Ask the Author: Anne Cleeland
Answered Questions (50)
Anne Cleeland
Hi Lulu,
Yes, the ending is supposed to be a cliffhanger, with the reader wondering what on earth happened (who would give Acton a black eye, and why?)
All will be revealed in the fall with Murder in Preemption. ;)
Yes, the ending is supposed to be a cliffhanger, with the reader wondering what on earth happened (who would give Acton a black eye, and why?)
All will be revealed in the fall with Murder in Preemption. ;)
Anne Cleeland
Hello Lulu,
Thank you for the suggestion, you're not the only one who's suggested this!
So far, the historical stories have all been "stand-alones" because I'm always on to the the next one already, and there are a lot of stories to tell. ;)
Never say never, though!
The next planned historical is The Gypsy Queen, set for 2021, and then maybe we'll revisit some of our old favorites.
Thanks again, I love to hear from you.
Thank you for the suggestion, you're not the only one who's suggested this!
So far, the historical stories have all been "stand-alones" because I'm always on to the the next one already, and there are a lot of stories to tell. ;)
Never say never, though!
The next planned historical is The Gypsy Queen, set for 2021, and then maybe we'll revisit some of our old favorites.
Thanks again, I love to hear from you.
Anne Cleeland
Jeremy Irons is good! I've heard Christian Bale suggested, too. And that handsome actor from Poldark, who is appropriately dark and brooding.
I'm always aiming to put a book out in the spring and then in the fall each year, and this one should be no different. Murder in Revelation is planned for September, with Reynolds playing a larger role in this one.
For historical fans, The Spanish Mask will be up for sale in June.
Thanks so much for asking!
I'm always aiming to put a book out in the spring and then in the fall each year, and this one should be no different. Murder in Revelation is planned for September, with Reynolds playing a larger role in this one.
For historical fans, The Spanish Mask will be up for sale in June.
Thanks so much for asking!
Anne Cleeland
I think that is an excellent representation!
I really don't have anyone in particular in mind when I create any of the characters, which is why I'm a little vague on descriptions--I'd rather leave it up to the readers. But I think Timothy Dalton is a perfect choice.
Murder in Revelation coming in the fall. :0
I really don't have anyone in particular in mind when I create any of the characters, which is why I'm a little vague on descriptions--I'd rather leave it up to the readers. But I think Timothy Dalton is a perfect choice.
Murder in Revelation coming in the fall. :0
Anne Cleeland
I have to get around to it! ;)
Audiobooks aren't necessarily a money-maker for me, but I have a lot of requests so I should work on it. Thanks so much for spurring me on!
Audiobooks aren't necessarily a money-maker for me, but I have a lot of requests so I should work on it. Thanks so much for spurring me on!
Anne Cleeland
Hi Burnell--The Spanish Mask is the next historical book after A Death in Sheffield, so it will be available summer of 2020, and I will start serializing it later this year. Hope you enjoy!
and here's Chapter 1, for all the eager beavers. ;)
Elena observed the plume of smoke, rising black and ominous in the distance, and gauged that it originated somewhere in the south valley near the convent—although it was difficult to see from this vantage point, through all the tall pine. It seems I chose the wrong day to humor Maria Lucia, she thought; my luck.
She stood with Eduardo on the balcony of the castillo, which was strategically situated on a hill, overlooking the Andalusian valley. Below them, she could hear the anxious murmuring of the servants who’d come out onto the terrace to observe the smoke. The faint sound of men’s voices, raised in alarm, could be heard drifting upward from the valley on the breeze, the words undistinguishable.
“Is it the French? Do they come again?” asked the boy in a thready voice. He was eight, and small for his age.
Absently, she replied, “I shouldn’t be surprised, Tomás.”
“Eduardo,” he corrected her apologetically.
She looked down at him and smiled. “Your pardon, Eduardo—shall we go out the back? Rapido, now.” Taking his hand, she led him quickly down the servants’ stairs and then—after pausing to listen carefully—through the doors that led into the kitchen, where the servants should have been busy preparing the midday meal, but which was instead deserted, the roast left on the spit, dripping its juices onto the hearth. As she pulled the small boy toward the scullery door, Elena pulled a large bread basket from the table. “You must stay close beside me, Eduardo.”
“Perhaps it is not the French; perhaps it is El Halcon.” The boy’s hushed voice held a measure of hope, as he hurried beside her.
“Perhaps.” Elena paused on the back stoop, and made a rapid assessment. Several of the household guards were trotting through the side yard, slinging their weapons over their shoulders with a sense of grim urgency; unfortunately, most of the guards had traveled to Madrid with the Senor, hoping to gain assurances that the castillo would remain under its current ownership. In Spain, nowadays, nothing was certain.
After thinking for a moment, Elena placed the basket on the ground, and loosened her black postulant’s habit, untying the strings in the back so that it billowed out over her slim figure. “You must hold onto the side of my skirts, Eduardo, so that no one sees that you are with me. We will go into the woods.”
The boy nodded, his pinched face pale, then he gripped the coarse fabric in his fists and matched his steps to hers as Isabella rested the basket on her hip and moved purposefully across the courtyard, shifting the basket to shield him, depending on which side someone approached.
No one impeded their progress—indeed, they invoked little curiosity, what with the dire events unfolding—and they slipped through the wrought iron gate at the back, past the herb gardens, and then into the woods that lined the hillside. Once within the shelter of the trees, she took the boy’s hand, threading her way through the pine as they climbed up the hill. “Do you know these woods—is there a good hiding place?”
“No,” he panted. “I am not allowed to play here.”
Elena paused to catch her breath, assessing the trees overhead with a practiced eye. “It is too sparse to hide in the branches—we will have to go to ground.”
“There?” The boy pointed to a fallen trunk, rotting along the forest floor.
“Yes—excellent.” Dropping to her knees, she began to scoop out leaves and vegetation from beneath the decaying trunk, using the bread basket. “Help me, Eduardo.”
Hesitating, he knelt beside her, and began to tentatively paw at the earth under the trunk.
“It is a shame we do not have a weapon for you,” she remarked, digging steadily.
He turned to stare at her. “Que?”
Still digging apace, she glanced up at him. “You are the caballero. If the soldiers come, you must protect me from them.”
Astonished, he continued to stare at her, but she did not return his regard, and instead continued with her endeavors, reaching in up to her elbows to clear out the leaves beneath the fallen tree. After a moment, the boy rose, and stepped back. “I will find a sharp stick.”
“Good.” She bent her head to peer into the cavity she was creating. “Something that can poke their eyes out.”
After rummaging in the underbrush for a moment, he returned to her side, clutching a likely stick. Winding her skirts around her legs, she lay on the ground, and wriggled into the narrow space under the trunk, her cheek against the dirt. Shrill screams and crashing sounds drifted up from the grounds of the castillo, down the hill. “Come along.”
Copying her movements, the small boy lay on his stomach, facing her, and wriggled under the trunk. He gasped, recoiling from the sight of a rabbit’s carcass, rotting in the recesses of the lair, its eyes eaten out by maggots.
