Padme's Library: 🎬🎭Saturday's Series Spotlight🎭🎬: Alasdair and Toby Investigations by Charlie Cochrane Part 1

Saturday, March 1, 2025

🎬🎭Saturday's Series Spotlight🎭🎬: Alasdair and Toby Investigations by Charlie Cochrane Part 1

An Act of Detection #1
Summary:

Stars of the silver screen Alasdair Hamilton and Toby Bowe wow the post WWII audiences with their performances. But when they depict Holmes and Watson life starts to imitate art. They get asked in by a friend to investigate a mysterious disappearance only to find a series of threatening letters—and an unwanted suitor—make real life very different from the movies.Then there's an unpleasant co-star who's found murdered during an opening night. Surely detection can’t be that hard?

The Case of the Grey Assassin #2
Summary:

Toby Bowe and Alasdair Hamilton make the perfect partnership onscreen and off. While hiding their relationship tests their acting skills to the utmost, a shared penchant for amateur detection challenges their intellect in a way that making films never can.

When a practical joker appears to be targeting Landseer Studios, they're the obvious men to investigate the affair but life turns tricky when they also get asked to help a film critic who's receiving threatening letters. Suddenly they're involved with the hunt for a serial killer and the case begins to cut too close to home for comfort...

An Act of Detection
Original Review September 2019:

The Case of the Overprotective Ass
This pair was just as fun and fascinating to read as they were the first time around in the author's Home Fires Burning duo. I loved reacquainting myself with the boys and although I recalled the outcome, I was never bored or put off having remembered the ending. Sometimes mysteries just cannot be revisited, knowing the whos and whats and whys just don't make it fun but not Charlie Cochrane's mysteries, I can reread them for years to come.

The Case of the Undesirable Actor

When I originally read Alistair and Toby in another of the author's collections I knew I wanted more. Now we got it. I won't speak for the mystery as I don't want to give anything away but there are plenty of twists and turns to keep you guessing right up to the reveal. As for the boys themselves, there are no doubts whatsoever how they feel about one another and though they can't love openly in 1950s England they can do so behind closed doors and that's enough for them. The friendships, the bickering, the romance, the banter, all blended with mayhem make this an absolute reading gem.

Overall Duet Review:

Let's face it, on the surface the idea that two actors playing Holmes and Watson trying their hands at a little real life detecting sounds like a cliche joke but it is really a perfect setup. Character driven fun mixed with loads of mayhem and set in a pretty accurate historical setting(I can't speak from personal knowledge that this is how the acting community behaved in 1950s London but knowing the author's love of history I'm willing to accept this as spot on) just makes her stories a joy to lose yourself in. Rom Com + Romantic Suspense = You Can't Put It Down.

Home Fires Burning containing The Case of the Overprotective Ass
Original Review February 2015:
Both tales are amazing. It's the simplest and easiest way to describe it. In This Ground Which Was Secured At Great Expense, you can't help but feel what Nicholas is going through. Not only is he dealing with the heartaches of war but he's also has his heart set on a man he didn't reveal his feelings for before leaving. He's given a chance at exploring physical love when he has a new tent mate in Nicholas. In The Case of the Overprotective Ass, we see 2 actors entertaining post WW2 audiences with Sherlock & Holmes but they are given a chance to play detectives for real. Alastair and Toby share similarities with Miss Cochrane's famed Orlando and Jonty from her Cambridge Fellows series, but they are definitely their own pair. Both tales, although shorter than what I would like, are most enjoyable and very entertaining reads.

The Case of the Grey Assassin #2

Original Review April 2023:

Yet another one that sat on my kindle shelf far longer than expected due to my decreased reading mojo. Better late than never I always say.

The Case of the Grey Assassin is a wonderful follow-up novel in Charlie Cochrane's Alasdair and Toby Investigations series. It is the second entry in the series and as the first, An Act of Deduction, was two novellas I was very excited to see them in their first full-on novel. Alasdair and Toby find two who done its before them, one an on-set serial prankster and two, the Grey Assassin serial killer. It may be hard to think of any serial killer story fall under the cozy genre but the lack of descriptive murderous detail allows it to keep the cozy moniker while still retaining it's level of dangerous mayhem. And of course, the personal side of Alasdair and Toby definitely heightens the fun.

As with the author's Cambridge Fellows Mystery series, the heat between the MCs is mostly off-page but the chemistry between the two is never in doubt. Watching them navigate their love while in the public eye at a time in a country where if caught they could actually find themselves behind bars not just publicly condemned as immoral perverts(history's POV not mine) is equal parts "AWWWW!" and "STOP LOOKING AT EACH OTHER!"😉. As their off-screen detection skills grow that too also increases their time under the microscope. Luckily the studio has their backs but there is still that fear of "will one look of longing too many be too hard to cover up?".

As for the cases, as you may expect from me, you have to read for yourself to discover the ins and outs of each. I can tell you that you will never be bored nor will ever be certain before the reveal, you may think you figured one or the other out but there's always something around the corner that makes you second, third, or even fourth guess yourself. That right there is what makes this mystery brilliant and Charlie Cochrane one of my favorite who-done-it storytellers. There isn't a single character or event that is there to simply stuff the pages, they all have a part to play and that too adds to the brilliance of where this all leads.

Cozy or violent, mystery is mystery to me and The Case of the Grey Assassin is mystery at it's finest, being historical with the perfect blend of romance, drama, and humor brings this mayhem a classic in the making. I've said it before and I'll say it again, the Brits just have a knack that makes them a mastery at mystery and Charlie Cochrane's Alasdair, Toby, and The Case of the Grey Assassin is a prime example. Definitely not to be missed by any mystery lover.

RATING:

An Act of Detection #1

The Case of the Overprotective Ass

London 1950

Chapter One

“Not so haughty, milady. You’re on the Swift Apollo now and the captain’s word is law.” Toby Bowe was a handsome man, but the innate cruelty in his voice was reflected in his expression, coarsening his naturally good looks. His slim mouth was curled in a leer and his blue eyes shone dark.

“Captain? You’re not fit to bear the title. You’re a black-hearted pirate and I won’t bow to your commands.”

“You won’t? What if you were made to?” Toby loomed over his prisoner. “Your fine Commodore Neville can’t come to your aid here. Look at the ocean, milady—there’s not a sail to be seen.”

“You’re not worthy to sup at the commodore’s feet, you scurvy knave…”

“Scurvy, am I? Just wait, you saucy wench…oh, I can’t go on with this, Alasdair. How can anyone talk such twaddle? Even Fiona can’t believe in any of it.”

