Welcoming Christine Hancock and her book Bright Helm to my blog

Today I'm welcoming Christine Hancock and her book - Bright Helm (The Byrhtnoth Chronicles: Book 4) - to my blog as part of the blog tour hosted by The Coffee Pot Book Club (founded by Mary Anne Yarde).

Delighted to share an excerpt with you all but first I will introduce the book. 

                                        Bright Helm                                                                          

Separated by anger and unanswered questions, Byrhtnoth and Saewynn are brought together by a tragic death.

Re-united, they set out on an epic voyage to discover the final truth about his father.

The journey takes them far to the north, to Orkney, swathed in the mists of treachery, and to Dublin’s slave markets where Byrhtnoth faces a fateful decision.

How far will he go, to save those he cares for? 

Publication Date: 15^th October 2020

Publisher: Madder Press

Series: The Byrhtnoth Chronicles

Genre: Historical Fiction

You can purchase a copy of the book via -

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08KFF9R9K

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08KFF9R9K

Now for the excerpt -

I stared down at the oar. It felt like a part of my body, and I hated it with every fibre of my being. I recognised every mark and indentation and knew that if I lifted my hands, the image would remain imprinted on the wood, my blood and sweat soaked into the salt caked surface. What would it be like to be chained to it, to suffer this view every day, for weeks, months, perhaps years until death released you from its tyranny? I must not think of slavery. I should be glad that I could stop at any time. Not yet, although I hoped it would be soon.

I lifted my head, and my neck screamed a protest. At least I could look at Saewynn. Sometimes I caught her watching me, and I would smile and attempt to cheer her. Now she looked past me, scanning the sea ahead. She was tired. I knew how much strength it took to control the steering oar, and she had spent days at it. How many? I had lost count. She could hide her distress from the others, but not from me. When I realised her hands had been injured from rescuing Leif, I had stopped her, but she had continued the instant they had healed. It was her job, she said, while the rest of us rowed. I prayed that we would soon find somewhere suitable to stop.

It had become more challenging to find a beach to shelter us at night. The islands were numerous and more thickly inhabited. Every likely beach had a farm perched above it, most with a boat pulled up on the sand. Earlier we had passed the island of Iona and Leif had pointed out the burnt remains of the monastery. Only a few stones marked the abandoned site. Perhaps we should have stopped there, but it was too exposed, and foolishly I wanted to carry on. Tomorrow we might attempt the crossing to Ireland, Leif said, where that land was closest. We needed a good night’s rest. Leif already slept. He found it difficult to settle at night, his injuries pained him when he moved. At least they were healing.

My father spoke from the bow. He had spotted a ship. I mumbled an instruction to Thurstan, and we slowed the oars.

“That can’t be the Seal, can it?” Saewynn stood, squinting against the low sun. “It’s a long way away. What do you think?” she asked, looking at me. Gratefully, I pulled in my oar, hearing the rattle as Thurstan did the same, and forced my cramped fingers to loosen their grip. I turned, careful not to rock the boat. The ship was difficult to see, silhouetted against the bright sky.

“It’s heading north,” I said, “Seal will be far away, may have reached Dublin by now. Why would she appear here?”

“Perhaps they weren’t heading for Ireland after all,” said Saewynn, sitting down and taking control of the boat with a grimace. I gave her a sympathetic smile and pain shot through my fingers as I tried to straighten them. “What do you think, Thurstan?”

“It’s the right shape. Maybe the raiders’ home is around here. It’s on its own though, shouldn’t there be a second ship, the one they used in the attack?”

“That makes it more likely that it’s in home waters. If we could identify its home port…” I looked around. There was a small island not far away. If we kept our vessel in line with it, the other ship might not spot us. “Let’s get a bit closer.”

“Are you sure?” asked Wulfstan.

“It’s worth the risk,” I told him. “It’s a long way away and even if they spot us, why would they be troubled by an innocent fishing vessel.” I took hold of the oar with renewed energy. “Set a course towards it,” I told Saewynn, “not direct, just close enough to identify it.” She nodded. “Keep us in the shelter of that island.” I pointed towards it.

