A short story for Valentine’s Day

It’s been a long time since I wrote a Galbraith & Pole book. I’ve been tied down with the next of my James Burke historical novels for almost a year, but it’s out there with beta readers now, so I’ve had time to think about my vampire policeman, Pole, and his human partner, Chief Inspector Galbraith.

I’m an old softie deep down, so I thought it would be nice to write a story for Valentine’s Day. It’s a bit darker than your usual Valentine tale, but then Pole is one of the Others, as the vampires call themselves, so what did you expect? And Pole being Pole, and me being me, there’s a lot of tango in it.

You don’t need to have read any of the Galbraith & Pole books to enjoy the story, though it would be nice if you had. (And if you have, and you haven’t left a review, could you please spread the Valentine love by reviewing them now.) There are buy links at the end of the post.

Enjoy!

Love, death, and tango.

It had been quiet week. Galbraith had taken the opportunity to spend an evening with Pole. It had been a while since he had sampled the vampire’s scotch and he thought he was overdue a companionable drink.

It had been an unusually cold February and he appreciated the cheerful warmth of a traditional open fire. It was a rare to find real flames flickering in a London flat these days and Galbraith enjoyed the novelty. There were advantages to a friend who had formed their habits of life hundreds of years ago and stayed with them when most people were more than happy with central heating.

He raised his glass. “Here’s to the cold weather. It keeps criminals home in the warm and gives us a quiet life.”

Pole returned his salute. “Life in what you still insist on thinking of as the supernatural world has been uneventful too. None of the Others have been taking illicit Mortal blood. No werewolves have been glimpsed prowling the Royal Parks. All is right with the world.” He gestured toward the leather bound volumes in his book case. “I may even take the opportunity to catch up on my reading.” He sipped at his whisky. “And it has been a while since I went out dancing.

“Ah, yes,” said Galbraith. “Tango.” He sat quietly for a while thinking about the dance. He’s been dancing more often since he had started going out with Jane Ellis. ‘Going out.’ It made him sound like a teenager and he hadn’t been a teenager for longer than he cared to think about. The idea made him chuckle.

Pole raised an eyebrow. “Something amusing?”

“I was thinking about tango.” Well, it was almost true. He hurried on before Pole asked anything else. His friend had an unnatural ability to know what he was thinking and he was not sure that he wanted to discuss his relationship with Ms Ellis. “How did you come to start dancing tango?”

Pole raised his glass but, instead of drinking, he sniffed it thoughtfully before setting it down untouched and leaning back in his armchair.

“It was a long time ago,” he said. “Not that long in terms of my life, but more than half a century before you were born.”

Galbraith said nothing. His friend, he knew, would tell the story in his own time.

“It was 1913. They called it ‘the year of the tango’. The dance had just been introduced to Europe by rich Argentinians doing the Grand Tour.” Galbraith must have looked quizzical because Pole raised an admonitory finger. “Argentina was one of the richest countries in the world back then. Their rich young men went to all the best places and wherever they went they took this dance. Such a scandal!” He smiled and Galbraith imagined him all those years ago, enjoying watching this shocking new dance. “The Pope condemned it. The Queen refused to allow it to be danced in her presence. It was, according to the papers, lascivious and lewd, bodies pressed together, legs intertwined. It presaged, they said, the end of civilisation and all that was pure and decent. Of course I had to see it.”

Pole began to describe the scene. His voice seemed to grow deeper and Galbraith found himself feeling drowsy, sitting there by the fire, the whisky warming his veins. He had seen this trick of Pole’s before, so he was hardly surprised when the vampire’s voice seemed to fade and he was there, in 1913, watching a room full of young people dancing tango. He smelt cigarette smoke and perfume.

The men were in suits or dinner jackets, bow ties askew as they danced. Galbraith had expected to see girls in flapper dresses with bobbed hair but the women in his vision were wearing Edwardian clothes. The dresses were well below mid-calf but gave the impression of being more daring by having shorter tops worn over longer layers. Biased hems revealed ankles and some skirts were split creating opportunities for the dancers to allow glimpses of calves as they span around their partners, legs flashing out in what Galbraith thought must have been considered very daring dance steps at the time.

The men’s clothes were respectable blacks and whites, but the women seemed to sport an extraordinary amount of orange. Their fabrics were not only brightly coloured but lightweight, almost gossamer, adding to the sense that Victorian standards had been well and truly abandoned. Their hair was not bobbed but it was worn short, elaborately curved or waved. Respectable hats had been virtually abandoned but feathers, turbans and fascinators were all the rage – nothing that would get in the way of dancing cheek to cheek with their partners.

