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Summary
Summary
"This atmospheric historical thriller is as good as it gets" (Julia Spencer-Fleming, author of I Shall Not Want ) in the evocative Barker and Llewelyn series as mysterious murders hint at a dark conspiracy in the heart of London.
When an Italian assassin's body is found floating in a barrel in Victorian London's East End, enquiry agent Cyrus Barker and his assistant Thomas Llewelyn are called in to investigate. Soon corpses begin to appear all over London, each accompanied by a Mafia Black Hand note. As Barker and Llewelyn dig deeper, they become entangled in the vendettas of rival Italian syndicates--and it is no longer clear who is a friend or foe.
Author Notes
Will Thomas is the author of the Barker and Llewelyn series, a series of mystery novels set in Victorian England. The first novel in the series was nominated for a Barry Award and a Shamus Award, and won the 2005 Oklahoma Book Award. He lives with his family in Oklahoma.
Reviews (5)
Publisher's Weekly Review
In Thomas's lively fifth Victorian historical to feature "enquiry agents" Cyrus "Guv" Barker and Thomas Llewelyn (after 2007's The Hellfire Conspiracy), Barker and Llewelyn investigate Sicilian immigrants, led by mob boss Victor Gigliotti, who are trying to gain control of London's lucrative dock trade. Rumors abound that underworld chief Marco Faldo is in town after several throats are slit, each body accompanied by a threatening note. Barker seeks help from a local Chinese gang and other colorful hooligans eager for both action and profit. A diverting trip to the south of England takes the pair to the estate of Barker's secret girlfriend, Philippa Ashleigh, who reveals startling if incongruous truths about Barker's swashbuckling past. Following this respite by the sea, the valiant sleuths steel themselves for a final, if slightly anticlimactic, battle to save London's waterfront. (July) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
In this fifth adventure for Cyrus Barker and Thomas Llewelyn, the Victorian detecting duo pulls out all the stops to squelch an Italian incursion into local organized crime. Characters worthy of Dickens' London cross paths with mafiosi as creatively brutal as Mario Puzo's Corleones. The secretive Barker, with his dark glasses, squat dog, and Buddhist leanings, is pushed to his psychological limit when he is called to the scene of a particularly gruesome murder and is later threatened with a black hand note and physical attacks on his household. Challenging cases are Barker's forte, but sorting out gangland vendettas tips the balance toward a less-than-legal solution. Despite the unrelenting violence and burgeoning paranoia, Llewelyn's first-person narrative infuses the story with his trademark humor wry, self-deprecating, and sometimes macabre (think Madame LaFarge's knitting). After a particularly personal attack, Barker lands on a unique solution to rid the East End of the unwelcome Sicilians. In an underground meeting readers won't soon forget, the pugnacious Barker foments a gang war guaranteed to leave fans with clenched fists.--Baker, Jen Copyright 2008 Booklist
New York Review of Books Review
It doesn't take a terrorist, a serial killer or some paranormal force to rattle the insular Norwegian communities Karin Fossum writes about in her quietly unnerving thrillers. In BLACK SECONDS (Harcourt, $24), all it takes is the disappearance of a child. Granted, this is no ordinary kiddie - 9-year-old Ida Joner is so "sweet and enchanting" she's "like a child in a fairy tale." Everyone in the village of Glassverket loves Ida, but none more than her mother, who idolizes her golden girl. A sad, fatalistic woman, Helga Joner has always felt that Ida was "just too good to be true. ... Too good to last," and when Ida vanishes after setting off on her new yellow bicycle to buy a magazine, the distraught Helga goes to pieces. But she isn't the only distressed mother Inspector Konrad Sejer encounters when he arrives in Glassverket to investigate Ida's disappearance. Ruth Rix, Helga's sunnier sister, is disturbed by the antisocial behavior of her truculent teenage son, Tomme, who is running around with a 22-year-old delinquent named Willy. And although Willy is the kind of fellow mothers consider a bad influence, his own mother feels differently - and becomes alarmed when he fails to return from an excursion to Copenhagen. The most unforgettable mother in the story, however, is Elsa Marie Mork, a bitter old woman who fanatically cleans house as a way of staving off the fears she harbors about her mentally retarded adult son, Emil. Elsa has a rough tongue that's forever lashing this hulking fellow, who lives alone, rides around on a three-wheeled bicycle and has spoken only one word - "No" - in 50 years. "Her heart was encased in a hard shell, but it still beat with compassion on the inside," Fossum writes, observing this brittle woman with detached, heartbreaking tenderness. These are the women the detective finds waiting anxiously for answers, and perhaps for some solace. But if Sejer is ever to assume that burden of compassion, he must find a way to get past the secrets and lies people have thrown up like battlement walls. And none are more impenetrable than the