Excerpt 1
Casimir Kimberly strode resolutely past the throng of people gathered in the alley who were trying to catch a glimpse of the body of the woman lying at the foot of the wooden stairs. His black woolen overcoat reached to his knees and he could feel the material swirl about his legs as he walked. Casimir was not a man given to fanciful dress or cologne as some dandies and French men were known to be, but damn did he love his coat.

He made eye contact with a policeman keeping the crowd under control and the man immediately motioned for Casimir to make his way through the circle of people. Casimir glanced over his shoulder and saw that Ralphie was behind him but lagging. The man was always falling behind.

As he came closer to the body lying in an odd position from the fall, a flash of lightning dominated the sky and he looked up. It was early in the morning and most people were still in bed. The crowd that was gathered now must be the dead woman’s neighbors or local tradespeople.

He felt around in his coat pocket for his John Millar & Sons tin and took out one drop and popped it into his mouth. As the delicious flavors of black currant and licorice filled his mouth, he began to study the crowd surrounding him. He first surveyed the middle-aged men, then the women. He knew what he was searching for and his heart beat faster as the lightning flashed once more through the morning sky.

He sat back on his haunches, surveying the body before him. He had been told a portion of the woman’s story when the police had summoned him. The charwoman had lived on the second floor and the stairs leading to the flat were outside in the alleyway. Sometime in the night, the woman had fallen down the stairs and broken her neck. Some in the police said it was an accident, others were not so convinced. He had been called in to look over the scene and give his opinion. Casimir wasn’t a detective with Scotland Yard nor a private investigator who worked for the Pinkerton Detective Agency, but he was blessed—or cursed, depending on whom you asked—with an abnormal understanding of crime, its victims, and most importantly the offenders.

Casimir suddenly looked up. He sniffed the air distinctly with several sniffs to the right and then to the left and narrowed his eyes. 

“Ralphie,” he growled once.

“Yes, Guvnor,” came the quick reply from the man standing nearby.

“Move that fishmonger down the lane,” Casimir said simply. “All I can smell is his two-day-old mackerel.”

“Aye, Guvnor.”

The fishmonger was moved along but Casimir’s sense of smell was compromised. He swore inwardly. He always liked to get a sense of the crime scene’s smell. The blood, the vomit, the rain, the earth. Each had its own distinct smell and each told its own story. He looked down at the body and noticed the shabbiness of her nightdress, the small feet, and the hands used to hard work. The woman was probably in her forties but her weathered face looked closer to sixty. Her forehead was deeply lined, her eyes sunken into her skeletal face.

As he took in her worn hands, he noticed something peculiar. On the ring finger of her left hand there was no ring but lighter skin where a ring had once been. He knew the woman was married. 

Casimir stood up abruptly, causing the onlookers around him to gasp. He shook his head and looked about at the group. He had been so absorbed in concentrating on the woman he had forgotten about the people surrounding him in the alleyway. He looked back into the group, his eyes searching for what he had seen before to assure himself that he was correct. His eyes narrowed when he saw the exchange and then he almost grinned. This was too easy, he told himself.

He strode forward, his long legs covering vast amounts of space before he stood before a stout, well-built man in the crowd. The man had the look of a stonemason, not very tall but built like a solid bull. He eyed the man quietly, looking over his beefy chest, his bulging forearms, his black hair sprinkled with gray, and the cap he held in his hands respectfully. Casimir narrowed his eyes and watched the man glance quickly to his right and then away again.

Following his gaze, he saw what the man was looking at. A small red-haired woman with a large bosom and thick ankles. She smiled shyly back at the man before he looked away.

“He did it,” Casimir said loudly and strongly, pointing to the stonemason.

 

Excerpt 2
Malcolm took a sip of his brandy and heard the clock downstairs chime the hour. He had made the appointment that morning to meet his friend the publisher at their mutual club. He had arrived promptly for the meeting only to find he was alone.

He had ordered a brandy and then another and now the man was an hour late. Damn it all! He looked around to find a member of staff to settle his account but could find no one. At this hour, many more members were entering the Savile Club, although the library where he had chosen to sit was still relatively quiet.

He was about to order himself one more drink when he heard laughter and turned to see a man dressed in a tailor-made suit of a crisp dark waistcoat and trousers striding toward him.

“Allsopp! I’m terribly sorry! I was running late and then ran into a chap I know downstairs,” the man said to him, his hand outstretched in greeting.

“Not at all, Courtenay,” Malcolm said, gesturing the chair beside him. “What will you have? Brandy? Whiskey?”

“Whiskey.” Jasper Courtenay sat and stretched out his legs before him. “The rain, the weather, the traffic. There’s four and a half million people in this city. Imagine that!”

Malcolm ordered their drinks. “Well, since you were delayed and I have waited so patiently for you, I believe you must agree to my request.”