The room was lit by a chandelier and the light sparkled off jewelled broaches and rhinestones sewn to seams. A live band – violins, a piano, a double bass, and the concertina-like bandoneon – played on a platform at one side of the room and the floor was filled with couples dancing, if not lasciviously, definitely very close together. Galbraith could see why the Pope was not amused.

Even in that sea of bright young things, one girl stood out. She was petite with a dress a daring inch or two shorter than most, her lips painted in a brilliant vermillion cupid’s bow. Her hair was chestnut brown and her green eyes held more than a hint of mischief.

As Galbraith watched, an older man approached her, took her in his arms and whirled her away across the room. To his astonishment, he recognised Pole. The vampire seemed somehow more youthful, although he had changed his appearance hardly at all.

The scene flickered for a moment and was gone.

“Her name was Madelaine,” said Pole, “and I was very taken with her.”

“You were in love.”

Pole made a small, dismissive gesture with the hand that was not holding his glass.

“We Others do not love as Mortals love. It is not that we don’t have a soul, or that we do not feel things as you do. But we are, by our nature, different. We will not have children together. We cannot watch each other grow old. We will live, not for ever, but for a very, very long time. But we are trapped in the life we had when we became what we are. Mortals change as their bodies change. They grow thicker in the waist and thinner in the hair. They become less impulsive and more thoughtful. And, as they change, so they and their true love change together, growing into each other’s shape. That, I think, is what true love is for Mortals. And we can never have that. We are almost changeless. If I were to say to a lover that we will be together until we die, that’s an unimaginably long time to live, unchanged, unyielding, day after endless day.”

Galbraith attempted a sympathetic nod, but he was not convinced. He had seen the way Pole looked at her as they danced. The vampire’s insistence that he had not been in love was no more convincing than that of any young man helplessly infatuated with a beautiful girl.

“In any event,” said Pole, “a few weeks after I met Madelaine, I found myself with more pressing concerns at these tango parties.”

Galbraith nodded and waited. As ever, Pole would not be hurried with his story.

“Several young men died in what the police at the time referred to as ‘mysterious circumstances’. Unfortunately, to those who knew of the existence of the Others, and our arrangement to preserve peace between the Others and Mortals, the circumstances were anything but mysterious. They were what alarmists insist on calling ‘vampire attacks’. The bodies were found drained of blood. They were ‘respectable’ young men …” (Pole’s tone suggested that he did not think they were respectable at all.) “By which I mean that they had money and that their deaths could not therefore be ignored by the authorities. I was called in to investigate.”

Pole had no official status with the police in those days. Section S had yet to come into existence, but, he said, it was not difficult to discover that all that the men had in common – besides that they were men and had money – was that they enjoyed the new craze for tango.

“More than that, they frequented the same clubs where I danced with Madelaine. In these circumstances, I felt that it was no less than my duty to attend as many of the dances as I could – purely, of course, to let me keep an eye out for any unusual activity.”

Galbraith could not resist a smile. “And if that meant you spending more time with Madelaine, that was a burden you felt you had to bear.”

Pole’s glance, Galbraith felt, could fairly be described as ‘icy’.

“Indeed. In fact, Madelaine’s presence was helpful because it explained my frequent attendance.” Pole’s expression suggested that any ironic comments from Galbraith would not be appreciated.

“After a week or two, I was dancing almost every night, but I never saw anything suspicious. The deaths continued and arrangements were made for me to see the bodies. I recognised most of them from the dances I had attended. I had, of course, seen many deaths over the centuries, but there was something strangely disturbing about these. I would have danced alongside them one night and viewed their bodies in the morgue the next morning. In many cases, I had seen them dancing with Madelaine, mere hours before their deaths. It was hardly surprising. I would dance only two or three turns in the evening with her – more would have been considered improper – and she was a popular girl. Even so, it was unsettling.”

Again, Pole’s voice deepened and Galbraith was back in 1913. It was a different club. The crowd looked more monied. There were more diamonds and rubies in the elaborate brooches. Smartly dressed staff circulated with drinks. He saw Pole dancing with a tall, thin girl whose hair was held in place with a headband which sported a yellow feather. Pole himself was wearing a smart dinner jacket. Galbraith was sure that Pole would have explained it as an effort to be inconspicuous among the rich men showing off their fine tailoring, but Galbraith saw Madelaine glance in Pole’s direction with apparent approval and Galbraith suspected that Madelaine’s approval had featured in Pole’s choice of wardrobe.