Toby laid down his script with a sigh and ran his hands through the sort of unruly hair that even a pirate would have been ashamed of. His dark blond locks—usually slicked back with Brylcreem for the better depiction of fighter pilots or His Majesty’s soldiers—were hanging rakishly loose. “Why do we get given such rotten scripts?”

“I don’t think the studio’s bothered about the quality of dialogue so long as the cinema goers suspend disbelief.” Alasdair Hamilton, ‘The Man with the Golden Frown’, employed his trademark expression. The trio of Bowe, Hamilton and Fiona Marsden were the darlings of post-war British cinema, a touch of glamour and excitement in a world where austerity still hadn’t been shaken off. And when they weren’t lighting up the screen, they lit up the gossip columns, story after story and photo after photo of their latest exploits. Toby (hair carefully controlled on these occasions) was generally depicted with some heiress to a retail empire on his arm while Alasdair squired one of the minor European royals, usually chosen because the olive shades of her skin brought out the dark auburn of his hair.

Landseer wasn’t bothered if people said they went for formula over art, Alasdair always getting the girl, Fiona, and Toby suffering nobly as second fiddle. Toby didn’t complain, not given the off-screen perks; Fiona always got Alasdair by the time the credits rolled, but Toby kept him to go home with. Somehow or other the newspapers never seemed to get wind of that juicy little tidbit.

“Anyway,” Alasdair got up from the chair where he’d been taking Fiona’s part and ran an elegant finger along his friend’s sleeve, “you’ll be a wonderful pirate king.”

Toby snorted. “Judging by the costume sketches, I’m more Prince Rupert of the Rhine than Long John Silver. Perhaps if La Marsden’s dress shows enough cleavage, the people who’ve paid good money to see this tripe won’t notice how the plot’s been stolen and the dialogue resembles…” He struggled for an adequate metaphor. “Something you’d scrape off the ship’s head. It’s worse than your costume.”

Alasdair swiped the side of his lover’s head with the script they were supposed to be learning. It was a lovely day, the sun streaming through the drawing room windows, and no amount of either hard work or insults were going to spoil his mood. “The wardrobe girls think I’ll look very authentic.” He raised his left eyebrow—the one newly ensured with Lloyd’s and said to be worth fifty thousand pounds in box office takings. “Do you suppose that any officer in King George’s navy wore quite so much braid or so many flounces?”

“I think you’ll look like the Queen of the May. Not unattractive, though.” Toby stroked his friend’s chin. “Better than La Marsden.”

“At least you get to kiss her in this film—that makes a change.”

“And is that any sort of a consolation? Especially when she blacks my eye straight afterwards. I’d rather,” Toby’s fingers started to insinuate themselves under Alasdair’s collar, “be kissing the commodore.”

“Have you ever come across these modern acting theories? About inhabiting the role?” Alasdair, rather unsportingly, broke the clinch and the romantic mood.

“They’re worse tripe than this bloody script. Why on earth do you ask?” Toby was tetchy. It wasn’t fair, really. Under the constant scrutiny of the gossip columns, they had to be jolly careful to wangle any time together and rehearsing was a perfect excuse to be alone. They had to make the most of it—they should be making the most of it right now—and someone was insisting on ruining the mood.

“Because I thought we could employ it here, see if we can make this wretched script come alive.” If there was a bit of a spark in Alasdair’s eye, Toby didn’t notice it.

“Thinking myself into the role of Pirate King, you mean?” Toby shut his eyes and imagined a little frigate, all elegant lines and a Jolly Roger at the masthead. “It might work…”

“Ah. I had more in mind that I’d be the pirate for this particular exercise. You, my love,” Alasdair gently withdrew himself from smacking range, “need to find some empathy with Lady Jennifer.” He suddenly pounced, grabbing Toby and pushing him towards the Chesterfield. “Now, milady, you’ll find out what life aboard a pirate ship is really like.”

Toby shrieked. An impressive, feminine shriek, a good octave above his normal register. “Scurvy knave, unhand me.” He tried to swat Alasdair’s arm away, half-heartedly; the settee was big and comfy.

“Sheathe your claws, ma’am. I’m tired of grog and I mean to drink from your lips tonight.”

“Oooooooooh.” Toby gave a marvellous impression of Fiona’s standard on-screen response to anything frightening or annoying or surprising. Ex-public schoolboys were said to find it particularly stimulating, because it reminded them of sick bay and Matron. “Touch me not, my name’s…actually temptation won’t really work, will it, Alasdair, cut that line…touch me not in the name of Saint Hyacinth!”

“Don’t call on yer saints to ‘elp ‘ee now, missy.” They were at the edge of the Chesterfield now and one slight tip was going to send Lady Jennifer into grave peril and Toby into delight.

“Elp ‘ee now, missy? You’ve gone awfully common all of a sudden—distinct shades of Mummerset, as well. I thought Black-Hearted Fitzroy the pirate king was supposed to be rather posh, wrong side of the noble blanket and all that? Gone to the bad when the love of his life died of smallpox? That’s how I’ve been trying to play him.”

“Oh for goodness sake, are you going to allow me to try to ravish you or not?” Alasdair, giving up on the script entirely, grabbed his lover’s face between his hands and kissed him heartily. “Anyone would think you didn’t want to be snogged.”

“Lady Jennifer doesn’t.” Toby grabbed the script, fanning himself with it demurely as he went back into role. “Prithee, sir, do not divest me of my maidenhead.”

“That’s never in the script—the censor wouldn’t allow it.” Alasdair grinned. “If you’re going to improvise, at least do it realistically.”

“Spoilsport. Oh prithee, sir, do not molest me.” Toby looked coyly over the top of the thick wodge of paper. Lady Jennifer might be saying no but Toby was a different kettle of fish. That settee was calling and it was singing a dirty song. “Actually, Alasdair, if you were Fitzroy, I’d be inclined to say to hell with the Commodore, cast aside my corset, put on breeches and join your pirate band.” Toby threw down the script and threw himself onto the Chesterfield.

Alasdair sat down next to his lover, worming his arm around Toby’s waist, squeezing the succulent flesh lurking just underneath his silk shirt. “I’d say there’s nothing like it, milady. Especially if you get to share the captain’s hammock.”

“There’s an idea. That could be modern acting at its very best.” Toby reached up and ran his fingers through his Alasdair’s hair. “Come on, the script can wait.” He pulled his friend’s face towards him. “And if you’re a good boy, while we’re about it, you can talk to me like a pirate.”