“I beg your pardon, Senor Conejo,” Elena whispered in a solemn voice. “We shall stay only for a little while.”
After a moment, Eduardo cautioned the dead beast, “You must stay quiet, senor.”
From her hiding place, Elena reached out to rake some of the displaced leaves back along the crevice between the ground and the trunk, so that their burrow was obscured, then faced the boy in the dimness with her chin resting on her hands. We wait.”
“Si,” the boy agreed as he clutched his stick, his knuckles showing white. “We wait.”
Breathing in the scent of damp earth and decomposition, Elena gazed into the boy’s soft eyes, and wondered how Maria Lucia and the other sisters did. One would think the French would not harm the nuns, but one never knew in this war; the two allies had already turned on each other in the blink of an eye, so perhaps a shared religion meant little. She and Maria Lucia were postulants at the convent—girls entrusted to the holy sisters by their families, in the fond hope that a vocation may develop, although it seemed apparent that Maria Lucia would never take the veil—she had asked Isabella to switch duties with her today, so that she could arrange a clandestine meeting with her latest beau. Normally, Elena’s task was to stay close to home and tend to the convent’s orchards, while Maria Lucia traveled to the castillo to act as Eduardo’s governess. The other girl had pleaded for the switch in assignments today, because the orchards provided a better opportunity to slip away unnoticed.
“Please, Elena,” the girl had begged. “You must be tired of staying so close, day after day. Go up to the castillo—the food is a hundred times better, and the boy is no trouble.”
“You are mad.” Elena had shaken her head in amusement. “You will be caught, and sent away in disgrace.”
“Fah; what would they do—send me home? You know they dare not. And in any event, my bello Roberto is worth any amount of disgrace.”
Laughing, Isabella had finally agreed; they were so similar in appearance that their black habits and white scarf headdresses made them interchangeable, and besides, no one would think the girls had been so bold as to flaunt the abbess’ directives.
And it had been indeed a welcome change—to venture out away from the convent, to have a look around the beautiful Andalusian hills as she walked up the road to the castillo, and to remember her country as it had been before the long and miserable war against Napoleon. But of all days for the enemy—or at least she assumed it was the enemy—to come storming into this obscure and war-weary village, it had to be this one. And in a twist of fate, Elena found herself responsible for the boy—the neglected ward of the local Senor, who was himself away from home. I must decide about what is to be done, she thought, holding Eduardo’s gaze, and trying to convey reassurance. We definitely cannot return to the castillo.
The voices of men could be heard—close by, perhaps even as close as the base of their hillside. French; not that there had been much doubt. Isabella met Eduardo’s gaze, and placed a single finger to her lips. He nodded, and they lay—frozen—while the alarming sounds of frightened women and tromping boots could be heard faintly in the distance.
The breeze carried snatches of the soldiers’ conversation to them, and it appeared they were discussing the situation—although it was difficult to make out any words, as Elena’s French was nearly non-existent. She judged from the tenor of the discussion that they were trying to decide if it was worth a search, or if it was a hopeless cause. Suddenly a Frenchman’s voice shouted out in rudimentary Spanish, “Princesa, if you here, you must come out—we will not hurt you.”
Startled, Eduardo’s gaze met hers, and she shook her head, frowning a warning at him. The voices were silent for a few moments, waiting for a response, and Elena was actually heartened; it seemed to her that the shouted message was relayed without any real conviction—they think we are long gone, she thought; or at least, I hope they do.
After another discussion, the soldiers could be heard thrashing about in the underbrush, coming closer and closer to their location. Eduardo’s hand crept over to take hers as they waited, straining to listen in the tense atmosphere. Fortunately, the footsteps never came very close, and in a short time, the voices could be heard retreating back to the grounds of the castillo.
Elena whispered, “We will wait; they may be trying to trick us—to draw us out.”
Her companion nodded, and she could see that his hand no longer clutched his stick as tightly. “They think you are a princess,” he whispered in wonder.
“They are fools,” she pronounced, and the boy pressed his mouth into his hand to stifle a giggle.
Now that the immediate danger seemed to have passed, she rested her cheek on the cool dirt, and took a deep breath. What to do? They could not return to the castillo—the French had commandeered the place, and it was unclear if they would stay. Could she return to the convent? It seemed ill-advised; she could not like the fact that the invaders were interested in her whereabouts—although perhaps she and the boy could circle around to the back of the convent, where the orchards were, and reconnoiter. If nothing else, she could tie some apples in her apron so as to have something to eat—she was hungry, not having had a chance to sample the castillo’s fine food before the crisis had arisen. If matters at the convent seemed uncertain, then they would have to make their way on foot toward the east—no easy thing, with such a small boy, but there was no question that he had to come along; he couldn’t stay here.
After she’d gauged that enough time had passed to safely leave their hiding place, they wriggled out, brushing off the dirt, and stepping carefully so as to avoid breaking any branches in the fading afternoon light. A group of horses were tethered in the stable yard of the castillo, and after observing them, Elena circled in a wide arc along the tree line to the bottom of the hill, avoiding the road.
They walked in silence for a while amongst the trees, Elena grateful the route was downhill. Whenever they spotted another traveler, they retreated into the trees until any potential danger had passed, so in this manner the journey was often interrupted.
“Should we go hide in one of the houses?” asked Eduardo with a hint of hope.
Elena felt a twinge of pity for the boy; he had not complained, even though he was undoubtedly tired and hungry—she certainly was. “No—we should not trust anyone. Instead we will go to find help.”
Thankfully the boy didn’t ask for further elaboration, but only nodded, as he used his stick to prod the ground as they walked along. “Are you a princess?”
“No,” she replied with a small smile. “I think they were teasing.”
At long last, they made a cautious approach to the back orchards of the convent just as dusk began to fall. Elena could see no lights shining from the windows—not a good sign, but at least it was still standing. The place was eerily silent—the good sisters must have left at the first alarm, which was a relief. It also meant she could steal a few apples without fear of detection. “Keep watch,” she whispered, and then quickly began pulling apples from low-hanging branches, so as to deposit them into her tied-up apron. “Here.” She turned to toss one at her companion.
“Gracias,” said a man’s voice.
Whirling, she confronted the man who stood a few feet behind her—not a soldier, but she didn’t stay to discover more; dumping the apples, she picked up her skirts and ran toward the outbuildings, away from Eduardo.
She didn’t get far; an arm came around her waist, and lifted her easily off her feet while a broad hand covered her mouth. “Quiet—they wait for you within,” he whispered in her ear.
Elena reconsidered her impulse to bite down on his hand, as he swiftly retreated back into the orchard, carrying her without comment. While she debated whether to start struggling in earnest, the decision was taken out of her hands.
“Put her down.” Eduardo confronted the man, his stick held before him like a sword, even though it trembled a bit.
“I surrender,” her captor said immediately, and set Elena down, although she noted that he still hung onto the fabric at the back of her habit.
“This—this gentleman says it is a trap, Eduardo,” Elena explained in a constrained voice. Ingles, she thought in surprise—he was English, although he spoke Spanish. It did not bode well.
“You should go home,” suggested the man to the boy, not unkindly.