“Request? You were a bit vague in your note,” Jasper said as he took out his cigarettes and offered one to Malcolm, who declined it. “You wanted to see me on an issue related to my business.”

“I wasn’t intentionally vague. In fact, it’s quite simple. I would like your opinion on a story.” Malcolm shrugged.

Jasper lit his cigarette and drew the ashtray at the small table next to him forward. “A story, is it? I didn’t know you had it in you!” He grinned at his friend.

Malcolm shook his head. “It’s not my story.” 

“Not yours? I’m intrigued!” Jasper said, inhaling and then blowing out the smoke. “Not yours. Then it could only be one thing. A woman!” he said triumphantly.

Malcolm almost wanted to laugh. “I do recall one summer here at the club when you took to the stage as…Romeo, was it?” he asked, biting back a smile.

“It was Mercutio, actually.”

“Of course it was!”

Their drinks were delivered and Jasper raised his glass to Malcolm. “A plague o’ both your houses!”

“A sad ending for Mercutio but proof perhaps that you should be publishing romantic fodder instead of your penny dreadfuls.” Malcolm sipped his drink.

“I think all writers have a touch of the romance in them, even those who write penny dreadfuls.” Jasper winked at his friend. “So, tell me of the woman.”

Malcolm shook his head. “You’ve got it all wrong, Jas. If you must know, he’s a delivery boy. He’s enthralled by the damn things and asked me to review his work. He has decided to try his luck at writing and I told the lad I would help him out.”

“I truly never thought that it was a woman,” Jasper admitted.

Malcolm frowned. “Why do you say that?”

Jasper took another drag of his cigarette. “Women don’t write penny dreadfuls. At least not successful ones. I’ve been approached by a few who wrote tolerably well, but they throw in the romance nonsense and who wants to read that? People want excitement! They want blood! People want larger than life characters and places far removed from their own!” Jasper said passionately.

Malcolm was surprised by his attitude. He knew Jasper had a reputation with women, as he was good-looking and a dapper dresser. But he also knew that Jasper didn’t think highly of the opposite sex, which was why he was intent on keeping Lavinia’s name a secret.

“I don’t know what the story is about exactly,” he said, pulling the sheets of paper from his satchel. “I only know I said I would show it to the right people.”

“Excellent,” Jasper said, delighted, as he took the paper from Malcolm. “You know, all jokes aside, those damn penny dreadfuls are a gold mine!” he whispered.

“Are they?” Malcolm asked.

“Absolutely.” Jasper leaned in to speak intently to his friend. “The name obviously says it all. A penny a pop for these trifles?! I pay the writers a bit and I reap the rewards.” He took another large gulp of his drink.

Malcolm was a bit impressed about the business plan but not with Jasper’s cavalier attitude toward the writers and their pay.

“Do the writers make enough to live on?” Malcolm asked.

“It depends. But that’s the beauty of it.” He grinned. “These penny dreadful stories are only several pages a week but run for several weeks. The writer must continue the story, the readers get hooked, and I’m all that wealthier at the end!”

 

Excerpt 3
The day had come. Lavinia’s story, which Jasper had titled The Grand Adventures of Casimir Kimberly, had been published and today was the first day the story could be purchased. She had slept badly, tossing and turning during the night, all sorts of scenarios playing in her head, each one worse than the one before.

She knew it was pointless trying to predict what would happen. If the story was a failure, she could write another one. If the story was a triumph that might even be worse. How could she better an absolute triumph? Whatever happened, she would either be poised to write a new story to make up for the failed version or an even better one than the first installment.

There was a chill in the air as she pulled on a dark blue woolen skirt with a matching jacket that buttoned up to the throat. She pinned her mother’s gold and garnet brooch on her jacket and left the townhouse.

It was early in the morning and a fog lay over London. The streets were wet, evidence of rainfall during the night. She stepped into the street and, not bothering to hail a hansom cab, walked the few blocks to the news vendor nearest the townhouse. The sound of her heels on the street echoed, as she appeared to be the only one about.

The news vendor had a little shop on the corner of a residential street that turned into upscale shops once she walked further to the left. She noticed that the milkman had not made his rounds as she saw no milk bottles on the doorsteps of the townhouses she passed. It must be very early, she thought as she came nearer the news vendor.

She noticed a man in work clothes stop by the news vendor, make a purchase, and then walk in the opposite direction. She felt for the coins in her dress pocket and stepped up to the vendor.

“Mornin’, miss.” He nodded to her in greeting and returned to his newspaper.

“Morning,” she said in return.

She looked over the newspapers that he was selling and saw the familiar titles: The Times, The Guardian, The Daily Telegraph. They were all neatly stacked on top of each other so that a customer could easily grab a copy and be on their way. Besides the newspapers, the vendor was selling the Evening Standard from the night before and The Spectator and The Economist magazines.

