Jonathan Posner's Blog, page 5
January 4, 2024
Private Eyes – a Short Story
New York City, 1935
My name is Roscoe Kemp, and I’m a private detective.
I drifted into it a couple of years back when I was cleaning swimming pools up-state; this rich old dame who’s pool I was cleaning asked me to find her lost cat. I was lucky I guess; a day or two later a cat answering the description strolled up to my door and demanded food, so I fed it a bit, then took it round to the old dame. She was so goddam pleased she insisted I take the kinda cash that woulda made Rockefeller blush, so I decided to put a down-payment on a small office on the top floor of a block in New York City and call myself a private detective.
The old dame went round singing my praises to all her rich friends, and soon I was tailing their love-rat husbands, serving papers and running in more of their lost cats. There were even some cases that had a kick to them of sorts, like the Hadleigh murder case, and the Zarevski diamond case. It was good work and it paid the rent – and even let me hire Aileen, my assistant – but the truth is, the cases weren’t giving me the kinda kick I was looking for. What I needed was a case that gets the blood pumping and makes you feel like you’ve made it – really made it – as a private eye.
Like the Hershenheimsbecker case for instance.
Now that was a case that had a kick to it – the kinda kick that Luigi’s home brew bourbon gives the first time you try it; hard and possibly lethal.
It all started one afternoon in January. I was lying back in my chair feeling kinda bored, wondering if I should go grab a pastrami at Luigi’s Bar and Diner, when the door opened and I saw the most sensational broad ever.
She was dressed to kill, with a low-cut white blouse, a tight red skirt and black stiletto heels. Her hair was long, blonde and had the kinda waves in it that would make the Niagara Falls jealous. All in, she was better built than the Empire State – only this one had curves in all the right places.
I said “Hi!”
She walked slowly over to me, her hips working independently of each other in a way that told the laws of physics to go take a hike. She looked me up and down.
“What can I do for ya, honey?” I asked.
“Are you Hemp, the detective?” She had an accent I couldn’t place. But it sure was cute.
“It’s Kemp,” I answered. “And yes I am.”
“You must help me.”
“Tell me what I can do,” I answered immediately.
“It is terrible. There is this man following me all day, I cannot get rid of him. I don’t know what to do. I saw your sign on the street, so I came up.”
“Sure.” I took my feet off the desk and pushed my hat to the back of my head. “Where ya from?”
“Paris.”
“Paris, Idaho?”
“Non.”
“Paris, Kentucky?”
“Non.”
“Paris, Tennessee?”
“Non.”
“Texas?”
“Non, non, Paris, France.”
Now I recognised the accent.
“I don’t come cheap, kid,” I pointed out.
She walked slowly to the dusty grey window and stood a moment, staring at the street below. Then she turned back.
“I ‘ave money.”
“Fifty bucks a day, plus expenses.” No harm in highballing and seeing where it took me.
She looked out of the window again. “Is no problem.”
Shucks. Shoulda highballed even higher.
She came over to the desk and leaned across it. Her face was inches from mine and her perfume was more intoxicating than a glass of Luigi’s bourbon.
She put her hand under my chin and forced my gaze up to her eyes. They were like large pools of clear blue spring water. “Please find out why I am followed,” she said.
She let go and stood back.
“Sure.” I reached down and rummaged a while in my desk drawer. “Gotta contract here, if you’ll just sign…”
I put the contract on the desk and looked up, then let out a shocked yelp. She had disappeared – with nothing but a $50 bill left on the desk…
Aileen, my young assistant, rushed in.
“You all right, boss?” she asked. “I heard you shout out.” She frowned, making her heavy eyebrows meet in the middle and become one.
“Sure,” I answered. “But the dame that was here just now – she left without giving a name.”
“I saw her, boss.” Aileen shook her head, making her plain mousy-brown pony-tail flick round her ears. “And by the look of her, I’d guess any name she gave you would be false.”
“Aileen, honey,” I said gently, “mighty good of you to suggest – but better leave the detecting to me.”
Suddenly Aileen bent down and picked up something off the floor. It was a small white object. “Gee, boss, she musta dropped this.” She turned it over in her hand, then gave it to me.
It was a book of matches. Could it be a clue as to who my mysterious guest was? On the front it said Maddison Hotel, Eighty Third Street, with a picture of the entrance of a hotel.
I flicked it open. There was something written on the inside. “Mademoiselle Monique Desjardins,” I read. “So now we know who she is, huh!” I flicked it shut and put it in my pocket. “Stay here and watch the place while I go over and take a look-see.”
