👴⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine(Grandparents Day Week)⏳👵: His Grandfather's Watch by NR Walker

Summary:

It was just an ordinary day for Alex Harper at Harper's Antiquities, until Callum Winters walked in with a watch.

"It was my Grandfather's. I was hoping you could tell me something about it."

A love story of two couples, generations apart.

***Second Edition. Earlier edition released in 2012. No additional content has been added.***

Original Review July 2015:
This novella may be a short quick read but it is more powerful than many full length novels I have read.  I was sitting in my front yard under the shade of my maple tree and was so glad I had sunglasses on because otherwise I probably would have scared the children playing across the street when the tears started running.    The blend of contemporary and historical is perfect for the emotional buildup for the story the watch represents.

The historical part of the watch's tale touched my heart a bit more but I am a bit of a history buff so stories of the past usually do.  As my mother's 24/7 caregiver for the past 20 years, when Callum said "My life hasn't been about me in a long time" really struck a chord because in those 10 words she summed up what every caregiver lives not to mention the kind of man Callum is and the fact that Alex understands it also goes a long way in describing his character as well.

I rarely give novellas a full 5 bookmark rating just because my heart prefers full length stories but this is such a powerful emotional ride that nothing short of the full 5 is fitting.

Re-Read Review September 2018:
I really can't think of a single thing to add to my original review that would express how wonderful this novella is other than, it's shortness may be in the number of pages but not in the quality of the story.  His Grandfather's Watch had me even more teary-eyed now than it did when I first read it three years ago.  It is rare that you get two heart felt love stories in a novella but that is exactly what this little gem brings to the table.

I chose to re-read this now in honor of Grandparents Day but whenever you decide to pick it up you won't regret it and I highly recommend reading this one because not only will you be entertained but you might also learn a thing or two about understanding your family's past.  I know I can honestly say that had I not already been deeply invested in my family genealogy this story would have had me itching to discover my family's past.

RATING:

Chapter One
Sitting in the back room at my desk, with a dismantled 1901 Newman's clock, I heard the bell that chimed every time a customer walked through the door. My dad was behind the counter, and I heard him greet the customer, making small talk, discussing whatever antique it was they'd brought with them.

It's what we did.

My father's love of all things antique grew into this business, Harper's Antiquities. Dad was the expert and Mom did the research, but they both traveled, scouring the globe for their life's passion. My brother Scott did antique furniture restoration, but it wasn't something I ever saw myself doing. Then I started helping out when I was a kid at school, and I found a love of clocks.

It’s my specialty.

I could hear Dad talking to the customer, but didn't pay them any mind until I heard my name.

"Alex?"

Putting down the part in my hand, I walked through to the showroom where I found my father and the customer he was talking to. Very different from my pale skin, black hair and grayish eyes, he was a good looking guy, similar age to me, but with sandy brown, kinda longish hair, tanned skin and blue eyes. He was holding a pocket watch in his hand.

"This is my son, Alex," Dad explained. "He's the expert on watches like yours."

I extended my hand in professional courtesy. "Hello."

"Callum Winters," he said by way of greeting, putting the watch on the counter before shaking my hand. There was an accent, Southern I thought, but I wasn't sure.

Dad waited for us to let go of each other's hands, then he looked at me and smiled. "Callum was just telling me he'd like to know more about this watch."

I looked at the silver watch casing and fob chain, then at its owner. I reached my hand toward the watch, but before I touched it, I asked, "May I?"

"Sure," he nodded.

Picking it up, I could tell a few things from a visual inspection. "This casing was a popular design in the 1940's," I told him. Gently, I opened the casing to reveal the quartz face. "The dial is Hamilton, but I won't know dates or maker for certain, unless I take the back off and look at the movement."

"Could you do that?" he asked. His accent was definitely southern. "I was hoping to know as much about it as I could."

I smiled. "Sure. I'll need to grab some details, and I should be able to look at it in about two days. Then I can tell you everything I know."

Callum nodded. "That'd be great." We looked at each other for a little too long, and I couldn't help but wonder if this cute, Southern man was gay.

Dad seemed to think so, because with a cheeky smirk, he handed me the register log, looked between us and not-so subtly said, "Callum, I'll leave you in Alex's very capable hands." He pointed behind us, "I have... stuff... I need to do out the back."

Callum politely thanked him, and I considered kicking my father in the shins. We were behind the counter, so it's not like Callum would have seen me do it. But Dad must have picked up on the look I gave him, because he smiled, turned quickly and disappeared through the door.

I grabbed a pen, handed Callum the register and asked him to fill in his details. I picked up the watch, turning it over in my hands. It was a nice piece, and I couldn't help but ask, "What do you know about the watch?"

He looked up from the paperwork. "Um, it was my grandfather's. That's about all I know."

He handed me the completed form, and I told him as procedure, I required some ID. Taking out his wallet, he handed me his driver's licence. His Texas driver's licence.

"I just moved here," he said. "I've got my change of address receipt here somewhere."

He started looking through his wallet, and I stopped him. "No, its fine. I just need to sight photo ID, that's all."

He smiled kindly and nodded. "So, two days?"

"Yeah. I'm half way through another job. Then I can look at this, and I'll give you a call when I'm done," I told him. "Is there anything in particular you're looking for?"

He shrugged one shoulder and shook his head. "No, not really. Just dates, make, model... to be honest, I'm not really sure."

As I was putting the watch and paperwork in a paper envelope, I asked him, "Would you like a valuation?"

"No," he said simply. "Monetary value isn't important."

He thanked me, I told him I'd be in touch and he left. When I walked back into the workshop, Dad grinned at me. "He was a nice young man," he said.

"Mom!" I yelled to the upstairs office, where my mother would have undoubtedly had her head in a catalogue. "Dad's trying to set me up again."

She yelled back, "Was he cute?"

Oh for crying out loud.

He was actually, but that's not the point. Dad chuckled at me.
Ignoring him, I sat the pocket watch on my desk and turned my attention back to the clock I was working on.

I managed to ignore both my parents and their comments about cute, brown-haired watch owners until they got bored and left me alone. And I managed to push the thoughts of the pocket watch and its handsome Texan owner out of my mind until it was time to go home.

