Half of London is watching as St Paul’s burns during the opening scene of The Ashes of London – Andrew Taylor’s first book in his historical mystery series featuring investigative clerk, James Marwood. We are there in the crowd as the rats scamper for their lives and the beloved cathedral begins to collapse. Out of the crowd, a boy runs towards the conflagration, and Marwood dashes to stop him. Only, he turns out to be a she and instead of explaining herself, the girl bites Marwood, making off with his cloak.
Yes, it’s 1666, the year that brought the Great Fire of London. You can feel the heat as Marwood views the scene he must report on to his bosses. It’s not easy being the son of a Fifth Monarchist, a follower of a faith that believes the current monarch (Charles II) should die in order to bring about the second coming of Christ. Marwood senior has served time in the tower for his beliefs, and this has left him frail and suffering from dementia. Young James has to manage his father, keep his demanding job at Whitehall, and investigate a murder – in this case, a body discovered in the ruins of St Pauls, with distinctive wounds – expertly stabbed at the top of the spine, hands tied together by the thumbs. Continue reading “Book Review: The Ashes of London by Andrew Taylor”
The last time I read a novel by this author, it was set in the world of art dealing and gallery exhibitions (The Gallery of Vanished Husbands). No points for guessing that this book has music as its background, the song collector of the title being Harry Fox-Talbet, a composer. The story is told over two time periods, the first just after World War Two, as Harry, his brothers, Jack and George, return with their father to the family mansion that had been requisitioned by the army for the duration.
Rebecca Kauffman’s second novel reminds me a little of Elizabeth Strout’s fiction (Olive Kitteridge, My Name Is Lucy Barton …). Perhaps it’s because 
A few pages into this book, you know you are in the hands of an Irish author. It’s got that chatty, let’s sit down and tell you a story manner that you often get with Irish authors. The first-person narration also helps, but most of all it’s that rambly, discursive but hugely entertaining style of writing that draws you in and won’t let go, even when the book is five hundred pages long, and could have been around 350. Maybe.
When my aunt died and we all met back at her house following the memorial service, of course, I prowled her bookshelves. She had quite a collection, having been for many years a speech and remedial reading teacher. In her living room were all the classics, in smart hard-cover editions, and I have no doubt she’d read them all, often. But in her bedroom was a whole shelf of Nora Roberts and another of Katie Fforde.
Closed Casket 
An author I’ve picked up fairly consistently over the years is Tracey Chevalier, who writes historical novels – you may remember The Girl with a Pearl Earring, which was made into a movie. Her books are usually a fairly light, engaging read, but she has a knack of digging out a very human story from an often overlooked corner of history.
When I went on holiday recently, I packed an assortment of books knowing I would have a few quiet hours away from the Internet and Netflix. I usually like to include an old favourite – you don’t want anything that will be too hard to get into on holiday – and that usually means Anne Tyler, one or two Agatha Christies or a Jane Gardam.
Judith McKinnon 