“Yes, my lord,” she said. I dug my oar into the water, noticing that the waves were increasing. It would make it easier to hide.

Slowly, the ship grew closer. It was heading away, and Saewynn had pointed our boat ahead of it, so we approached from behind, and to the side. We had no chance of catching it, but that wasn’t what I wanted. If it were the Seal, it was more important to discover its destination.

“Looks like it’s heading towards Iona,” said Byrhthelm. I glanced over my shoulder to see Wulfstan clutching the side of the boat and staring intently towards the ship.

He shook his head. “I don’t think it is the Seal. I can’t see the bow from this angle, but the stern looks wrong. Byrhthelm shrugged. Of course, he had never seen our ship.

“What do you think,” I asked Saewynn.

“I think he’s right. It looks similar from a distance, but closer, it is completely different. Shall I turn back?”

“Make it look as if we planned the move.” She scowled at me, and I bent my back, increasing my speed to help make the turn. Silently I groaned. How much time had we wasted on my foolish idea? I glanced towards Leif, still asleep. He would have given better advice or at least identified the ship earlier. I was surprised he hadn’t woken. The sea was getting rougher, the small boat bouncing over the waves. Thurstan missed his stroke, and our progress stuttered. Something rumbled, and I looked up, not a cloud in sight and still no wind. Not a storm then.

The unknown ship was turning. Wulfstan had been right; the prow took the shape of a snake. Men moved on the deck, and the vessel swung until the snake’s head pointed towards us. I had made a big mistake.

“Head for the island,” I told Saewynn. “They’ve spotted us. We need to hide.” She took a swift look then stared fixedly ahead. Thurstan heard my comment, and we both increased the rate. “Byrhthelm, Wulfstan, weapons, in case we have to fight.”

As we approached the island, I knew it would not serve. What we could see, and there were several separate islands, was rocky, with no place to hide, or even land, with cliffs falling sheer to the water. The ship was closer.

“South, another island, larger, more place to hide.” My breath was short from pulling the oars. The water churned and waves broke in the gap between the islands. We battled our way through, the boat tossing and spinning. Close to the new island, it grew calm. The pursuing ship paused, turned away.

“Keep close to the coast. They’ve given up,” I shouted, my words almost drowned by the roar I had noticed earlier. I scanned the rugged coast; still, no place to land. We rowed desperately - nowhere to hide. The ship completed its turn. Far from giving up, it now flew towards us; the oars beating a creamy wake.

“A gap.” My father’s shout fought against the deafening noise. “Rough. Shall we take it?”

I looked up at Saewynn, she surveyed the way ahead, unsure. I glanced over my shoulder, foaming water, but beyond, freedom. I nodded, and she wrenched the steering oar. The boat tilted, and I stared into the dark water a hand’s length away, then it righted, and we were among the turbulent breakers. Rowing was futile. We raised the oars, hung on and let the water take us.

Leif hit the side of the boat and woke with a shout.

“What’s happening?” He struggled into a sitting position, clutching his injured arm. He looked around, and a look of horror crossed his face. “Why did you bring us here?”

A wave broke over the boat, soaking everyone. I started to row, hoping Saewynn would pick the best route. “A ship chased us. This way seemed safe.” I heaved on the oar without effect.

“Safe?” He attempted to spit, then thought better of it. “We’re dead.” He pointed ahead. I twisted in my seat and stared into the jaws of hell. A great whirlpool lay directly in our path. Was it even worth attempting to avoid it? I slumped over the oar, shoulders screaming in pain, I could do no more.

Christine Hancock

 

 Christine Hancock was born in Essex and moved to Rugby, Warwickshire when she married. She and her husband have two sons and two lovely grandchildren.

She is a long-term family historian, leader of the local history group and town guide.
Christine had never thought of becoming an author - She just wanted to write about some of her ancestors. In 2013 she joined a writing class. The class turned out to be about writing fiction. Before she knew it, she was writing a novel.

