Acceptable Loss (William Monk Series #17)

( 26 )

Overview

“Give her a good murder and a shameful social evil,” The New York Times Book Review once declared, “and Anne Perry can write a Victorian mystery that would make Dickens’s eyes pop.” And Perry’s new William and Hester Monk story, a mesmerizing masterpiece of innocence and evil on London’s docks, outshines all her previous novels in this successful and beloved series.

When the body of a small-time crook named Mickey Parfitt washes up on the tide, no one grieves; far from it. But ...

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Acceptable Loss (William Monk Series #17)

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Overview

“Give her a good murder and a shameful social evil,” The New York Times Book Review once declared, “and Anne Perry can write a Victorian mystery that would make Dickens’s eyes pop.” And Perry’s new William and Hester Monk story, a mesmerizing masterpiece of innocence and evil on London’s docks, outshines all her previous novels in this successful and beloved series.

When the body of a small-time crook named Mickey Parfitt washes up on the tide, no one grieves; far from it. But William Monk, commander of the River Police, is puzzled by the expensive silk cravat used to strangle Parfitt. How did this elegant scarf—whose original owner was obviously a man of substance—end up imbedded in the neck of a wharf rat who richly deserved his sordid end?

Dockside informers lead Monk to what may be a partial answer—a floating palace of corruption on the Thames managed by Parfitt, where a captive band of half-starved boys are forced to perform vile acts for men willing to pay a high price for midnight pleasures. Although Monk and his fearless wife, Hester, would prefer to pin a medal on Parfitt’s killer, duty leads them in another direction—to an unresolved crime from the past, to blackmail and more murder, and to a deadly confrontation with some of the empire’s most respected men.

To a superlative degree, Acceptable Loss provides colorful characters, a memorable portrait of waterfront life, and a story that achieves its most thrilling moments in a transfixed London courtroom, where Monk faces his old friend Oliver Rathbone in a trial of nearly unbearable tension—in sum, every delectable drop of the rich pleasure that readers expect from an Anne Perry novel.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

“Fascinating and fast-paced . . . will keep readers entranced.”—Wichita Falls Times Record News
 
“[An Anne Perry novel can] take us away to the far reaches of our imaginations, to a place and a time about which we can only dream. . . . We see the gaslight, we feel the fog, and in Perry’s latest, Acceptable Loss, we experience the horror of murder, blackmail and sordid crime, as well as the shining victory of heroic sacrifice and personal courage.”—Asbury Park Press
 
“The real drama in the story involves the struggle between loyalty and truth. Questions of morality and painful choices haunt every chapter.”—Lincoln Journal Star
 
“Terrific . . . Readers will not be prepared for the twists and turns that lay in wait.”—Bookreporter

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780345510600
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 8/9/2011
  • Series: William Monk Series , #17
  • Pages: 320
  • Sales rank: 1,399,536
  • Product dimensions: 6.30 (w) x 9.58 (h) x 1.15 (d)

Meet the Author

Anne Perry

Anne Perry is the bestselling author of two acclaimed series set in Victorian England: the William Monk novels, including Execution Dock and Dark Assassin, the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novels, including Treason at Lisson Grove and Buckingham Palace Gardens. She is also the author of a series of five World War I novels, as well as eight holiday novels, most recently A Christmas Odyssey, and a historical novel, The Sheen on the Silk, set in the Ottoman Empire. Anne Perry lives in Scotland.

Biography

Born in London in October 1938, Anne Perry was plagued with health problems as a young child. So severe were her illnesses that at age eight she was sent to the Bahamas to live with family friends in the hopes that the warmer climate would improve her health. She returned to her family as a young teenager, but sickness and frequent moves had interrupted her formal education to the extent that she was finally forced to leave school altogether. With the encouragement of her supportive parents, she was able to "fill in the gaps" with voracious reading, and her lack of formal schooling has never held her back.

Although Perry held down many jobs—working at various times as a retail clerk, stewardess, limousine dispatcher, and insurance underwriter—the only thing she ever seriously wanted to do in life was to write. (In her '20s, she started putting together the first draft of Tathea, a fantasy that would not see print until 1999.) At the suggestion of her stepfather, she began writing mysteries set in Victorian London; and in 1979, one of her manuscripts was accepted for publication. The book was The Cater Street Hangman, an ingenious crime novel that introduced a clever, extremely untidy police inspector named Thomas Pitt. In this way an intriguing mystery series was born…along with a successful writing career.