—0—
So there I was, fifty bucks richer and none the wiser as to what this was all about. I had a mysterious dame who left cash lying around and a possible clue as to who she was. Perhaps it was a setup – a trap? I had no idea. Still, the only way to find out was to go to this hotel and see if anything happened. Some little voice told me that there were more fifty bucks where that one came from; I wasn’t about to let my chance of dough like that slip by if I could help it.
I caught a cab and told him to take me to Maddison Hotel on 83rd. It was a seedy looking joint, quieter than a church on Monday. I went inside and asked for Miss Desjardins.
The guy at the desk sent me up to room 12. I decided to go carefully; blundering about like a drunk at a party might get me no further than a gut fulla lead. The door was unlocked; I eased it open and went in, real cautious; my gun out and ready to fire at the first sign of trouble.
Didn’t have long to wait, neither. I was standing on the far side of the bed, having just looked in the drawer and found nothing more than a bible, when I saw the door handle start to turn.
I watched as the door opened slowly and a gun appeared, followed by a young, yellow-looking guy in a sharp suit and a badly-fitting hat.
“Freeze,” I barked. He froze. “Hands up,” I ordered. Slowly he raised his hands.
“Drop ya gun and kick it under the bed.” He bent down slowly, all the while looking at me like a snake looks at a bird, then he dropped the gun and kicked it. It skittered under the bed to where I was standing. I bent down and picked it up.
“Who are ya, and what are ya doin’ here?” I demanded.
“I could ask you the same question, pal.”
The guy was a smart-ass.
He had a gravelly voice that sounded way older than he looked – like he’d already smoked too many Luckies and probably got outside a heap too many bourbons as well.
“Ya could,” I countered, “but you is on the receiving end of this piece and I’m on the butt end – so talk.”
He stared at me some more. “I’m Henry J. Ziegler – Private Detective,” he said eventually. He took a card from his vest pocket and dropped it on the bed. I left it there.
“Sure, Mac – and what ya doin’, like I said?”
“I’m looking for a chick by the name of Lorna Martin. D’ya know her?”
“Should I?”
“Sure ya should.” He frowned. “You’re in her hotel room.”
“Like hell I am.” I took a bead on the guy’s head and held my gun rock steady. “This is a French broad’s room, by the name of Monique Desjardins.”
Like I suspected – a sharp character.
“Ya got it wrong, pal.” His eyes moved down to fix on my gun. “This room belongs to Lorna. She may be usin’ a false name. Is your Miss Desjardins tall, slim and blonde? Eyes like blue lagoons and curves to die for?”
“That’s her.”
“Then its also Lorna.” He shook his head, as if in grudging admiration. “Clever chick, huh? Disguising herself as a French broad.”
“Ya mean to say she’s been hoodwinking me?” I lowered the gun a little.
“Sure looks that way, pal. What did she say to ya?”
“Hey!” I raised the gun again. “I’m not so sure I’ll tell you that, buster.”
“Did she say someone was following her?” He smiled; a slimy, yellow smile. “Bet she did, hey pal? And she’s right, ‘cos it’s me that’s following her!”
“I’m paid to find out why.”
“How much?”
“You sure do ask questions don’t ya?” I answered. “Like I said, it’s me with the gun here.”
“Cut me in on half, and I’ll tell ya.”
The guy was clearly rolling the dice here. I decided to test him out. I lowered the gun an inch, and said: “OK, but no more than 20 percent.”
I saw him think about it, cocking his head left and right like he had a guardian angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, both trying to direct him. I figured that if he was genuine, he’d push for more dough, but if he was a fraud, he’d take a low amount because he was only spinning me a line.
“Say 30 percent and you’re on,” he muttered. So maybe he was for real.
I thought I would test him some more. “OK,” I said. “But how do I know ya gonna tell it straight?”
“You got the gun, pal.”
I lowered it an inch more. “Let’s hear it, then.”
He thought a moment, staring down at the floor, then he cleared his throat and began.
“Well, like I said, she’s called Lorna Martin.” He looked up and fixed my eyes. “And fact is, she’s a crook.”
“Don’t say.”
“Yeah. See, I’ve been hired by retired General Franklin P. Hershenheimsbecker of Boston. Just recently he had some valuable gems stolen. See, he gave this massive party for his daughter’s birthday – you know; orchestra, cocktails, waiters; that sorta kaboodle. Musta cost a real load, but Mr Hershenheimsbecker, he didn’t bother none – he’s as rich as they come.” Ziegler cleared his throat again. “So anyway, he splashes out all this dough on a big party, but he also coughs up three grand on a set of geegaws for his little girl. Sorta diamonds and things. She was real pleased with them – for that kinda bread she damn well oughta be, if ya ask me – and she went around showing them off to everyone at this jamboree like a kid with a new doll. Lorna Martin was there, see, and she was a friend of little Kate Hershenheimsbecker, and the two of them went into the garden to talk. Then Kate came running in without the gems, crying that Lorna had grabbed them and made off. There was uproar, and the old man called out how he’d break Lorna’s neck if he ever found her.”