Elena protested, “No—no, he has no one to go to; he comes with me.”
Ducking his chin for a moment, the man considered. “Very well, Your Excellency.”
Eduardo and Elena stared at him. “I believe,” Elena offered, “that some sort of mistake has been made.”
“We shall see,” the man replied easily, and indicated they were to proceed into the woods.
and here's Chapter 1, for all the eager beavers. ;)
Elena observed the plume of smoke, rising black and ominous in the distance, and gauged that it originated somewhere in the south valley near the convent—although it was difficult to see from this vantage point, through all the tall pine. It seems I chose the wrong day to humor Maria Lucia, she thought; my luck.
She stood with Eduardo on the balcony of the castillo, which was strategically situated on a hill, overlooking the Andalusian valley. Below them, she could hear the anxious murmuring of the servants who’d come out onto the terrace to observe the smoke. The faint sound of men’s voices, raised in alarm, could be heard drifting upward from the valley on the breeze, the words undistinguishable.
“Is it the French? Do they come again?” asked the boy in a thready voice. He was eight, and small for his age.
Absently, she replied, “I shouldn’t be surprised, Tomás.”
“Eduardo,” he corrected her apologetically.
She looked down at him and smiled. “Your pardon, Eduardo—shall we go out the back? Rapido, now.” Taking his hand, she led him quickly down the servants’ stairs and then—after pausing to listen carefully—through the doors that led into the kitchen, where the servants should have been busy preparing the midday meal, but which was instead deserted, the roast left on the spit, dripping its juices onto the hearth. As she pulled the small boy toward the scullery door, Elena pulled a large bread basket from the table. “You must stay close beside me, Eduardo.”
“Perhaps it is not the French; perhaps it is El Halcon.” The boy’s hushed voice held a measure of hope, as he hurried beside her.
“Perhaps.” Elena paused on the back stoop, and made a rapid assessment. Several of the household guards were trotting through the side yard, slinging their weapons over their shoulders with a sense of grim urgency; unfortunately, most of the guards had traveled to Madrid with the Senor, hoping to gain assurances that the castillo would remain under its current ownership. In Spain, nowadays, nothing was certain.
After thinking for a moment, Elena placed the basket on the ground, and loosened her black postulant’s habit, untying the strings in the back so that it billowed out over her slim figure. “You must hold onto the side of my skirts, Eduardo, so that no one sees that you are with me. We will go into the woods.”
The boy nodded, his pinched face pale, then he gripped the coarse fabric in his fists and matched his steps to hers as Isabella rested the basket on her hip and moved purposefully across the courtyard, shifting the basket to shield him, depending on which side someone approached.
No one impeded their progress—indeed, they invoked little curiosity, what with the dire events unfolding—and they slipped through the wrought iron gate at the back, past the herb gardens, and then into the woods that lined the hillside. Once within the shelter of the trees, she took the boy’s hand, threading her way through the pine as they climbed up the hill. “Do you know these woods—is there a good hiding place?”
“No,” he panted. “I am not allowed to play here.”
Elena paused to catch her breath, assessing the trees overhead with a practiced eye. “It is too sparse to hide in the branches—we will have to go to ground.”
“There?” The boy pointed to a fallen trunk, rotting along the forest floor.
“Yes—excellent.” Dropping to her knees, she began to scoop out leaves and vegetation from beneath the decaying trunk, using the bread basket. “Help me, Eduardo.”
Hesitating, he knelt beside her, and began to tentatively paw at the earth under the trunk.
“It is a shame we do not have a weapon for you,” she remarked, digging steadily.
He turned to stare at her. “Que?”
Still digging apace, she glanced up at him. “You are the caballero. If the soldiers come, you must protect me from them.”
Astonished, he continued to stare at her, but she did not return his regard, and instead continued with her endeavors, reaching in up to her elbows to clear out the leaves beneath the fallen tree. After a moment, the boy rose, and stepped back. “I will find a sharp stick.”
“Good.” She bent her head to peer into the cavity she was creating. “Something that can poke their eyes out.”
After rummaging in the underbrush for a moment, he returned to her side, clutching a likely stick. Winding her skirts around her legs, she lay on the ground, and wriggled into the narrow space under the trunk, her cheek against the dirt. Shrill screams and crashing sounds drifted up from the grounds of the castillo, down the hill. “Come along.”
Copying her movements, the small boy lay on his stomach, facing her, and wriggled under the trunk. He gasped, recoiling from the sight of a rabbit’s carcass, rotting in the recesses of the lair, its eyes eaten out by maggots.
“I beg your pardon, Senor Conejo,” Elena whispered in a solemn voice. “We shall stay only for a little while.”
After a moment, Eduardo cautioned the dead beast, “You must stay quiet, senor.”
From her hiding place, Elena reached out to rake some of the displaced leaves back along the crevice between the ground and the trunk, so that their burrow was obscured, then faced the boy in the dimness with her chin resting on her hands. We wait.”
“Si,” the boy agreed as he clutched his stick, his knuckles showing white. “We wait.”
Breathing in the scent of damp earth and decomposition, Elena gazed into the boy’s soft eyes, and wondered how Maria Lucia and the other sisters did. One would think the French would not harm the nuns, but one never knew in this war; the two allies had already turned on each other in the blink of an eye, so perhaps a shared religion meant little. She and Maria Lucia were postulants at the convent—girls entrusted to the holy sisters by their families, in the fond hope that a vocation may develop, although it seemed apparent that Maria Lucia would never take the veil—she had asked Isabella to switch duties with her today, so that she could arrange a clandestine meeting with her latest beau. Normally, Elena’s task was to stay close to home and tend to the convent’s orchards, while Maria Lucia traveled to the castillo to act as Eduardo’s governess. The other girl had pleaded for the switch in assignments today, because the orchards provided a better opportunity to slip away unnoticed.
“Please, Elena,” the girl had begged. “You must be tired of staying so close, day after day. Go up to the castillo—the food is a hundred times better, and the boy is no trouble.”
“You are mad.” Elena had shaken her head in amusement. “You will be caught, and sent away in disgrace.”
“Fah; what would they do—send me home? You know they dare not. And in any event, my bello Roberto is worth any amount of disgrace.”
Laughing, Isabella had finally agreed; they were so similar in appearance that their black habits and white scarf headdresses made them interchangeable, and besides, no one would think the girls had been so bold as to flaunt the abbess’ directives.
And it had been indeed a welcome change—to venture out away from the convent, to have a look around the beautiful Andalusian hills as she walked up the road to the castillo, and to remember her country as it had been before the long and miserable war against Napoleon. But of all days for the enemy—or at least she assumed it was the enemy—to come storming into this obscure and war-weary village, it had to be this one. And in a twist of fate, Elena found herself responsible for the boy—the neglected ward of the local Senor, who was himself away from home. I must decide about what is to be done, she thought, holding Eduardo’s gaze, and trying to convey reassurance. We definitely cannot return to the castillo.
The voices of men could be heard—close by, perhaps even as close as the base of their hillside. French; not that there had been much doubt. Isabella met Eduardo’s gaze, and placed a single finger to her lips. He nodded, and they lay—frozen—while the alarming sounds of frightened women and tromping boots could be heard faintly in the distance.
