Newsletter 161

Oh, I love this time of year. The leaves on the trees are turning so almost any journey becomes a real delight. Even going to the dentist is a pleasure, given the glorious golds and reds en route.


Have the finished Cover Art for Broke Deep (next year from Riptide) which I can’t share, alas, although I can give you an exclusive look at the cover for ‘Wild Bells’ which will be out on kindle later this year and is a double header of ‘The Shade on a Fine Day’ and ‘The Angel in the Window’. More details of release date when I have them. Cover design courtesy of the lovely (but far too talented) Alex Beecroft.  


Talking of people who are far too talented, Elin Gregory (she who wrote Eleventh Hour) and I are putting together a mad crossover fanfic between her book and the Cambridge Fellows. We’re 80% finished so it’ll be edited and ready to let loose on you by Christmas. 

Here’s an unedited snippet, starting with a car chase. Oh, and if you’ve not read Eleventh Hour, you need to know that what makes Miles Siward such a good agent is his ability to pass for a gal. 

Ahead, Polzin had realised he had a pursuer. He braked hard, turned in his seat and fired again, but Miles had no idea what became of the bullet.  He accelerated, making a mental apology to the transport department because he’d run Polzin right off the road if necessary, and hurtled down on Polzin.

Another shot, this one starred the windshield, then Polzin took off again. He was driving an Austin and Miles remembered another pursuit, this time by night.

“I wish you were here, Briers,” he murmured, then flinched and braked, Polzin was swerving wildly, dust billowing up from under his tyres as another vehicle appeared. A farm cart drawn by two enormous Shires and beyond it another car. Polzin squeezed past in a shriek of metal on stone but the Lagonda would never make it. Miles had a split second to choose – hit the wall or plough into the great feathered legs of the team. No choice, really.

“Is she dead?” A deep voice. Miles could hear it clearly, and even thought he might be able to put a name to it from some deep cavern of memory, but he could neither open his eyes nor respond.

“No, she’s breathing, you clown. Hopefully nothing worse than being out for the count. And a pint of claret down the front of her dress.” Another voice, one that Miles instantly recognised, although what Jonty Stewart was doing here, God alone knew. Unless Miles was dreaming, of course. Or really had died and Dr. Stewart and his colleague—that’s who the other voice must belong to—formed an unusual pair of heavenly ushers. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know. It was that other idiot going far too fast. Worse driver even than you.” The colleague—what was his name again? Wainwright? Copperberg?—sounded beside himself with worry. “We should have gone for the doctor. The car would be quicker than a cart.” 

And finally…something suitable for the season and all our own work (albeit from a few years back). 




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