“Ah, milady. Then I’ll be a-takin’ these here breeches of yourn and…”

Unfortunately, all pirate talk, real or feigned, had to be put on hold as Morgan, Alasdair’s incredibly discreet manservant, knocked loudly, gave enough time for those present to make themselves decent, then entered the room to announce that a Mr. Fisher was on the phone and seemed to be in an agitated state.

***

“The Old George theatre, please.” Toby settled himself into the cab, wondering how Morgan had managed to conjure one up so quickly and from almost nowhere.

“Actually, drop us in Trafalgar Square, if you would.” Alasdair settled down beside his friend. “I wouldn’t mind a few minutes’ walking and talking time before we face Johnny and whatever so-called crisis he’s dreamed up this time.”

“I suspect there won’t be any crisis at all. He’ll just be after money for charity. He usually is.” Toby watched the pedestrians struggling with umbrellas in the drizzle. London wasn’t at her best-behaved today, despite it being June. “We’ll be soaked through, in spite of our overcoats, but I’ll take the risk. I’ve always had a soft spot for St. Martin’s Lane, ever since Wings of Love débuted there.”

“Ah yes, of course.” Alasdair turned his gaze out onto the streets, too, thoughts turned inwards to a flood of memories.

Wings of Love had been the first production for the threesome, five years previously. Alasdair remembered reading the in-production press releases for the film with an ironic smile. The words that he was quoted as saying—I look forward very much to beginning filming, especially with so lovely a co-star—had been used as evidence of the likely blossoming of a classic on-screen partnership with Fiona Marsden, something that Landseer pictures would have loved. Worth pounds at the tills.

He’d never said the words, but they couldn’t have been more fitting.

Whichever bright spark in the press office had actually written his comments, they’d inadvertently hit on the entire truth, but it wasn’t La Marsden, as she was beginning to be called even then—though never to her face—who’d been the object of his anticipation. Right from the first meeting when they’d taken the pre-publicity stills, it had been Toby Bowe who’d got his leading man all of an internal flutter, on set and off.

Alasdair had heard of the term love at first sight, of course, although he’d pooh-poohed it as being fit only for a fairy tale. It had never happened to him, and therefore it couldn’t exist. But when Toby strolled into the room, a hint of swagger in his gait and a huge grin on his face, Alasdair had realised that such a thing not only could but did happen, and it had just come around the corner and thumped him one.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Not in public,” Alasdair whispered. Aloud, he said, “I was just thinking about Fiona’s dress, the one she wore for the opening night.”

“Dress? Is that what it was? I’ve seen more material in a handkerchief. Ah, we’re here.” From Trafalgar Square, they took to a series of small roads and back alleys to get to the theatre.

“I was worried the cabby was going to ask about Fiona. As usual.” Toby pulled up his collar.

“Tell me about it. Questions concerning Fiona always seem to end up with enquiries about whether we’re knocking around together.” Alasdair sounded cross, not just at the weather.

“I heard a rumour she’s got some sprig of the nobility on the hook. Maybe she’s given up on you at last.” Fiona would never catch Alasdair...but it was fun watching her try.

“Maybe. And maybe Johnny has given up on you, as well.” Alasdair gazed straight ahead, never giving Toby even a sideways glance. It was always the same when the topic of Johnny Fisher got broached. His attempted seduction of Toby in Brighton—and the various passes which he’d made before and after—were perennially held up and used in evidence against him. Alasdair couldn’t stand the man.

“I should jolly well hope so. He’s not even my type.” Toby drew his collar up even further. “I know what you’re up to, trying to delay our arrival at the theatre so you can work yourself up sufficiently for whatever scene you anticipate playing out. Well, I’m not prepared to dilly-dally about, not in this weather.” He broke into something like a trot and scooted along the street, bounding through the door of the theatre shaking the water off himself like a dog. Alasdair sighed and followed, at a more leisurely pace.

The Old George theatre sat back from St Martin’s Lane, trying to look both classy and brassy at the same time. It dated back to the Naughty Nineties and, inside, the opulence of the era hadn’t faded—neither bomb nor death watch beetle had got to it, nor had the damp risen in its walls or dripped into its timbers. It was currently riding a wave of popularity, giving theatre goers the sort of entertainment they craved. You could sail a damn sight closer to the wind than in the cinema, if you were canny enough.

Johnny Fisher had been left the place in his great uncle’s will, and a better legacy a man couldn’t have had. The theatre was in his blood—while he hadn’t been born in a trunk it had been a damn close run thing—and his family had expected him and his brother to enter what had been the Fisher profession these last four generations. Johnny had taken up his expected role quite willingly and trod the boards from Fleance through Ernest onwards and upwards. Now he picked and chose his stage roles, preferring to manage his little nest egg and to direct productions.

Johnny’s secretary, a lad with the biggest Adam’s apple Toby had ever seen, ushered them into his office—his splendidly opulent office—and Johnny produced a bottle of whisky. “Thank you for coming so promptly. I wasn’t interrupting anything vital, was I?”

“Just going through a script, that’s all.” Alasdair’s voice seemed convincing, although a touch too airy and light to suggest complete candour. “Practicing our lines.”

“Ah, the glamorous life of the actor.” Johnny took an elegantly tooled silver case from his pocket and offered both men a cigarette. Both refused, although they encouraged their host to carry on in spite of them. “I have a favour to ask the two of you.”

“Which set of waifs and strays has caught your eye this time? Shall I get the cheque book out straight away?” Toby made an elaborate mime of reaching into his inside pocket.

Johnny laughed. “Not on this occasion, although keep me in mind next time I organise a war widows’ treat and want you to act in it.”

“I think I’d rather pay the protection racket money and just give you fifty quid straight up.” Alasdair rolled his eyes.

“As you wish. It’s only a theoretical question, at the moment.” Johnny lit his cigarette; it looked like an actor’s gesture, aimed at ladies in the front row of the circle. “What I do have in mind is all too real and all too puzzling.” He paused, his wrist and hand forming a stylish angle, clearly all for effect.

“Out with it, then.” Alasdair didn’t want Toby getting impressed with the grace of the actor-manager’s movements.

“My secretary has disappeared. He didn’t turn up for work just over a week ago and I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him since.” Johnny looked genuinely concerned, although he was such a natural actor that any appearances had to be taken with a whole cellar of salt, let alone a pinch.

“Then who was that lad who let us in? The one with the Adam’s apple?” Toby tipped his head towards the door.

“Haven’t we all got Adam’s apples?” Alasdair raised the uninsured eyebrow.

“Not ones the size of a melon, we haven’t. Not a bad looking lad apart from that.” Toby held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I can’t help noticing these things.”