The music ended and Pole escorted his partner back to her seat before looking about to catch Madelaine’s eye. He was too late, though. A plump man, rather older than most of the crowd, had already claimed her for the next dance. Frustrated, Pole strolled towards the bar, and settled himself with a drink while he watched the dancers.

Galbraith heard Pole’s voice, as if from a great distance. “You must remember that these were simpler times. There were fewer records kept. People lived in villages that they never left. If they took it in their heads to come to live in London, they had by today’s standards, a remarkable lack of documentation. And the Others were less organised than today. I recognised a few of them at the club, but there may well have been more who were unknown to me. I am no more able to recognise my fellows than you are, although we share some characteristics that are a bit of a giveaway if I spend time with them. In the bustle of a dance club, though, it is not at all obvious. Afterwards, I blamed myself. I felt I should have realised, although I really cannot say how.”

The scene shifted. The club was gone and Pole was in a white-tiled room, looking down at a body lying on a table, covered by a sheet. Someone drew back the revealing the face of the older man who had been dancing with Madelaine. The pallor of the skin told him all he needed to know, even before the pathologist had explained that death had been caused by massive blood loss.

The vision faded and Galbraith found himself back in Pole’s flat. His friend looked, even for him, unnaturally pale, and he was making serious inroads into his Scotch.

“I asked about how the body had been found. Usually they were at home, sometimes in a drawing room, sometimes in bed. There were never signs of a struggle. It seemed reasonable to assume that they had been killed by somebody they had had no suspicions of. The fact that some were found in bed rather suggested a woman might have been involved, although it can be dangerous to make assumptions about these things. This gentleman – his name, I recall, was Padmore – had been found in a hotel. He was not the first to have been discovered in such an establishment. Usually they were small places, not overly concerned about the respectability of their guests. The staff had either never seen anyone accompanying the victims or they considered it wiser to claim ignorance. Mr Padmore was an exception. When I visited the hotel, I was able to interview a bellboy who said that he had seen the deceased enter the hotel accompanied by a young woman. I naturally enquired what the young woman looked like but the bellboy said that, discretion being the watchword of the establishment, he had not taken a good look at her. All he could say was that she had chestnut hair and was very pretty.”

He looked, Galbraith thought, suddenly much older.

“I should have known then, but there were lots of pretty girls dancing tango in those days. It could have been any of them.”

Pole continued to go out dancing and kept a special eye out for girls with chestnut hair. “Madelaine noticed, of course, and teased me horribly, but I saw nothing out of the ordinary. And then, one night, I was delayed – another case, involving an unfortunate incident in Soho, a place that well deserved its evil reputation in those days. Once I could get away, I decided to try to meet Madelaine anyway.” He took another pull at his Scotch. “She was leaving as I arrived. She was moving off away from the direction I was walking and she didn’t see me. She was hanging on the arm of a tall fellow I had noticed there the previous night: a silly looking sort of chap with a monocle.”

It had been over a hundred years ago, but Galbraith could still hear the jealous bitterness in his voice.

“I followed them. I told myself I was just doing my job, but I think I was angry and wanted to spy on her.” He paused, thinking back to that night. “They walked to a house in Fitzrovia and I watched them climb the front steps and vanish inside. After  a few minutes I saw a light go on in an upper room. I confess it distressed me. In any case, there was nothing to be gained by staying there. I had lost any interest in dancing so I went home and worked for the night.”

There was a long silence. The two men sat there, watching the flames in the grate.

Eventually, Pole spoke again.

“The next evening, I received word of the latest death. A tall young man who lived in Fitzrovia. I asked if he wore a monocle and, of course, he did.”

Pole topped up his drink.

“I confronted her the next night. I asked if I could walk her home. I never had before, and she seemed really happy that I did then. When we arrived, I insisted on entering, although it was obviously beyond all the bounds of propriety. I felt, by then, that propriety could go hang.”

He took another drink before, with an almost visible effort, pressing on with the story.

“When I told her what I knew, she did not deny it. I had never told her of my condition, but she said she was not surprised. She had, she claimed, always felt a particular connection to me and she supposed that the fact that neither of us was Mortal explained it. She had been changed by somebody who had been killed shortly after, and she had made her own way in our world, without anybody to guide her. Without help, she gave in to her cravings. Now she was as dependent on fresh human blood as any addict is addicted to their drug of choice.”

Galbraith watched as he struggled with the memory of that night.

“I told her that I could help her. That I knew people who could control her behaviour. It was, as far as our kind was concerned, the beginning of the modern world. We had scientists, doctors and psychiatrists helping the Others away from their old ways into the position we have today where we can live quietly alongside Mortals. It’s a precarious balance but it lets us survive in a world that lacks the dark corners where we used to live. It can …” For a moment there was a flash of the usual urbane Pole, as he gestured around his flat. “It can be very comfortable.”