Byrhtnoth was a real warrior who died in the 991 Battle of Maldon, made famous by the Anglo-Saxon poem of that name. Growing up in Essex, Christine visited Maldon often, and attended the 1000 year anniversary of the battle in 1991.

She wanted to find out what made Byrhtnoth such a famous warrior.

She finished the book but discovered it had become a series - how long, she has yet to find out.

You can connect with Christine Hancock via -

Website: https://byrhtnoth.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/YoungByrhtnoth

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ByrhtnothAuthor

You can learn more about the author and the book by visiting the other blogs on this tour -

That's it for now.

Till the next time.

Take care Zoe
 

 

 

Welcoming Elizabeth St John and her book - By Love Divided - to my blog.

 Today I'm welcoming Elizabeth St John and her book - By Love Divided (Book 2 - The Lydiard Chronicles) - to my blog as part of the blog tour hosted by The Coffee Pot Book Club (founded by Mary Anne Yarde).

I'm delighted to share a review with you all, but first I will introduce the book.

By Love Divided

 

London, 1630.

Widowed and destitute, Lucy St.John is fighting for survival and makes a terrible choice to secure a future for her children. Worse still, her daughter Luce rejects the royal court and a wealthy arranged marriage, and falls in love with a charismatic soldier. As England tumbles toward bloody civil war, Luce’s beloved brother Allen chooses to fight for the king as a cavalier. Allen and Luce are swept up in the chaos of war as they defend their opposing causes and protect those they love.

Will war unite or divide them? And will they find love and a home to return to—if they survive the horror of civil war. In the dawn of England’s great rebellion, love is the final battleground.

A true story based on surviving memoirs, court papers, and letters of Elizabeth St.John's family, By Love Divided tells of the war-time experiences of Lucy St.John, the Lady of the Tower. This powerfully emotional novel tells of England's great divide and the heart-wrenching choices one family faces.

Published: October 2017

Publisher: Falcon Historical

Page Length: 381 Pages

Genre: Historical Fiction

You can purchase a copy of the book via -

Amazon: https://geni.us/MyBookBLD

Books2Read: https://books2read.com/u/3kpQYg

Now for the review.

Her late husband had been a royalist, her new one was a puritan – that in itself is a story worth reading, but then to see your family torn apart as sides are chosen in the lead up to the English Civil War takes this book to a whole new level. I thought I would enjoy By Love Divided, but enjoy does not even encompass the way I feel about this book now that I have finished it. Based on real people and historical fact, Elizabeth St.John has written a book that is something very extraordinary indeed.

The story centres around Lucy St.John and her family, but this novel is not told from just Lucy's points of view, it is told through the collective narrative of all the members of the family. By using this approach Elizabeth St.John does not ask her readers to choose a side, she does not ask you to stand with King Charles, or to stand with Parliament because there are characters that she knows her readers will come to care about on both sides of the battle lines. Like Lucy, we must somehow find the courage to face what is to come and pray that everyone makes it through the coming war unscathed. This is a novel that I would recommend having some tissues close to hand, and be prepared to become utterly enthralled in the story, for the narrative is rich and compelling, and I am sure you will fall in love with the characters just as I have.

Dear Readers, this is a book that deserves all the acclaim that it has received. It is so rich in history, story and legitimacy that I could not help but fall under its spell. I cannot wait to get my hands on Book 3, because I really want to know how Lucy and her family’s story ends. 

Elizabeth St John

 

 Elizabeth St.John spends her time between California, England, and the past. An acclaimed author, historian, and genealogist, she has tracked down family papers and residences from Lydiard Park and Nottingham Castle to Richmond Palace and the Tower of London to inspire her novels. Although the family sold a few country homes along the way (it's hard to keep a good castle going these days), Elizabeth's family still occupy them-- in the form of portraits, memoirs, and gardens that carry their legacy. And the occasional ghost. But that's a different story.