*****

I arrived back at work a little before nine in the morning and headed straight for my desk, which was more like a workstation, when the paper sleeve holding the pocket watch caught my eye.
I picked it up and took the watch out, feeling the cool, heavy weight of it in my hand. I didn't hear my dad come up behind me, and his voice startled me. "How's Mr. Yeo's clock coming along?"

"Oh, shit! You scared me," I said with a laugh, clutching my heart. Then looking back to the clock I had half done, I told him, "Um, it should be ready by lunchtime tomorrow."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I think you should do the watch instead."
I looked at the pocket watch I was still holding. "Why?"

"Because Mr. Yeo is a collector," he replied with a shrug. "To him that clock is just something else he acquired. Even old Mr. Yeo will tell you that. But this," he pointed to the watch in my hand, "this means something."

Dad smiled at me. "Mr. Yeo can wait a day or two. He won't mind. I'll even phone him myself."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

He nodded. "He wants me to go with him to look at an 18th Century hand-carved Italian rococo centre table he'd seen at an auction house anyway, so I need to speak to him."

"Okay," I agreed. Within twenty minutes, I had Mr. Yeo's clock itemized and put away and the silver pocket watch in front of me.

I made my usual notes as I proceeded detailing. There was nothing remarkable about it, until I removed the back casing.

Because what I found hidden in the back of the pocket watch was unlike anything I'd encountered before.

I took out the client form with Callum Winters' details on it and picked up the phone. "Callum Winters? It's Alex, from Harper Antiquities. I'm calling about your watch."

"Yes?" he answered, unsure.

"Can you come into the store?" I asked. "There's something you need to see."

NR Walker
N.R. Walker is an Australian author, who loves her genre of gay romance. She loves writing and spends far too much time doing it, but wouldn't have it any other way.

She is many things; a mother, a wife, a sister, a writer. She has pretty, pretty boys who she gives them life with words.

She likes it when they do dirty, dirty things...but likes it even more when they fall in love. She used to think having people in her head talking to her was weird, until one day she happened across other writers who told her it was normal.

She’s been writing ever since...

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August Book of the Month: Blood and Sand by Jordan L Hawk

Summary:

The Pride #3

War has come to the streets of Chicago…

Sam Cunningham didn’t set out to work for a gangster, but his job as Mickey Sullivan’s hexmaster seems safe enough…until a gang war puts a target on both of their backs.

Cheetah-shifter Alistair Gatti is desperate to keep his family’s speakeasy up and running. But with a brutal assassin killing off the city’s bootleggers, his options are growing slimmer with every passing day.

Their one chance to remain safe and keep The Pride afloat lies in the form of an ancient hex looted from an Egyptian tomb. If Sam wants to escape Sullivan’s grasp, he needs to recreate the hex and get it to work.

But in a gang war fought by magic as well as guns, the odds are in no one’s favor, and the streets of Chicago will soon run red with blood.

Absolutely delicious! I've loved Jordan L Hawk's work since I first ventured into Widdershins waybackwhen and each new book from the author's many series I've dived into, just gets better and better. The Pride's third entry, Blood and Sand is a perfect example of that.

I won't spoil anything so details will be vague, if you follow my reviews then you are well aware of my no spoiler motto😉. I will say you need to read the series in order, technically you don't really have to read the author's Hexworld series that The Pride connects to but I personally would recommend doing so. It's not a case of plot points or characters crossing over so much as I felt I had a better, more deeper understanding and appreciation of the witch/familiar dynamic and the blending of magic and fact that went into the author's world building, but that's just my take on it.  

Back to Blood and Sand. We see Sam and Allister pick up pretty much where Lion's Tail, book 2, left off. Their relationship is both stronger and weaker due to Sam's employer and its interesting to see that scale trying to balance out. Don't get me wrong, love for each other is never in question. Since reading the second book, I lost my mother and can certainly understand Sam's pull towards what he wants to do(no spoilers #sorrynotsorry) even though the reason behind it is on the complete opposite end of the emotional spectrum.

It's the above eluded to point that I feel earns B&S a "dark elements" label. I've certainly read darker books but there is an ambiguous moral line Sam contemplates that puts it in the dark column, some readers might not quite see it the same but I wanted to put that out there.

There isn't a single thing in this story that is just page filler, every scene, every interaction, every hex, every drink is needed and furthers the story along fluently. I don't know if the author has anymore stories in this series planned, the ending could go either way, but if more come I will definitely read them and if not, I'll enjoy what there is for years to come in revisits.

RATING:

1

Alistair stared down at the dead bootlegger and wished he’d stayed home.

The man—Charlie O’Keefe—sprawled on his back on the deck of his yacht, which was currently tied up at a little marina not too far from Towertown. A single gunshot marked the center of his forehead. Fortunately, the back of his head was against the deck, hiding at least some of the carnage of the much larger exit wound.

Not an unfamiliar sight, Alistair having served on the front lines in France. Though in the war, few casualties were shot at such close range, at least judging from the powder burns on O’Keefe’s skin.

“Must’ve got the jump on him,” Doris observed from where she stood a few feet behind him on the deck. Philip didn’t say anything; he’d taken on snow leopard form and leapt to the bridge’s roof to better survey the area. “There’s no sign of a struggle. He still had a drink in his hand when he went down.”

Indeed, a battered flask lay in O’Keefe’s fingers, liquor pooling beneath it. His assassin had walked right up and shot him in the face. Someone he knew, then.

Whoever had done it, it was bad news for them. O’Keefe was meant to be their new source for booze, since their last bootlegger died in a fiery airplane crash.

So much for that.

“Check below,” Alistair said. “See if the cargo is still intact.”

“Aye-aye, captain.” Doris saluted him; he returned it with his middle finger.

She went below in tiger shape, ready in case of an ambush. Alistair didn’t think she’d find any trouble, though; aside from the gentle slap of waves against the hull, the marina was utterly silent. Autumnal chill had set in, the wind over the lake promising winter, and the best days for pleasure sailing were behind.