“We had a private hospital out in Surrey. It was quite an isolated spot in those days and there was a high wall to ensure privacy.”

Again, Galbraith found himself back in the past, watching Pole and Madelaine. They were walking in the grounds of a large house. It was a sunny day and banks of flowers made a brilliant showing in the garden but Madelaine seemed in no mood to enjoy it. She had lost weight and, in a respectable full-length skirt, she was barely recognisable as the vivacious young woman from the club. Her eyes were sunk in her face and she twitched nervously, her hands constantly pulling at her blouse. Pole was alongside her, talking gently. Galbraith could not hear what he was saying, but from time to time he would reach for her hand and she would take it for a minute or two, before snatching it away and once more fiddling with her clothes.

Pole’s voice filtered into the vision. “She found it hard there, away from the life she had built for herself in London, but I had no choice. She had to be kept locked away until she had learned to master her overpowering desire for blood. I visited as often as I could but I found there were increasing demands on my time. The international situation was deteriorating and the arrangement the Others had made with the Crown meant that I was often sent on missions into Europe as tensions built, and Britain and Germany started to spy out the land for the conflict we all knew was coming.”

The visions changed and Galbraith saw a kaleidoscope of images: Pole on a cross-channel steamer; an explosion in a munitions factory; Pole opening a safe in a darkened room.

“The irony was that it was such a beautiful summer. I even began to think that the treatment they were giving Madelaine might be starting to work. And then, suddenly we were at war.”

Galbraith saw Pole in uniform, his polished Sam Browne belt shining against the khaki jacket.

“I was officially a soldier but I spent little time in the trenches. I saw enough to realise how bad it was – almost as bad as our Civil War.” Pole’s face twitched. He never spoke of those days, but Galbraith knew that he had lived through the Civil War and the memory still haunted him. Now, though, Pole was remembering the more recent conflict. The images seemed to spill from Pole’s mind in an uncontrolled torrent. Galbraith saw the rats eating the bodies just out of reach in No Man’s Land. He heard the guns and the cries of the wounded. He smelt mud and blood and the stench of men crammed together with no proper latrines or ways to clean themselves. Then, mercifully, the visions stopped and he was back in Pole’s flat.

“My feelings for Madelaine seemed very petty in the midst of all that suffering and death. But, as soon as I could return to England on leave, I went to visit her again.”

Galbraith saw Pole, incongruous in his uniform, once again walking through the garden with Madelaine. It was Autumn and the leaves were turning brown. Madelaine did look better. She took his hand and smiled at him, but she was still painfully thin.

“They told me that I should spend time with her in her room. The psychiatrist there held very advanced views for the period.”

The vision continued and Galbraith was briefly concerned that he was playing the part of a voyeur in an intimate meeting, but he should not have been worried. Pole did remove the stiff Sam Browne belt and eventually discarded the jacket. What followed might have been considered risqué in 1914 but was, by 21st century standards, a very restrained display of affection.

“The hospital had been experimenting with alternatives to fresh blood and she had been finding it difficult to cope with these but, after we had sat together for a while, she said she felt so much better that she would try again to eat a plateful of the diet they were trying to wean her onto. I was happy that she was making the attempt, seemingly at least in part to please me. I went cheerfully to the kitchens and returned bearing a plate of some sort of blood meal. I admit I did not think it looked particularly appetising, but she made a valiant effort, eating about half of it. I left, convinced that I had been able to do some good.”

Pole was quiet for a while. It seemed to Galbraith that he was playing back in his head the scenes of that day but, if he was, these were not images that he was happy to share.

 “I had almost reached the door when I felt that there was something wrong about the way my Sam Browne belt hung against my body. The holster was too light. I unbuttoned the flap and saw Madelaine’s hairbrush where my revolver should have been. She must have taken the weapon when she sent me to bring her the food.

I turned and ran back towards her room. I had almost reached it when I heard the shot.

She was lying on the bed, a coverlet across her body. One arm had fallen to the side. The other still held my revolver at her breast. She had shot herself through the heart. I could not see the wound but the blood was already soaking through the bedcover.”

There was a note, he said.

“It told me that she loved me but that she could not live with her condition. That I should go back to the war and forget about her. At the bottom, where she had signed her name, the ink was smudged as if a tear had dropped on it. Which, of course, is impossible, as we Others do not cry.”