silence that both protects and isolates Emil. Eventually, that barrier also falls - not to violent attack but to Sejer's kindness and the strength of the social bonds of village life. "Ida's disappearance was like a net and it drew them all in," Fossum explains. "They were united in something," and that unity is not to be taken lightly. More than providing neighbors a common topic of gossip, the loss of a perfect child implies something awful about the future of their own imperfect children and, indeed, about the entire village. Dave Robicheaux, the Louisiana lawman in James Lee Burke's existential crime novels, is your prototypical running man. Honorable beyond question but scarred by experiences that have left him prone to "bloodlust," Dave keeps trying to outrun the ghosts of his past while chasing a hopeless dream - to restore some lost innocence in a corrupt world. SWAN PEAK (Simon & Schuster, $25.95) finds Dave and his sidekick, Clete Purcel, in western Montana, hoping to exorcise the nightmare of Hurricane Katrina with a little trout fishing and clean mountain air. But for all Burke's ecstatic invocations to the majesty of the Bitterroot Mountains ("the last good place"), this is no Garden of Eden. The millionaire rancher next door is drilling for oil and natural gas, thugs are hassling Clete about his role in the demise of a local mobster, and two college students have been tortured and murdered - one of the bodies dumped on the ranch of Dave's friend and host. "The West isn't the same place or culture I grew up in," the sheriff says, echoing Dave's own laments. Too true. But the rugged setting makes a grand stage for these battered characters, living "on the ragged edges of America" and slugging their way through this big, brawling novel. Setting a whodunit in an amateur writers' workshop is hardly an original notion. But it does offer the chance to inject some literary humor into the classic locked-room mystery even as it encourages close analysis of writers and the craft of writing, which is Jincy Willett's strategy in THE WRITING CLASS (Thomas Dunne/St. Martin's, $24.95). Not that Willett doesn't get her comic digs in. A suicide note in the form of a poem, along with its cruel parody from a phantom "sniper" imbedded in the group, constitute first-rate satire. But the weekly sessions at a California extension university taught by a washed-up novelist named Amy Gallup offer more practical instruction than scorn. And while the would-be writers do get their knuckles rapped (and two unfortunates are murdered), not even the mean-spirited sniper can find anything evil to say about the endearing Amy, whose quirky Web site (called "Go Away") is a gold mine of literary nuggets. Since most mysteries set in Victorian England tend to follow romantic traditions, the picturesquely gritty novels of Will Thomas serve as a bracing alternative. The manly adventures of Cyrus Barker and his youthful apprentice, Thomas Llewelyn, are set in the seediest precincts of London and delve into the most unsavory of historical material from inflammatory anti-Semitism in "Some Danger Involved" to bomb-throwing Irish anarchists in "To Kingdom Come." THE BLACK HAND (Touchstone, paper, $14) may be Thomas's liveliest entertainment yet, opening as it does with the grisly murders of two Sicilian assassins and wrapping up with a boisterous dock war that brings a throng of lowlifes up from the sewers to play. In Karin Fossum's new thriller, the loss of a child implies something awful about the future of an entire village.
Kirkus Review
Victorian sleuths Barker and Llewelyn have their hands full when the Mafia invades London. Forget about Scotland Yard. After several people, including the director of the East and West India Docks, are murdered in a style that suggests Italian assassins, the Home Office hires private enquiry agent Cyrus Barker to represent their interests. A large number of Sicilians have become dock workers, and their organization, the Mafia, is poised to branch out in London's criminal world. When Barker's chef and restaurant owner Etienne Dummolard is stabbed and narrowly escapes death, Barker calls upon his knowledge of London's gangs to discover the identity of the Mafia leader. After a visiting Italian policeman, who left Italy hounded by death threats from the Mafia, is the next victim, Barker and Llewelyn, prompted by Barker's own Black Hand missive, flee to the coastal home of Barker's mysterious inamorata. Numerous escapes from death mark their progress until Barker arranges a showdown on their return to London that he hopes will finally unmask the head Mafioso and put paid to the nefarious scheme. Thomas's detectives (The Hellfire Conspiracy, 2007, etc.) offer value even when adventures like this offer less mystery than historical thrills. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Library Journal Review
In an attempt to take over London's criminal underworld, the Sicilian Mafia murders an Italian assassin and continues killing until Barker and Llewelyn (Some Danger Involved) are hired to stop them. Full of Victorian ambience, this will appeal to discerning patrons who want plenty of historical detail, nonstop action, and engaging characters. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted. All rights reserved.