“His Adam’s apple or the fact that he’s pretty?” Johnny said, grinning. “That’s Hampson. I got him from an agency the day after Robin disappeared, just to tide me over. There’s something about him I can’t quite pin down—he lacks a sense of humour and that unnerves me, I suppose. With Robin I could have a laugh.”

“A bit of friendly banter?” Toby nodded. “Makes for a good working relationship.”

“Exactly, but with Hampson, it’s different. There’s no point in teasing the unteasable. It’s like,” he reached over and tapped Toby’s hand, “trying to seduce the unseducable.” A glint in his eye suggested he was doing it in part because Alasdair would be miffed.

“That would be me, then.” Toby whacked the hand that was molesting him. “Any complaints about his work?”

“No, nothing on the business side of things. He’s doing fine, but he’s not the same.” Johnny tapped the ash from his cigarette into a marble ashtray. “And he’s not that way inclined, in case anyone’s got a roving eye. He’s far too interested in the chorus girls.”

“But he’s not Robin?” Toby’s question implied that Robin might just have been that way inclined.

“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Johnny had evidently caught the drift. “There was no ‘interest’ between us. He was just the best assistant I’d ever had. One hundred per cent reliable, too.”

“Until he went walkabout.” Alasdair sat back, enjoying his erstwhile rival’s discomfort. “Hardly counts as reliable, does it?”

“That’s my whole point.” Johnny sounded exasperated, although whether at his secretary or at Alasdair wasn’t clear. “If he’d been habitually late or tended to go off for a day or two, then I wouldn’t be so worried. I want to know if he’s in trouble of some sort and whether I can help.”

“I would have thought the police would be better suited to finding that out—why haven’t you contacted them?” Alasdair was finding this whole interview more and more perplexing.

“I did contact them. I’m not an idiot, whatever else you think of me. Don’t answer that.” Johnny stubbed out his cigarette forcefully. “I held fire that first day, just in case word came through. The second day I rang the police, after I’d checked his lodgings and had been told he’d left for work as usual the previous morning.”

“And the police said?” Toby was clearly trying to sound the sympathetic one of the pair.

“They said they had better things to do with their time than go hunting grown men.”

“Did they, by Jove? I’ll have a word with my father about how his officers are addressing the populace.” Toby grinned; when your father was the Chief Constable of the Metropolitan Police, you could make sure your friends were treated with a bit of common decency. However, embarrassing his father by being caught cottaging wasn’t something Toby was ever going to risk.

“Well, they didn’t use those exact words, but that’s what they meant. Unless there was evidence of a real crime—a ransom note or some other indication that Robin hadn’t just got fed up and gone—then they weren’t that interested.” Johnny opened his cigarette case, looked like he was about to have another, then slapped it shut and put it away. “If I’d found he’d had his fingers in the till, it might have been different, I suppose.”

“And had he?” Alasdair’s ears pricked up. “Been dipping his fingers in the till?”

“No evidence of anything like that. Straight as a die and everyone liked him.” Johnny shrugged.

“You’ve contacted his family?” Alasdair asked with a sniff. “That seems the obvious thing to do. Maybe his mother was taken ill and…”

“No mother,” Johnny interrupted the flow. “Nothing closer than a grandmother and she’s slightly gaga.”

Alasdair was beginning to be interested in the case. “I can’t deny I love an intellectual puzzle.”

”Oh yes,” Toby said, “to see him with The Times crossword is to observe poetry in motion. Cinema acting hardly stretches anyone’s mental resources, does it?”

Alasdair nodded. “To take on a real investigation would be a challenge, and we could always say we were conducting research for The Hound of the Baskervilles.” If only it had been someone other than Johnny Fisher asking. “So why is it so important for you to find Robin? There’s every chance he’s just fallen into the Thames or run away to be a sailor or lost his memory. Whatever’s happened, he either doesn’t want to be found or has no choice in the matter.”

“Because it bothers me. Why should any decent, respectable man vanish into thin air unless something untoward has happened? And if nothing untoward has occurred, you tell me where he went. I want to make sure he’s safe and not in trouble. If he’s got himself in a hole, I’d like to help dig him out.”

“You can’t dig someone out of a hole, Johnny.” Alasdair looked smug at the muddled metaphor.

“I wish we could help, but I think you’re overestimating our capabilities. We may play Holmes and Watson on the screen, but we’ve no experience in real life.” Toby spoke softly, clearly afraid of treading on his friend’s dreams. “That’s assuming I’ve got the right end of the stick and you’re actually asking us to do some sleuthing on your behalf. The Case of the Disappearing Secretary.”

“Couldn’t you call it research or something?” Johnny smiled sweetly; he wasn’t daft, he knew he’d get further pleading with Toby than he ever would with his partner. “Getting prepared for The Hound of the Baskervilles?”

“So we’re to take to Dartmoor in search of your erstwhile employee, are we?” Toby’s eyes were bright—worryingly bright, as far as Alasdair was concerned.

“I hoped you wouldn’t have to go as far as that. I guess I just had London in mind…I hadn’t really considered what might be involved.” Johnny was suddenly serious, his normally happy-go-lucky outlook submerging under his genuine concern. “Look, don’t take this up if you don’t have the time or the inclination. It was a stupid whim anyway, thinking that you might succeed on a wild goose chase.”

“Stupid?” Whether he’d intended it or not—and whatever else he was, Johnny was a brilliant actor—he’d hit on just the right form of words, and approach, to get Alasdair to change his mind. If Johnny Fisher didn’t think Alasdair capable of something, then Alasdair was definitely going to prove him wrong. “If the police are disinclined to pay attention, then I don’t see why we couldn’t take an interest in the case, as we won’t be treading on their toes. It’s a couple of weeks before work starts on our pirate film, with just the premiere of A Scandal in Bohemia in between. I’d like to see how much headway we could make in that time.” He glanced at Toby. “Give us all the information you have and we’ll see where we get to.”

The huge smile Johnny broke into suggested he’d manipulated the whole situation to get the outcome he wanted, but Alasdair did his best to ignore the fact. “Wherever you can get has got to be better than total ignorance, which is where I am now. I’ll pay all your expenses, of course.”

“You will not.” Toby at last got the chance to speak. “Have this as a present from us, in honour of your new production. In return we want a couple of tickets for the best seats in the house, as soon as it’s bedded in. If you think it’s worth seeing, of course,” he added.

“Worth seeing? It’ll be the hit of the season.” Johnny slapped his hands on the desk. “Only shouldn’t that be four tickets—two for you and two for your alleged girlfriends of the moment?”

Toby groaned. “I suppose you’re right. Unless you get us a box, of course, and we can take my mother and sister along. People will assume that Alasdair’s got a thing for her and no young fillies will end up disappointed.”