Galbraith could think of nothing to say. The two friends sat in silence while they finished their drinks. When he got up to leave he thought, for a moment, that he glimpsed moisture in the vampire’s eyes, but then he told himself it was a trick of the light. Vampires, as Pole had said, do not cry.

He stepped out into the street, that February evening, and started home. He thought of Jane Ellis and Madelaine and lost chances and lost love. It was almost Valentine’s Day. He would ask her if she would go dancing with him.

The Galbraith and Pole books

There are three Galbraith & Pole books.

Something Wicked introduces Chief Inspector Pole when he assists Chief Inspector Galbraith in investigating the death of a peer of the realm and introduces him to tango. Vampires love tango, partly because it’s usually danced at night.

In Eat the Poor, Pole teams up with Galbraith again when a werewolf is roaming London. As the investigation moves to Westminster, politics starts to get bloody.

In Monsters in the Mist, the urbane Chief Inspector Pole and the very urban Galbraith are both out of their comfort zone investigating a savage killing on the hills of mid-Wales. Is it another werewolf, or something even more sinister?

The War of 1812

The War of 1812

Search ‘1812’ on your favourite social media platform and you’ll get a surprising number of hits for a war from 213 years ago. Until a few weeks back, I doubt one person in a thousand could tell you anything about the war if they lived in either Britain or America. Rather more knew about it in Canada.

Why the sudden interest?

In a recent speech at Mar-a-Lago, Donald Trump threatened military force to take control of Greenland and the Panama canal. He also expressed enthusiasm for the idea of making Canada the 51st state. When asked if he might consider military force against the Canadians, he replied that he would not use troops but, rather, “economic force”. Doubtless the reassurance that Canada would not face American tanks rolling across the border will have come as a relief to the folks living north of the 45th parallel but the threat of economic force is still a belligerent threat. Many Canadians view Trump’s speech as a preparation for a hostile annexation of their country. This has reminded people that the USA has history in this regard. In 1812, American troops invaded Canada with the intention of seizing the territory from the control of the British and allowing the growing United States to expand northwards.

What AI imagines Trump might have looked like leading his forces in 1812

The War of 1812 was a real war but, in world affairs, rather overshadowed by events in Europe, where the continent was engaged in a brutal conflict with Napoleon. In fact, if you ask any European to tell you about military conflict in 1812, their most likely response (after ‘I don’t know anything about history’) will mention Napoleon’s march on Moscow, if only because Tchaikovsky wrote his famous 1812 Overture about it.

With the British army and navy having other things to do, there were few British troops available to fight in North America. The war was therefore fought between US troops and state militias on one side and a small British force, reinforced by Canadian militia. Both sides also made tactical alliances with Native American tribes, although the native forces were generally more sympathetic to the British, who some of them considered might offer protection against US expansion into their territories. The Americans and British also fought on the high seas with ships of both nations duelling it out in what was effectively a separate conflict.

The result was, perhaps inevitably, a scrappy little war which dragged on for almost two years. With such a long border and few settlements within striking distance, the war degenerated into little more than a series of raids. The Americans would burn a village in Canada; the Canadians would burn a slightly bigger village in the United States; the Americans would burn a town in Canada and so it went on until, in 1814, the British eventually burned down the White House.

For Canadians, the war was a serious affair. Thousands were killed in battle or died of disease during the war. Canadians saw it as, in the literal sense of the word, an existentialist contest. Defeat would have meant the end of their country. At the time, Canada was British colony. Although the Canadians relied on the British Army for defence in 1812, many historians consider that driving the Americans out of their country was a significant point in their development as a nation.

For Americans, the War of 1812 became part of their country’s foundation myth. It was when the young country came of age, taking on the mighty British Empire and fighting them to a standstill. As with most myths, the historical facts of the war are often subverted to serve the interests of the myth makers. In reality, the war was an inconclusive affair. When Napoleon was exiled to Elba in 1814, the Americans realised that Britain would soon turn its full naval might against them. British reinforcements were already on their way to Canada and America was anxious to end the war before they faced almost certain defeat.

The resulting peace settlement restored the situation that had existed before the war started. The pre-war borders were reinstated. The lives lost had been sacrificed for nothing. In the end, the only real losers were the native Americans. Britain made a token effort to protect its tribal allies in the peace treaty that ended the conflict, but both sides knew that the British would not go to war to protect the indigenous people. Deprived of the opportunity to expand northwards, the United States pursued its movement west with renewed vigour and acted ruthlessly against any native tribes that got in the way. In 1800 the Native American population of what was to become the United States was estimated at 600,000. By the decade 1890-1900 it was down to around 237,000.