“Why didn’t he call the cops?” I asked.
“He didn’t want the publicity. He woulda looked kinda foolish for losing that sorta sparkle so easily. So he hired me to find her, and here I am. It’s taken me some time, but I reckon I’ve finally got her.”
“What are ya gonna do now?”
“Wait till she comes back,” he said, with a slimy smile.
The guy had it too off-pat. “Then what?” I demanded.
“Get her and the jewels back to the old man, like I was hired to do.”
I stared at him a moment, choosing my words. “D’ya know, Mac, I don’t think she ain’t never comin’ back here again.”
“Yeah?” He sniggered – a sound like a slow train crossing the railroad points.
“How long have ya been following her?” I asked.
“Coupla weeks. Why?”
I laughed. “Don’t seem ta be having no success, do ya?”
He shot me a look of pure disgust. “Like hell!” he snapped. “I’m here, ain’t I?”
“Sure Mac.” I paused for effect. “But is she?”
“Soon will be.” He looked so full of himself – I needed to take him back to reality.
“Sure enough,” I answered. “But where’s her baggage?”
He looked at the top of the closet, then under the bed. “Dammit!”
“Yeah – she’s checked out,” I said. “My suggestion to you, pal, is to give me a number where I can reach ya, and when she comes to me again, maybe I’ll let you know.”
Like hell I would…
“Yeah, OK,” he muttered. “My card’s on the bed.”
He turned to go.
“Hey!” I called, as he put his hand to the door. “You forgot this.” I opened his gun and let the slugs fall out onto the bed, then I tossed the empty piece over to him. He caught it, slipped it into his pocket, nodded in farewell and walked out.
—0—
I made my way back to the office, chewing over what Ziegler had told me. If Lorna was on the run with some hot gemstones, she would have known why she was being followed. So why hire me to find out? There seemed to be too many loose ends in this case. Still, I wasn’t a private detective for nothing; I oughta be able to figure something outa this.
I got back to the office. Aileen was behind her desk, working her nails with a sanding board.
“Any calls for me?” I asked.
“Only one; a Mrs…” she checked a slip of paper on her desk “…Glickman rang; she wants you to find her lost cat. She’s willing to pay.”
“How much?”
“20 bucks; half up front, half on completion.”
“I’ll get back to her.” I paused. “Say, Aileen, can ya get me Jack Marelli from Boston’s number? I wanna have a word with him.”
“Sure boss.”
“And you’d better get some more cat food. We’re out.”
“Sure boss.”
I went into my office and dropped into my chair. Aileen came in and put a card on my desk. “Jack Morelli, boss.”
Jack was an old friend of mine from a while back – we’d worked together on the Zarevski diamond case. I reckoned if anyone knew about the Boston scene and missing geegaws, it would be him.
I dialled the number and got through.
“Hi Jack, how are ya?”
“Hey, is that old Roscoe Kemp? How ya doin’, ol’ buddy?”
“Fine thanks, Jack. Good to hear your voice again.”
“And yours, Kemp. And how’s that little Aileen? Still making big eyes at ya?”
“Aileen? Yeah, she’s all right, I guess. How’s business in Boston, Jack?” I asked. “Going good?”
“OK, OK,” he shot back. “But still running in too many lost cats, I guess.”
“Yeah, you’re right there, buddy – these cats go and walk out without any thought for the poor suckers who’ve gotta find them…” I cleared my throat. “Look, Jack, I need some information.”
“Sure Kemp, fire away.”
“Can you tell me anything about Franklin P. Hershenheimsbecker, his daughter Kate, and some missing sparkle worth three grand?”
“Hershenheimsbecker?”
“The very same” I confirmed. “General Franklin P.”
“Missing sparkle?”
“Sure. Lifted by a dame by the name of Lorna Martin.”
“Listen, Kemp, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Old man Hershenheimsbecker hasn’t lost three Gs of sparkle, and there’s no such dame as Lorna Martin that I’ve heard of.”
“You sure, Jack?”
“Sure I’m sure. I would know if a sparrow farts here in Boston, and I ain’t never heard any part of this tale you’re telling me.” He paused. “I’m sorry, Kemp, but it looks like someone’s spinning you a real line.”
“But the dame I saw was real, Jack. Said she was French.”
“Tall, curvy and classy?” he asked. “Blonde hair like a film starlet?”
“That’s the one.”
“Sounds like the broad you met is Kate Hershenheimsbecker herself, Kemp.”
