By Lynn Shepherd
Lynn Shepherd’s first acclaimed novel of old suspense, Murder at Mansfield Park, brilliantly reimagined the period of Jane Austen. Now, during this spellbinding new triumph, she introduces an unforgettable duo of detectives into the gaslit global of Dickens.
London, 1850. Charles Maddox have been an up-and-coming officer for the Metropolitan police till a cost of insubordination without notice ended his occupation. Now he works on my own, suffering to eke out a dwelling through monitoring down criminals. every time he wishes it, he has assistance from his great-uncle Maddox, a mythical “thief taker,” a detective as awesome and intuitive as they come.
On Charles’s most modern case, he’ll desire the entire information he can get.
To his surprise, Charles has been approached by means of Edward Tulkinghorn, the shadowy and feared legal professional, who bargains him a good-looking expense to perform a little sleuthing for a consumer. strong financier Sir Julius Cremorne has been receiving threatening letters, and Tulkinghorn wishes Charles to—discreetly—find and forestall whoever is responsible.
yet what starts off as an easy, open-and-shut case speedily escalates into anything larger and masses darker. As he cascades towards a collision with an unspeakable fact, Charles can in basic terms be aided thus far by means of Maddox. The previous guy indicates indicators of forgetfulness and anger, signs of an age-related illness that has but to be named.
Intricately plotted and intellectually bold, The Solitary House is an inventive novel that does greater than spin a captivating story: It plumbs the mysteries of the human mind.
Praise for The Solitary House
“A Victorian journey de strength . . . a must-read.”—Kirkus Reviews (starred evaluation)
“Dickens fanatics will have a good time. . . . [Lynn] Shepherd leaves the reader spellbound.”—Booklist (starred review)
“The celebrity of Lynn Shepherd’s exciting secret novel is mid-century Victorian London. . . . Her suspenseful tale and profitable prose ably serve her literary conceit.”—Associated Press
“Intellectually captivating, with darkish twists at each flip . . . a haunting novel that might have you ever guessing until eventually the final pages.”—Historical Novels Review
“Lynn Shepherd has a knack for surroundings literary homicide puzzles. . . . This literary magpie-ism is a deal with for booklet fanatics, a bit nudge-and-a-wink right here and there which delights fanatics of those different works with out alienating those that haven’t learn them but. . . . An clever, gripping and wonderfully written novel.”—The Scotsman
“The reader is plunged right into a complicated yet understandable labyrinth of deception.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
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Extra info for The Solitary House: A Novel
The Inspector concept you’d prefer to see for y’self, sir,” says Batten, stamping his toes opposed to the chilly, his breath coming in gusts and merging into the fog. “Before we do the required. Seeing as you’re taking such an curiosity within the Chadwick case. ” “Tell Inspector box that i'm indebted to him. i'll be there at once. ” “You understand the place it is—Tom-All-Alone’s? I’d take you m’self, simply I’m on my manner domestic and it’s the other manner. ” “Don’t worry—I’ll locate it. ” Charles provides the fellow a shilling for his hassle, and returns to his room for his coat and muffler. the previous is over the again of the chair, the latter—it turns out—under the cat. there's the widespread tussle, which results in its standard means, and whilst Charles leaves the home ten mins later the muffler is still in the back of. there's most likely not anything for it yet to shop for one other one; while he can manage to pay for it. He turns his collar up opposed to the nippiness, and disappears from sight into the coaly fog. There’s no lamp on the nook of the road, simply the little charcoal-furnace of the chestnut-seller. It throws a pink glow up at her face, and onto the drawn gains of 4 soiled sons and daughters clustered round her skirts. no longer for the 1st time, the lady has a swollen black bruise round one eye. As he steps off the kerb, Charles purely simply avoids being trampled below an omnibus heaving with people who veers large out of the dense brown haze into the trail of an unlit brewer’s dray. He springs again in time, yet now not quickly adequate to prevent a spatter of rainy dung from hip to knee. It’s now not an auspicious commence, and he hurls a number of well-honed insults at either ’bus motive force and crossing-sweeper prior to dodging during the site visitors to the opposite part and heading south down a virtually abandoned Tottenham courtroom street. No street-sellers this night, and the single store nonetheless open is Hine the butcher, who runs no possibility of thieving raids within the lurid glare of his dozen jets of fuel. a number of previous tramps are warming their faces opposed to the glass, yet paying consumers are sparse. The afternoon turns out suspended among day and darkish, and the circles of milky mild solid through the gas-lamps dispel the gloom not more than a couple of ft round. a group of raggedly link-boys stick with him optimistically for it slow, tugging at his coat-tails and delivering him their torches, “Light you domestic for sixpence! ” “Darn’t hearken to ’im—I’ll do it for a joey—whatcha say, mister? Can’t say fairer than that. ” Charles finally shakes them off—literally, in a single case—and smiles to himself while one lad calls after him asking if he can see in the dead of night, “ ’cause yer going to need’ta. ” Even in sunlight, town alterations personality each dozen yards. A fog like this performs methods with the senses, blanking out favourite landmarks and shrinking distances to no farther than the attention can see. Having patrolled those streets for the simplest a part of a yr, Charles should still comprehend them, if someone does, yet there's something else at paintings here—an skill he has to render the map in his head to the floor less than his ft, and is the reason the reassurance of his step.