Until now, most people seemed happy to let the events of 1812 be forgotten. In the last few weeks, they suddenly seem relevant again. Canadians, at least, are remembering the war. They’re not very happy about what happened. Perhaps the rest of us might try to recall it and avoid another messy (but hopefully bloodless) unnecessary conflict.

Burke and the War of 1812

It’s not often that my books about the adventures of the British spy, James Burke, are suddenly caught up in the affairs of the modern world. Burke was a real person who spied for the British during the Napoleonic Wars. Although my first Burke adventure, Burke in the Land of Silver, is closely based on truth, his subsequent adventures are largely fictional. There is no evidence that he ever operated in North America, but he moved around a lot and may well have been involved in events there. At the urging of fans who enjoy reading about the War of 1812, I have written a story featuring native Americans, the Washington of the time, the Ohio militia, the siege of Detroit, and the betrayals and double-dealings that are part of Burke’s stock in trade. It’s all fun and games until somebody loses an eye, as my mother used to say, or, in this case until a farcical series of political misjudgements creates a bloody conflict that brought no good to anyone. As I said, “Suddenly caught up in the affairs of the modern world.”

Burke in the Land of Silver, is currently out with beta readers. (Let me know if that’s something you would be interested in.) Assuming they don’t find too many mistakes, it should be published early this Spring.

Picture Credits

Featured image shows the British burning Washington from Paul M. Rapin de Thoyras’ book, The History of England, from the Earliest Periods, Volume 1 (1816). Source: Library of Congress

Other pictures:

Pencil drawing depicting soldiers starting the fire in the White House is from the New York Public Library

The Battle of Queenston Heights, 13 October 1812. Library and Archives Canada, 2895485

York House: a grand house on the Thames

This is York House, the town hall in Twickenham

It has a very French look to it, doesn’t it? I’d guessed it was built in the 19th century and much of its appearance now dates back to the second half of the 19th century when it was remodelled by the Duc d’Orleans after his family lost the throne of France and lived for a while in Twickenham. The house, though, is much older than that.

This stretch of the Thames, often referred to as the Arcadian Thames, used to have many great houses built looking out over the river. The Thames was a significant highway connecting the royal palaces of Westminster (and later St James) and Hampton Court. Kings and queens found it a convenient way to travel between their official residences and people who aspired to high social status wanted to live along their route. Today, the most obvious survivors are Marble Hill House (built in 1724) and Ham House (1610). Alexander Pope had a smaller, but still substantial, house built after he moved to Twickenham in 1719 and that was where he installed his famous grotto. His house was demolished (though the grotto survives) and that seems to be that as far as the riverside houses go.

Appearances can be deceptive. Hiding away behind the 19th century façade of York House is a Jacobean building, dating back to the 17th century. We cannot be sure when it was built, although there is some evidence that it may have been around 1635. The house had the H shaped floor plan typical of grand houses of the period and this can still be glimpsed in the centre block of the modern building. (The wings are much later additions.)

The Jacobean house would have looked very different. The original entrance was in the left hand bay as you look from the front. The entrance was moved when the house was remodelled and the original entrance hall is now rather a scrappy bit of office space. You can see that the windows do not match those on the right because originally there were no windows there.

The inside of the house has been dramatically changed about several times and it’s difficult to get an idea of what it would originally have looked like. The Jacobean entrance led directly into a hall with a rather splendid wooden staircase which has survived. Unfortunately it’s almost impossible to get a decent photograph of it, in part because a lift was installed up through the middle which is not a thing of beauty. The ceiling at the top of the staircase is not original but it has outlasted several renovations and is worth noticing.

The newel post at the foot of the stairs shows some fine Jacobean workmanship.

The hall led directly into the dining room. When the entrance was moved to the centre of the frontage, the dining room became the main entrance hall but the original Jacobean fire surround remains, the most striking feature of the old building.

One of the ceilings may date back to when the house was built. The plaster decoration shows various water birds, presumably reflecting the fact that the room faces towards the nearby river.