“OK, Jack,” I said thoughtfully. “Sure appreciate the information.”
“No problems, buddy. You take care.”
I put the phone down slowly, then called Aileen. She trotted in with her notebook.
“Yes, boss?”
“Listen, Aileen,” I said, “you know the dame who came in this morning?”
She scowled. “You mean the stick-thin streak with the cheap scent and the hooker hair-do?”
“If ya say so, although I thought she looked kinda classy…?”
“Sure boss. I think that was the idea.”
“Yeah, well, anyway, it seems she’s the daughter of a rich ol’ soldier from Boston by the name of Franklin P. Hershenheimsbecker.”
“She’s called Franklin?”
“No, she’s called Kate. Franklin P. Hershenheimsbecker is her ol’ man.” I paused while she nodded. “Only it seems she’s running under the name ‘Lorna Martin’.
“And the book of matches said ‘Monique Desjardins’,” said Aileen. “Gee, boss. It’s getting mighty complicated.”
“Sure.” I tapped my finger on the table a while to help me think. Seemed like the only person with all the answers would be Hershenheimsbecker himself. I decided to head on over to Boston, to see if I could get a word with him.
“I’m heading on over to Boston, Aileen,” I said. “I think I need to speak to this General Hershenheimsbecker myself.”
…to be continued…
The post Private Eyes – a Short Story appeared first on Jonathan Posner.
December 22, 2023
The Thursday Book Club No. 4
The fourth edition of The Thursday Book Club was on 21st December 2023 at 2pm on Phonic FM. The panel were Su Bristow, Jason Mann and Jonathan Posner. Click the names to find out more about their works, and use the audio bar below to listen to the full show.
https://jonathanposnerauthor.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/12/TBC-Show-4-21-12-23.mp3
The books we reviewed were:
We also had an interview with Helen Chaloner of Literature Works, the literary charity based in the South West. The 7th February 2024 event we discussed was called: Quay Words presents Fiona Williams in conversation with Davina Quinlivan: The House of Broken Bricks. You can find out more here.
Helen’s favourite books / recommendations were:
There was also a discussion on: Pen Names – a good or bad thing?
The next show will be on 21st December at 2pm UK time.
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December 20, 2023
The Tudor Prince – pre-order!
The Tudor Prince is now available for pre-order on Amazon.
If you’re a Mary Fox fan – make sure you get your copy immediately it is released.
Pre-order now on Amazon.
The post The Tudor Prince – pre-order! appeared first on Jonathan Posner.
December 11, 2023
Tinsel & Glitter – A short Story
My finger hovered over the mouse button, but something stopped me from making the final click. Was I buying the right one? Should I even be buying either of them? Maybe she would think it was really silly; that I was being daft for spending my money on her like this. Creepy, even.
I hit the back button to return to my previous choice. T111 SEL. It would spell ‘tinsel’ if you put the black screw between the last two 1s and made them look like an N. Or the other one? I went forward again. GL17 TER. The 7 did look a bit like another T, so it would spell ‘glitter’.
Tinsel or glitter? Which one for the gorgeous party planner I had met when she had organised a birthday bash that my kids had gone to a couple of weeks ago?
Was it only a couple of weeks? How had it happened that I was even considering buying something as personal as a number plate for someone I had known for such a short time? And to tell the truth, it was not as if I was even looking when we had first met. It had only been a year and a half since Amanda had died, and I was starting to get into the groove of being a single dad looking after my feisty five-year-old twins.
I hadn’t even clocked her when I first ushered the twins into their school friend’s kitchen diner, trying not to flinch too obviously at the ear-piercing screams of the children already round the large dining table. I made sure my kids were securely seated, before doing that usual dad thing of crossing my arms and standing back by the window with the other grown-ups. We all gazed at our little darlings with a mixture of indulgent pride and nervous apprehension. At what point would the sugar rush from the jelly, cakes, ice-cream and chocolate send the already-high energy levels into the stratosphere?
“That is – or rather, was – a very impressive Smartie volcano,” I observed to the woman beside me, looking at a particularly well-made chocolate cake that my daughter Isobel was busily destroying with her spoon.
“Thanks,” the woman replied. “Nice of you to say.”
“You made it?” I asked, turning to look at her. She nodded. “Oh, gosh,” I said with a rueful smile, “I am so sorry. My daughter can be really destructive.”
“It’s not a problem,” she said. “That’s what it’s there for.”
She was tall, nearly my height, and had long blond hair pulled back into a pony tail. Her sloppy sweat top, short skirt and Doc Martens should have made her look like a woman desperately trying to recapture her teens, but somehow on her it had a rather sophisticated look. Stylish, even.
“Which one’s yours?” I asked, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of the children.