The breeze carried snatches of the soldiers’ conversation to them, and it appeared they were discussing the situation—although it was difficult to make out any words, as Elena’s French was nearly non-existent. She judged from the tenor of the discussion that they were trying to decide if it was worth a search, or if it was a hopeless cause. Suddenly a Frenchman’s voice shouted out in rudimentary Spanish, “Princesa, if you here, you must come out—we will not hurt you.”
Startled, Eduardo’s gaze met hers, and she shook her head, frowning a warning at him. The voices were silent for a few moments, waiting for a response, and Elena was actually heartened; it seemed to her that the shouted message was relayed without any real conviction—they think we are long gone, she thought; or at least, I hope they do.
After another discussion, the soldiers could be heard thrashing about in the underbrush, coming closer and closer to their location. Eduardo’s hand crept over to take hers as they waited, straining to listen in the tense atmosphere. Fortunately, the footsteps never came very close, and in a short time, the voices could be heard retreating back to the grounds of the castillo.
Elena whispered, “We will wait; they may be trying to trick us—to draw us out.”
Her companion nodded, and she could see that his hand no longer clutched his stick as tightly. “They think you are a princess,” he whispered in wonder.
“They are fools,” she pronounced, and the boy pressed his mouth into his hand to stifle a giggle.
Now that the immediate danger seemed to have passed, she rested her cheek on the cool dirt, and took a deep breath. What to do? They could not return to the castillo—the French had commandeered the place, and it was unclear if they would stay. Could she return to the convent? It seemed ill-advised; she could not like the fact that the invaders were interested in her whereabouts—although perhaps she and the boy could circle around to the back of the convent, where the orchards were, and reconnoiter. If nothing else, she could tie some apples in her apron so as to have something to eat—she was hungry, not having had a chance to sample the castillo’s fine food before the crisis had arisen. If matters at the convent seemed uncertain, then they would have to make their way on foot toward the east—no easy thing, with such a small boy, but there was no question that he had to come along; he couldn’t stay here.
After she’d gauged that enough time had passed to safely leave their hiding place, they wriggled out, brushing off the dirt, and stepping carefully so as to avoid breaking any branches in the fading afternoon light. A group of horses were tethered in the stable yard of the castillo, and after observing them, Elena circled in a wide arc along the tree line to the bottom of the hill, avoiding the road.
They walked in silence for a while amongst the trees, Elena grateful the route was downhill. Whenever they spotted another traveler, they retreated into the trees until any potential danger had passed, so in this manner the journey was often interrupted.
“Should we go hide in one of the houses?” asked Eduardo with a hint of hope.
Elena felt a twinge of pity for the boy; he had not complained, even though he was undoubtedly tired and hungry—she certainly was. “No—we should not trust anyone. Instead we will go to find help.”
Thankfully the boy didn’t ask for further elaboration, but only nodded, as he used his stick to prod the ground as they walked along. “Are you a princess?”
“No,” she replied with a small smile. “I think they were teasing.”
At long last, they made a cautious approach to the back orchards of the convent just as dusk began to fall. Elena could see no lights shining from the windows—not a good sign, but at least it was still standing. The place was eerily silent—the good sisters must have left at the first alarm, which was a relief. It also meant she could steal a few apples without fear of detection. “Keep watch,” she whispered, and then quickly began pulling apples from low-hanging branches, so as to deposit them into her tied-up apron. “Here.” She turned to toss one at her companion.
“Gracias,” said a man’s voice.
Whirling, she confronted the man who stood a few feet behind her—not a soldier, but she didn’t stay to discover more; dumping the apples, she picked up her skirts and ran toward the outbuildings, away from Eduardo.
She didn’t get far; an arm came around her waist, and lifted her easily off her feet while a broad hand covered her mouth. “Quiet—they wait for you within,” he whispered in her ear.
Elena reconsidered her impulse to bite down on his hand, as he swiftly retreated back into the orchard, carrying her without comment. While she debated whether to start struggling in earnest, the decision was taken out of her hands.
“Put her down.” Eduardo confronted the man, his stick held before him like a sword, even though it trembled a bit.
“I surrender,” her captor said immediately, and set Elena down, although she noted that he still hung onto the fabric at the back of her habit.
“This—this gentleman says it is a trap, Eduardo,” Elena explained in a constrained voice. Ingles, she thought in surprise—he was English, although he spoke Spanish. It did not bode well.
“You should go home,” suggested the man to the boy, not unkindly.
Elena protested, “No—no, he has no one to go to; he comes with me.”
Ducking his chin for a moment, the man considered. “Very well, Your Excellency.”
Eduardo and Elena stared at him. “I believe,” Elena offered, “that some sort of mistake has been made.”
“We shall see,” the man replied easily, and indicated they were to proceed into the woods.
Anne Cleeland
Hi Burnell, thanks so much for writing! I haven't any plans to do sequels for the historicals--although I should never say never, I suppose. ;)
I love all the characters, though, and I'd love to get Epione and de Gilles together again.
Stay tuned!
Thanks again, and if you'd like to be on my notifications list, please contact me at annecleeland.com.
I love all the characters, though, and I'd love to get Epione and de Gilles together again.
Stay tuned!
Thanks again, and if you'd like to be on my notifications list, please contact me at annecleeland.com.
Anne Cleeland
Hello Lulu! The historicals are stand-alones, but there is a recurring cast of secondary characters (as you've noticed.) Next up is The Spanish Mask, which follows that same theme. I'll have to see--half the fun of the historicals is coming up with new protagonists. And since I'm going backwards in time, that makes it a little tricky. But I'll definitely consider it :)
Anne Cleeland
Hi AlwaysV! Yes, the full book will be available on Amazon mid-May, both kindle and print. And I'll keep serializing, too, for those who are patient. :)
Anne Cleeland
Hi Jan, Thanks so much for writing. :)
So far, no interest shown by any movie/TV types, but you never know!
Murder in the Blood coming in the fall :0
So far, no interest shown by any movie/TV types, but you never know!
Murder in the Blood coming in the fall :0
Anne Cleeland
Hi Lulu,
Droom. (or at least that's how I pronounce it ;)
I hope you enjoy!
--Anne
Droom. (or at least that's how I pronounce it ;)
I hope you enjoy!
--Anne
Anne Cleeland
Hi AlwaysV,
Thank you so much for your kind words--I love the historicals!
The problem I have is that we are going backwards in time. The events in The True Pretender happen after the events in A Death in Sheffield, and the events in The Barbary Mark occur after after the events in The True Pretender. (The next one is The Spanish Mask, which happens before everything else! )
So Nonie (in the Barbary Mark) interacted with Captaine de Gilles after they'd all left Desclaires. (Nonie is Lucia, of course!)
I heard something similar from readers of Daughter of the God-King, wishing there was a sequel to show that it all worked out for the couple, but remember the events in all books take place during 1814, and another war is just about to break out. So, those who are working for the Crown are going to be called into service--the couple will have to separate, even if its just for a year or so. Can't fight history!
