jack. I always remember.’