In addition to the Thomas and Charlotte Pitt novels, Perry crafts darker, more layered Victorian mysteries around the character of London police detective William Monk, whose memory has been impaired by a coach accident. (Monk debuted in 1990's The Face of a Stranger.) She also writes historical novels set during the First World War (No Graves as Yet, Shoulder the Sky, etc.) and holiday-themed mysteries (A Christmas Journey, A Christmas Secret, etc), and her short stories have been included in several anthologies.

Good To Know

Some fun and fascinating outtakes from our interview with Anne Perry:

The first time I made any money telling a story I was four and a half years old—golden hair, blue eyes, a pink smocked dress, and neat little socks and shoes. I walked home from school (it was safe then) with my lunchtime sixpence unspent. A large boy, perhaps 12 or 13, stopped me. He was carrying a stick and threatened to hit me if I didn't give him my sixpence. I told him a long, sad story about how poor we were—no food at home, not even enough money for shoes! He gave me his half crown—five times sixpence! It's appalling! I didn't think of it as lying, just escaping with my sixpence. How on earth he could have believed me I have no idea. Perhaps that is the knack of a good story—let your imagination go wild, pile on the emotions—believe it yourself, evidence to the contrary be damned. I am not really proud of that particular example!

I used to live next door to people who had a tame dove. They had rescued it when it broke its wing. The wing healed, but it never learned to fly again. I used to walk a mile or so around the village with the dove. Its little legs were only an inch or two long, so it got tired, then it would ride on my head. Naturally I talked to it. It was a very nice bird. I got some funny looks. Strangers even asked me if I knew there was a bird on my head! Who the heck did they think I was talking to? Of course I knew there was a bird on my head. I'm not stupid—just a writer, and entitled to be a little different. I'm also English, so that gives me a second excuse!

On the other hand I'm not totally scatty. I like maths, and I used to love quadratic equations. One of the most exciting things that happened to me was when someone explained non-Euclidean geometry to me, and I suddenly saw the infinite possibilities in lateral thinking! How could I have been so blind before?

Here are some things I like—and one thing I don't:

  • I love wild places, beech trees, bluebell woods, light on water—whether the light is sunlight, moonlight, or lamplight; and whether the water is ocean, rain, snow, river, mist, or even a puddle.

  • I love the setting sun in autumn over the cornstooks.

  • I love to eat raspberries, pink grapefruit, crusty bread dipped in olive oil.

  • I love gardens where you seem to walk from "room to room," with rambling roses and vines climbing into the trees and sudden vistas when you turn corners.

  • I love white swans and the wild geese flying overhead.

  • I dislike rigidity, prejudice, ill-temper, and perhaps above all, self-righteousness.

  • I love laughter, mercy, courage, hope. I think that probably makes me pretty much like most people. But that isn't bad.
  • Read More Show Less
      1. Also Known As:
        Juliet Hulme
      2. Hometown:
        Portmahomack, Ross-shire, U.K
      1. Date of Birth:
        October 28, 1938
      2. Place of Birth:
        Blackheath, London England

    Read an Excerpt

    chapter

    1

    Hester was -half--asleep when she heard the slight sound, as if someone were taking in a sharp breath and then letting out a soft, desperate gasp. Monk was motionless beside her, his hand loose on the pillow, his hair falling over his face.

    It was not the first time in the last two weeks that Hester had heard Scuff crying in the night. It was a delicate relationship she had with the boy she and Monk had befriended. He had lived on the streets by the river and had largely provided for himself, which had made him wise beyond his age, and fiercely independent. He considered he was looking after Monk, who in Scuff's opinion lacked the knowledge and the fierce survival instincts required for his job as head of the Thames River Police at Wapping, in the heart of the London docks.

    Until last month Scuff had come and gone as he'd pleased, spending only the occasional night at Monk's house in Paradise Place. However, since his kidnapping, and the atrocity on the boat at Execution Dock, he had come to live with them, going out only for short periods during the day, and tossing and turning at night, plagued by nightmares. He would not talk about them, and his pride would not let him admit to Hester that he was frightened of the dark, of closed doors, and, above all, of sleep.