Having spent a significant part of her life with her seventeenth-century family while writing The Lydiard Chronicles trilogy and Counterpoint series, Elizabeth St.John is now discovering new family stories with her fifteenth-century namesake Elysabeth St.John Scrope, and her half-sister, Margaret Beaufort. A new medieval short story featuring these women, Road to the Tower, is within the recently-published Historical Fiction anthology Betrayal.

You can connect with Elizabeth St John via -

Website: http://www.elizabethjstjohn.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/ElizStJohn

Amazon Author Page: http://www.tinyurl.com/AmazonElizStJohn

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ElizabethJStJohn/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/elizabethjstjohn/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/48503349-by-love-divided

You can learn more about the author and the book by visiting the other blogs on this tour.

I do hope you will check out this book.

That's it for now.

Till the next time.

Take care Zoe

Welcoming Donna Scott and her book - The London Monster - to my blog.

 Today I'm welcoming Donna Scott and her book - The London Monster - to my blog as part of the blog tour hosted by The Coffee Pot Book Club (founded by Mary Anne Yarde).

I'm delighted to share an excerpt with you all, but first I will introduce the book.

The London Monster

 

  In 1788, exactly one hundred years before Jack the Ripper terrorizes the people of London, a sexual miscreant known as the London Monster roams the streets in search of his next victim…

Thomas Hayes, having lost his mother in a vicious street assault, becomes an underground pugilist on a mission to rid the streets of violent criminals. But his vigilante actions lead to him being mistaken for the most terrifying criminal of all.

Assistance arrives in the form of Sophie Carlisle, a young journalist with dreams of covering a big story, though she is forced to masquerade as a man to do it. Trapped in an engagement to a man she doesn’t love, Sophie yearns to break free to tell stories that matter about London’s darker side—gaming, prostitution, violence—and realizes Tom could be the one to help. Together, they come up with a plan.

Straddling the line between his need for vengeance and the need to hide his true identity as a politician's son becomes increasingly difficult as Tom is pressured to win more fights. The more he wins, the more notoriety he receives, and the greater the chance his identity may be exposed—a revelation that could jeopardize his father’s political aspirations and destroy his family’s reputation.

Sophie is also in danger as hysteria spreads and the attacks increase in severity and frequency. No one knows who to trust, and no one is safe—Tom included, yet he refuses to end the hunt.

Little does he realize, the monster is also hunting him.

 Book Title: The London Monster

Author: Donna Scott

Publication Date: 21^st November 2020

Publisher: Atlantic Publishing

Page Length: 322 pages

Genre: Historical Fiction/Historical Mystery

You can purchase a copy of the book via -

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08M4D6T9N

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/London-Monster-Donna-Scott-ebook/dp/B08M4D6T9N

Now for the excerpt -

A Note

August 1789

I have little patience for misinformation. First of all, I did not attack a Miss Kitty Wheeler in the Ranelagh pleasure garden. I only whispered some indelicacies in her ear. There were far too many people meandering about on that enchanted summer night, so I would never have been so reckless as to draw my knife. I am not a fool, after all.

But the papers always manage to get it wrong. Or perhaps it’s the women. I have been described as a thin, vulgar-looking man with ugly legs and feet. How would they know the true nature of my legs and feet? Do I go about without stockings and shoes? I think not! Some accounts describe me as short with a villainous, narrow face, yet others paint me as a small, big-nosed man with curly hair, a tall man of regular features, or foreign-looking with a dark complexion. I have been said to wear all-black clothing, a brown greatcoat and striped waistcoat, or a blue silk coat with ruffled details and blue and white stockings. They say I have long slicked hair, plaited behind and turned up, or loose curls and a round or cocked hat with or without a cockade. Essentially, I look like everyone or no one at all.

The Morning Chronicle has often referred to me as a ‘miscreant’ or a ‘wretch’. The Oracle is less judgmental and therefore uses terms like ‘attacker’ and ‘perpetrator’. But the World is the most accurate of the papers, for it portrays the women as the real monsters. They are the ones whose histrionics and featherbrained ways have placed all men in danger, for any innocent man can be accused of being me with one wrong look or harmless suggestion.

