Am basking in the afterglow of England’s stunning T20 victory today and hoping that the rugby boys can do the same tomorrow. (Just think how much I could get done were my brain not so taken up with sport!)
I promised details on my Deadly Daming and here they are:
Date: Friday 22nd April
Venue: Menuhin Theatre, 3rd floor of Portsmouth Central Library, Guildhall Square
6.30pm: Doors open/refreshments
7pm: Two round crime fiction quiz starts
7.30pm: Deadly Dames panel…
8.30pm: Audience questions
8.30pm: Audience questions
Tickets: contact venue
Next gig after that is 12th May 7pm at Bognor Regis Library. Am also hoping to be at the June Bold Strokes Book Festival in Nottingham. I might have to clone myself.
Thinking of BSB, my first story with them was Awfully Glad.
WWI hero Sam Hines is used to wearing a face that isn’t his own. When he’s not in the trenches, he’s the most popular female impersonator on the front, but a mysterious note from an anonymous admirer leaves him worried. Everyone realizes—eventually—that Sam’s not a woman, but has somebody also worked out that he also prefers his lovers to be male?
When Sam meets—and falls for—fellow officer Johnny Browne after the war, he wonders whether he could be the man who wrote the note. If so, is he the answer to Sam’s dreams or just another predatory blackmailer, ready to profit from a love that dare not speak its name?
Sam couldn’t resist unfolding the note; he’d had these sorts of things before and they were always good for a laugh. The invitations would range from the innocent to the knowingly experienced, although nobody ever suggested something entirely obscene—Miss Madeleine gave an air of always being above such things. This would probably be the usual Might I buy you a drink? I know this little estaminet…
“I’m awfully glad you’re not a girl. J.”
Sam read it again, not trusting the evidence of his eyes, but they’d been right the first time. J? Which of the officers had that been? Jimmy, Jeffrey, Jonathan…Sam had forgotten their names already, even if he’d been told them.
But when had the note been written? After he’d taken his wig off and burst the little lieutenant’s bubble, he supposed, although if he had no memory of the thing being lodged in its hiding place, he equally had no recollection of somebody scribbling the thing—there’d been very little time for it, anyway. And how much more courage would it have taken to do such a thing in plain sight? It wasn’t the sort of note which could be easily explained away if discovered.
He closed his eyes, trying better to picture the scene. There’d been Corry, whom he’d known since he was a lad. Not him. Not his writing, anyway. And the ginger-haired officer hadn’t been anywhere near those pots. So it had to be the quiet, dark-haired chap or the tow-headed one. He wouldn’t have said no to either of those if they’d met in a certain bar in London. Decent-looking lads, a bit of life about them, and clearly with some spark of interest that was more than platonic. But which of them had written it? And how to find out?
And finally – spring springing