    Of course she knew why. Once the tight control he kept over himself in his waking hours slipped from him, he was back on the boat again, curled up on his side beneath the trapdoor to the bilges, nailed in with the -half--rotted corpse of the missing boy, fighting the swirling water and the rats, the stench of it making him gag.

    In his nightmares it did not seem to matter that he was now free, or that Jericho Phillips was dead; Scuff had seen the man's body himself, imprisoned in the iron cage in the river, his mouth gaping open as the rising tide trapped him, choking off his voice forever.

    Hester heard the gasping sound again, and slipped out of bed. She pulled on a wrap, not so much for warmth in the late September night, but for modesty so as not to embarrass Scuff if he was awake. She crept across the room and along the passage. His bedroom door was open just wide enough for him to pass through. The gas lamp was on low, maintaining the fiction that she had forgotten and left it on, as she did every night. Neither of them ever mentioned this.

    Scuff was lying tangled in the sheets, the blankets slipped halfway to the floor. He was curled up in just the same position as they had found him in when she and the -rat--catcher, Sutton, had pried open the trapdoor.

    Without debating with herself anymore, Hester went into the room and picked up the blankets, placing them over him and tucking them in lightly. Then she stood watching him. He whimpered again, and pulled at the sheet as if he were cold. She could see in the faint glow of the gaslight that he was still dreaming. His face was tight, eyes closed hard, jaw so clenched he must have been grinding his teeth. Every now and again his body moved, his hands coming up as if to reach for something.

    How could she wake him without robbing him of his pride? He would never forgive her for treating him like a child. And yet his cheeks were smooth, his neck so slender and his shoulders so narrow that there was nothing of the man in him yet. He said he was eleven, but he looked about nine.

    What lie would he not see through? She could not waken him without tacitly admitting that she had heard him crying in his dream. She turned and walked back to the door and went a little way along the passage. Then a better idea came to her. She tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen and poured a glass of milk. Then she took four cookies and put them on a plate. She went back upstairs, careful not to trip over her nightgown. Just before she reached his room, she deliberately banged the door of the linen cupboard. She knew it might waken Monk as well, but that could not be helped.

    When she reached Scuff's room, he was lying in bed with the blankets up to his chin, fingers gripping them, eyes wide open.

    "You awake too?" she said, as if mildly surprised. "So am I. I've got some milk and cookies. Would you like half?" She held up the plate.

    He nodded. He could see there was only one glass, but the milk did not matter. It was the chance to be awake and not alone that he wanted.

    She came in, leaving the door ajar, and sat on the edge of the bed. She put the glass on the table beside him and the plate on the blankets.

    He picked up a biscuit and nibbled it, watching her. His eyes were wide and dark in the low lamplight, waiting for her to say something.

    "I don't like being awake at this time of the night," she said, biting her lip a little. "I'm not -really hungry; it just feels nice to eat something. Have the milk if you want it."

    "I'll take 'alf," he said. Food was precious; he was always fair

    about it.

    She smiled. "Good enough," she agreed, picking up a biscuit herself so he would feel comfortable eating.

    He reached for the glass, holding it with both hands. He drank some, then looked at it to measure his share, drank a little more, then handed it to her. He sat very upright in the bed, his hair tousled and a rim of white on his upper lip.

    She wanted to hold him, but she knew better. He might have wanted it too, but he would never have allowed such an admission. It would mean he was dependent, and he could not afford that. He had lived in the docks, scavenging for pieces of coal off the barges, brass screws, and other small valuable objects that had fallen off boats into the Thames mud. The low tide allowed boys like -him--mudlarks--to survive. He had a mother somewhere, but perhaps she had too many younger children, and neither the time nor room to care for him. Or maybe she had a new husband who did not want another man's son in the house. Boys like himself had been his friends, sharing food, warmth, and one another's pain, comrades in survival.

    "Have another biscuit," Hester offered.

    "I've 'ad two," he pointed out. "That was 'alf."

    "Yes, I know. I took more than I wanted," she replied. "I thought I was hungry, but now I'm just awake."