He went into cheetah shape to take advantage of his nose. The world took on new dimensions around him, smelling of blood and brains, oil and fuel, salt and algae, snow leopard and tiger, and…

A human, probably a man. And…ink? Did the assassin have a leaky fountain pen?

Either way, it wasn’t going to help him figure out who had put O’Keefe on ice. A rival? A personal grudge? A gang boss who didn’t want the competition?

He hoped it wasn’t the latter, because the only gang in the area was headed by Mickey Sullivan. Who Alistair’s lover—and witch—worked for.

Sullivan wasn’t usually so aggressive when it came to small-time rumrunners. But between the death of his only child and an ongoing war with Isabella Fabiano and her gang, maybe his patience had run short.

“Booze is still here,” Doris called.

Alistair shifted form so he could talk. “Grab the hooch, then we get out of here before anyone else shows up.”

Philip sprang down to the deck and took on human shape. “Just steal it?”

“Not like he’s going to miss it.” Alistair turned his back on O’Keefe’s body, its eyes fixed lifelessly on the clouds above.

Philip shrugged. “We should check to see if it’s tainted.”

“We’ll do it back at The Pride. I don’t want to spend any more time than we have to here. The killer might have friends who are on their way to pick up the liquor right now.”

Philip swore, but it got him moving. The living space below had been converted to a cargo hold filled with crates of illicit liquor. They hauled the crates out, Doris lifting them easily by herself, Philip and Alistair panting and cursing to move them together. As soon as the truck was full, they shut the hatch behind them, leaving what remained.

As they crammed back into the truck, Philip said, “This load won’t get us through the end of the month, Alistair. With O’Keefe bumped off, we need to find a new supplier fast.”

Alistair ground his teeth in frustration. Running a speakeasy in Chicago was good business, but not exactly the most stable way to make a living. They were getting squeezed left and right, and pretty soon their only choice was going to be between serving whatever panther piss Sullivan sold them or packing it all in.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said as Doris steered the truck away from the dock, its lights off so as not to attract attention. “We’ll come up with something. We always do.”

* * *

Sam took off his hat and held it tightly in his hands as he walked through the front door of The Silvervine. He’d been in some equally fancy joints since he came to Chicago, but that fact didn’t seem to be helping his nerves tonight.

The cabaret was in full swing, a constant flow of men and women in fashionable clothes coming in, and a smaller stream departing. Just inside the door, two hosts guided diners to their tables. Sam cleared his throat when his turn came. “I’m here to meet Mr. Sullivan? Sam Cunningham.”

The man didn’t bat an eye at the mention of Sullivan—but then, according to Alistair, the gangster owned the place, even though his name wasn’t on the paperwork. “Of course, Mr. Cunningham. Right this way.”

Sam followed him, trying not to gawk. He’d been in Chicago for a little over six months now, but its nightlife still had the power to dazzle him. Back in Gatesville, where he’d spent most of his life, the town would have already rolled up the sidewalks for the night. Most folk would be in bed by now, or else listening to the radio if they couldn’t sleep.

Here, the evening was just getting started.

The Silvervine was decorated in rose and gold, with red velvet covering the walls. Tables surrounded a dance floor where customers did the Charleston to the accompaniment of an eight-piece orchestra. More diners watched from a second-floor balcony. Waiters threaded their way through the tables, carrying drinks—none filled more than halfway to allow for illicit alcohol to be added—and plates of spaghetti, linguini, and steak.

After pausing at the coat check, the host led him through the dining room to an arch on the far side. A velvet curtain hung in the arch to shield the occupants in the room beyond from curious eyes.

It was another dining room, this one much smaller than the main hall, with fewer tables and only a four-piece orchestra. The dance floor was mainly unoccupied, though a pair of women drunkenly swayed together, laughing hysterically at their own lack of coordination. Sam followed the host up a set of stairs to the balcony above.

Sullivan sat at one of the three tables, his right-hand man Leonard Turner at his elbow. The other tables were occupied by men and women Sam recognized as members of Sullivan’s gang whom he’d met over the summer. Several of them called greetings when he entered, and a few leaned back in their seats to shake his hand as he passed.

Heat crept up his neck at the attention, even as he tried to smile and return all the greetings. He barely knew them, but apparently that didn’t matter. The important thing was he was Sullivan’s, just like they were.

“Glad you could make it, kid,” Sullivan said, pulling back the empty chair at his table. “Have a seat; have a seat.” To the host, he added, “Get the man a Canada Dry, would you? Fill it to the top. And another scotch and soda for Lenny here.”

“Thanks.” Sam’s palms sweated as he sat down, and he wiped them on his knees beneath the table. He wasn’t used to any of this—when he took the job as Sullivan’s hexmaster, he’d assumed he’d be spending his days working in the lab and his nights at home with Alistair or at The Pride.

And for the most part, he did. But his promotion had unexpectedly put him in the upper echelons of the gang, which meant the other members wanted to get to know him. Most of the time he was able to politely dodge invitations to dinner or drinks, but when Sullivan summoned him, he had no choice but to attend.

“How are you doing?” Sullivan asked him. “All healed up?”

The man who’d formerly held Sam’s job, Vic Nagorski, had shot him in a misguided attempt to force Sam to help him with a hex, one that could heal any wound—but only at the cost of someone else’s life. Fortunately, ordinary doctors and hexes had been able to save him, though he was only now really able to move without pain again.

They hadn’t saved his mother, though.

“Once a failure, always a failure,” whispered his father’s voice in his head.

“Good as new,” he told Sullivan. “How is Mrs. Sullivan?”

A look of sorrow flitted across Sullivan’s face, there and gone in an instant. He’d aged since his only child’s death, his hair grown out so darker roots showed, more lines around his eyes. “She’s visiting her mother in New York for a bit. I’ll pass along your greetings.”

A waiter came with their drinks, then took their orders. Sam got the steak, since he’d never mastered the knack of twirling spaghetti on a fork, and didn’t want to look like a fool in front of his employer. Once the server was gone again, Sullivan said, “How are things going at the hexworks?”

Sam wasn’t sure why he’d been invited to this dinner, when Sullivan could have summoned him to his office at any time. But being asked to talk about hexes put him on surer footing, and he sat up straighter.