Although so little of the original house remains, its history is fascinating. The house went through many notable owners. The second Earl of Manchester was a friend of Charles I who went on to become a general for the Parliamentarians before becoming Lord Chamberlain to Charles II. This flexible courtier lived at York House in the mid 17th century. Later, it seems to have come into the hands of the Earl of Clarendon, although it’s not sure if he was ever the legal owner. Later owners included several British aristocrats but its most celebrated tenants were French. In 1864 the Comte de Paris moved in. He was the heir to the French throne but had to leave the country when revolution broke out in 1848. He added substantially to the house which by then had already sprouted various new wings and servants’ quarters. When political changes in France made it possible for him to move back there, he abandoned York House in 1871. The French returned in 1897 when the Pretender to the French throne the Duc d’Orleans (King Philippe VIII to his followers) moved in. The distinctively French look of the house nowadays is largely down to him. He made major alterations to the building. Local sources suggested that he spent £40,000 on the work. This is probably an exaggeration but he definitely made changes on a grand scale. A new wing was added which included a swimming pool and his own museum for his hunting trophies. Electricity was installed and a mile of new drainage pipes. Much of the decoration was in the style of the reigns of Louis XIV-XVI and fleur de lys popped up everywhere including rainwater pipes.

His personal cipher also appeared around the house, for example on these rather splendid finger plates on the interior doors.

The Duc d’Orleans made himself unpopular with the locals, partly by cutting off access to what had been open land and partly by his support of the Boers during the Boer War. The result was that he spent less and less time in Twickenham, eventually selling the house to the Indian industrialist, Sir Ratan Tata, the owner of Tata Steel. The interior of the house was once again redesigned but the most striking addition was the construction of an elaborate fountain in the grounds, featuring sea nymphs and horses.

These are known locally as “the naked ladies” and have given their name to a craft beer brewed in the area.

The additions to the house are more obvious at the rear where the range of different architectural styles is more obvious.

York House is now owned by the local authority and used for ceremonial occasions and for council meetings. It’s a popular wedding venue. It’s unlikely that many of those posing for wedding photographs there realise that they are standing in front of a house that was built around 400 years ago and is one of the last survivors of the grand houses that used to line the Thames.

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas!

This time next week Christmas will have come and gone, though our celebrations, like many other people’s, will still be in full flow. This will be my last blog post of the year so I wish you all a really lovely Christmas and I will see you in 2025.

My Christmas picture (above) shows the decorations in Seven Dials. They are really pretty. I posted this picture last month together with a bit of history about the sundial that all the lights are arranged around. You can read about it HERE.

At this time of year, writers often like to include something from one of their books that references Christmas. That’s always a problem for me. My characters are usually away from England at Christmas time and are often quite busy fighting wars. Christmas hardly features. There’s more than usual about Christmas in my current WIP, Burke and the War of 1812, but, even so, it barely rates a mention. Burke has gone off to do something important somewhere comfortable, leaving poor William Brown, who often gets left doing the hard work, to spend winter living with the Shawnee tribe in a camp in what is now Indiana. Here’s his experience of Christmas.

Christmas came and went. William wasn’t sure of the day but he taught the Shawnee some carol tunes which they sang with their own words. William didn’t understand what they were singing and thought he would be happier not knowing, but the tunes provided some comfort as the shortest day came and went and the weather grew colder.

I hope your Christmas is more fun than his.

I’m always impressed by people who turn out short stories at the drop of a hat. I did do a special Christmas short story last year but I’m not going to manage this feat twice. Last year’s story was not historical but features Galbraith and Pole, the main characters in my Urban Fantasy series. It’s set soon after the two of them meet (in Something Wicked) and it’s an unashamedly sentimental tale of Christmas Eve. If you haven’t already read it, it’s still available HERE.

That’s all for this week, this Christmas and this year. I wish you all the best for the holidays and hope people give you lots of books.

Historical novels for Christmas

I’ve been using my blog recently to suggest that you might like to consider buying some of my books as Xmas gifts. This week, I thought I’d take the opportunity to feature some other historical novelists whose books you might enjoy.

Penny Hampson

Penny is one of the contributors to Tales of Empire which features four short stories by different writers, including me. At just £2.99 in paperback, it is a stocking filler at a stocking filler price.

Penny writes (amongst other things) Regency novels with a strong romantic element. She’s chosen to feature her latest, An Adventurer’s Contract.

A man on the hunt for a traitor. A woman in search of the truth.

Gabrielle Mercer is in trouble. Her cousin is missing, her father’s death looks like murder, and now there are rumours she is spying for the French. With no one to turn to, dare she accept help from a man she doesn’t like? 

Jack Ashdown is on a mission to unmask a ruthless spy. Could it be the reclusive young Frenchwoman who has made no secret of her contempt for Englishmen like himself? Perhaps Gabrielle’s predicament will be the perfect opportunity to win her trust and do some spying of his own.

Getting close to one’s enemy is a dangerous option, but the stakes for Jack and Gabrielle are too high to ignore. Will their gamble to trust one another lead to disaster, or will they discover that neither of them is what they seem? 