“Something I can help you with, luv?” he asked, looking up at her.

Lavinia was about to refuse his help and then nodded. “Yes. I was wondering if you had any new penny dreadfuls? Our cook loves them and we want to keep her happy.”

The vendor smiled. “That’s a fine idea. The penny dreadfuls are just there.” He pointed to the corner below the newspapers.

Lavinia nodded. “I see.” She glanced quickly at the covers but did not see the one she was looking for. 

“Now that you mention it,” the man said, looking up at her, “I think I got something new this morning from Courtenay Publishing.” Turning around, he heaved a large bundle of magazines wrapped in twine and placed them before her.

“There you are, luv. Hot off the presses!” the man said, smiling. “Can’t beat that! Your cook will be the first on her block to read this lot.”

Lavinia tried to conceal her excitement as she stared at the cover of a man appearing larger than life standing before a familiar backdrop of London. Over him read the words The Grand Adventures of Casimir Kimberly and beneath his feet it read “By G.R. Howard.” A thrill of delight filled her as she stared at the cover, and she tried hard not to start grinning like an idiot.

“I’ll take five copies.” She shrugged. “She might want to give them to her friends.”

The man took her coins and she pressed the copies to her breast as she turned to hurry back to her townhouse. Her heart thudded heavily inside her chest and only then did she begin to smile, and she didn’t stop all the way home.

 

Excerpt 4
The wind roared in his ears as another train moved quickly past as he stepped onto the platform. His heavy coat moved behind him as the wind rushed through and the fabric flapped about his knees. It almost moved with him as a second skin creating a daring, cape-like effect. He didn’t mind the wind nor the crowd that seemed mesmerized by his every move, but he did mind the woman lying dead in a small heap before him.

“Ralphie?” Casimir called out quietly and the man moved quickly to his master’s side.

“Here, guv.”

“The woman. She’s been dead one hour,” he said matter-of-factly.

Ralphie looked up at the constable standing near them, who nodded begrudgingly. Detective Browne stood nearby, knocking his pipe against the bottom of his shoe trying to ignore Casimir and his theatrical antics.

Casimir’s eyes rapidly took in the woman’s state of dress, the fancy earrings, the expensive necklace, the new shoes. Her hair had been neatly styled and curled. She looked as if she were dressed up and on her way to see someone.

A man dressed in evening clothes pushed his way through the crowd and came to stand before Casimir. “I say! What are you doing? That woman is my fiancée, or was about to be,” he said his voice choked with emotion. 

“Yes. You were about to go out for the night,” Casimir said, glancing over the man’s elegant clothes. “Dinner and theater?”

“That’s right. How did you know?” The man looked confused.

Casimir scoffed. “Your evening clothes. Her dress. It’s obvious!” He couldn’t keep the sneer off his face.

“Well, damn you! Who cares about our clothes or our night?! She’s dead!” the man said, his voice growing louder.

“I know very well that she is dead. And I’m sorry for it. Indeed I am. But the truth is, you killed her,” Casimir said coolly.

Two constables moved closer as Detective Browne sighed heavily. “He’s only just arrived, Casimir. He didn’t kill her.”

Casimir nodded to Browne. “My esteemed colleague is correct. Forgive my obtuseness. You didn’t actually kill her, but—”

“But?” Browne shook his head, staring at Casimir. “But?”

“You’re the reason she’s dead,” Casimir clarified. “Is that better?” He turned to Browne, who rolled his eyes.

“I’m the fiancé! My beloved is dead,” the man shouted loudly on the train platform. “How dare you say I’m the reason she’s dead!”

Casimir shrugged. “You loved her. She loved you. But her sister loved you more. And that’s one too many women in a marriage.”

“H-her sister?” the man asked, his voice hesitant and softer.

“You see, your beloved has black hair, but if you look closely at her shoulders there are strands of red. Her sister is a redhead, yes?” Casimir asked, although he already knew the answer.

The man swallowed and nodded.

“I suspect her younger sister has loved you for some time. When you announced your engagement, she waited. Hoping it would end, hoping something would happen. She finally realized nothing would happen. And she couldn’t have that. She wouldn’t allow her sister to have you. So she followed her. And when the moment struck, she pushed her in front of a train.” Casimir sounded as if he were reading a novel.

“Jesus, Casimir!” Browne bellowed. “Where the devil did you get that from?”

“It’s true,” the man said suddenly, his eyes round and wide as he looked at Casimir. “My god, it’s all true!”

There was a gasp in the crowd that had assembled on the platform and Casimir looked over at Browne with a pompous smirk on his face. Browne sent a blank stare back.

