The Solitary House: A Novel
Lynn Shepherd
Language: English
Pages: 368
ISBN: 0345532430
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Lynn Shepherd’s first acclaimed novel of historical suspense, Murder at Mansfield Park, brilliantly reimagined the era of Jane Austen. Now, in this spellbinding new triumph, she introduces an unforgettable duo of detectives into the gaslit world of Dickens.
London, 1850. Charles Maddox had been an up-and-coming officer for the Metropolitan police until a charge of insubordination abruptly ended his career. Now he works alone, struggling to eke out a living by tracking down criminals. Whenever he needs it, he has the help of his great-uncle Maddox, a legendary “thief taker,” a detective as brilliant and intuitive as they come.
On Charles’s latest case, he’ll need all the assistance he can get.
To his shock, Charles has been approached by Edward Tulkinghorn, the shadowy and feared attorney, who offers him a handsome price to do some sleuthing for a client. Powerful financier Sir Julius Cremorne has been receiving threatening letters, and Tulkinghorn wants Charles to—discreetly—find and stop whoever is responsible.
But what starts as a simple, open-and-shut case swiftly escalates into something bigger and much darker. As he cascades toward a collision with an unspeakable truth, Charles can only be aided so far by Maddox. The old man shows signs of forgetfulness and anger, symptoms of an age-related ailment that has yet to be named.
Intricately plotted and intellectually ambitious, The Solitary House is an ingenious novel that does more than spin an enthralling tale: It plumbs the mysteries of the human mind.
Praise for The Solitary House
“A Victorian tour de force . . . a must-read.”—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Dickens fans will rejoice. . . . [Lynn] Shepherd leaves the reader spellbound.”—Booklist (starred review)
“The star of Lynn Shepherd’s intriguing mystery novel is mid-century Victorian London. . . . Her suspenseful story and winning prose ably serve her literary conceit.”—Associated Press
“Intellectually enthralling, with dark twists at every turn . . . a haunting novel that will have you guessing until the last pages.”—Historical Novels Review
“Lynn Shepherd has a knack for setting literary murder puzzles. . . . This literary magpie-ism is a treat for book lovers, a little nudge-and-a-wink here and there which delights fans of these other works without alienating those who haven’t read them yet. . . . An intelligent, gripping and beautifully written novel.”—The Scotsman
“The reader is plunged into a complex but comprehensible labyrinth of deception.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
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been the first time of our meeting. But, you know I made a fight for it, you know I stood up with my single hand against them all, you know I told them the truth to the last, and told them what they were, and what they had done to me; so I don’t mind your seeing me, this wreck.” “You have been courageous with them, many and many a time,” returned my guardian. “Sir, I have been”; with a faint smile. “I told you what would come of it, when I ceased to be so; and, see here! Look at us—look at us!”
Prince never to have an unkind remembrance of my coming so shabbily to him. If the question concerned an outfit for Borrioboola, Ma would know all about it, and would be quite excited. Being what it is, she neither knows nor cares.” Caddy was not at all deficient in natural affection for her mother, but mentioned this with tears, as an undeniable fact: which I am afraid it was. We were sorry for the poor dear girl and found so much to admire in the good disposition which had survived under such
in Tom-all-Alone’s agin. Ain’t there nobody here but you, Mr. Woodcot?” “Nobody.” “And I ain’t took back to Tom-all-Alone’s. Am I, sir?” “No.” Jo closes his eyes, muttering, “I’m wery thankful.” After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth very near his ear, and says to him in a low, distinct voice: “Jo! Did you ever know a prayer?” “Never knowd nothink, sir.” “Not so much as one short prayer?” “No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a-prayin wunst at Mr.
interview with Mr. Fairlie; and I was sent for to join them. I found Mr. Fairlie greatly relieved at the prospect of the “family worry” (as he was pleased to describe his niece’s marriage) being settled at last. So far, I did not feel called on to say anything to him about my own opinion; but when he proceeded, in his most aggravatingly languid manner, to suggest that the time for the marriage had better be settled next, in accordance with Sir Percival’s wishes, I enjoyed the satisfaction of
brass bed in the corner, draped in cheap embroidered moreen coverings evidently designed to look luxurious. The rest of the room was bare, apart from a table and chair in one corner, and a small armoire hung with a pale-coloured peignoir trimmed with feathers. The curtains were drawn and a lamp on a table in the corner threw shadows across white walls blotched here and there with damp. The only decoration was the mantel-shelf, which carried a choice collection of copper-plate impressions from the