Sometimes I catch myself wishing for K.J. Charles to rewrite Sherlock Holmes. The wish got the fuel added to it with the book “An Unseen Attraction” (Sins of the Cities 1; ASIN B01G0GD0E0; 247p.; Goodreads), where the detective plot-line really had me hooked!
Both Clem and Rowley prefer peace and quiet, which is likely why they soon found themselves having those common evenings together, by the fire, with tea and the lodging house cat named Cat. Rowley isn’t very talkative, and Clem has things to hide. And if that doesn’t make the foundations for sound friendship, then their common dislike of the loud drunkard neighbor does. Rowley can’t figure out why Clem won’t just kick him out, or why is he so devoted to his brother, who, it seems, gave this lodging house to Clem on an exact condition that this sorry excuse of a man gets to stay here, rent-free. Which is likely why Earl Edmund feels the need to come and haunt their doorstep soon after the man is dropped tortured and killed onto Clem’s doorstep, thus, by proxy, on earl’s.
As gloomy fog rolls over, clouding the streets in foul, obscuring sheet of stinking mist, even the daytime is dangerous, let alone the night. The dead man wasn’t the last event that got Rowley worried. Soon someone breaks into his shop, and failing to find whatever it was they needed, sets it on fire, nearly killing Rowley in the process. Whatever it is the drunkard died for, whatever for were the earl’s strange questions, Rowley has had enough.
This was one fine story. I wish there was a little more about Rowley though, since I found his character interesting, but lacking in air time. Clem was a special something though! Easy 5 out of 5 here, and let’s move on to the next, onwards!
I wish to invite you to my new favorite blog, for some tea, book themed delights, and books: Pen & Pin is that room with the fireplace and the cat named Cat in blog form.
long time no read. How has Your year begun? What is the weather like in Your corner of the world?
Over here the mornings mope about the absence of snow, cover themselves in thick blankets of fog, and refuse to get up.
Londoners took a perverse pride in the “particulars” of yellow, blinding fog; Clem had been raised in the countryside, where you could breathe.
Our local variety is no match for an old London pea-souper, but still manages to creep into coats of any thickness and chill you to the bone.
Why not stave off the chill and dreariness with a delightful biscuit (or a plate-full of them)?