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Overview
Stoke Newington, 1863: Little Margaret Lovejoy is found brutally murdered in the outhouse at her family’s estate.
A few days later, a man is cut down in a similar manner on the doorstep of courtesan and professional detective Heloise Chancey’s prestigious address. At the same time, Heloise’s maid, Amah Li Leen, must confront events from her past that appear to have erupted into the present day.
Once again Heloise is caught up in a maelstrom of murder and deceit that threatens to reach into the very heart of her existence.
In this second instalment of the Heloise Chancey Mysteries, M.J Tjia brings us another enthralling historical crime where the twists and turns are as numerous and dark as the London streets which serve as their setting.
What Reviewers and Readers are saying:
‘Full of lush historical detail and brimming with breathless suspense, A Necessary Murder is a perfectly splendid read. Heloise Chancey is a sleuth for the ages,’ Tasha Alexander
‘A Necessary Murder is dark and terrifying with a compelling heroine. I couldn't wait to return to the world of Heloise Chancey,’ Sarah Ward
‘Another clever and compelling read by M.J. Tjia. This expertly written historical crime novelweaved an evocative story that put my life on hold until I finished the very last page,’ Caroline Mitchell
‘As with the first in this series, Tjia captures the contrasting atmosphere of mid-Victorian London to great effect – the opulence of Mayfair as before, but this time exploring Limehouse and the East India Dock Road. As a reader we are there with all our senses stimulated by the writing,’ David Evans
‘Well-crafted… strong prose and plotting’ Publishers’ Weekly
‘An enthralling historical crime story, where the twists and turns are as dark as the streets of Limehouse and the East India Dock, where it is partly set’ Crime Review
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781787198791 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Legend Press |
| Publication date: | 07/02/2018 |
| Series: | Heloise Chancey Mysteries , #2 |
| Pages: | 272 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 7.70(h) x 0.90(d) |
About the Author
Although M.J. grew up in Australia, she has always favoured British fiction, especially in the crime genre. Her inspirations include Agatha Christie, Allingham and Sayers, Val McDermid, Peter Robinson, R.D. Wingfield and Reginald Hill.
Read an Excerpt
Prologue
The heavy slop-pail bumps against Ruth’s leg as she walks down the path to the privy.
She holds her breath, careful that its malodorous contents don’t spill over the sides. She wishes the master would lay off the claret. The wire handle cuts into her fingers as she takes quick, short steps over the cobblestones and, keeping her nose averted from her burden, she fails to see the sparkle of dew on the heather florets that line the path, and the dawn rain that washes the dust from the wisteria leaves. A feathery, cool mist lights upon her upturned face, as she espies the brick outhouse at the bottom of the path.
She admires its sturdy lines just as she always does each morning when she empties the household’s chamber pots. Much more handsome than the servants’ privy, set a long way into the orchard, within a rickety, splintered structure. And most certainly fancier than anything Ruth’s grandmother experienced when she served up at the Dodds’ farm—leant up against a tree, was all, according to the old woman. Ruth shakes her head at the thought.
But, despite its promise of gentility, the household’s privy retains the sour stench to be found around any outhouse. Its pong mingles with the sweetness of the honeysuckles creeping up its walls, and the flowers’ rosy buds and thin, white tongues reach for her skirts as she brushes past to pull open the door.
There are two seats, one for the adults, and off to the left a smaller hole for the children of the house. Ruth sees that young Miss Margaret is on the smaller of the seats, and she apologises, starts to back out, but stops herself. The girl’s small feet are bare, not in her silk slippers, and Ruth notices that her nightdress neatly covers her legs, and is not drawn up to her waist as would be expected. She pauses, confused, and steps closer, peering in the dimness.
There is a dark stain down the front of the Miss Margaret’s linen nightdress. Ruth feels bile rise to her throat, even as she reaches forward, and says, “Miss Margaret, have you had a nose-bleed?”
The girl falls to the side, jaw slack, her head at an awkward angle, exposing a raw, livid slice to her throat. Ruth stumbles backwards into the fresh sunlight, the breath so heavily drawn from her body she thinks it will never enter again. She drops the pail, the master’s shit seeping into the earth, trickling a path through the pebbles into the last of the marigolds.
Finally, after moments of what feels like a vacuum of riotous clarity—the stench of the outhouse, the shivering of the flowers, the horror to be found slumped on the privy—Ruth’s breath returns, and she opens her mouth so that what trembles forth as a forced, harsh screech, transforms into a piercing clamour.