“Good! We’re fully up and running now—one of the scriptoriums wasn’t working out, it was too dark, but we figured out how to amplify the hexlights without needing more magic to run them, so that’s taken care of.”

Vic had burned the old hexworks to the ground, which meant the entire operation had to move to a new location. Sullivan acquired a building that once housed a Lithuanian-language newspaper, now out of business, and Sam had been helping to convert it to a hexworks ever since.

“Excellent, excellent.” Sullivan took a sip of his drink, which looked like a gin and tonic. While working at The Pride, Sam had learned more than he ever wanted to know about cocktails. “And you’ve figured out the counter to that look-away hex, I believe.”

“We have.” Sam had to restrain himself from going into details; most folks didn’t particularly care about how hexes worked, so long as they did. “It’s ready to be copied now.”

Sullivan beamed at him. “Well done. You’ve earned a bonus.”

Turner slipped a hand inside his suit coat and came out with a thick envelope, which he passed over to Sam. Sam’s throat constricted—he wanted to protest, say it hadn’t been anything, really. He was already being paid more than he’d ever dreamed and certainly didn’t need a bonus.

But it wasn’t just him now. Luke and Glenda, his teammates in the lab, deserved acknowledgement for their hard work.

Silently pledging to split the entire sum between the two, he accepted the envelope and put it in his own coat, beside his hexmaking kit. “Thanks, Mr. Sullivan. That’s very generous of you.”

Sullivan smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “I take care of my people.” His eyes went past Sam, and he sat back. “And here’s that dinner.”

Talk turned to inconsequential things while they ate. Turner regaled them with a story about an excursion to Milwaukee in which he’d encountered a pair of contortionists, and soon had Sullivan and Sam both choking on their laughter. When they’d first met, Sam had thought Turner severe—and he could be, especially when carrying out Sullivan’s orders. But he had a lighter side to him, always ready with a preposterous anecdote or amusing joke.

After dessert—chocolate ice cream with shavings of chocolate sprinkled on top—a steady stream of the other gang members came by for a quick word with their boss. Sullivan and Turner lit cigars; Sam demurred, to Turner’s amusement.

“Maybe we should call you Choirboy,” he said with a wink. “You don’t smoke, you don’t drink, you’re going steady with that cat when you could be working your way through Bughouse Square—you’ve got to have some vice.”

Sam’s face heated, but Sullivan only laughed. “A smart man keeps his vices under wraps,” he said, pointing his cigar at Turner.

“Still waters run deep, I guess.” Turner clapped Sam on the shoulder.

The teasing wasn’t mean-spirited, which was a change from Sam’s former life back in Gatesville. There, it was meant to set him apart; here, it was a signal he belonged. “Deep as a puddle,” he replied, and got a chuckle out of Turner.

Sullivan checked his watch, then rose to his feet. Turner and Sam did the same, as did another of the gang, Eddie Bellinowski. “Bring around the car, would you?” Sullivan asked Bellinowski, who nodded and hurried away down the stairs.

Assuming Sullivan’s departure meant he was free to go as well, Sam trailed along after him and Turner. At the coat check, Sullivan retrieved a fur coat that looked too hot for the fallish weather but probably had a hex on it to keep its wearer comfortable. He made quite a sight as they strolled toward the glass doors at the front of the cabaret: fur coat, diamond tie pin, tailored suit, and shining shoes.

At the door, Sullivan paused and turned toward Sam. “Always a pleasure to⁠—”

The front of the building exploded inward in a shower of fire and glass.

A group of cat-shifters run a speakeasy amidst

the magic and violence of 1920s Chicago.

The Pride takes place in the same universe as the Hexworld books.

Saturday's Series Spotlight

Hexworld

Part 1  /  Part 2

Monday's Mystical Magic

Hexhunter

Saturday's Series Spotlight

The Pride

Part 1

August 2026 Book of the Month

Blood and Sand

Jordan L Hawk

Jordan L. Hawk is a trans author from North Carolina. Childhood tales of mountain ghosts and mysterious creatures gave him a life-long love of things that go bump in the night. When he isn’t writing, he brews his own beer and tries to keep the cats from destroying the house. His best-selling Whyborne & Griffin series (beginning with Widdershins) can be found in print, ebook, and audiobook.

If you want to contact Jordan, just click on the links below or send an email.

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Blood & Sand #3

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The 13th Hex #.5

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A Christmas Hex #2.5

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Wild Wild Hex #3.5

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The Pride

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📚Saturday's Series Spotlight(Back to School Edition)📚: Cambridge Fellows Mysteries by Charlie Cochrane

Lessons in Power #4

Summary:

The ghosts of the past will shape your future. Unless you fight them...

Cambridge, 1907: After settling in their new home, Cambridge dons Orlando Coppersmith and Jonty Stewart are looking forward to nothing more exciting than teaching their students and playing rugby. Their plans change when a friend asks their help to clear an old flame who stands accused of murder.

Doing the right thing means Jonty and Orlando must leave the sheltering walls of St. Bride’s to enter a labyrinth of suspects and suspicions, lies and anguish.

Their investigation raises ghosts from Jonty’s past when the murder victim turns out to be one of the men who sexually abused him at school. The trauma forces Jonty to withdraw behind a wall of painful memories. And Orlando fears he may forever lose the intimacy of his best friend and lover.

When another one of Jonty’s abusers is found dead, police suspicion falls on the Cambridge fellows themselves. Finding this murderer becomes a race to solve the crime…before it destroys Jonty’s fragile state of mind.

Warning: Contains sensual m/m lovemaking and hot men playing rugby.

Lessons for Sleeping Dogs #12
Summary:
Cambridge, 1921

When amateur sleuth Jonty Stewart comes home with a new case to investigate, his partner Orlando Coppersmith always feels his day has been made. Although, can there be anything to solve in the apparent mercy killing of a disabled man by a doctor who then kills himself, especially when everything takes place in a locked room?

But things are never straightforward where the Cambridge fellows are concerned, so when they discover that more than one person has a motive to kill the dead men—motives linked to another double death—their wits get stretched to the breaking point.

