The Spirit Guide (Variety Palace Mysteries, Pushkin Vertigo, 3) - Softcover

Walsh, Bridget

 
9781805335832: The Spirit Guide (Variety Palace Mysteries, Pushkin Vertigo, 3)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 1805335839 ISBN 13: 9781805335832
Verlag: Pushkin Vertigo, 2026

Inhaltsangabe

A witty, propulsive historical murder mystery investigating a secretive spiritualist cult in Victorian London—and the 3rd installment in the beloved Variety Palace Mysteries series!

“Splendid.” - Wall Street Journal

1879, Victorian London.

Tea room sting operations, seedy music hall secrets, elaborate disguises, and slow-burn romance…

Detective duo Minnie Ward and Albert Easterbrook return for another exciting case to uncover the dark secrets at the heart of Victorian London’s spiritualist scene.

This time, an investigation into two mysterious deaths leads this famed detective duo to the doors of the Spirit Sisterhood, a female-only spiritualist group that facilitates communion with the souls of the dead. And recently several of its visitors have been found dead themselves.

Minnie isn't buying it: there is more to the Sisterhood than there first seems. The more Minnie looks, the more covert operations come to light. She goes undercover at the organization’s secretive countryside home, where she quickly finds herself drawn into the dark but strangely alluring world of spirits and ghosts.

But, isolated from Albert and everyone she loves, Minnie's situation quickly gets out of hand. Can she find a way out of this remote cult before time runs out? And can she keep her own demons at bay long enough to withstand the Sisterhood?

A rip-roaring murder mystery brimming with theatrical detail, loveable characters, and exciting new reveals that will keep you guessing until the very last page.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Bridget Walsh was born in London to Irish immigrant parents. She studied English literature and was an English teacher for 23 years, before leaving the profession to pursue her writing. Bridget lives in Norwich with her husband, Micky, and her two dogs.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

‘So you see, Mrs Willoughby, the evidence is what we might call damning.’

Minnie glanced down at her wedding ring. It was a touch on the small side, had been from the first moment she’d put it on. On a hot day like this her fingers swelled, the flesh curling over the edges of the ring. It’d be a bugger to get off.

She’d had to remind herself on more than one occasion that she was Mrs Willoughby now. She imagined someone respectable, conventional. Perhaps with a substantial bosom and a recipe for the perfect scones.

‘Mrs Willoughby?’ the man prompted her.

In the normal run of things, you’d be forgiven for thinking Wendall Potts was quite an attractive fella. Tall, with striking blue eyes. Nice smile, although he only used it when he was making you squirm. ‘Am I keeping you from something?’

‘Nothing,’ she said, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. ‘You were about to tell me what the new price is gonna be. And I’m guessing you won’t be offering me a discount.’

He named a figure. More than twice what he’d originally told her. She’d been expecting him to ask for more, but the increase was so audacious that it still came as a surprise.

‘I don’t have anything like that money,’ she said.

‘Well, you’ll have to find it, won’t you? You can give me what you have now and the rest later.’She scrutinised the piece of paper on the table. A typewritten list of meetings with dates and brief, damning descriptions. ‘Mrs X witnessed in intimate situation with Mr Y, heads inclined toward each other. Mrs X holding hands with Mr Y. Mr Y’s arm round waist of Mrs X.’

Minnie raised her eyes and looked round Brown’s tea room. Saturday lunchtime and it was bristling with customers, perfectly presented waitresses weaving their way between tables with pots of tea, delicate china crockery and plates of elegant sandwiches and cake. She and Potts were seated at a table tucked away in the corner. No one was close enough to read the list of meetings – the evidence, as she was now coming to think of it – but still she felt uncomfortable. She’d always liked it in here. Felt it was a second home. She didn’t want the waitresses, the other customers, to think ill of her, whatever the circumstances.

She looked down again at the typewritten sheet. She was Mrs X. Mr Y was Albert. Of course. Who else could it be other than Albert? As she read the sterile list of their assignations, she once again recalled the moment when his arm had slipped round her waist, his hand broad and strong, the fingers warm, so warm she swore she could feel their heat right through her clothes, on her skin. He had held her hand; they had laughed about how it was like holding hands with a bear, her slender paw enveloped in his. They had walked together like that, talking nonsense as their heads inclined towards each other.

Wendall Potts had been watching them the whole time, lurking in the shadows, writing down precise details of exactly where they’d been, what they’d done. And now he was going to present the evi-dence to her husband unless she found the money to pay him.

Potts gestured to the waitress across the crowded tea room and mimed writing on his hand. A few minutes later the waitress, a slip of a thing no more than fourteen, appeared with the bill.

She looked at Minnie, a flicker of concern crossing her face. ‘No cake today, Min?’ she asked, looking down at the two cups of tea, the one in front of Minnie untouched. ‘You feeling all right?’.

Minnie nodded and smiled weakly. ‘I’m fine, Nora,’ she said. ‘Had a big breakfast.’

Nora cleared the cups and left Minnie and Potts alone again. Minnie reached into her bag and removed an envelope stuffed with banknotes. She pushed it across the table towards Potts, the tips of her fingers staying in contact with the buff envelope until the last moment. It was a lot of money, and she was very sorry to see it passing into Potts’s nasty little flappers.

Potts snatched the envelope, peered inside and riffled through the notes with his thumb, mentally adding up the amount.

‘It’s what we agreed,’ Minnie said. ‘And you’re gonna have to wait if you want any more. I don’t have anything like the sum you’re asking for.’

‘Well, best you find it. And quick smart. I imagine Mr Willoughby won’t take too kindly to hearing about your little – friendship.’

He slipped the money into an inside pocket of his jacket, then pushed back his chair, the feet scraping on the wooden floor, and rose slowly. At the last minute, he took the typewritten sheet, folded it carefully and slipped it into the same pocket.

‘Pleasure doing business with you, Mrs Willoughby. We ’ll meet again in’ – he gazed upwards, as if inspiration lay on the ceiling of the tea room, and then seemed to randomly pluck a date from the air – ‘two days. Same time, same place. And I’ll be expecting the rest of my money.’

He ’d spoken loudly enough for a dark-haired man on the nearest table to look up from his newspaper. Minnie turned away, trying to hide her face. Potts laughed and tossed the bill at her. ‘Your treat, Mrs Willoughby.’

He was nearly at the door when it happened. The dark-haired man seated nearby who, on closer inspection, bore more than a passing resemblance to Inspector John Price of the Metropolitan Police, threw aside his newspaper, leapt from his seat and lunged towards Potts. Before Potts had time to understand what was happening, John had slapped a pair of handcuffs on him.
‘You, my lad,’ John said, ‘are coming with me.’

‘I ain’t done nothing,’ Potts said, his voice pitched high in protest. ‘I was just sharing a cup of tea with my lady friend.’ He gave her a pointed look. ‘We was sharing a few quiet moments, weren’t we, Mrs Willoughby?’

‘You’ve got me confused with someone else,’ she said. ‘My name ’s Minnie Ward. And you’ve just accepted blackmail money from me. That fella you saw me with – Mr Y? He’s my partner. You might have heard of us. Easterbrook and Ward? Private detectives? And there ain’t no Mr Willoughby.’ She tried to wrestle the ring from her finger as a final dramatic gesture, but it wouldn’t shift. She cursed under her breath and turned to Nora who was standing, slack-jawed, taking in the whole proceedings.

‘You ain’t got a pat of butter going begging, have you, love?’ Minnie said.

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Verlag
Pushkin Vertigo
Erscheinungsdatum
2026
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
1805335839
ISBN 13 
9781805335832
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
256
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