Thank you so much for your kind words--I love the historicals!
The problem I have is that we are going backwards in time. The events in The True Pretender happen after the events in A Death in Sheffield, and the events in The Barbary Mark occur after after the events in The True Pretender. (The next one is The Spanish Mask, which happens before everything else! )
So Nonie (in the Barbary Mark) interacted with Captaine de Gilles after they'd all left Desclaires. (Nonie is Lucia, of course!)
I heard something similar from readers of Daughter of the God-King, wishing there was a sequel to show that it all worked out for the couple, but remember the events in all books take place during 1814, and another war is just about to break out. So, those who are working for the Crown are going to be called into service--the couple will have to separate, even if its just for a year or so. Can't fight history!
Anne Cleeland
I want to thank all the readers who posted reviews, even the stars-only reviews--its more important than newspaper reviews, nowadays!
The best thing you can do for one of your favorite authors is post a good review on Goodreads or Amazon.
The best thing you can do for one of your favorite authors is post a good review on Goodreads or Amazon.
Anne Cleeland
Good news! Murder in Containment, Murder in All Honour and Murder in Shadow are now available in audiobook from Amazon. Working on Murder in Misdirection (and then Murder in Spite. ;)
Anne Cleeland
Yes, it will, but I have to get organized. :& Hopefully early next year.
Anne Cleeland
Hi Joan,
Thanks for asking!
I don't do pre-orders because Amazon requires you to post a book with them first in order to accept pre-orders (so that the readers don't get scammed). When I've got the book ready, I figure I may as well just put it up for sale. :)
If you'd like to be notified as soon as Murder in Spite launches, just contact me at annecleeland.com and I'll put you on my notifications list.
Thanks for asking!
I don't do pre-orders because Amazon requires you to post a book with them first in order to accept pre-orders (so that the readers don't get scammed). When I've got the book ready, I figure I may as well just put it up for sale. :)
If you'd like to be notified as soon as Murder in Spite launches, just contact me at annecleeland.com and I'll put you on my notifications list.
Anne Cleeland
Hi Zendegy,
Yes, I do plan on making 6 and 7 into audiobooks, hopefully by the end of the year (but by then Murder in Spite will be out. Hopefully I'll catch up, someday!
Yes, I do plan on making 6 and 7 into audiobooks, hopefully by the end of the year (but by then Murder in Spite will be out. Hopefully I'll catch up, someday!
Anne Cleeland
Hi Amy!
Yes Tasza is a law enforcement officer (and if you want to call her Tasha, that's fine by me--although she may object, since she's Polish ;)
I try to throw in the occasional police jargon so as to add a little authenticity, but I should make sure everyone doesn't get lost in the shorthand. Not that the dialogue is very authentic in the first place; in real life, there's a lot of swearing in law enforcement. ;)
Thanks for asking; Murder in Spite, coming in the fall. :0
Yes Tasza is a law enforcement officer (and if you want to call her Tasha, that's fine by me--although she may object, since she's Polish ;)
I try to throw in the occasional police jargon so as to add a little authenticity, but I should make sure everyone doesn't get lost in the shorthand. Not that the dialogue is very authentic in the first place; in real life, there's a lot of swearing in law enforcement. ;)
Thanks for asking; Murder in Spite, coming in the fall. :0
Anne Cleeland
Hi Joan,
Thanks so much! The paperback people are a different Amazon group than the kindle people, and the paperback people are eager beavers and always seem to get the book posted early (I didn't even know, until I saw your note!)
So the kindle version will be ready probably by Feb 16, and meanwhile I'll put up the new book on trusty Goodreads. I hope you enjoy it; Murder in Spite coming next fall.
Thanks so much! The paperback people are a different Amazon group than the kindle people, and the paperback people are eager beavers and always seem to get the book posted early (I didn't even know, until I saw your note!)
So the kindle version will be ready probably by Feb 16, and meanwhile I'll put up the new book on trusty Goodreads. I hope you enjoy it; Murder in Spite coming next fall.
Anne Cleeland
Murder in Shadow
Chapter 1
It was past time to settle all lingering problems; he’d been unwilling, up to now, but the child would soon be born.
Detective Sergeant Kathleen Doyle stood next to Officer Gabriel as they reviewed the remains of the decedent, a man of approximately forty years who’d met a bad end, here in the Lambeth borough of London. The victim lay crumbled against an overturned ash can, having attempted to avoid his fate by fleeing up this back alley. He was wearing an expensive suit—which probably explained why he wasn’t very well-versed in the evading of criminals—and he looked to have been dead for some hours. A bloody wound on his left temple indicated that he’d been coshed, and even his shoes had been stolen.
“It all seems a bit smoky,” Doyle remarked thoughtfully, as she surveyed the scene.
“How so?” her companion asked. “Seems a straightforward robbery-murder.”
But she shook her head. “No—I don’t mean the crime. DCI Acton is the senior investigatin’ officer, and he’s not here. DI Williams is the crime scene manager, and he’s not here, either. Faith; we don’t even have an evidence officer, to throw a fig leaf of dignity over this investigation’. Instead, it’s only you and me, which is a case of the blind leadin’ the blind, with all due respect.”
The young officer raised his brows in amusement. “I beg your pardon?”
“We shouldn’t be the ones standin’ here,” she observed. “And yet, here we are.”
Gabriel’s amused gaze returned to the body, splayed out before them. “I imagine we can perform a patched-up investigation, if we put our minds to it. Remind me what happens first.”
Smiling at his tone, she pulled her mobile. “First, my friend, we beg for help. Let me text DCI Acton, and see if he’s finished at court.” On this particular investigation, Chief Inspector Acton was serving a dual role as the senior investigating officer and also as her husband, sworn and sealed. Hopefully, she could wheedle him into pulling rank, and taking charge of this crime scene; Doyle had never been the ranking officer on a homicide before, and she had a sneaking suspicion that it involved a lot of paperwork.
Gabriel crouched down to take a closer look at the corpse, and she cautioned, “Don’t touch anythin’; the SOCOs will give you the edge of their tongues if you muck up the scene, before they get here.” Gabriel wasn’t up-to-speed on crime scene protocols because he was a transfer from counter-terrorism, on loan to the CID. A recent corruption scandal had come to light, and much of Scotland Yard’s upper management were currently cooling their respective heels in prison. And—apparently as a result of this sorry state of affairs—it was left to the lowly Doyle and the inexperienced Gabriel to sort out this poor fellow’s murder. Doyle, however, couldn’t shake a nagging suspicion that she was being kept busy, whilst something much more interesting was happening elsewhere.
She texted Acton, “How goes it, R U available?” Acton had mentioned he’d be testifying this morning—although he hadn’t mentioned the specific case. It seemed odd that he’d been tied up so long; oftentimes the Crown Court would accommodate the police by allowing them to be on call, since the mills of justice tended to meander a bit, and there was no reason to keep law enforcement off the streets. There was something strange about his absence that she couldn’t quite put her finger on—perhaps it was because usually, he kept himself within arm’s reach of her.
The answer came through. “Sorry, not yet finished. After lunch, perhaps.”