And when the case disinters long buried memories for Jonty, memories about a promise he made and hasn’t kept, their emotions get pulled apart as well. This time, Jonty and Orlando will have to separate fact from fiction—and truth from emotion—to get to the bottom of things.

Lessons in Loving the Murderous Neighbour #12.5
Summary:
Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith like nothing more than being given a mystery to solve. But what happens when you have to defend your greatest enemy on a charge of murder?

Lessons in Power #4

Original Review Summer 2014:
Another great Jonty and Orlando tale. My heart was breaking for Jonty having to relive the ordeals he suffered in his earlier years. My heart also ached for Orlando having to watch the man he loved relive those horrors and not be able to help other than be there for him. Which of course meant more than Orlando realized it did. This mystery hitting so close to home again brings in Mama and Papa Stewart in loving and interesting ways. Mrs. Stewart may be a woman of her time but she isn't one to be scoffed at either, she's a delight to read. Off to start number five.

Re-Read Review July 2016:
I didn't think it possible that I could love Jonty & Orlando more but this second time around is just as amazing!

Lessons for Sleeping Dogs #12

Original Review November 2015:

When I heard there was going to be another Jonty and Orlando I was so excited and that excitement was justified.  Even after 15 years together they still manage to excite, intrigue, romance, and infuriate each other and the reader.  I will say that when I saw it was set after the war, there was a little sense of sadness knowing that Mr. and Mrs. Stewart would not be part of the story as they died of influenza during the war.  Well, I did indeed miss the senior Stewarts but Jonty's sister, Lavinia stepped in to her parent's shoes perfectly and loved every minute of it.  Throw in their good friend, Ariadne, who just happened to be the one to bring their recent case to the boys' door, and the amateur detectives are afoot in all their mystery-solving glory.  I know some series tend to be repetitive after a while but Cambridge Fellows has not reached that point yet and I hope to see more to come, I don't think I'll ever tire of Jonty and Orlando.

Lessons in Loving Thy Murderous Neighbor #12.5

Original Review August 2017:
I can honestly say that when I heard there was going to be a new Jonty and Orlando tale I was psyched!  I won't go into the plot but I'll just say that for a novella Lessons in Loving thy Murderous Neighbour is jam packed with all kinds of the goodness and sass that has made Cambridge Fellows one of my favorite duos.  Jonty and Orlando remind me a little(sometimes a lot) of Nick and Nora Charles from Dashiell Hammet's The Thin Man, they possess similar passion for each other, for life, and definitely appreciate a good mystery.

Charlie Cochrane could write 100 installments for this series and I would be hungry for #101.  Jonty and Orlando are a brilliant couple that continue to make me smile and that is down to Charlie's obvious love of history because she adds that extra little something to the couple with the authenticity of the times.  When an author goes the extra mile to "keep it real" without it turning into a history lesson, that only heightens my enjoyment and my respect for the author because I know they put the hours in to bring you a genuine tale of the era.

If you are new to Miss Cochrane's Cambridge Fellows Mysteries, there are currently 12 novels and unfortunately the first 8 are not currently available but the author is working on re-releasing them hopefully in the not-too-distant future. In my opinion, they should be read in order but technically each one could be read as a standalone since each has a new mystery but the relationships just would flow better in order, IMO.

RATING:

Lessons in Power #4

Cambridge, February 1907 

“I’ve been reading a book.”

“I remember you saying that once before. We were both stark naked in front of a fire just like this one and by rights should have been making a first consummation of our passion.”

Orlando Coppersmith swatted at his friend’s head with the first thing that came to hand, which luckily for Jonty Stewart wasn’t one of the fire dogs but a bread roll. “It’s a constant amazement to me that you’ve ever shut up long enough for a consummation to take place. Blether, blether, if they made it an Olympic event you’d be so certain to be champion that no one else would turn up to oppose you.”

“And the point of this conversation was?” Jonty flicked some toast crumbs from his cuff.

“This book concerned the meaning of names and it struck me how apt yours was. Well, it struck me at the time—after the latest bit of tomfoolery I’m not so sure.” Orlando, once a potential Olympic frowning champion, smiled happily.

“Handsome, lovely, is that what it means? Statuesque? Desirable?” Jonty chirped away like a little bird, full of the joys of a day which suggested that spring might be just around the corner, if the light filtering into the dining room was any indication.

Orlando grabbed his friend’s hands. “Stop it. I’m in deadly earnest. It means ‘God has given’. Now if that’s not an apt description of you for me then I’ve no idea what is.”

Jonty had the grace to blush. “You’ll have to tell Mama. She alleges the choice of Jonathan was all Papa’s. She wanted to call me James.”

“I think I’ll start calling you Godgiven or some such thing when you’re at your most annoying. It might get you to calm down.” Orlando buttered his toast with great energy, as if it were his friend’s bottom that was getting a whack.

Jonty poked out his tongue, although his lover couldn’t be sure whether he was thinking or being insulting. “And what does Orlando mean? Irritating? Insatiable?”

“It’s from Roland.”

“Well, I’m none the wiser with that.”

“Neither was the book, to tell the truth, although it’s supposed to be something to do with a famous land. I suspect it means ‘he who gains fame throughout the country’.”

Jonty turned up his nose. “More likely ‘he who spends hours in the bathroom’. Luckily we have two in this place or I’d never be ready in the morning.”

In fact there were three bathrooms in their house, but the one in the self-contained annexe—which itself contained Mrs. Ward, their housekeeper—never got taken into the reckoning as they never got to go near it. It was part of the “servant’s quarters”, as the house agent had referred to them when they’d first enquired about the property, only connected with the rest of the building via a rickety flight of stairs which led to the kitchen.

Not that Mrs. Ward ever complained. Her suite of rooms had been decorated and kitted out beautifully, along with all the rest of the house, prior to the men taking occupation. A sailor’s widow in her mid-forties, and with her only son now himself at sea, she’d been recommended to them as a lady who relished the prospect of something to set her abilities to. As the recommendation had come from Ariadne Peters, sister to the Master of St. Bride’s college, Jonty and Orlando had paid close attention to it. They didn’t want their jobs at the college proving surplus to requirements overnight. Mrs. Ward had a big heart, an open mind and a light touch with pastry, which were the best possible qualifications, and in the fortnight they’d been in residence, the men had no complaints.