“I suspected for some time that her sister was in love with me,” the man continued. “I thought it would pass. She was so young. So innocent. Every moment we found together, her sister would intervene. I could tell at the engagement party she was angry. She came to me alone and threw herself at me. She wanted me to run away with her. I refused, of course,” he said almost breathlessly.

Casimir nodded and looked smugly at Detective Browne.

“She told me a week ago that I would never marry her sister. She would make sure of it. I—I never thought she would do something like this.” With tears in his eyes, the man gazed down at the woman he wanted as his wife who would never be.

“Find out the address of the sister and arrest her,” Browne told the constables.

They nodded and set out as the coroner came to collect the body.

“Love is a dangerous emotion,” the man said, standing next to Casimir. “It’s not kind or soft or endearing. It tears everything apart.”

Casimir nodded. “Take comfort in this. You loved once. And she loved you.” The man nodded. “Now I would advise you to get a cat. Much less trouble.”

 

Lavinia felt her throat constrict. “How did the woman die?”

Harrison looked into her face. “She died at the foot of some stairs in an alleyway.”

Lavinia frowned. “Was she murdered?”

“Unlike your story, our woman was not married and no one had any reason to do her harm. There’s no money, there’s nothing really. She was quite poor. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to harm her,” Harrison explained.

“Yet you’re here questioning me,” Lavinia said slowly.

“Because there was another woman who died after that,” he said.

Lavinia’s eyes widened and she watched his handsome face. “In a train station on the platform?” she whispered.

Harrison nodded. “Yes.”

“This—this is ludicrous!” She shook her head and stood up, walking to the window. “I don’t predict the future! I write a story. A silly story to interest people and make a little money.”

He came to stand before her. “Miss Howard, no one is accusing you of doing anything. I’m simply here to question you. To find out how you write and who knows about your writing.”

She turned to face him. “Well, now you know! My aunts. That’s it. No, wait!” she said as a thought occurred to her. “I keep books for a solicitor and a doctor. They are both family friends. Malcolm, the doctor, was the one who first told me about Jasper. He was the one who took my work to Jasper to get his advice,” Lavinia remembered.

Harrison looked confused. “You keep books for a doctor and a solicitor?”

Lavinia sighed. “My father was a successful banker. In the course of his career, he helped several gentlemen get started in their respective fields. One was a lawyer, the other a doctor. He kept books for them, which I think was more of a time to enjoy port and cigars but—” She paused for a moment. “When he died, I continued the tradition of keeping their books—minus the port and cigars, of course,” she said, a slight smile on her face.

“You’ve known these men—” he began.

“All my life. You’ll want their names,” she predicted.

He nodded.

“Elazar Schulman is the solicitor and Malcolm Allsopp is the doctor. They are both fine, upstanding gentlemen. I’ve known them both all my life.”

“Malcolm Allsopp was the one who gave your stories to Jasper Courtenay?” he clarified.

“Yes.”

“Why would he do that?” 

“Malcolm knew I had been writing stories for some time. He wanted to help me, I suppose. His exact motives I can’t speak on. You’ll have to ask him yourself.” She shrugged.

“I intend to.”

“What is it that you think is going on here?” Lavinia said, becoming irritated at the entire conversation. “I understand that you wanted to speak to G.R. Howard because stories that were published came true. But obviously I’m not writing stories during the day and committing murders at night, am I?”

“It was merely a direction I had to follow. I thought to find some old man with gout drinking brandy by the gallon and writing his stories. I never expected to find you,” he admitted softly.

“What does that mean?” Lavinia asked.

“Just that you were a surprise,” he clarified. “And I’m not a man who is surprised easily anymore.”

“In your line of work, you must see a very dark side of society,” Lavinia guessed.

He was about to answer when the doors opened and Jasper stepped inside.

“Ah-ha! You two are still here. So—“ Jasper said, coming to stand before them. “The Inspector of Metropolitan Police and my celebrated penny dreadful writer. What else could bring you two together but a country house party?”

Lavinia looked at Harrison and then away from him.

“Miss Howard has been very obliging in answering my questions,” he said. “I think we’re done for now.”

“And I trust this conversation will remain between the three of us?” Jasper said, looking pointedly at the Inspector.

“There’s no reason why anyone else should hear of it,” Harrison agreed.

“Excellent.” Jasper smiled hearing the words. “We have a picnic planned for this afternoon. And croquet, I believe.”

“No, I’m sorry. I must head back to London,” Harrison said, suddenly changing his plans.

“If you must head back, you must head back,” Jasper said, untroubled by the Inspector’s early departure. “I’ll have the driver take you to the station,” he added, leaving the room as quickly as he had arrived.

“Were you only invited for the one day?” Lavinia turned to Harrison. “I recall you said you had been invited the weekend.”

“I was invited for the weekend, Miss Howard, but as I’m finished—” he began to explain.

“I see,” Lavinia interrupted. “You’ve spoken to me and gotten what you need.”