And that is how I do it. First, with a kind word or two, and then with a proposition. The circumstances—whether the object of my affection sways her hips when she walks or strides forward with impatience and arrogance—will determine how I choose my words. The lady who entertains me first with the rhythmic swish of her skirts as I follow behind her will always get the kinder introduction. Perhaps a compliment before I express my true wishes. But it is the haughty jilt who will take the brunt of it. I might whisper a vulgarity in her delicate pink ear, comment on my growing arousal or the bounce of her breasts. What brings me the most pleasure is that first gasp, the initial moment of shock which registers in her raised brow and parted lips, a sure sign I have offended. After that, it is not exactly pleasure I feel, but anger that burns my chest—a building rage. Every desire I’ve ever had spills freely from my tongue and coats her like the soot on a hearth’s bricks. She might fight to get away—most of them do—but I am stronger, faster. And it is only then that I draw my blade.

Chapter 1

September 1789

Newgate Prison, London

Even as he stood atop the wooden cart with his hands bound and a rope around his neck, Thomas Hayes didn’t regret what he had done. Only three people knew the truth of it, of course—the lady involved, her assailant, and him. But without the victim coming forth, no one would believe Tom’s pleas of innocence.

Behind him, a chandler stirred the boiling tallow that was meant to cover Tom’s dead body when the deed was done. The unpleasant odour of rancid lard filled his nostrils, yet strangely made him awfully hungry at the same time. He should have been hanged in the morning, but as the hours passed and no one came to retrieve him, he thought they’d reconsidered and decided the best way of death would be from starvation. He hadn’t eaten in two days, either because his gaolers forgot to feed him or because they simply thought it unnecessary. Either way, his mouth watered and stomach growled in what was to be the last day of his two and twenty years of life.

He imagined his father’s expression when he finally read the news from the Morning Herald or the Public Ledger: Son of Candidate Joseph Hayes Hanged at Newgate for Attempted Murder. His father’s face would drop into his hands, his head shaking with disappointment, and his dreams of becoming a member of the House of Commons turning to ash with each blazing written word.

The two men awaiting execution to Tom’s left mumbled their prayers. Tom had said his that morning as he took the sacrament from the chaplain, having satisfied the man’s religious estimation that he was truly repentant. But he wasn’t. He’d do it all again if presented with the same circumstances.

The gibbet stood only a foot higher than his head, and the ground little more than three feet below him. He wore the same clothes he had been wearing the night he had attended the party at Apsley House, and knew with certainty that had his brothers been informed of his fate—another reason to curse him for ruining their family name—they would purchase his clothing and shoes back from the executioner once he was hanged. They were plain but beautifully made, his coat and breeches of the finest worsted wool and his shirt of white linen, now stained from weeks lying on the dirt floor of his cell. Sadly, his recently purchased cocked hat was nowhere to be found. The two men beside him were less formally dressed, both in crudely made hemp clothing, their brown forms slumped and feeble. From the look on the spectators’ faces, he knew that he stood out like a peacock on parade.

The constable beside him nodded, and the executioner covered Tom’s bare head and face with a coarse white linen sack. “There you go, lad.”

The bag scratched the skin on the bridge of his nose, so he tried to wriggle it away as best he could, considering the rope pressed tightly against his throat. He was to be hanged in chains once he was declared dead—as were all felons, particularly those accused of attempted murder—and placed on display as carrion for nearby birds looking to feast on his remains. That part bothered him the most. He thanked God that his mother wasn’t alive to see it.

The crowd suddenly hushed, telling him he had only seconds left to live. He took a deep breath through his mouth to avoid the tallow stench and relaxed as much as he could. The sound of a bare hand slapping the horse’s hindquarters, then the jingling of its tack registered in his mind as the last sounds he would ever hear. The cart below him shifted forward, and he stumbled to stay atop, but the flooring disappeared and the noose jerked him upright unforgivingly. It was the last thing he remembered.