Their house, a cottage dating to Tudor times but adorned with later extensions and amendments, had previously belonged to an old lady who’d died. Jonty had spied the property out before Christmas and fallen in love with it. He’d whisked Orlando up there the very evening he agreed to buying a house and the cottage had weaved its magic on him too. They’d bought it before anyone else could, then set to with plans for improvements.

Or, to be accurate, Helena Stewart, Jonty’s mother, had descended on her broomstick and taken all the plans for enhancements in hand, as “her lads” were so busy with university business. Soon the Madingley Road was alive with decoration, renovations, plumbing and installation of proper central heating, all without losing an ounce of the property’s charm. It was only a matter of weeks before it was habitable and on February the first they took possession.

“Should I carry you over the threshold?” Jonty had been barely able to restrain the bliss in his voice when they’d taken possession. “Or you me? We could even go in, then come back out so we both get a go…” His words had been stopped in the most effective way, by a single, protracted kiss—allowable only as no one else was within a half a mile’s sight.

Now it felt as if they’d lived in this house forever. Orlando, whose home for many years had consisted of a set of rooms in St. Bride’s in which no one but his students and the Master were allowed—and a chair in the Senior Common Room which no one cared to sit next to—was amazed that his horizons had expanded so far. He kept a room back in college for supervisions, as did Jonty, and their chairs still stood side by side in the SCR, inviolate, but now Orlando had a cottage which he shared in joint names with his lover. He also had second, third, call-them-what-you-would homes in both Sussex and London with the rest of the Stewarts, for whom he was a cross between a fourth son and a favourite son-in-law.

Forsythia Cottage was spacious, affording them each a study to fill with their books, pictures and general clutter. It was well appointed with bedrooms for household and guests, although only one of their beds ever seemed to be slept in on any given night. They always took breakfast together, Mrs. Ward serving up ridiculous quantities of bacon and eggs or—as this morning, when talk turned to names—kedgeree, which was spicy and succulent.

“Shall we have Matthew Ainslie up to Bride’s for High Table?” Jonty’s little nose rose above the newspaper, making him look even more like a small inquisitive mammal than usual.

“Why?” Orlando had managed to avoid having the man visit them through the Michaelmas term, and didn’t want things to change now.

“Because we’re meeting him at the rugby on Wednesday. It would be terribly rude to just shake his hand after the match, say ‘Sorry the university slaughtered Blackheath’, and then just leave him there.”

It was true; Orlando had to admit that would be shoddy treatment. Even for someone who had once made a pass at him up in the woods. He no longer hated Matthew for past indiscretions, nor wanted to kick him in the seat of his pants, but he was sometimes jealous of the affection Jonty felt for a man they’d only met on holiday. “I suppose so. We can let Miss Peters get her teeth into him if he gets out of hand.”

“I’d pay money to see that happen.” Jonty drained his cup and poured another. The late Mr. Ward had tasted the excellent coffee supplied in foreign parts and had taught his wife how to make a good brew.

“I suppose in that case we should see about accommodation for him?”

“No need. He’s been talking about staying at the University Arms, which seems a better idea than having him here. Then he won’t have to listen to your snoring.”

“For the one-hundred-and-ninety-third time, I don’t snore.”

“Don’t you?” Jonty stood up and reached over the table for the marmalade, which his lover had appropriated. “Well, some bloke comes in my bed of a night and reverberates. Perhaps it’s a farmer driving his pigs to market. Ow!”

Orlando had taken advantage of Jonty’s position and landed a hearty slap on his backside. “You’ll get another one of those every time you accuse me of snoring.”

“Seems a positive incentive to keep on doing it then.” Jonty sat down gingerly, although he didn’t mind being whacked by his lover—it often led on to something much more pleasant. “I’ll ring Matthew at lunchtime, then.”

 *****

“Coppersmith! Orlando Coppersmith!” A chap the size of the great north wall of the Eiger came into view, cutting a lane through the throng of people along the touchline. He grabbed Orlando’s hand and pumped it up and down until all the blood flow seemed to cease.

“Morgan.” Orlando was pleased to have remembered the name. “I thought you’d have been playing.” He jabbed a finger at the pitch, a field as muddy as only Cambridge could produce in early spring.

“Dodgy leg.” The man mountain grimaced. “Come to cheer the team on.” He offered his hand to Jonty.

“This is Dr. Stewart.” Orlando made the introduction with pride. “He played here in about 1876.”

“Turn of the century, thank you. I think I may have played against you at some point, Mr. Morgan.” Jonty eyed the man’s broken nose and had the vaguest memory that he might just have been responsible. “You beat us then, but I hope we’ll make amends today. Ah, please excuse us…”

A hubbub broke out pitchside, which seemed to consist of repeated sayings along the lines of “Matthew, you old dog” or “Jonty Stewart, when are you going to get a decent haircut?” Together with muttered harrumphs from Orlando, which might or might not have been welcoming, this was all accompanied by an outbreak of backslapping, handshaking and general bonhomie. At least two of the three present were pleased at the reunion. For Ainslie, meeting Jonty and Orlando was the one positive thing to have come out of last summer’s holiday on Jersey, during which his father had been murdered and these two bright young men had solved the case.

“It’s wonderful to be here at last.” Ainslie breathed deep of the fresh Cambridge air, so much healthier than the latest London smog.

“All we needed was for you to get here.” Jonty’s grin couldn’t have been wider. “Now we can get a pint of IPA inside ourselves before kick-off. Need the warmth and sustenance.”

It proved just as well; the first half of the match was slow, more laboured than they’d hoped, and only the thought of another pint of beer was going to see them through if the second half turned out just as dire.

Orlando went off to find the little boys’ room and discussion turned to matters of dangerous binding in the scrum, when Morgan clapped Jonty on the back, sending him sprawling.

The man had been standing close by for the first half, obviously privy to the flow of wit and repartee which passed between the two fellows of Bride’s and their guest. “I’d never have thought to see old Coppersmith in such high humour. What happened to him the last few years to make such a change?”