“Won’t she be disappointed? Your sister, I mean?”

“Oh, no. She’s got her eye on a sailor boy and he quite likes it when he’s on a tour of duty and one of us squires her around town. Keeps the bees away from the honey. Now…” Toby tapped the arm of his chair, “information. We can’t start finding out anything if we’ve just got this chap’s first name.”

“I’ve kept a file.” It was right at hand, suggesting that the man had been well-prepared for this whole exercise, and confident—rightly—of seeing it through to the desired outcome. “Take it. And good luck.”

Alasdair rose, picking up the file and flicking through it. The first impression was favourable, at least in terms of legibility and organisation. Not a lot in the way of information, though. Maybe this wasn’t going to be easy as his offended audacity had hoped. “We’d best be amongst it, then. We’ll keep you up to date with what we find.” Still, he felt rooted to the spot, unwilling to take the first step on an uncharted road.

“Come on, we’ve got work to do, Sherlock.” Toby took his friend’s arm and guided him towards the door. “Although I’m lucky my Holmes thinks his Watson has a degree of intelligence. Quite a different set-up from the original.”

“You can say that again. Don’t remember Sherlock leaping into the sack with his beloved doctor.” Johnny held out his hand for his friends to shake. “Let me know as soon as you turn anything up. I know it’s an imposition, but I suspect you’re my only hope.”

The Case of the Grey Assassin #2

London, 1952

Chapter One

“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship.” Alasdair Hamilton took Fiona Marsden’s dainty left hand in his, while in his right he held the wedding ring, turning it to catch the light.

Fiona, eyes alive with demure expectation, smiled with exactly the right amount of promise of passion to come.

“With all my worldly—”

“Alasdair!” Alexander Rattigan’s voice rang out across the studio floor. How vexatious. Alasdair couldn’t remember the last time a director had stopped him in mid-scene. He, Toby Bowe and Fiona—the stellar trio whose performances filled Landseer Pictures’ coffers—prided themselves on the paucity of takes they required to get a scene safely in the can. The Royal Romance was proving no exception to the rule.

“Sorry to interrupt you both but there’s a buzzing coming from somewhere. You may not be picking it up but the microphones will. Irrespective of that, it’s extremely annoying.” Alexander turned to his assistant, an efficient young man who was becoming invaluable on the set.

“Jack, will you see if you can find out where that infernal row is emanating from and put a stop to it? The rest of you can take a break while we sort this out.”

“Relief at last,” Toby said, rolling his shoulders and taking off his plumed, royal blue tricorn hat. “I know this is a royal wedding scene but I feel like the queen of the May.”

“How do you think I feel?” Fiona said, fanning herself with an ivory-coloured prayer book. “I’ve got six petticoats on under here. This is what it must be like to be a mille feuille. Do you think anyone—even royalty—really wore things like this in the eighteenth century? It would have driven me mad.”

“I doubt anybody wore anything resembling what the wardrobe department turns out. In any era or setting.” Alasdair, perspiring under the lights, imitated Fiona’s fanning motion with his hat, much to the consternation of his dresser, who came haring up and took it from him. “Alexander, please can we take a small break? My forehead’s dripping and that noise is becoming a distinct nuisance.”

“Of course. Back to your dressing rooms where you have them, please and we’ll aim to resume in twenty minutes. By which time the buzz will have—aha!” To everyone’s relief the noise, which had been steadily increasing in decibels, suddenly ceased.

The four actors under the lights, which included one venerable old soul portraying the archbishop who was conducting the ceremony, headed for the comfort of their dressing rooms, although Alasdair deliberately took his time. He for one wanted to know what had caused the wretched noise and curiosity took precedence over relief for the moment. Not least because he was still annoyed at being interrupted when he’d been giving one of his best performances. He was unlikely to be taking the wedding vows himself at any point and he’d secretly imagined he was saying the words to Toby, which was producing an air of authenticity that would stand out on the screen. The audiences would believe that he was either a brilliant actor or he harboured a secret passion for Fiona which for some reason would never be requited, probably because she was secretly engaged to one of the dashing gentlemen on whose arm she was often draped.

If the adoring public knew that Fiona was quietly heading for marriage to an orthopaedic surgeon, whereas Toby and Alasdair had eyes for nobody but each other, they’d have been—respectively—disappointed and horrified. Except in the case of the more understanding females and the gents who occasionally sent the two male stars anonymous but passionate missives.

In terms of maintaining their image, both professionally and personally, Alasdair hoped to be able to repeat the same quality of performance when the scene came to be shot again.

“Jack, well done.” Alexander’s words snapped Alasdair out of the thoughts he’d been lost in. The director’s assistant had reappeared, gingerly carrying something. “What was making that din?”

“This.” Jack held out a small, slightly battered metal object. “It appears to be a battery-operated device whose sole purpose is to produce a buzz. An increasingly loud buzz, at that. By the time I found it, the thing was almost unbearable to get close to.”

“Where was it? Alasdair asked.

“Wedged under a chair. Easy to locate, given the racket.” Jack shook his head. “I couldn’t work out how to turn it off, so I found a hammer and smashed the wretched machine to pieces.”

Alexander took the device, inspected it, then proffered it to Alasdair.

“I won’t touch it, thank you, as I’m in costume. There could be oil or battery acid seeping out and wardrobe would have my guts for garters if I made a mess of what I’m wearing. It’s a shame you had to smash it, Jack, although I can appreciate you may have had little choice.”

“A shame?” Jack’s ironic inflection spoke volumes. An actor’s voice in the making. Rumour had it that he’d had a chance to play bit parts at Lion Studios but had turned it down because his uncle worked there, and Jack wanted to carve his own path. “Why is that?”

“Because you might have destroyed the evidence.” Alasdair smiled, as the director and Toby—who’d discarded the most elaborate parts of his costume and had returned to see the fun no doubt—made understanding noises. “It’s my suspicious mind, of course. This device has been set deliberately either as a stupid prank or as something worse.”

“Worse?” Alexander asked, before taking a horrified glance at what Jack was holding. “You don’t think that was actually a bomb, do you?”

“Heavens!” The item in question plummeted to the ground as Jack discarded it. “We should all get out of here.”

“There’s no need, I’d have thought.” One of the cameramen coolly bent down to peer at the battered metal, then looked over his shoulder. “Eric? What do you think?”

Eric, the genius in charge of all the electrics on set, a man regarded by most as the master of many arcane arts, strolled over, then went down on his haunches to get a better view. “Harmless, I’d have said, Douglas. In my opinion that’s no explosive device.”