 Donna Scott

Donna Scott is an award-winning author of 17^th and 18^th century historical fiction. Before embarking on a writing career, she spent her time in the world of academia. She earned her BA in English from the University of Miami and her MS and EdD (ABD) from Florida International University. She has two sons and lives in sunny South Florida with her husband. Her first novel, Shame the Devil, received the first place Chaucer Award for Historical Fiction and a Best Book designation from Chanticleer International Book Reviews.

You can connect with Donna Scott via -

Website: http://www.donnascott.net

Twitter: https://twitter.com/D_ScottWriter

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/donnascottauthor

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/donnascottwriter

You can learn more about the author and the book by visiting the other blogs on this tour -

 I hope you will check out the book.

That's it for now.

Till the next time.

Take care Zoe

 

 

 

 

Welcoming Len Maynard and his book - Three Monkeys (DCI Jack Callum Mysteries Book 1) - to my blog.

 Today I'm welcoming Len Maynard and his book - Three Monkeys (DCI Jack Callum Mysteries Book 1) - to my blog as part of the blog tour hosted by The Coffee Pot Book Club (founded by Mary Anne Yarde).

I am delighted to share an excerpt with you all, but first I will introduce the book.

Three Monkeys

1958.

A girl’s body is found in Hertfordshire.

Her eyes and mouth have been sewn shut. Candle wax has been poured into her ears to seal them.

DCI Jack Callum, policeman and dedicated family man, who cut his teeth walking the beat on the violent streets of London, before moving his family away from the city, to a safer, more restful life in the country, leads the investigation into this gruesome crime that shatters the peace of the sleepy English town.

Images of three monkeys are sent to the police to taunt them: see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Something more sinister than a mere isolated murder seems to be going on as more victims come to light.

Who is doing this and why?

At the insistence of the first victim’s father, a local dignitary, officers from Scotland Yard are brought in to bring about a speedy conclusion to the case, side-lining Jack’s own investigation.

In a nail-biting climax, one of Jack’s daughters is snatched. Before she can become the next victim, Jack has to go against the orders of his superiors that have constantly hampered his investigation, and risk his own career in an attempted rescue at the killer’s own home.

Publication Date: 22^nd July 2020

Publisher: Sharpe Books

Page Length: 270 Pages

Genre: Historical Crime

You can get a copy of this book via -

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B08DHSC1ZL

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/Three-Monkeys-Callum-Mystery-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B08DHSC1ZL

Now for the excerpt -

The house of Mill Road was in a state of disrepair, with peeling paintwork and brickwork that badly needed re-pointing. There was no doorbell so Jack rapped on the door with his fist. After what seemed like an age the door was opened by an elderly man wearing sunglasses, impeccably dressed in a white shirt, navy blue tie and grey slacks. His white hair was neatly cut and swept away from his face, but on his feet, incongruously, were a pair of maroon carpet slippers.

“Hello, can I help you?” he said, staring to Jack’s left.

Jack introduced himself and Myra. “Mr Lamb, I’d like to speak with your son, if I may.”

The man turned his head at the voice and Jack realised that he was blind. “My son’s dead.”

“Peter Lamb?” Jack said.

The man smiled. “You mean my grandson,” he said.

“Right,” Jack said. “May we see him? We have a few questions we’d like to ask him.”

The man continued to smile. “I’d like to help you,” he said. “But I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment.”

“I see,” Jack said. “Will he be back any time soon?”

The old man shook his head. “I really couldn’t say. It’s Monday. He always goes out on a Monday. He could be back at any time. I’d ask you in to wait for him, but it could be a long one. Then again, he could be back in the next ten minutes.”

“Perhaps we could do that, then – maybe for ten minutes or so? It would save us calling back.”

“Of course,” the old man said, and stood aside. “Go on through. The living room is at the end of the passage, on the right.”

Jack and Myra walked into the house, wrinkling their noses at the smell of burnt toast.

“Forgive the smell,” the old man said. “I made a bit of a balls up with the grill.”