“Oh—” Jonty was, for once, lost for words. Why did people have to ask such bloody awkward questions? Ones to which the wrong answer could lead to two years’ hard labour? “Ah, he, um, met a lady who had an extraordinary effect upon him.”

“The old dog. I was always convinced he would turn out to be a confirmed bachelor. Any sign of wedding bells?”

“I doubt it. She loves another, you know. Still, he burns a light for her.” Jonty was surprised by Orlando slapping his shoulder. He wasn’t certain whether his lover had heard what he’d said, although the man would have to be blind not to notice Ainslie’s secretive grin.

The game began again, with a bit more swashbuckling spirit on display and, as always seemed to happen, some wag asking whether the referee might benefit from borrowing Stewart’s spectacles. A stiff talking-to had no doubt been delivered with the half-time oranges and the end result of two goals all was regarded as being fair.

“Close call, eh?” Ainslie kept his voice low.

“The match or what he asked?” Jonty looked sidelong at his guest.

The crowds were wending their way back to colleges, pubs, the train station, wherever they’d come from. Morgan had buttonholed Orlando and was bending his ear up ahead on the path from Grange Road to the river. It was getting dark, the lights of Cambridge appearing like stars in the gloaming.

“It’s always the same old story, isn’t it? Lies and subterfuge.” Ainslie shivered, as did his host. The growing coolness in the air didn’t chill them half as much as the thought of the many little deceptions which pervaded their lives.

“I know.” They’d reached the river Cam, Orlando still being regaled with rugby tales and looking like he was desperate to escape. “We’re off to college to change. Meet us in my set for a sherry before dinner.” Jonty shook Ainslie’s hand, watched his neat, strong frame make its way along past St. Catherine’s, then set off to rescue his lover.

 *****

“Why did you have to say that?” Orlando’s room in St. Bride’s provided a sanctuary; here a man could talk freely.

“Say what?” Jonty had forgotten all about the halftime banter. That was forty minutes of rugby, a pleasant walk and a glass of sherry ago.

“About me meeting a lady who loved another. I could hear your voice a mile away. What sort of an impression will they have of me? I thought you didn’t approve of lies.” Orlando was fuming. Far from making him mellow, the beer had turned him belligerent.

“I don’t. Everything I said was true. You met my mama, who is without doubt a lady, and she has had a great effect upon you. And you could never marry her, could you, even if you wanted to?” Jonty looked with regret at the old leather chair by the fire. A nap would be nice but he didn’t suppose he’d be allowed one.

“That’s being pedantic. It may have been the literal truth but it told a misleading story.”

“Well, would you rather I’d said that you’d discovered the delights of my bed, which is the reason why you’re so much more confident and worldly wise? Think of the impression that would have caused, Dr. Coppersmith.” Jonty knew that he was in the right, and he always made the most of moral superiority.

Orlando was about to argue, then sighed and shook his head. “No, I think this was one occasion when the truth wouldn’t have paid.” He stared out of the window, musing. “I did wonder why he was being so friendly. He never used to make a point of talking to me.”

“You probably used to tell him off for sitting in your chair. Or standing on your bit of the pitch. Now that you’re a man of wide social experience, you give off a notable aura of bon viveur. Morgan no doubt sees that you’ve become much more fun to associate with and wishes to become one of your intimates.” Jonty began shifting his clothes, or else they’d never make Hall.

“Don’t rag me. I was incredibly lonely at times at Oxford. I could have done with a bit more beer and camaraderie then.” Orlando hated referring to the loneliness of his pre-Jonty days (or “the blessed times of quiet” as he called them) and if he was doing so now, he must be feeling the emptiness of them.

“Oh, my love. If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride. We can’t ever go back and change things can we? If we could, our formative years would all have been quite different.”

“I’m sorry.” Orlando’s loneliness now seemed very small beer compared to the horrors Jonty had been forced to endure at school, experiences it had taken him a great deal of time to recover from. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Of course you didn’t, whatever it was. Look, we’re neither of us the men we were and I daily thank God for it.” Jonty, the beer still making his body and spirit glow, felt as though he’d made the wisest pronouncement since the days of Solomon, one which was beyond answer. He was wrong.

“Quite right, too.” Orlando fiddled with his cufflinks. “I know you hate it when I speculate about what would have happened if we hadn’t met, but I can’t help doing it.”

“What if we’d met earlier? I mean what if we’d been opponents in the Varsity Match? I couldn’t have failed to notice you, all gangly legs and unruly curls. I’d have thrown you into touch a few times then we’d have shared a few beers in the bar. It would have been so nice…” There was something about the combination of rugby and beer which made the best of men maudlin.

Orlando snorted. “Well, we could hardly have commenced a relationship out there on the pitch, could we? No, please don’t favour that with an answer. It gives you far too much capacity for making obscene jokes about releasing the ball in the tackle.”

“I do fantasise sometimes, about what it would have been like to find myself at the bottom of a maul with you on top of me. Shame you mathematicians think it beneath yourselves to rummage up a rugger team—the English mob could organise a fixture and, assuming your old Achilles was up to it…” Jonty drifted off into pleasant reverie. He’d never seen his lover play the beautiful game, so it had become a favourite pastime to try to imagine it.

“Perhaps I can persuade them.”

Jonty almost dropped his collar stud. “Do you mean it?”

“Indeed. There’s a few chaps new to the university who could well be encouraged to turn out. And I’d enjoy it, too.” He smiled, full of mischief.

“Oh yes, Orlando? Being able to take me down in the tackle?”

“And rubbing your little nose into the mud a few times. Can’t think of anything better. On a rugby field that is,” Orlando added with a grin. “In here, that’s another matter…”

But the other matter was never explored, any investigation cut short when Matthew Ainslie knocked on the door in search of his glass of sherry.

High Table was excellent, a corner cut of beef being set off with fiery horseradish, and Yorkshire puddings as light as a feather. Ariadne Peters, whose plain looks were always eclipsed by her sparkling conversation, proved as entertaining as ever, and her brother charmed Ainslie with his intelligent interest in publishing.

They took coffee, cheese and fruit in the Senior Common Room, and when Ainslie accidentally sat in Orlando’s chair, the company waited with bated breath for the inevitable explosion of wrath. He astonished them all by sitting in the chair on the other side, letting Jonty take his normal seat. It was a gesture at once simple in its hospitality and profound in its sacrificial nature.