Douglas the cameraman nodded. “Exactly. Can’t see anything to go off bang, for a start.”

Alexander drew his handkerchief over his perspiring brow. “Thank God for that.”

“Well done, chaps,” Toby said. “Take this pair’s word for it, Jack. Douglas and Eric both dealt with unexploded ordnance during the war so they should know. I’d be fascinated to hear their expert opinions.”

Douglas eased himself onto the floor—surprisingly well for a man who’d lost a limb in the performance of his duty—to inspect the object more closely. “It has a timer and what appears to be a small loudspeaker, so on first appearances it’s nothing other than already surmised. Something designed to produce the maximum of noise at a given time.” He glanced up at Alasdair. “Was a bomb what you meant by worse, or did you have something else in mind?”

“The latter. I wondered if somebody, rather than playing a stupid joke, was deliberately trying to interrupt our filming schedule. A serious intention rather than a comical one.” Alasdair, suddenly aware that he must look ridiculous, dressed in satin and lace, and ruffled up to the nines, while discoursing seriously on potential disruption, shot Toby a pleading glance to come to his aid.

His lover obliged. “That’s a good point. Are you thinking this may be an attempt to get filming stopped? Such sabotage happens, although I’ve not personally come across it on a film set. There’s always a first time for everything, though.”

Alexander, evidently unnerved at such a prospect, blanched. “Then we must be on our guard. Jack, can you organise a small party to check for any similarly vexatious devices, while the cast carry on with their break? I’d like to recommence filming in fifteen minutes as planned.”

Back in his dressing room and with as much of his costume off as was worth discarding for the short break, Alasdair pondered over the incident which had just taken place. He’d need to talk this over with Toby as soon as an opportunity presented itself. As though summoned by those thoughts, a knock on the door, a head poking around it and a bright, “Alasdair!” heralded the arrival of his co-star.

“Do we—you—really think somebody is trying to throw a spanner in the Landseer works?” Toby asked, as he flung himself into a chair.

Alasdair daintily shrugged, a movement he was attempting to perfect for a scene they’d be filming the next day, where he was to eschew his father’s choice of bride for him. He wanted to convey a lack of mental clarity with a hint of polite disagreement.

“Is that the shrug for tomorrow? It’s coming on. I look forward to seeing that in the rushes.” Toby chuckled. “So is your answer to my question I don’t know?”

“It’s more I wouldn’t like to commit myself. Too easy to read too much into things. Or hope to read too much into them, if that makes sense.”

“It does indeed. Exactly the kind of intrigue that’s most gratifying. Slender evidence so far that it’s anything other than a stupid joke, though. Some young lad who thinks he’ll ‘ave a bit of a lark.” The cockney accent was coming on, although Toby would likely not need it on screen, unless the next Holmes and Watson film saw the good doctor going undercover in the East End. Given the way that the scriptwriters played fast and loose with Conan Doyle’s stories, anything was possible.

“True. This device certainly smacks of the overactive schoolboy imagination.” Which was why Alasdair had told his overactive imagination to exercise a note of caution. They’d been fortunate—if one might use the term—so far, to have had puzzles thrust upon them to solve. Buried treasure, a missing secretary, a murdered fellow actor: all these unexpectedly had occupied their minds previously and the thrill of the investigational chase had proved intoxicating. The fact they portrayed Holmes and Watson on the screen and had the chance to play the same roles off it must have been unique in the history of amateur detection. “Still, it’s a shame the thing got wrecked.”

“You’re not thinking that part is suspicious?” Toby glanced over his shoulder, as if to check whether they could be overheard. He lowered his voice. “Jack being involved in planting the device and hence destroying the thing to hide any evidence?”

“I confess it crossed my mind. He might have known there was an excellent chance he’d be asked to go and deal with the device once it started to make a din and could have legitimately volunteered in the event of not being asked. Talking of legitimate, whoever planted the buzzer must have had a reason to be on the premises. Landseer security is pretty efficient at keeping unwanted visitors off the set.”

“As you said previously, true. Although there is a small army of folk who have proper reason to be here, not just the actors and crew. Cleaners, scene painters, those who work in the offices. They’d all have opportunity.”

Toby tipped his head back in the direction of the set. “As for Jack, while I appreciate your reasoning, it would be an entirely natural response to wallop the thing. Were I the one sent to deal with it and had found it screaming its mechanical heart out, retaining any evidence would hardly be uppermost in my mind. That noise was annoying enough at a distance, so imagine what it must have been like close at hand. It would have driven anyone out of the realms of common sense and into a blind fury in which there was only one priority. Stopping the damn buzzing.”

Alasdair essayed the extravagant sigh he was also perfecting for the upcoming scene. “You’re probably right. Although bear with me when I point out that if this does turn out to be more than a practical joke, and fingerprints are taken, Jack’s will be on there. You can’t tell when a thing was handled, only by whom and in what order.”

“I’ll grant you that, Sherlock.” Toby stretched. “Better go and get back into my finery. If this annoyance is part of a bigger campaign of disruption, it’ll soon become apparent.”

“Indeed.” And while Alasdair would be pleased if it did—so long as he and Toby were allowed to poke their noses into the investigating of the situation—he felt treasonous for wishing so. While his primary loyalty was to Toby, his second was to Landseer and to those fans of the golden trio who placed their bums on seats time and again to watch their films, keeping him in a lifestyle many could never even aspire to. Any attack on Landseer would be an attack on him.

***

When “Cut!” was called on the last shot of the day, Toby whipped off his tricorn hat, to reveal, he was certain, that his blond hair was plastered to his head by a mass of sweat. Not an attractive look. Time to change out of costume, have a shower and wend his way home via a pint with Alasdair at a convenient bar.

“Mr Bowe, Mr Hamilton, there’s a message for you from Sir Ian.” Jack produced an envelope addressed to both actors, inside which was a note from Landseer’s biggest of bigwigs, Sir Ian Sheringham, asking if they could spare him a moment when they’d finished for the day.

“Can you take a reply back, please, Jack? Say we’ll be delighted.” Alasdair gave Toby a shrug. “Do you think it’s about progress on the Christmas Holmes and Watson special he mentioned before?”

Toby wrinkled his nose. “Possibly. Maybe one of the writers has found enough other seasonal stories to go with The Blue Carbuncle. We’ll soon find out.”