“None of them, actually.” I raised an enquiring eyebrow, so she explained, “I’m the party planner and caterer, not a mum.”
“Oh, right.” The conversation stalled a moment, starved of the usual oxygen of grumbling about one’s kids.
“You must be a saint to put up with so much screaming and shouting all the time,” I volunteered. “Don’t you have any kids yourself?” I shuddered inwardly. Basic chat-up fail – asking if they have kids. The kind of thing that gets you fired from an American corporation just for asking. How could I be so un-woke? I’m a single dad for goodness sake.
“No,” she replied, leaning her head slightly towards me as a piece of chocolate cake hit the window behind her. “I cater for them, but don’t have any myself.” She smiled. Maybe I had got away with it. A sudden thought occurred. “You aren’t also the entertainer, are you? Making dogs out of balloons and pulling 50p coins out of their ears? That sort of thing?”
She gave a small grin. “No, I book those in. Mr. Marvel is no doubt stretching his balloons in the utility room even as we speak.” She paused, then held out her hand. “Claudia.” We shook hands, a bit like we were being introduced at a networking breakfast. Hers was cool and dry, and her grip firm. “Andrew,” I replied, hoping my own wasn’t too clammy. “Nice to meet you.”
Just then Izzy ran up and tugged at my jacket. “Daddy, daddy, daddy, Ollie just took my bowl of jelly and ate it all!”
I crouched down to Izzy’s level, and felt Claudia squatting as well with her hand still in mine. “He’s your brother. Be nice to him.”
“There’s plenty more jelly,” added Claudia.
Izzy didn’t reply, but looked at Claudia, then at me, then back at Claudia. It was if she was saying, ‘Daddy, why are you holding hands with a strange woman?’ She frowned, then ran back to the table and grabbed another bowl of jelly.
“Sorry,” I said as we stood up and separated. “Kids can be so judgemental.”
“No, no,” Claudia replied. “She’s just checking out the competition.”
—0—
We got home a few hours later. Izzy and Ollie ran into the house shouting for the cat, who, quite sensibly, was making himself scarce. My suggestion of bath and bed was completely ignored.
I let them play a while, hoping that their sugar highs would come down soon, while I sat at the kitchen table clutching a coffee. I opened my phone case and carefully withdrew the little card, turning it over and over. ‘Claudia Darrin, Party Planner,’ it said on one side. On the other was the name of her business, ‘Tinsel and Glitter’. I looked at my phone. Should I text her? She had said to ‘keep in touch’ when she gave me the card – but was that just politeness? What did she mean by the significant look when she handed it over? Was it ‘keep in touch – I have to say that but please understand, I don’t actually mean it.’ Or ‘keep in touch, and I really do mean it?’ Why was I so shit at reading signals? And if she actually did mean it, would it be too soon to text her? I tucked the card back into the phone case and closed it. Too soon. Way too soon.
The phone pinged but I left it closed. Probably some meaningless notification from Instagram. It was not as if Claudia was texting me. No way was that going to happen.
It pinged again and I quickly flipped it open.
[Hi, this is Claudia. Do you fancy meeting for a coffee?] There was a second text right below it. [If that’s not too forward? Worried face emoji]
Should I text back now? Respond too quickly and she’ll think I’m desperate. Too slow and she’ll think I don’t care…
I gave it ten minutes. [Love to. Where and when?]
—0—
The coffee shop was quiet as I went inside, blowing on my hands to warm them. She was already sitting at a corner table. I ordered a cappuccino and went over.
“I hope you didn’t mind me texting?” she said as I sat.
“Not at all. Delighted,” I answered, hoping my smile was ‘warm and friendly’ rather than ‘weird and scary’. There was a silence, which I felt compelled to fill. “Great party the other day. Izzy and Ollie thought Mr. Marvel’s balloon work was great.”
“Thanks. They’re sweet kids.”
Not when it’s bath or bedtime, I thought. “Do you do parties every weekend?” I asked aloud.
“Most. I’m booked up for the next three weeks, then I am taking the weekend off.” She paused. “As it’s my birthday.”
I grinned conspiratorially. “Noted!”
Aaagh! Did that mean she wanted me to get her something? This was only the second time we had met, and she was already sharing her birthday info. Although to be fair, I had dropped the ‘widower’ thing in fairly early on myself.
“Any plans for the big day?” I asked.
“Not really, just avoiding organising any parties.”
“It must be nice not to have to plan anything,” I said. Then found myself adding, “We could have a celebratory dinner..?”
WHAT? You arsehole, Andrew! Where did that come from?
“Dinner would be lovely!” she said. “Where are you taking me?”
—0—
I poured Claudia a celebratory glass of bubbly as she studied the menu. “Happy birthday,” I said, chinking my glass on hers.