You can buy An Adventurer’s Contract at https://mybook.to/AnAdventurersContract

Deborah Swift

I’m in awe of Deborah Swift whose books range from the Civil War to World War II. She’s chosen to feature one of my favourites, The Poison Keeper.

Discover the story of Giulia Tofana, Renaissance poisoner. When Giulia’s mother is accused of attempting to poison the Duke de Verdi, Giulia must go on the run. She goes to her Aunt Isabetta, a courtesan, but the Duke has his spies, and will not let her go so easily.

BookViral Gold Medal Winner and Wishing Shelf Book of the Decade.

Universal link  http://mybook.to/PoisonKeeper

Jennifer Ash

Jennifer Ash is one of the pseudonyms of Jenny Kane, who uses different names to differentiate her books in different genres. Her Jennifer Ash persona is my favourite. Behind the plot line of her Folville Chronicle series sits a huge amount of historical research she did over twenty-five years ago when she studied for a PhD in fourteenth century English crime.

The Folville Chronicles is a set of four novels (The Outlaw’s Ransom, The Winter Outlaw, Edward’s Outlaw and Outlaw Justice). This fourteenth-century, historical crime, series features Mathilda of Twyford, a 19 year old potter’s daughter, who suddenly finds herself a prisoner in the Folville brother’s manor in Ashby-Folville, Leicestershire.

This series of murder-mysteries are set in the winter months, with book two, The Winter Outlaw, featuring the Christmas period – but before Mathilda and the brothers can celebrate, they need to find out just who the winter outlaw is…

The Folville Chronicles (4 book series) Paperback edition

Lynn Bryant

Lynn writes the hugely popular Peninsular War Saga, following the adventures of a fictional Light Division brigade fighting under Wellington as the French are driven out of Spain. The brigade might be fictional but the details of the military history are painstakingly accurate and she provides a brilliantly clear picture of the campaign. Personally I prefer the naval adventures in her less well known Manxman books. I raved about the first in the series, An Unwilling Alliance, when it first came out (my review is HERE). It centres on the British attack on Copenhagen in 1807  and I can wholeheartedly recommend it.

You can buy the paperback HERE.

Antoine Vanner

Antoine Vanner’s novels, about naval warfare in the early days of steam, follow the adventures of the fictional Nicholas Dawlish as he rises up the ranks in battles in locations from Denmark, Turkey, Paraguay and the United States to Cuba, Korea, Britain, East Africa and the Sudan. This year is his first venture into non-fiction, with a book about naval exploits in the age of sail. Broadside and Boarding is a collection of some eighty stories, ideal for coffee breaks, or whenever you want a short but fascinating read. Buy it now in paperback and get it in time for Christmas. https://www.amazon.co.uk/Broadside-Boarding-Small-action-Fighting/dp/1943404550.

Tis the Season to Buy More Books

Tis the Season to Buy More Books

They say that if you want to make God laugh, you should tell him your plans. I had some vague plans about using November blog posts to try to sell the odd book. Even with my attempts to cut back on blogging, I still post something almost every week and most of them are remarkably unconnected to the business of getting you to buy the stuff I write. So November should be nose-to-tail selling posts. Then I suddenly got my spot on the NHS waiting list to get a new elbow (details HERE if you’re interested) and my selling blogs skidded to an unscheduled stop.

So here we are in December and I hope that I still have time to encourage you to buy a friend one of my Galbraith & Pole books for Christmas.

Galbraith & Pole is my foray into Urban Fantasy. I didn’t even know what urban fantasy was until I started to write it. Apparently it’s fantasy stories (in my case featuring vampires, werewolves, and mad scientists doing exciting things with genetic modification) which are set in a realistic contemporary environment. If you’ve read Rivers of London, that’s the sort of thing I mean. (And if you haven’t, can I suggest that you should?)

I’ve written three Galbraith and Pole stories so far and I hope to write more. They are an awful lot less work than historical fiction (he said with feeling after nine months stuck in the world of 1812). I really enjoy doing them but, sadly, with only three they don’t have the visibility of the James Burke series. People who have discovered them seem to like them. Here are some comments on Amazon:

  • A cleverly-conceived, well-written and excellently plotted novel about murder, policing, vampires, and Tango… fresh, original, and hugely entertaining.
  • This is a fast paced good read … I shall never look at Brompton Cemetery in quite the same way again! 
  • If a book can be too engaging and unputdownable, then this one is a great example of such a novel.
  • Fun and fast to read, with just the right amount of black in its comedy.

All three are available in paperback at £6.99. They make excellent Christmas gifts.