“Is it just you and your grandson that live here?” Myra said.

“It is now,” the old man said as he followed them into the living room. “My wife passed five years ago. We’ve been alone since then.”

“I’m sorry,” Myra said.

Jack was looking around the room, noting the old, but comfortable looking armchair placed at the side of a tiled fireplace. Every flat surface seemed to be filled with photographs in all manner of frames, ranging from tarnished silver to cheap plastic Woolworth’s specials.

Above the fireplace hung an oval mirror, and pinned to the walls were pictures, copies of old masters taken from magazines and books.

“Please take a seat,” he said, waving airily in the direction of a couple of dining chairs pushed up against the wall.

An ancient Bakelite wireless stood atop an equally old oak sideboard. It was broadcasting music, but the volume was set so low that Jack had to strain his ears to hear what was being played. “Glenn Miller,” he said when he finally identified the tune.

“The Joe Loss Orchestra, actually,” the old man said. “But an easy mistake to make. In the Mood. It’s Joe Loss’s signature tune.”

“Wasn’t it Glenn Miller’s as well?”

The old man laughed as he settled into his armchair. “You fell into the trap that so many people do. You assume that as Miller recorded the original, it was his signature tune, but it wasn’t. That honour went to Moonlight Serenade. Is the wireless loud enough for you? Can you hear it?”

“It’s a little quiet, but it’s fine,” Jack said.

The old man raised his wrist and ran his fingers over his watch. “A quarter to eleven,” he said.

Jack looked at him in surprise and then it dawned on him that Lamb senior had no glass in his wristwatch and was tracing the minute and hour hand with the tips of his fingers.

“So, you’ll give him ten minutes. Is that enough time for a cup of tea?” the old man said.

“Oh, I think so,” Jack said.

“I’ll make it,” Myra said, standing up.

“Would you, my dear? That would be very kind,” the old man said. He turned back in Jack’s direction. “Is she pretty?” he said. “She sounds pretty.”

“Very pretty,” Jack said.

Myra smiled, mouthed “Liar,” silently at Jack, and went out to the kitchen.

“Yes, I thought so,” the old man said.

“Do you take sugar?” Myra called from the kitchen.

“Two please,” Lamb senior called back. “It’s in a bowl in the cupboard above the sink.”

“Do you know where everything is?” Jack asked him.

“Of course,” the old man said. “I have to,” he pointed to his dark glasses. “I know the contents of every cupboard, know what’s on every shelf, and the position of every piece of furniture. It would be a disaster if I didn’t. I’d be falling arse over tip every five minutes.”

“When did you lose your sight?” Jack said.

“1944 at El Alamain. Bloody hand grenade. Shrapnel.”

“You seem to cope very well.”

“I get by. Having Peter here helps. He’s my eyes more often than not.”

“It must be a great comfort.”

“When my son and daughter in law were killed in ’47, the authorities wanted to take him away from me, to put him in some damned orphanage. They didn’t think I was capable of looking after him. But I fought them like I fought the bloody Nazis, and won. Now, the irony is, he looks after me.”

“You’re very close,” Jack said.

The old man nodded. “He’s a good boy. Hasn’t got much up top – never much of a scholar – but his heart is in the right place.”

“The pictures on the walls. Are they for his benefit?”

“Well, they wouldn’t be for mine, would they?” the old man said with a chuckle.

“No, I suppose not.”

“Peter loves art. Sometimes he will sit and describe the pictures to me, and he describes them so well it’s almost as if I can see them.” He fell silent for a moment. “Come to think of it, that’s where he could be right now.”

“Where’s that?” Jack said.

“He could be at Gavin’s.”

“Gavin’s?”

“Gavin Southland. He’s a local artist. Lives about ten minutes away. Has a big house on Ridge Road – a bloody mansion according to Peter. Fancies himself as a bit of a Bohemian, so Peter tells me.”

“And you think your grandson may be there?” Jack said.