“Ok. In Lambeth w/ new case.” It wasn’t necessary to tell him, of course; Acton would know exactly where she was since he kept track of her, using her mobile’s GPS. Her husband was a well-respected chief inspector, but in truth, he was a bit nicked—although no one knew of it, except for the wife of his bosom. And it wasn’t the good sort of nicked, where the person stood on tables and said outrageously funny things, but a rather a dark sort of nicked, where a black mood would settle in, a great deal of scotch would be consumed, and then questionable people would disappear off the streets. Acton was something of a vigilante, and tended to dispense his own version of justice, when he felt that the justice system—the one they were sworn to uphold—was lacking for any reason. Fortunately, Acton’s nicked-ness had caused him to fixate on his red-headed support officer, and after rushing her into marriage, he now spent a great deal of his time obsessing about her, rather than obsessing about who needed to be killed, next. Not the most ideal of situations, but—all in all—an improvement.
Resigned to her fate as this case’s ranking officer, Doyle looked up to review the entry into the alley. “All right then; we’ll start with the basics, and ask the PCs to cordon off the alley at both ends, and set up a perimeter. We should clear a path for the coroner, too—are the SOCOs on the way?”
Gabriel nodded. “Yes. They’re a bit shorthanded, unfortunately.”
This was only to be expected, as their entire department was being run ragged, what with trying to handle the usual major crimes caseload alongside the massive corruption cases that were getting themselves prepared for trial. “Well, let’s start takin’ video, and gettin’ the lay of the land. D’you happen to know which case it is, that Acton’s testifyin’ on?” Unlikely that Gabriel would know, but it was still bothering her, for some reason.
“No, but here are the SOCOs.” Gabriel indicated the Scene of Crime Officers, who were piling out of their van, and looking a bit harried.
She shook off the uneasy feeling, and straightened up, in a determined attempt to give the forensics people the impression that she was capable and competent. “Good—let’s get the prelim done, and hopefully we can rope in some DCs to canvass for witnesses. Otherwise, we’ll have to do it ourselves.”
As was always the case when a murder occurred in a public place, a small group of gawkers had already assembled outside the cordon, and it was possible that someone had heard or seen something suspicious, even though the murder seemed hours old. Mentally, Doyle girded her loins; she didn’t enjoy having to sort through a wide variety of agitated persons, all eager to tell the police every uninteresting detail about their day, thus far, and with half of them positing wild conspiracy theories about why the decedent had been done in. She hated canvassing, and with good reason.
“I’ll be happy to canvass for you—I don’t mind.”
This was true—Gabriel could turn on the charm, when needful, and he had a gift for worming his way into places that usually barred their doors to all persons constabulary. “Yes, well, if you can talk someone into confessin’ before I have to type up a protocol, I would truly appreciate it.”
Gabriel smiled, and pulled his tablet. “I can work an entrapment with the best of them.”
This rang true, and Doyle reminded herself that Gabriel was a sharp one, as she watched him walk away. Best keep it to mind—she was the opposite of whatever a sharp one was. A dull one, perhaps—although she kept managing to land on her feet, despite this little drawback.
She then turned her attention to the SOCOs, and felt a twinge of sympathy, as she watched them reluctantly pull on their bunny suits. It was unlikely the forensics people would be able to process much of interest; any evidence found in a back alley like this one was automatically compromised. And as there were no bullets, they couldn’t count on ballistics, either. If they were lucky, the cosher may have dropped his weapon, or left something else behind that could offer the whisper of a lead; otherwise, it appeared they were in for a long and fruitless slog.
The supervising SOCO approached her, and Doyle said in her best presiding-officer voice, “We’re short an evidence officer and a CSM, but let’s start preparing for the coroner’s arrival, and try to get an ID.” Although the crime appeared to be a simple stranger-robbery, the victim’s identity and recent dealings may help to shed some light; she mustn’t overlook the possibility that this was not a random crime.
“Yes, ma’am.” The woman pulled on her gloves, eyeing the victim. “Poor bloke. At least we know someone’s going to miss this one; the last one I worked is still a John Doe, in the morgue.”
Doyle nodded her agreement. “Yes, goin’ by his clothes, this one does seem well-heeled—except that his shoes were stolen, so I suppose he’s heel-less, instead. Mayhap he wandered in to the wrong place, and paid the price for his foolishness.”
But the SOCO was more cynical, having seen many a robbery-murder. “He may have wanted to buy drugs, or something worse.” She paused, eying the corpse with a practiced eye. “His feet are big, and his shoes would be expensive; maybe we should check with the local pawn and second-hand shops? The killer may have already tried to cash in.”
“An excellent idea.” Doyle made a note. “I’d have never thought of it.”
The SOCO shrugged. “We did it with the John Doe. It went nowhere—he wore an ordinary size, and wasn’t rich enough to have anything but ordinary shoes.”
But Doyle found that her scalp was prickling, and she raised her head. “The John Doe’s shoes were missin’, too?”
The woman shrugged, and tested the visual recorder on her tablet. “It happens. After the wallet and the watch, sometimes the shoes are next in line to be worth something.”
Why, there’s something here, Doyle thought in surprise, as the woman carefully approached the body. Doyle was Irish, and—thanks, no doubt, to some long-dead ancestor—she was a bit fey. Mainly, it meant that she could read the emotions of those persons in her vicinity, but it also meant that she could usually tell when someone was lying. In addition, there were those occasions—such as right now—when her instinct would prod her, telling her that she was missing something important. The shoes? She thought in surprise; what about the shoes?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a ping on her mobile, and the screen identified the absent CSM, Inspector Williams. Unfortunately, the SOCOs were still within earshot, so Doyle was forced to be civil, rather than berate him like a fishwife. “Why, hallo, sir. Very nice it is, to hear from you.”
Williams wasn’t fooled by her tone. “Sorry, Kath; I’ll be there as soon as I can. Anything of interest?”
“Rich man, coshed and robbed in an alley.” Doyle frowned. “Where are you, that’s more important than bossin’ me about, here?”
“You’re more than capable of bossing yourself.”
“I’m a foot soldier, Thomas, born and bred. I need direction.”
“Then you’ll have some as soon as I get there; I’m dealing with a witness on the Santero case. Just secure the scene, and any surveillance feed—there must be CCTV in the area.”
She made a face, because reviewing surveillance feed was her least favorite thing to do, after canvassing for witnesses. “Do we have any PCs who are available to help?”
“Check with the desk sergeant, but unlikely, I’m afraid.”
“No rest for the weary, then. Acton says he’s hung up in court—what’s the case, d’you know?”
“Sorry—got to go, Kath.”
“All right, then; cheers.”
Doyle rang off thoughtfully, and frowned at the screen for a moment. Williams seemed constrained, and had sidestepped a straight answer about Acton’s case—faith, Acton himself was being overly-vague about it. With a pang of alarm, she remembered that Acton had voiced his private opinion that the Anti-Corruption Command unit—the unit he’d worked with, in prosecuting the massive corruption rig—was itself corrupt. This was alarming to no small extent; if the watchdogs were also bent, it meant that it was a very dicey situation for her husband, who was busily ferreting out all their dastardly secrets. Hopefully, he was not fleeing up his own alley, somewhere.