Excerpts
Excerpts
1 I was coming down the stairs on the morning of the twenty-second of August 1885, when there came a knock upon Cyrus Barker's front door. Now, I don't function well, as a rule, until coffee is singing freely in my veins, and that day was no exception. I'd applied a naked blade to my throat in two dozen strokes, and handled the task successfully, so my brain and nerves were ready for a rest; and yet there was that irritating knock. I could have answered it, of course, but getting the door was one of our butler's duties. In fact, Jacob Maccabee insisted upon it, as if opening a door was an art requiring years of rigorous discipline and study. I vacillated between the front door, Mac's private domain, and the back hallway. It was like being onstage when an actor misses his cue. I had taken two steps in the direction of the sound when the back door burst open and Mac came in at a trot, muttering under his breath in Yiddish. He brushed past me, giving me a look of minor annoyance -- probably for taking up space in his hallway -- and continued toward the front door. Freed from the responsibility and the taxing conundrum, I shambled off to the kitchen in search of sustenance. " Bonjour , Etienne," I said to Barker's chef, though I managed to yawn through half of it. Etienne Dummolard took the cigarette from his mouth long enough to spit upon the slate flagstones in greeting before replacing it again. In a bachelor household such as ours, words are measured slowly in the mornings. Sometimes it is quite eight o'clock before anyone risks a full sentence. I poured my coffee and sat at the table in front of the large window that faced my employer's garden. Barker was outside, enjoying his potted Eden. He had his jacket off and was practicing one of the longer fighting forms he had learned in China while around him, Asian gardeners raked stones and pushed barrows containing new cuttings. As I watched, Mac came into view from the back door and I followed his progress over the bridge and along the crooked path to our employer. There was a yellow slip of paper in the butler's hand, a telegram. Thus endeth the mystery of the knock at the door, I thought, sucking down more coffee. I reached for the marmalade jar and a slice of toast from the rack. A telegram is generally of interest, most people feeling that sixpence warranted information of some import, but Mac stopped at the edge of the gravel. The form was not to be interrupted. As a play, this was all mildly entertaining, but I'd almost run out of coffee. I got up and poured another cup, noting that Dummolard was making beef and mushroom pie, one of my favorites. When I returned to my seat, Barker had finished the form and was reading the telegram with one hand on his hip. The Guv nodded and handed it to Mac, who turned back o the house. I opened the Dundee jar and began spreading marmalade onto my toast, noting that Barker was slipping on his jacket. The toast was halfway to my mouth when Mac slapped the telegram against the glass in front of me and I dropped it. According to some inevitable law of physics, the toast fell jam-side down onto my plate. Behind me, Etienne erupted in laughter. He has a rather infantile sense of humor, I've had occasion to notice. The telegram read: SOMETHING HERE POOLE SAYS YOU'LL WANT TO SEE STOP COME QUICKLY STOP WON'T KEEP IT HERE LONG STOP DUNHAM Mac snatched it away and returned to his duties. Barker was just coming over the bridge. There was no time to attempt another slice of toast. I poured the rest of the scalding coffee down my throat and stood. "No time for breakfast this morning, Etienne," I said, turning to leave. "Imbécile," Dummolard responded. It's the same word in French and English. His free and caustic opinions would not have been tolerated in any other house in London, but, then, he did not receive any actual pay. He used our kitchen to experiment with new recipes for his Soho restaurant, Le Toison d'Or, claiming he came here out of a sense of gratitude for his former captain in the China Seas -- meaning Barker, of course. I thought it more likely he preferred to get away from his wife, Mireille, a six-foot-tall French Valkyrie with whom he had a most volatile relationship. Once in the hall, I ran to the front door, jammed my straw boater onto my head, and retrieved my malacca stick from the stand. When Barker came through the back door, I was waiting as if I'd been there for some time. "Good morning, Thomas," he said. "Morning, sir," I replied. He lifted his own stick from the hall stand and we stepped out the front door into Brook Street. It was a warm morning; summer was keeping its grip on London, refusing to surrender. The houses across the street were painted in sunlight, and the birds in Newington