The summons hung a slight cloud over the usual enjoyment Toby felt when getting back into mufti. While the conversation was probably simply going to concern an upcoming project, there remained a small risk that their luck had run out. Although if they’d been in trouble—nobody underestimated the perennial risk they ran of his and Alasdair’s relationship being made public—Sir Ian would surely have summoned them with something like a clipped, Alasdair, Toby, a word with you please. The inflexion in the note instead smacked of intrigue and the slender possibility of a mystery for them to poke their noses into.

The buzzing device? One could only hope.

When they arrived at Sir Ian’s office, his secretary announced their arrival and the great man himself came to usher them into his sanctum. He thanked them for coming, then carefully closed the door before saying, “I heard about the nonsense on set earlier but that’s not what I’d like to discuss. That was hopefully no more than a stupid prank.”

“Indeed.” Alasdair and Toby waited for Sir Ian to sit down before taking the seats they’d been offered.

“I’ve been contacted by Gerald Farrar. The film reviewer for The Daily Cable.”

“Farrar?” Alasdair’s heavily insured eyebrow shot heavenward. “He’s a good friend to Landseer. Always rates our films highly, even when they’re a load of fluff.”

Sir Ian grinned. “He says they lighten the mood of the nation through these years when a home fit for heroes isn’t quite living up to the billing, for which I am grateful. I also appreciate the fact that if Frank Gardner gives something a bad review, Gerald feels obliged to balance the books.”

Toby, chuckling, recalled the set-to there’d been between the two men over the Black-hearted Fitzroy the pirate king film which Landseer had put out a couple of years previously. Gardner, who wrote for TheDaily Sentinel, had said—probably with some degree of justification—that the movie had been a triumph of dubious style over substance. That no pirate had ever acted, spoken or dressed in the way that Fitzroy had done. By contrast, Farrar had praised the film, saying it was just the sort of light-hearted romp a nation needed when still smarting from the effects of the war.

Toby and Alasdair had enjoyed themselves hugely making the film, cliched dialogue and over-energetic swinging from the rigging notwithstanding. Some of the research they’d done for their parts suggested that Gardner had been quite wrong in his comment about authentic pirate garb. Was it not possible that the name of the Jolly Roger flag derived from Le Jolie Rouge, old Black Bart Roberts himself, who wore a red coat?

“Toby?” Sir Ian’s voice snapped the actor out of his daydream. “Are you with us?”

“I’m so sorry, Sir Ian. Thinking of Frank Gardner, I was reminded of Black-hearted Fitzroy, which led me to remember an excellent piece of business we used in the film. I was wondering whether I could use that in the scene we shoot tomorrow.”

Both Alasdair’s eyebrow and Sir Ian’s sardonic smile indicated neither believed a word of the explanation.

Alasdair brought the discussion back to where it should be. “Before my co-star went off into a reverie, I was asking what Farrar wanted when he got into contact.”

“Threatening letters. He’s had a series of them.” Sir Ian picked up his pen, then twiddled it in his fingers. “Started off by insulting him—in surprisingly inventive and erudite ways, according to Frank, which suggests the writer is someone with a decent education—but they’ve gone on to imply physical harm to him because of what he’s done. Farrar says the only thing that can refer to is writing reviews as he can’t think of anything else he’s doing that could have caused offence.”

“Really?” Toby could think of several things that might cause offence if spread abroad.

Farrar was known—not widely but amongst those connected to the cinema and of a certain persuasion—to frequent certain clubs, in both London and Portsmouth. Clubs where a smattering of ex- and current servicemen could be found, ones who were willing to oblige certain gentlemen in a mutually rewarding manner. The servicemen had their incomes eked out and the gentlemen were left more than happy. Toby had never needed to call on such facilities, always preferring to share his favours within a committed relationship, although he knew plenty of folk who had, including the film critic.

“Can any man, or woman, honestly declare there is nothing in their lives that hasn’t hurt someone else? Perhaps for the benefit of others?” Alasdair said, sombrely. “I’ll tell you this in confidence. Farrar’s known to visit certain all-male clubs. Not the sort your father would put you up for membership of. Word can get around about this sort of thing.”

Great minds thinking alike, with Alasdair being braver than Toby in airing the fact.

Sir Ian cleared his throat. While he was perfectly aware that his two stars were themselves potentially open to this kind of unwanted exposure, given the way the law stood regarding their relationship, he also knew that he himself was hardly above reproach as far as romance was concerned. Alasdair’s words about any man or woman being unable to confess an entirely blameless life had hit home. There were too many “protégées” in Sir Ian’s past, albeit all of whom had been treated handsomely and none of them coerced into doing what they didn’t want to, to risk some interfering person not to question the behaviour.

“Has Farrar spoken to the police?” Toby asked. “It’s illegal to threaten actual bodily harm.”

“He has and it is.” Sir Ian raised an eyebrow. Not as eloquently as Alasdair could but in a passable manner for a layman. “However, the threats are veiled, and the authorities feel they have more pressing matters to deal with, so he didn’t make a fuss.”

More pressing matters? Alasdair spoke the name they’d all have had in mind. “The Grey Assassin?”

“Indeed. Although I feel that’s a misnomer, as nobody knows whether it refers to the killer themselves being grey or merely his victims.”

The papers had been increasingly full of the story. In each of the last five months, on the night of the new moon, a man in his late forties through to early sixties had been garrotted, apparently at random. The only other obvious thing they had in common, apart from being out at a particular phase of the moon, was that all the victims had a head of grey hair and had been attacked in the late evening, somewhere in or around London. One reporter had pointed out that each murder had taken place within the area covered by the underground map, although the killings hadn’t necessarily taken place near tube stations or along the course of a particular line.

There the similarities ended. Some of the victims had been heading home—one from the theatre, another from a charity dinner, a third doing something Toby couldn’t bring to mind—while two had been heading out, at least one of them, the papers implied, to paint the town red. The apparent lack of a connection had caused a rising tide of panic. What had begun as a seemingly isolated incident was now becoming a matter of national importance, with questions being asked in the Houses of Parliament. The most recent murders, coming as they did to a nation still in a sombre mood following the death of the man who’d reigned through the war, had lowered the country’s mood to a point lower than Hitler had managed.

“Much as I enjoy solving a puzzle, I’d rather leave murders to the professionals,” Alasdair said, his insured eyebrow registering extreme distaste.

“But you’d oblige Farrar by seeing what you can make of this letter business. Not simply because of his position as a critic. Did you know he sometimes works for us, under a pseudonym, providing the German dialogue and characterisation for our films?”

“No. He’s not mentioned it, the odd occasions we’ve met.” Alasdair glanced at Toby, who simply shrugged.

Sir Ian smiled. “I’m glad to find that you don’t know everything about everything. Anyway, Farrar’s heard about your knack of getting to the bottom of mysteries and would be grateful if you’d help in this instance.”