“Thanks, Andrew,” she replied, looking at me over the rim. “You know…” she began, and my stomach tightened in apprehension at what she might be about to say. “It’s only been a few weeks since we first met, but I feel like I’ve known you forever.” She paused, her lips slightly parted; her eyes twinkling in the candlelight. “You really seem to understand me.”
“Gosh,” I replied, biting my own lip. “I might be about to blow that with your present.”
“Ooh,” she said. “What have you got me? Something completely unusual, I hope. If it’s chocolates I’m outta here!” She paused. “It’s not lingerie is it? That would be such a cliché.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as I took out the licence-plate sized gift box. She smiled as she tapped it thoughtfully her hand. “What’s this I wonder? And why is it covered in glitter?
The post Tinsel & Glitter – A short Story appeared first on Jonathan Posner.
November 16, 2023
The Thursday Book Club No. 3
The third broadcast of The Thursday Book Club was on 16th October 2023 at 2pm on Phonic FM. The panel were Angela Wooldridge, Elizabeth Ducie and Jonathan Posner. Click the names to find out more about their works, and use the audio bar below to listen to the full show.
https://jonathanposnerauthor.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/11/TBC-Show-3-16-11-23.mp3The book we reviewed was The Man I Think I know by Mike Gayle.
We also flagged up some key books to buy for Christmas:
The Game by Martin Kemp
A pulsating high-octane debut thriller from the music legend / actor Martin Kemp, The Game finds a fallen 1980s popstar on a path of no return in London’s seedy underbelly.
Bookshops and Bonedust by Travis Baldree
A standalone cosy fantasy about the power of good bookshops, great friends and the unexpected choices along the way from the bestselling author of BookTok sensation Legends & Lates.
Skandar and the Phantom Rider by A F Steadman
The second book in the international bestselling SKANDAR series, an unmissable adventure for readers aged 9 to 99 and fans of Harry Potter, Percy Jackson and Eragon.
Scarlet by Genevieve Cogman
An exciting tale of revolution, vampires and the guillotine.
The Drowning Girls by Helen Callaghan
A chilling new psychological suspense thriller from Sunday Times bestseller.
A Devon Midwinter Murder by Stephanie Austin (out 23rd November 2023)
A must-read cosy crime – book 7 in the Devon Mysteries series.
The Rivers of Treason by Karen Maitland
Third in the Daniel Pursglove series set in 17th Century London.
Exeter’s Lost Buildings: Destruction from 1800 to 1899 by Todd Gray
There was also a discussion on what makes a cosy crime – and Elizabeth gave us some key pointers!
The next show will be on 21st December at 2pm UK time.
The post The Thursday Book Club No. 3 appeared first on Jonathan Posner.
The Thursday Book Club No. 2 Copy
The second broadcast of The Thursday Book Club was on 19th October 2023 at 2pm on Phonic FM. The panel were Jason Mann, Su Bristow and Jonathan Posner. Click the names to find out more about their works, and use the audio bar below to listen to the full show.
https://jonathanposnerauthor.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/10/TBC-Show-2-19-10-23.mp3
The books reviewed were This is Happiness by Niall Williams, proposed by Su; Act of Oblivion by Robert Harris, proposed by Jason; and Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby van Pelt, proposed by Jonathan.
There was also a discussion on the the difference between authenticity and accuracy in historical fiction
The next show will be on 16th November at 2pm UK time.
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November 14, 2023
Go with me on this
The post Go with me on this appeared first on Jonathan Posner.
October 24, 2023
The Tudor Prince – Ch 1 (draft)
CHAPTER ONE
A Monastery in Essex, September 1533.
The dormitory was on fire.
Brother Ignatius and I stared open-mouthed as a flame burst out of the furthest window of the little building, roaring into the night sky like a vengeful demon. Another blew out the window beside it with a shower of glass and sparks.
I clutched at his arm. “Is Master Kytson up there?” I shouted.
“Yes,” Brother Ignatius answered. “After all the wine he had drunk, we carried him up to sleep.”
For a moment I stared at him in horror, then I let go of his arm and started to run back towards the burning building.
“Mistress Fox!” he called. “Do not go inside! It is God’s will if your companion perishes!”
Ignoring him, I ran up the steps and into the dormitory building. There was a short stairway before me, which I assumed led up to the men’s dormitory rooms. A couple of monks were on the landing, unhooking a carved wooden crucifix from the wall opposite. They staggered down the stairs with it, just as another monk swept up two silver candlesticks from the shelf below where it had been.
As the monks hurried out through the front door with their treasures, I ran up the stairs.
Several men that I took to be other travellers staying in the monastery ran past coughing. But none was the tall, broad figure of Marcus Kytson.