Trying to hide her uneasiness, Doyle stepped forward to interrupt the SOCO, who was discussing blood spatter with her photographer. “I’m sorry, but I’m not very tech-savvy, and I’d like to find out how long it will be before the DCI arrives. I don’t want to bother him again—can you trace his location from his phone call?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The woman lifted Doyle’s mobile, and touched the screen a few times. In a moment, a map appeared with a highlighted indicator. “Palace of Westminster, ma’am.”
Doyle frowned slightly. “Palace of Westminster? Is that the address for one of the Crown Courts?”
The SOCO gave her a look, as she handed back the mobile. “No, ma’am. That’s the address of Parliament.”
“Parliament?” Staring at the woman in surprise, Doyle slowly sheathed her mobile. What on earth would Acton be doing at Parliament—and testifying, to boot; he’d been telling the truth, when he’d told her he was needed to testify. Suddenly, she lifted her gaze to stare down the alley, unseeing. “Holy Mother,” she breathed.
“Ma’am?” The SOCO was fast losing her patience, and small blame to her; she was not used to dealing with third-tier law enforcement personnel, and Doyle was about to cement the woman’s low opinion of her.
“I’m afraid I must go,” she announced hurriedly. “The coroner is comin’, and Officer Gabriel will secure the scene until the CSM gets here.”
“Are you all right?” the woman asked in mild alarm. Doyle was heavily pregnant.
“A family emergency,” she explained vaguely, as indeed it was. The chickens were coming home to roost with a vengeance, and it appeared that the fair Doyle’s foolish husband was attempting to keep her well-away from the fallout. Good luck to him; pigs would fly.
As Doyle hurried away, the SOCO called out, “What do I tell the chief inspector, ma’am?”
“Not to worry,” Doyle threw over her shoulder. “I’ll see him before you do.”
Chapter 1
It was past time to settle all lingering problems; he’d been unwilling, up to now, but the child would soon be born.
Detective Sergeant Kathleen Doyle stood next to Officer Gabriel as they reviewed the remains of the decedent, a man of approximately forty years who’d met a bad end, here in the Lambeth borough of London. The victim lay crumbled against an overturned ash can, having attempted to avoid his fate by fleeing up this back alley. He was wearing an expensive suit—which probably explained why he wasn’t very well-versed in the evading of criminals—and he looked to have been dead for some hours. A bloody wound on his left temple indicated that he’d been coshed, and even his shoes had been stolen.
“It all seems a bit smoky,” Doyle remarked thoughtfully, as she surveyed the scene.
“How so?” her companion asked. “Seems a straightforward robbery-murder.”
But she shook her head. “No—I don’t mean the crime. DCI Acton is the senior investigatin’ officer, and he’s not here. DI Williams is the crime scene manager, and he’s not here, either. Faith; we don’t even have an evidence officer, to throw a fig leaf of dignity over this investigation’. Instead, it’s only you and me, which is a case of the blind leadin’ the blind, with all due respect.”
The young officer raised his brows in amusement. “I beg your pardon?”
“We shouldn’t be the ones standin’ here,” she observed. “And yet, here we are.”
Gabriel’s amused gaze returned to the body, splayed out before them. “I imagine we can perform a patched-up investigation, if we put our minds to it. Remind me what happens first.”
Smiling at his tone, she pulled her mobile. “First, my friend, we beg for help. Let me text DCI Acton, and see if he’s finished at court.” On this particular investigation, Chief Inspector Acton was serving a dual role as the senior investigating officer and also as her husband, sworn and sealed. Hopefully, she could wheedle him into pulling rank, and taking charge of this crime scene; Doyle had never been the ranking officer on a homicide before, and she had a sneaking suspicion that it involved a lot of paperwork.
Gabriel crouched down to take a closer look at the corpse, and she cautioned, “Don’t touch anythin’; the SOCOs will give you the edge of their tongues if you muck up the scene, before they get here.” Gabriel wasn’t up-to-speed on crime scene protocols because he was a transfer from counter-terrorism, on loan to the CID. A recent corruption scandal had come to light, and much of Scotland Yard’s upper management were currently cooling their respective heels in prison. And—apparently as a result of this sorry state of affairs—it was left to the lowly Doyle and the inexperienced Gabriel to sort out this poor fellow’s murder. Doyle, however, couldn’t shake a nagging suspicion that she was being kept busy, whilst something much more interesting was happening elsewhere.
She texted Acton, “How goes it, R U available?” Acton had mentioned he’d be testifying this morning—although he hadn’t mentioned the specific case. It seemed odd that he’d been tied up so long; oftentimes the Crown Court would accommodate the police by allowing them to be on call, since the mills of justice tended to meander a bit, and there was no reason to keep law enforcement off the streets. There was something strange about his absence that she couldn’t quite put her finger on—perhaps it was because usually, he kept himself within arm’s reach of her.
The answer came through. “Sorry, not yet finished. After lunch, perhaps.”
“Ok. In Lambeth w/ new case.” It wasn’t necessary to tell him, of course; Acton would know exactly where she was since he kept track of her, using her mobile’s GPS. Her husband was a well-respected chief inspector, but in truth, he was a bit nicked—although no one knew of it, except for the wife of his bosom. And it wasn’t the good sort of nicked, where the person stood on tables and said outrageously funny things, but a rather a dark sort of nicked, where a black mood would settle in, a great deal of scotch would be consumed, and then questionable people would disappear off the streets. Acton was something of a vigilante, and tended to dispense his own version of justice, when he felt that the justice system—the one they were sworn to uphold—was lacking for any reason. Fortunately, Acton’s nicked-ness had caused him to fixate on his red-headed support officer, and after rushing her into marriage, he now spent a great deal of his time obsessing about her, rather than obsessing about who needed to be killed, next. Not the most ideal of situations, but—all in all—an improvement.
Resigned to her fate as this case’s ranking officer, Doyle looked up to review the entry into the alley. “All right then; we’ll start with the basics, and ask the PCs to cordon off the alley at both ends, and set up a perimeter. We should clear a path for the coroner, too—are the SOCOs on the way?”
Gabriel nodded. “Yes. They’re a bit shorthanded, unfortunately.”
This was only to be expected, as their entire department was being run ragged, what with trying to handle the usual major crimes caseload alongside the massive corruption cases that were getting themselves prepared for trial. “Well, let’s start takin’ video, and gettin’ the lay of the land. D’you happen to know which case it is, that Acton’s testifyin’ on?” Unlikely that Gabriel would know, but it was still bothering her, for some reason.
“No, but here are the SOCOs.” Gabriel indicated the Scene of Crime Officers, who were piling out of their van, and looking a bit harried.
She shook off the uneasy feeling, and straightened up, in a determined attempt to give the forensics people the impression that she was capable and competent. “Good—let’s get the prelim done, and hopefully we can rope in some DCs to canvass for witnesses. Otherwise, we’ll have to do it ourselves.”