were in full throat. It seemed a shame to bring up the subject of work. "What do you suppose Dunham wants now?" I asked. A few months earlier we had worked on a case with Inspector Albert Dunham of the Thames Police involving missing children. "You read the same words I did, lad," he said patiently, as a hansom eased up to the curb and we clambered aboard. We bowled off and were soon clattering down Newington Causeway on our way to London Bridge and Wapping, where the Thames Police station is situated. Barker lit his pipe and ruminated. Any attempt on my part to instigate polite conversation would have been met with stern resistance -- and, at any rate, what would we have discussed? He attended no theater, was tone-deaf, and read few novels. I had not had time to look at the morning's newspapers; and it was too early to discuss ethics, religion, or politics. I had left without eating my toast merely to sit in a cab for forty-five minutes with nothing to do. Eons later we arrived at the curious vertical building that housed the Thames Police and were directed around to the back to where the steam launches bobbed gently like tin boats in a bath. In the center of the dock, a large tarpaulin had been thrown over an object roughly the size of a chest of drawers. Whatever it was, the object was sodden, probably having been fished from the river. It had also been doused in carbolic, but the constables who manned the dock had managed to use both too much and not enough. It stung the nostrils but did not sufficiently cloak the reek that emanated from it. "Hello, Barker," Dunham said, coming out of the station with Inspector Poole of the Yard. Dunham was short, barrel-chested, and bandy-legged; while Poole was tall and thin. Dunham had white hair like a wad of cotton, with brows and a mustache as black as shoe polish; whereas Poole was going bald with his long, sandy side-whiskers that swagged to his mustache like curtains. One worked for the Thames Police, the other Scotland Yard; and though the two organizations claimed to cooperate, they were as jealous of each other as a pair of opera sopranos. "Poole here said you might be interested." "You're working with Scotland Yard on this?" Barker asked. "I ain't decided yet," Dunham admitted, glancing at his tall companion. "It's river police business so far, but Inspector Poole has been gracious enough to contribute information. He recognized the body and suggested I telegraph you." "Hello, Cyrus," Poole finally said. He had his hands in his pockets, as if to say he was present merely to give support and would let Dunham handle the actual investigation. "Terry." My employer nodded. Poole was one of Barker's friends and a seasoned member of the Criminal Investigation Department. He was also a former student, when the Guv taught a class in antagonistics in the C.I.D. building at Scotland Yard. Unlike my employer, who preferred his independence, Poole functioned well within the hierarchical confines of the Metropolitan Police. He'd need all his tact to deal with the prickly Thames Police inspector. "Well, show us what you brought us here for," Barker said in his Lowland Scots accent. "Very well," Dunham replied. "Mind the reek." He took a deep breath, like a diver, and crossed over to the tarpaulin, than whipped the canvas away. Perhaps it was a trick of my mind, but it seemed as if a brown miasma rose from the horrid spectacle that the sunlight revealed to us without mercy. It was a hogshead whose top had been opened and the hoop dislodged, splaying the staves out on one side like jagged teeth. A very large man filled the barrel the way a cork does the neck of a wine bottle. He wore a checked suit of bilious green, making me think of a giant bullfrog. His face was mottled in death, a waxy yellow like cheese rind above, and rusty purple below. I was suddenly glad I'd only had coffee that morning. We all reached for our handkerchiefs and stuffed them under our noses. Cyrus Barker moved forward and crouched, resting easily on the balls of his feet, eye to eye with the corpse. Absently, he stuffed his handkerchief in his pocket and examined the face. "I know this man," he said. "This is Giorgio Serafini. He was an assassin, the best north of Naples. I would not have believed this without seeing it with my own eyes." I recalled Serafini, whom Barker had questioned during our first case together. He'd worn a checked suit then as yellow as Coleman's mustard, and had a high-pitched voice with no trace of an Italian accent. He'd tried to intimidate Barker and ended up flat on his stomach in front of his employer. The meeting had taken place in a restaurant called the Neapolitan, owned by Victor Gigliotti, leader of an Italian criminal organization called the Camorra. Barker stood