“Help me!” I shouted as they went past, “My companion is still up there!”
But none stopped, or even acknowledged my presence. They ran down the stairs with wide, staring eyes, almost tripping and falling in their haste to get out.
With a curse at their unchristian selfishness, I ran to the top of the stairs. On the left was an open door with black smoke pouring out and the flicker of flames visible through the darkness. I could just make out a line of wooden cots down each side of the chamber, with only a narrow space up the middle. All the cots at the far end were heavily ablaze, and I nearly retched at the sight of a dreadful twisted shape silhouetted on top of the furthest one.
By God’s good grace, the flames had not yet reached the closest end of the room. The cot nearest the door was untouched and there was a man-sized shape under a blanket.
Was it Marcus? And if so, was he still alive?
Putting my mouth into the crook of my elbow and breathing through my sleeve to avoid the worst of the smoke, I ran to the foot of the cot. The flames were mercifully still two cots away. Which meant I had but a few moments before they made the final leap and consumed this one.
I leant over the figure. He was under a thin blanket, which was pulled over his head and must have kept the worst of the smoke from his mouth. I whipped it back, to reveal Marcus. With a heartfelt prayer of thanks, I shook him hard.
“Wake up! In Heaven’s name!”
He grunted and moved slightly.
I shook him again, harder. “Wake up, Marcus!”
The flames were now at the next cot, and it was burning fast.
“WAKE UP!” I screamed.
He grunted once more, and his eyes opened briefly, then fluttered closed.
A stray spark landed on the wooden frame of his cot and it started to smoke.
With another curse, I ran round to his back and forced my arms under his shoulders, then started to pull him away.
I am a slight girl, while Marcus is a broad-shouldered man – so in truth there should have been no possible way for me to carry him even a few feet. Yet somehow I found enough breath and strength to get his upper body off the bed. I gritted my teeth and pulled once more. He grunted again as his feet slid off the bed and dropped to the floor. I felt him stand, if somewhat unsteadily, and start to cough.
“Come!” I yelled. The flames were now starting to consume the cot he had been sleeping in moments before. “Run!”
I took in some air through my sleeve, grabbed his hand and pulled him staggering out after me.
By God’s good grace we made it to the door and out into the corridor beyond. Flames were already licking around the lintel, and as I watched, some of the wood panelling beside the door burst alight.
I dragged him to the stairs. Together we stumbled down, coughing uncontrollably, until we made it out of the front door and fell together onto the lawn, still unable to breathe clearly.
“Art whole?” I asked Marcus eventually. “No burns?”
He patted his legs then shook his head. I supposed that his streaming eyes and smoke-blackened face must be the worst he had suffered. And were presumably also a mirror of my own.
But he then gave another deep cough, turned onto all fours and vomited heavily into the grass.
“Is that the wine or the smoke telling its tale, Master Marcus Kytson?” I asked. He flopped onto his side and stared at me with red eyes. “Well?” I added with a thin smile. “Pray tell.”
Before he could answer there was the sound of a footstep behind my head. I craned my neck round, to see a pair of old leather sandals and broken yellow toenails in the moonlight.
I struggled to my feet, which caused me to double over with another bout of coughing. Eventually I could breathe again, and stood straight. It was Brother Ignatius; worry written deep across his fleshy features.
“By Heavens, Mistress Fox,” he said, stepping away from Marcus and the contents of his belly. “How in the name of all that is holy did you get your companion out?”
There was sudden a crash. He flinched and looked past me. The whole of the dormitory building was now ablaze; flames bursting from every window, and even from the front door we had just come through. One half of the wooden roof had collapsed, and as we watched, the rest of it fell in with another crash and shower of flaming sparks, right onto the place where Marcus had been sleeping only minutes before.
I shuddered at how close we had been to disaster. “With God’s help, Brother,” I replied. “God gave me the strength to lift Master Kytson from his bed and get him out.” Then I recalled the awful twisted shape I had seen. “But I fear the one who slept at the far end is lost.”
He crossed himself. “Oh no, the poor man. That must be old Godfrey Fletcher, who we have allowed to stay for many years. He has… had… a book of prayers he liked to read before sleep, but his failing eyesight meant he would oft hold a candle too close. Belike he fell into a slumber and set his book alight.” He stepped back as several monks ran past with buckets of water. “It seems his lack of care has cost him dear.” The monks threw the water at the fire in high arcs that hissed and steamed, but seemed to have little effect on the blaze. “A worthy effort,” observed Brother Ignatius, shaking his head, “but I fear unlikely to help.” He looked across at the rest of the buildings, that were mercifully untouched by the fire. “At least God has seen fit to send a wind that bears the flames away from the main Monastery.”