    He looked at her carefully, deciding if she meant it, then took the last biscuit and ate it in three mouthfuls.

    She smiled at him, and after a moment he smiled back.

    "Are you sleepy?" she asked.

    "No_._._."

    "Nor am I." She hitched herself up a little so she could sit on the bed with her head against the headboard beside him, but still keeping a distance away. "Sometimes when I'm awake I read, but I haven't got a good book at the moment. The newspaper's full of all sorts of things I don't -really want to know."

    "Like wot?" he asked, twisting round so he was facing her a little more, settling in for a conversation.

    She listed off a few social events she remembered, adding where they had been held and who had attended. Neither of them cared, but it was something to say. Presently she wandered off the subject and remembered past events, describing clothes and food, then behavior, wit, flirting, disasters, anything to keep him entertained. She even recalled the chaotic remembrance service where her friend Rose had been hopelessly and unintentionally drunk; she had climbed onto the stage and seized the violin from the very earnest young lady who had been playing it, and had then given her own rendition of several current music hall songs, growing bawdier with each.

    Scuff giggled, trying to picture it in his mind. "Were it terrible?" he asked.

    "Ghastly," Hester affirmed with relish. "She told them all the truth of what a fearful person the dead man had been, and why they had - really come. It was awful then, but I laugh every time I think of it now."

    "She were yer friend." He said the word slowly, tasting its value.

    "Yes," she agreed.

    "D'yer 'elp 'er?"

    "As much as I could."

    "Fig were my friend," he said very quietly. "I din't 'elp 'im. Nor the other neither."

    "I know." She felt the lump, hard and painful, in her throat. Fig was one of the boys Jericho Phillips had murdered. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

    "Yer can't 'elp it," he said reasonably. "Yer did yer best. No one can stop it." He moved an inch or two closer to her. "Tell me some more about Rose and the others."

    She had seen survivor's guilt before. In her nursing in the Crimea she had heard soldiers cry out from the same nightmares and had seen them waken with the same shocked and helpless eyes, staring at the comfort around them, and feeling the horror inside.

    She tried to think of something else to say to Scuff, happy things, anything to take away his memory of his own lost friends, adding a little more until she looked at him and saw his eyes closing. She lowered her voice, and then lowered it even more. He was so close to her now that he was touching her. She could feel the warmth of him through the sheet that separated them. A few minutes later he was asleep. Without being aware of it he had put his head against her shoulder. She stopped talking and lay still. It was a little cramped, but she did not move until morning, when she pretended to have been asleep also.

    After a breakfast of hot porridge, toast, and marmalade, Monk sent Scuff out on an errand and turned to Hester.

    "Nightmares again?" he asked.

    "Sorry," she apologized. "I knew I'd probably waken you, but I - couldn't leave him alone. I banged the door so-"

    "You don't need to explain." He cut across her. The ghost of a smile softened the angular planes of his face for a moment, and then it was gone again. He looked grim, full of a pain he did not know how to deal with.

    She knew he was remembering the terrible night on the river when Jericho Phillips had kidnapped Scuff to prevent Monk from completing the case against him, for which he would have assuredly hanged. Phillips had so very nearly succeeded. Had it not been for Sutton's little dog, Snoot, they would never have found the boy.

    "He's still afraid," she said quietly. "He knows Phillips is -dead-- he saw the drowned body in the -cage--but there are other people doing the same thing, other boats on the river that use boys for pornography and -prostitution--boys just like him, his friends. People we can't help. I don't know what to say to him, because he's far too clever to believe comforting lies. And I don't want to lie to him anyway. Then he'd never trust me in anything. I wish he -didn't care about them so much, and yet I'd hate it if he could feel safe only by never looking back. He thinks we can't help." She blinked hard. "William, parents ought to be able to help. That's part of what they are for. He sees us not even trying, just accepting defeat. He - doesn't even understand why he feels so guilty, and thinks he's betraying them by being all right. He won't believe that we don't secretly think the same of him, whatever we say."

    "I know." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "And that isn't the only problem."

    She waited, her heart pounding. They had avoided saying it; all their time and emotion was concentrated on Scuff. But she had known it would have to come. Now she looked at the lines of strain in Monk's face, the shadows around his eyes, the lean, high cheekbones. There was a vulnerability there that only she understood.