“More than likely, I would have thought. Peter sits for him now and then, for pin money. It supplements the pittance they pay him at Hennessey’s. Bloody old miser, Ernest Hennessey is. Tight as a nun’s…well, I won’t say what. Suffice it to say, Ernest is frugal, always has been. So Peter’s lucky to have a friend like Gavin who’s willing to pay him just to sit there while he makes sketches of him. Supposedly they’re very good, but I have to take Peter at his word on that one.”

Myra came back into the room with a tray containing a teapot, cups, milk and sugar, and set it down on a small drop-leaf table. “Shall I be mother?” she said with a smile.

They stayed for another thirty minutes drinking tea with the old man, listening to his wartime anecdotes and being regaled with stories of his grandson’s childhood.

“To listen to him you might believe that Peter Lamb can walk on water,” Myra said as they got back to the car.

“For all we know, he can,” Jack said.

“Well he certainly likes to look at himself. The walls of his bedroom are covered with sketches of himself. Charcoal, pencil – he certainly has some artistic talent.”

“It’s not him who has the talent,” Jack said as Myra pulled away from the kerb. “He sits for a local artist. Lamb’s just the model.”

“Anyone I would know?” Myra said.

“You might,” Jack said. “Does the name Gavin Southland mean anything to you?”

Myra looked thoughtful. “Gavin Southland,” she mused. “It’s ringing a bell somewhere,” she said. “I’ve definitely heard or seen…” She shook her head. “No. I can’t place it. Back to the station?”

“Might as well,” Jack said. “The old man thinks that his grandson may be at Southland’s now. He has a place on Ridge Road, but that’s a very long road and I don’t fancy spending the rest of the day knocking on doors.”

“We could stop at the library,” Myra said, “and check the electoral roll.”

“Good thinking,” Jack said.

“There it is,” Jack said as they sat at the table in the library. “Gavin Southland, 41 Ridge Road.”

“Sssssh!” The bespectacled librarian at the desk hushed him.

“Come on, let’s go and pay him a visit.”

“Can we go back to the station first, sir? I just want to check something out. I think I remember where I’ve seen Southland’s name before.”

*

“I knew I’d seen it,” Myra said, running her fingers down a list of names. “This is the list I printed out from the microfiche the other day. Gavin Southland was a student at Norwich University, at the same time as Adam Channing and Tim Fellowes.”

Jack took the list from her and perused it, scratching his head.

“A coincidence, sir?” Myra said.

“I don’t believe in them, Myra. I think we’re onto something here. This could be the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for.”

“Are you going to tell Superintendent Fisher about this?” Myra said.

“Yes, of course…once we’ve checked it out.”

“So, are we off to Ridge Road?”

“Presently,” Jack said. “But first we’re going to go and have another chat with Mr. Fellowes. Let’s find out what else he’s omitted to tell us.”

Len Maynard

Len Maynard was born in North London in 1953.

In 1978, a book of short ghost stories, written in collaboration with Michael Sims, was published by London publisher William Kimber. For the following forty years the pair wrote ten more collections of ghost stories before moving into novels in 2006, completing over thirty more books, including the successful Department 18 series of supernatural/crime crossover novels as well as several standalone novels and novellas in the supernatural and crime genres.

Always a keen reader of crime novels, and with a passion for the social history of the twentieth century it was fairly inevitable that, when he decided to branch out and write under his own name, some kind of combination of these two interests would occur.

The six DCI Jack Callum Mysteries were the result of several years of total immersion in the world he created for Jack Callum, his family, his friends (and enemies) and his work colleagues.

He has also written a trilogy of adventure thrillers set in the Bahamas (also available from Sharpe Books)

He is currently at work on the seventh book in the DCI Jack Callum series.

You can connect with Len Maynard via -

Website: https://lenmaynard.co.uk

Website “The DCI Jack Callum Mysteries”: https://jackcallum.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Len_Maynard

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/len.maynard

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/len.maynard.96

You can learn more about the author and the book by visiting the other blogs on the tour -

I hope you will check out Three Monkeys and more from the author.

That's it for now.

Till the next time.

Take care Zoe