Marcus struggled to his feet and came over.
“It seems you owe Mistress Fox your life, sir,” said Brother Ignatius.
Marcus nodded. “That is so,” he said in a hoarse whisper, giving me a weak smile, the cockiness and bluster that I had observed on our travels so far seemingly knocked out of him. “I am most grateful to Mistress Fox.” He looked over at the burning building in silence a while. “Why were you not abed yourself, Mary?” he asked. “You must also be most weary after our long ride.”
“Brother Ignatius was walking me to the other dormitory, the one attached to the Nunnery,” I replied. “We had just set off across this lawn when we saw the inferno.”
There was a hissing as the monks threw more water at the fire, which seemed to have mostly consumed itself anyway, and was beginning to reduce down to glowing embers and smaller flickers of flame. Other monks and some of the travellers were standing round in small groups. A couple of monks were picking through a pile of ornaments laid out on the grass, including the cross and candlesticks I had seen them rescue earlier.
“Yes, I am most sorry for the destruction of your building.” Marcus turned back to Ignatius. “What will you do? How will you restore it?”
Brother Ignatius shook his head. “I very much doubt that we will do any such thing,” he said. “King Henry and his servant Master Cromwell have given word that we are to be turned out soon, and our monastery given over to the enrichment of some godless landowner. Maybe Our Lord has seen fit to devalue our property with this fire before such a transaction takes place.” He gave a small, slightly hopeful smile. “It would be a sign from God that he favours us over this King.”
“Indeed,” Marcus said.
“We must be away soon,” I observed.
“Nay,” said Brother Ignatius. “Not until you are both fully recovered and can breathe clear. There are some beds in the infirmary, or if those are full with others affected by the smoke, we will find you beds elsewhere. You can both rest up there a few days until you are fit to travel. I will not allow otherwise.”
His fleshy features were set in an expression that brooked no argument. I wondered what he would do if we ignored him and continued on our journey anyway, but then I heard Marcus coughing again. It was clear we needed time to recover.
“Thank you,” I said. “We do not deserve such care.”
Brother Ignatius observed me silently a moment. “All God’s children deserve it,” he said. “Even a strange young man and a headstrong young woman dressed in men’s attire, who arrive this afternoon seeking shelter on their journey, so tired that they almost fall from the saddle.” He gave Marcus a significant glare. “Such that they are not able to hold more than a few glasses of the Monastery wine.” He paused a moment. “I would know the purpose of your journey?”
“I am sorry, Brother,” Marcus said with a ghost of a smile, “but we are not at liberty to tell.”
I caught Marcus’s eye and gave him a small nod of support. Our journey was in part on the King’s business – so it would hardly be appropriate to share it with a monk who had just expressed his opposition to the King’s policies.
Marcus had recruited me to stand in for a missing prince, after the boy had been kidnapped. This much I knew; little more. I had accepted on a whim, so would need to know more, and soon.
“I see,” Ignatius nodded. “A clandestine mission. So be it.” He looked at each of us with his eyes narrowed in the moonlight. “Then I would enjoin you both to proceed with the utmost caution. Whatever is your purpose, I suspect it will place you in the gravest danger.” He looked hard at me. “You have demonstrated great bravery already, Mary Fox, by running into a burning building to rescue your companion. But I feel sure you will face even greater dangers in the days to come. Are you ready for these?”
I took a deep breath and met his eye.
“Yes, Brother,” I said. “I am.”
Look for the launch of The Tudor Prince to read more…
The post The Tudor Prince – Ch 1 (draft) appeared first on Jonathan Posner.
October 22, 2023
The Thursday Book Club No. 2
The second broadcast of The Thursday Book Club was on 19th October 2023 at 2pm on Phonic FM. The panel were Jason Mann, Su Bristow and Jonathan Posner. Click the names to find out more about their works, and use the audio bar below to listen to the full show.
https://jonathanposnerauthor.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/10/TBC-Show-2-19-10-23.mp3
The books reviewed were This is Happiness by Niall Williams, proposed by Su; Act of Oblivion by Robert Harris, proposed by Jason; and Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby van Pelt, proposed by Jonathan.
There was also a discussion on the the difference between authenticity and accuracy in historical fiction
The next show will be on 16th November at 2pm UK time.
The post The Thursday Book Club No. 2 appeared first on Jonathan Posner.
September 25, 2023
My books now in Exeter Library!
All five of my books are now available to borrow from the Exeter Library, plus The Witchfinder’s Well Chronicles – if you want to escape into the whole trilogy in one go!
Go to https://www.devonlibraries.org.uk/ and search ‘Jonathan Posner’
The post My books now in Exeter Library! appeared first on Jonathan Posner.