    She thought of Oliver Rathbone, who had been both Monk's friend and hers for so long, and beside whom they had fought desperate battles for justice, often at the risk of their reputations, even their lives. They had sat up for endless nights searching for answers, had faced victory and disaster together, horrors of grief, pity, and disillusion. Rathbone had once loved Hester, but she had chosen Monk. Then he had married Margaret Ballinger and found a happiness far better suited to his nature. Margaret could give him children, but more obvious than that, she was socially his equal. She was of a calmer, more judicious nature than Hester; she knew how to behave as Lady Rathbone, wife of the most gifted barrister in London, should.

    Was it -really conceivable that Margaret's father had been the power and the money behind Jericho Phillips's abominations? That is what Lord Justice Sullivan had claimed, right before his terrible suicide at Execution Dock. Hester longed for Monk to tell her that it was not true.

    "You heard what Rathbone said about Arthur Ballinger and Phillips?" Monk said.

    "Yes. Has he said anything more?"

    "No. I suppose there's nothing legal, or he would have. He'd have no choice."

    "You mean there's no proof, just Sullivan's -word--and he's dead anyway?"

    "Yes."

    "But you believe it?" That also was not -really a question.

    "Of course I do," he said very softly. "Rathbone believes it, and do you think he would if there were any way in heaven or hell that he could avoid it?"

    Monk lifted up his hand and touched Hester's cheek so softly, she felt the warmth of him more than the brush of his skin against hers.

    "I have to know if Ballinger was involved, for Scuff, so at least he knows I'm trying," he continued. "And Rathbone has to know too, however much he would prefer not to."

    "Are you going to speak to him?"

    "I've been avoiding it, and so has he. He's been in court on another case for the last two weeks, but it's finished now and I can't put it off any longer."

    "Are you sure he needs to know?" she pressed. "The pain of it would be intolerable, and he would have no choice but to do something about it."

    "That's not like you," he said ruefully.

    "To want to avoid someone else's pain?" She was momentarily indignant.

    "To be evasive," he corrected her. "You are too good a nurse to want to put a bandage on something that you know needs surgery. If it's gangrene, you must take off the arm, or the patient will die. You taught me that."

    "Am I being a coward?" She winced as she said the word. She knew that to a soldier, "coward" was the worst word in any language, worse even than "cheat" or "thief."

    From the Hardcover edition.

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    Customer Reviews

    Average Rating 4
    ( 26 )
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    See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 26 Customer Reviews
    • Posted June 24, 2011

      more from this reviewer

      Anne Perry uses strong characterizations to make her late nineteenth century argument that justice is for sale

      After years as an inquiry agent, William Monk is once again a police officer in charge of the Thames River Police at Wapping on the London docks. At night, boats containing children as cargo sail the river to satisfy the perversion of the affluent. Unknown to the pedophiles is that they are being photographed so that their supplier can blackmail them.

      Monk believes that the pimp of one of the boats that is found floating in the river was murdered due to a disagreement; as was another one a few months earlier. A nothing crook Mickey Parfitt was strangled to death by an expensive silk cravat used as a garrote. The scarf belongs toPolire Society member Rupert Cardew who denies murdering Parfitt even though he admits to participating in activities on the boat. The cop believes the man lacks the brains to run this operation. He follows clues that lead to an arrest of a highly regarded member of society. Monk's friend attorney Oliver Rathbone, believes the suspect might be guilty though he defends him to the best of his ability.

      Though the protagonist is back on the force, the latest Monk historical mystery once again affirms the Victorian Era class distinctions between the classes when it comes to crime and punishment; as the law is sold when it comes to the wealthy aristocracy and brutal to the middle class and the poor. Anne Perry uses strong characterizations to make her late nineteenth century argument that justice is for sale. However, this is Monk's case as he is a hound on the scent of the killer allowing nothing to intrude, not even his wife, until the case is closed.

      Harriet Klausner

      4 out of 6 people found this review helpful.