Alasdair shot Toby another glance, got a confirmatory nod, then said, “Of course. Do you happen to know if there’s anyone he’s aware of whom he feels he might have risked offending?”

Sir Ian shook his head. “He says not. I asked about ex-colleagues or discarded lovers—you’re not the only ones who can construct an investigative interview—but he drew a blank. He’s clearly given the matter close consideration, or he wouldn’t be calling on us.”

“What about somebody he’s given a scathing review to? An actor whose reputation has been dented or an executive who’s annoyed that a film which was sure to make a mint had its revenue affected?” Toby asked.

“I confess I didn’t think to ask that.” Sir Ian looked shamefaced at having to admit the fact in the wake of the boast he’d made. “Perhaps I was premature in claiming I could conduct an interview, although clearly I’m putting this matter into the right hands. If we can help out Gerald Farrar it will do our reputations no harm at all. And if the solution turns out to be usable by our publicity department, just think of how it will help the next Holmes and Watson film!”

***

“What if it turns out to be a solution that is unusable?” Toby asked, when they were out of the building and heading to their transport. “You know Farrar’s inclinations. If this is linked to his private life, the Landseer publicity department wouldn’t touch it with a barge-pole. Thank goodness.”

“The same might apply if it turns out to be somebody from one of our competitors.”

“How do you mean?”

Alasdair halted, flashing Toby a warning glance then lowering his voice. “Think of it. We go poking around at Lion Studios or Tudor Pictures—not literally but we’ve both got plenty of contacts we could talk to—and turn up something to their detriment. Don’t you think it’s possible they might turn the tables and go looking for something to discredit Landseer with? Something very close to home?”

“Ah, yes.” Toby’s brow creased with concern. “Do you know, I didn’t think twice when I got in my Spitfire and headed for the skies, even though I knew it was almost inevitable that some of the squadron wouldn’t come home. Why does this feel so much more dangerous?”

“Because if your number came up care of some German crack-shot pilot, chances were you’d not have had to live with the consequences. You’d be up in heaven tinkling your harp before they’d sent the telegram to your next of kin.” Alasdair let out a sigh. “In this instance we’d have to live with the consequences. Disgrace, loss of the public’s affection. A court case if they could muster the evidence.”

Toby glanced up at the windows of Sir Ian’s office. “The boss is a good bloke. He’d understand our dilemma. Should we go back and tell him the risk isn’t worth it?”

It didn’t take Alasdair long to weigh up the options. On the one side all the risks they’d discussed. On the other, the thrill of the chase and Toby’s look of disappointment when he’d made the suggestion.

“Not for all the tea in China. Do you want me to make an appointment with Farrar or will you?”

“I’ll see if I can catch him when I get home.” Toby rubbed his forehead. “The filming schedule for tomorrow’s filled to the brim and I’d rather not sacrifice our evening together, even in the cause of investigation. How about if we ask to see Farrar the day after next? Say mid-morning?”

“That might work. Let me know if you’re successful.”

“I will. And what will you get up to, Sherlock?”

“I’ll be thinking about other studios. I—” Alasdair didn’t have the chance to explain what he was thinking, as their drivers approached, evidently keen to get on the road. His thoughts would have to wait until later that evening.

Supper, a glass of red wine and a couple of chapters of Agatha Christie later, Alasdair’s telephone sounded.

“I’ll take it!” He called to his manservant, Morgan, confident that this would be Toby.

“Hello,” his lover’s cheery tones sounded down the line. “We’re seeing Farrar at ten thirty ack emma, in the lounge of the Bridport Hotel on the Strand. I pleaded that a meeting had to be in line with our filming schedule and other commitments, so it was then or not for ages.”

“Well done.” Thursday was set aside for filming some scenes that took place in the late afternoon and into the early evening. The location, a stately home with substantial grounds, had been chosen because the effects of the sunlight on the surroundings would provide a bittersweet air to add to the sadness of the scene. Fiona’s character was to tell Alasdair’s that she had been forbidden to marry him, after which she would depart, and Toby would arrive to bring consolation. This was a standard part of their repertoire: Toby always had one scene in which he consoled someone and one in which he suffered, usually because his offer of further solace had been gently rejected. Anything different would have had the fans up in arms.

“You were about to tell me something when we got whisked off. About other studios. You’d mentioned both Lion Studios and Tudor Pictures earlier. Names chosen at random, or did you have something in mind?”

“One of each. Lion was merely a name plucked from the air but I seem to remember Farrar giving two successive Tudor offerings a complete mauling. Do you recall Alexander being full of it?”

“Oh yes.” Toby chuckled. “Their pirate picture being compared to ours. Too much chewing the scenery and unconvincing fighting were two of the things he picked out. Gerald Farrar does like his action scenes to be authentic.”

“He does. I have an old friend who’s contracted to the studio—Clarice, I may have mentioned her—so I thought I might give her a call tomorrow and see if she can keep her ear to the ground.”

“Clarice Jennings? Rather talented character actress? Your girlfriend when you were seven?”

“That’s the one. If I’m successful in catching her before the car comes tomorrow, I’ll update you on set.”

“Excellent. Sweet dreams, my prince.”

“And to you, my dear.”

Alasdair ended the call, stretched and yawned. Time for bed, with only Mrs Christie for company. Who was intellectually stimulating but not as much fun as Toby between the sheets.

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If the men of St. Bride’s College knew what Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith got up to behind closed doors, the scandal would rock early-20th-century Cambridge to its core. But the truth is, when they’re not busy teaching literature and mathematics, the most daring thing about them isn’t their love for each other—it’s their hobby of amateur sleuthing.

Because wherever Jonty and Orlando go, trouble seems to find them. Sunny, genial Jonty and prickly, taciturn Orlando may seem like opposites. But their balance serves them well as they sift through clues to crimes, and sort through their own emotions to grow closer. But at the end of the day, they always find the truth . . . and their way home together.

********

Be sure and check the author's website for a complete chronological list of novels, novellas, free short stories in the Cambridge Fellows Mysteries Universe.

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Cambridge Fellows Mysteries

Saturday Series Spotlight

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6

Part 7(Veteran's Day Edition 2020)

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Lessons in Keeping a Dangerous Promise

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Alasdair and Toby Investigations

Part 1

Alasdair & Toby and Cambridge Fellows

Undiscovered Corpse

Charlie Cochrane

As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.

Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.

Happily married, with a house full of daughters, Charlie tries to juggle writing with the rest of a busy life. She loves reading, theatre, good food and watching sport. Her ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching rugby and a church service in the evening.