As was always the case when a murder occurred in a public place, a small group of gawkers had already assembled outside the cordon, and it was possible that someone had heard or seen something suspicious, even though the murder seemed hours old. Mentally, Doyle girded her loins; she didn’t enjoy having to sort through a wide variety of agitated persons, all eager to tell the police every uninteresting detail about their day, thus far, and with half of them positing wild conspiracy theories about why the decedent had been done in. She hated canvassing, and with good reason.
“I’ll be happy to canvass for you—I don’t mind.”
This was true—Gabriel could turn on the charm, when needful, and he had a gift for worming his way into places that usually barred their doors to all persons constabulary. “Yes, well, if you can talk someone into confessin’ before I have to type up a protocol, I would truly appreciate it.”
Gabriel smiled, and pulled his tablet. “I can work an entrapment with the best of them.”
This rang true, and Doyle reminded herself that Gabriel was a sharp one, as she watched him walk away. Best keep it to mind—she was the opposite of whatever a sharp one was. A dull one, perhaps—although she kept managing to land on her feet, despite this little drawback.
She then turned her attention to the SOCOs, and felt a twinge of sympathy, as she watched them reluctantly pull on their bunny suits. It was unlikely the forensics people would be able to process much of interest; any evidence found in a back alley like this one was automatically compromised. And as there were no bullets, they couldn’t count on ballistics, either. If they were lucky, the cosher may have dropped his weapon, or left something else behind that could offer the whisper of a lead; otherwise, it appeared they were in for a long and fruitless slog.
The supervising SOCO approached her, and Doyle said in her best presiding-officer voice, “We’re short an evidence officer and a CSM, but let’s start preparing for the coroner’s arrival, and try to get an ID.” Although the crime appeared to be a simple stranger-robbery, the victim’s identity and recent dealings may help to shed some light; she mustn’t overlook the possibility that this was not a random crime.
“Yes, ma’am.” The woman pulled on her gloves, eyeing the victim. “Poor bloke. At least we know someone’s going to miss this one; the last one I worked is still a John Doe, in the morgue.”
Doyle nodded her agreement. “Yes, goin’ by his clothes, this one does seem well-heeled—except that his shoes were stolen, so I suppose he’s heel-less, instead. Mayhap he wandered in to the wrong place, and paid the price for his foolishness.”
But the SOCO was more cynical, having seen many a robbery-murder. “He may have wanted to buy drugs, or something worse.” She paused, eying the corpse with a practiced eye. “His feet are big, and his shoes would be expensive; maybe we should check with the local pawn and second-hand shops? The killer may have already tried to cash in.”
“An excellent idea.” Doyle made a note. “I’d have never thought of it.”
The SOCO shrugged. “We did it with the John Doe. It went nowhere—he wore an ordinary size, and wasn’t rich enough to have anything but ordinary shoes.”
But Doyle found that her scalp was prickling, and she raised her head. “The John Doe’s shoes were missin’, too?”
The woman shrugged, and tested the visual recorder on her tablet. “It happens. After the wallet and the watch, sometimes the shoes are next in line to be worth something.”
Why, there’s something here, Doyle thought in surprise, as the woman carefully approached the body. Doyle was Irish, and—thanks, no doubt, to some long-dead ancestor—she was a bit fey. Mainly, it meant that she could read the emotions of those persons in her vicinity, but it also meant that she could usually tell when someone was lying. In addition, there were those occasions—such as right now—when her instinct would prod her, telling her that she was missing something important. The shoes? She thought in surprise; what about the shoes?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a ping on her mobile, and the screen identified the absent CSM, Inspector Williams. Unfortunately, the SOCOs were still within earshot, so Doyle was forced to be civil, rather than berate him like a fishwife. “Why, hallo, sir. Very nice it is, to hear from you.”
Williams wasn’t fooled by her tone. “Sorry, Kath; I’ll be there as soon as I can. Anything of interest?”
“Rich man, coshed and robbed in an alley.” Doyle frowned. “Where are you, that’s more important than bossin’ me about, here?”
“You’re more than capable of bossing yourself.”
“I’m a foot soldier, Thomas, born and bred. I need direction.”
“Then you’ll have some as soon as I get there; I’m dealing with a witness on the Santero case. Just secure the scene, and any surveillance feed—there must be CCTV in the area.”
She made a face, because reviewing surveillance feed was her least favorite thing to do, after canvassing for witnesses. “Do we have any PCs who are available to help?”
“Check with the desk sergeant, but unlikely, I’m afraid.”
“No rest for the weary, then. Acton says he’s hung up in court—what’s the case, d’you know?”
“Sorry—got to go, Kath.”
“All right, then; cheers.”
Doyle rang off thoughtfully, and frowned at the screen for a moment. Williams seemed constrained, and had sidestepped a straight answer about Acton’s case—faith, Acton himself was being overly-vague about it. With a pang of alarm, she remembered that Acton had voiced his private opinion that the Anti-Corruption Command unit—the unit he’d worked with, in prosecuting the massive corruption rig—was itself corrupt. This was alarming to no small extent; if the watchdogs were also bent, it meant that it was a very dicey situation for her husband, who was busily ferreting out all their dastardly secrets. Hopefully, he was not fleeing up his own alley, somewhere.
Trying to hide her uneasiness, Doyle stepped forward to interrupt the SOCO, who was discussing blood spatter with her photographer. “I’m sorry, but I’m not very tech-savvy, and I’d like to find out how long it will be before the DCI arrives. I don’t want to bother him again—can you trace his location from his phone call?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The woman lifted Doyle’s mobile, and touched the screen a few times. In a moment, a map appeared with a highlighted indicator. “Palace of Westminster, ma’am.”
Doyle frowned slightly. “Palace of Westminster? Is that the address for one of the Crown Courts?”
The SOCO gave her a look, as she handed back the mobile. “No, ma’am. That’s the address of Parliament.”
“Parliament?” Staring at the woman in surprise, Doyle slowly sheathed her mobile. What on earth would Acton be doing at Parliament—and testifying, to boot; he’d been telling the truth, when he’d told her he was needed to testify. Suddenly, she lifted her gaze to stare down the alley, unseeing. “Holy Mother,” she breathed.
“Ma’am?” The SOCO was fast losing her patience, and small blame to her; she was not used to dealing with third-tier law enforcement personnel, and Doyle was about to cement the woman’s low opinion of her.
“I’m afraid I must go,” she announced hurriedly. “The coroner is comin’, and Officer Gabriel will secure the scene until the CSM gets here.”
“Are you all right?” the woman asked in mild alarm. Doyle was heavily pregnant.
“A family emergency,” she explained vaguely, as indeed it was. The chickens were coming home to roost with a vengeance, and it appeared that the fair Doyle’s foolish husband was attempting to keep her well-away from the fallout. Good luck to him; pigs would fly.
As Doyle hurried away, the SOCO called out, “What do I tell the chief inspector, ma’am?”
“Not to worry,” Doyle threw over her shoulder. “I’ll see him before you do.”
About Goodreads Q&A
Ask and answer questions about books!
You can pose questions to the Goodreads community with Reader Q&A, or ask your favorite author a question with Ask the Author.
See Featured Authors Answering Questions
Learn more