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    • Posted October 12, 2011

      Vivid Situations

      William Monk has a new job, head of the Thames River Police. His battle is not a new one, however. He failed to convict child-trafficker Jericho Phillips in the past and the abuse Phillips facilitated continues, funded by someone still unknown. The child Monk and Hester rescued from the clutches of that evil, Scuff, is settling in, although they still hear him crying in the night. Scuff says he's eleven, but looks about nine. If Monk can't stop the most recent manifestation of abuse, he will feel he's failed the boy.
      It seems to me that the Victorian England of this book was a time when morals were more sharply defined, more black and white, than they are now. The horror of an underground industry, one that panders to the perverted, juts starkly through Perry's lush prose. Some of the situations are quite vivid, just to warn you.
      A squalid little man, Mickey Parfitt, is found dead at the edge of the river. He's been bashed on the head, then strangled with a distinctive silk scarf. His unsavory companions, 'Orry (short for 'Orrible or Horrible) Jones, Tosh, and Crumble are questioned first, obvious initial suspects. But the scarf belongs to an aristocrat wastrel who is a benefactor of Hester's clinic for rescued women of the street. The abuse, and pornographic live shows involving very young boys, is taking place on a boat, so the murder and the trade are all within Monk's jurisdiction.
      No one is very interested in finding Parfitt's killer, since the world is better without him, but Monk is determined to find out who is supplying the money. If he doesn't, nothing will stop. The upper class seems united against Monk investigating and solving this crime. Depending on who murdered Parfitt, funding could be cut off for Hester's clinic and Monk could lose his job. Especially if Monk goes after the wrong person.

      Reviewed by Kaye George, Author of "Choke" for Suspense Magazine

      2 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted August 23, 2012

      !

      Why does harriet klausner feel the need to reveal every plot point of the book? Please bn. Stop her from ruining other ppls enjoyment. I mean, why read the book? She tells you everything that happens.

      1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted April 7, 2012

      Depth and darkness

      Perry offers in doses the bright light of Hester and William Monk, defenders of those unreached by pity, and waves of grief for the lives ruined by child pornography, secrets and blackmail. Monk has followed murderers through the depths of Victorian London's underbelly before, but this time the consequences hit close to home. This installment in the series is painted in loss and leaves readers at the end wondering how the characters will continue on in their endeavors for justice.

      1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted September 6, 2011

      Good Book

      Hope Anne Perry never stops writing. Her Monk series is so good. Just grab these books. great characters. Makes you feel the constraints of Victorian society. The plots are fresh. A great read.

      1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted February 15, 2013

      Anne Perry doesn't disappoint

      I am a big Perry fan and especially like when she writes about Monk and Hester. This book is a continuation in a way of Executioners Dock. That being said, I think you get more if you read her books in order. The characters develope over years of storytelling. Looking forward to reading A Sunless Sea which is her next Monk novel

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    • Anonymous

      Posted February 21, 2012

      Loved loved

      I loved this book could not put it down cant wait to read more of her books

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    • Anonymous

      Posted January 3, 2012

      Another Hit

      I LOVE this series!! Hester is such a strong woman and Monk is a wonderful character, but all the surrounding characters are full and help advance the story .

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    • Posted September 8, 2011

      This series continues to highly entertain

      I have read all the Monk series over the years and continue to be fascinated by the detail given to the Vicorian Era. The mystery involved with most of the stories is not the main attraction, but the characters and how they deal with the time they live in is always fresh. This story continues to follow that vein.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted November 24, 2011

      No text was provided for this review.

    • Anonymous

      Posted August 24, 2011

      No text was provided for this review.

    • Anonymous

      Posted July 28, 2013

      No text was provided for this review.

    • Anonymous

      Posted July 5, 2011

      No text was provided for this review.

    • Anonymous

      Posted September 3, 2011

      No text was provided for this review.

    • Anonymous

      Posted May 1, 2012

      No text was provided for this review.

    • Anonymous

      Posted August 24, 2011

      No text was provided for this review.

    • Anonymous

      Posted January 5, 2012

      No text was provided for this review.

    • Anonymous

      Posted August 24, 2011

      No text was provided for this review.

    • Anonymous

      Posted August 2, 2011

      No text was provided for this review.

    • Anonymous

      Posted April 29, 2012

      No text was provided for this review.

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