again and circled the barrel. He completely removed the top hoop and jumped back as the rest of the staves fanned out. He is fastidious about his clothing. Serafini's rigid body sat upright in the center, like a stamen surrounded by petals. The effluvia began to work its way around the edges of my handkerchief. Barker coughed once into the back of his hand. "Get that bloody carboy out here again!" Dunham barked. One of the constables ran into the station and trotted back a minute later with a large glass container of disinfectant to pour over the head of the late Giorgio Serafini. Of the two -- the stench of decay or the burning carbolic -- I could not say which was worse. Barker had stepped out of the way and was now staring down the river. His hand came up and he scratched under his chin, as he often did when he was thinking. "Are there many Italians working on the river?" he asked. "Dockworkers, stevedores, and so forth?" "You're asking me?" Dunham replied, breaking into a grin. "I thought you knew everything. Yes, as a matter of fact, there are. Hundreds of 'em. Mostly casual laborers." "Are many of them Sicilian?" "Sicilian?" Dunham asked, as if it were a new word to his vocabulary. "Dunno 'bout that. One I-talian's pretty much like another, I reckon." "Oh, no," I put in. "They're all different. Italy's only been unified in recent times, and even now, the country is in discord. Most of the south is full of secret criminal societies. What are their names, sir?" "The 'ndrangheta," Barker supplied. "The Mafia -- " "I've heard of the Mafia," Poole said, looking up. "They're the Sicilians, right? An inspector from Palermo is at the Yard this week. He spoke of the troubles they have down there." "This kind of trouble," Barker said, tapping the barrel with the head of his stick. "You think the Sicilians are behind this?" Dunham asked. Barker shrugged. "They export olive oil in Sicily, and they use a lot of barrels. This sort of thing is common there." "Well, it ain't here," Dunham stated. "The only thing we store in barrels is good English ale, which is as it should be." "Any sign of how he died, Cyrus?" Poole asked. Barker nodded. "Shotgun wounds, close up. One here in the right breast, you see, and the other in the back. It scorched the clothing, and the pellet pattern is very tight. I'd say the shooter got him in the back at point-blank range and, when he was down, administered the coup de grâce." "I wonder how long he's been in the river," Poole said. "A week or more, I'd say," Dunham answered, being the expert on anything pertaining to the water. "They shot your boy here and bunged him in the barrel, then tossed it off a dock somewheres. The air in his lungs couldn't counteract the weight of the barrel and the flesh and bone. It sank to the bottom, probably not more than ten or fifteen feet, and stayed there for several days, putrefying. Then the body filled with enough gases to lift the barrel off the bottom again. I reckon a fellow as big as this one coulda done that. The barrel eventually came to the surface and was spotted by pedestrians on London Bridge. Some fishermen tried to pull it in, but it was too heavy without a winch. We was called in, and don't even ask me what it was like when we pried off the lid. Made me wonder how much pension I'd have if I resigned this morning." "Have you sent word to the Poplar Morgue?" my employer asked. "We have," Dunham said. "They are taking their time getting here with their barrow. So you think this is some sort of feud among the I-talians?" "It would appear so. They have elevated opinions of honor and are often involved in acts of retribution such as this." "So this fat fellow was an assassin," Poole said. "I've heard his name before but never actually laid eyes upon him. To tell the truth, for a professional killer, he doesn't look like much." "Don't let his girth fool you; he could move very quickly and shoot with unerring accuracy. On a dare, he once shot down the barrel of another rifle at fifty yards, bursting the shell in the chamber, or so I've heard." Barker began pushing on one of the lower staves with his stick. It was not going to be an easy thing to get this huge, bloated body onto the barrow when it arrived. "Sir," I said, as a thought occurred to me. "What about Serafini's wife? The two were inseparable." "Very good, lad," Barker said. "You remembered." "It's difficult to forget the first woman who throws a dagger at you." "Well," Barker said, peering into the barrel with a sigh. "They are inseparable still. She's here at the bottom. I'm afraid the morgue may need to send another barrow."Copyright (c) 2008 by Will Thomas Excerpted from The Black Hand: A Barker and Llewelyn Novel by Will Thomas All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.