Jonty felt immensely proud of his lover’s good grace and resolved that he’d get an adequate reward when they returned home. The conversation meandered on, the wine, quantities of food and warm atmosphere having a soporific effect, so that Orlando soon suggested they take a little air before they all fell asleep. As the three men strolled along, the night air immediately counteracting the feelings of sleepiness, Ainslie spoke.

“Are you free for coffee tomorrow morning at, shall we say, eleven? I didn’t want to spoil this evening with business, although tomorrow I’d be grateful if I could—” he seemed to be thinking of the correct term, “—consult you on a professional basis.”

Jonty bowed, with only a hint of facetiousness. “That makes us sound conspicuously like Holmes and Watson. I’m available—are you, Dr. Coppersmith?”

Orlando’s face illustrated all the frustration he felt. “No, I’ve college business. And on a Saturday too.” He rolled his eyes.

“Then Dr. Stewart will have to take excellent notes, won’t he?” Ainslie smiled and strolled off, leaving his friends to find a cab to take them back up the Madingley Road.

 *****

Ainslie had found a part of the University Arms where he and his guest could take coffee and talk without being overheard, an important element in his plan, given the potentially delicate nature of the discussion. A University College London man himself, he was enjoying his visit to such a hallowed seat of learning (still hallowed despite Jonty’s tales of his less-than-bright students).

Ainslie had ended up with a degree in literature, a taste for port and some interesting connections, which meant he could indulge his inclination towards other men with both discretion and pleasure. A discretion which had temporarily deserted him on Jersey although, thank the Lord, not one which had stood in the way of his friendship with Stewart and his more aloof companion.

He welcomed his guest at eleven on the dot, pouring out a cup of what proved to be an excellent brew. They chatted amiably for a few moments, mainly about the university’s prospects in the forthcoming cricket season, then Stewart felt it was time to open his own batting.

“You wanted to talk to us about some sort of case, I take it?”

“Indeed. I remember with extreme gratitude your help on Jersey and I know of your success both before and after it.”

Stewart grinned. “You’ve been reading The Times, I suppose, and now you want us to poke our noses into something?”

“That’s an unusual way of putting it, but yes.” Ainslie was impressed to see Stewart produce, along with his glasses, an elegant notepad and an equally elegant propelling pencil with which he began to make notes. The air of objective authority helped to make a painful situation rather more bearable. “I won’t beat about the bush. I have a friend who has been accused of murder. He assures me that he’s innocent and I believe that to be the truth. I would like you to see if you can find any evidence to support his case.”

“When is this due to come to court?” Stewart’s pencil tapped on the page.

“There’s likely to be a delay while an important medical witness is recalled from abroad, but we can’t be looking at much the other side of Easter.” The window gave a faint reflection. Ainslie, catching sight of his face, was shocked at how pale he’d turned.

Stewart was concerned. “And does his own counsel give him any hope?”

Ainslie stared out of the window, at the children playing on Parker’s Piece, their delight in running on the grass meaning nothing to his unseeing eyes. “Not very much.” All he could see was a face—not his own this time—a handsome young face. One that, time was, had been his greatest delight.

Stewart considered his next question. “If we find evidence that your friend is indeed guilty, what then?”

Ainslie turned, his keen eyes fixing his guest’s equally candid ones. “Then he hangs. I’ll not have facts suppressed just to bring about the desired result. I want the truth.” It hurt to speak every word, yet each had to be said.

Stewart patted his friend’s arm. “Good man. Couldn’t have taken the job without you having said that. Now can I have some details? What’s your friend’s name?”

“Alistair Stafford.”

“Should I know him? I’m sure I’ve heard the name before.”

“He’s the man who sent that letter to Jersey, detailing my alleged sins to someone who wished to besmirch my reputation.” Ainslie watched the children playing yet didn’t see them, still registering in his mind’s eye a happier time and place.

“Matthew, I don’t understand, why should you choose to defend him of all people?”

“We were once lovers, Jonty, very fond and close. We had a misunderstanding, a series of them really, and we couldn’t come to any sort of a resolution. We separated under very unsympathetic circumstances—there was a lot of bitterness on his part.” Ainslie’s gaze remained fixed outside. “Which is why he was keen to give information to my business rival. Spite. Or revenge.”

“It’s very magnanimous of you to be going to his aid. Was there some rapprochement over the last few months?”

“No, it was his sister who approached me.” Ainslie remembered Angela Stafford with fondness—she had never betrayed his friendship. “His mother and father decided to sever ties with him when they discovered where his affections lay. Miss Stafford knew we’d been very close, knew we’d parted, but had no idea, obviously, of Alistair’s subsequent betrayal. I didn’t enlighten her.” He at last brought his gaze back into the room.

“Of course not. Yet you still agreed to help?” Stewart looked so outraged that Ainslie smiled, despite the turmoil in his mind.

“Not there and then, but I agreed to meet him and hear his side of the tale. I was sufficiently convinced—well, to be here now.”

Stewart laid down his pencil for a moment. “I feel unworthy to be given such a responsibility. The things we’ve been involved with in the past haven’t been that important, or rather our role within them hasn’t. The police would have solved those first two crimes anyway, irrespective of our input. Is there no one else you could ask for help? Someone more competent?”

“There may be, but there’s no one I trust half as well as I do you and Dr. Coppersmith. I can be completely candid with you and I’m learning to be so with him. If there’s anything to be found, I’m sure that you’re the men to find it.”

The intellectual detective tried hard not to beam and poised his pencil again. “Can I take a few details?”

“I have some notes here for you—” Ainslie produced a large envelope, “—although I can give you a summary. A man was found dead in his house in Dorking, down in Surrey, the back of his head smashed in with a poker. Alistair was known to have argued violently with him just days before, threatening his life.”

“And the man’s name?”

“Lord Christopher Jardine.” Ainslie almost flinched, so sudden was the change in Stewart’s normally good-humoured face. “Did you know him?”

“There was a boy of that name at my school.” Stewart was making his face a blank, a mask over it to hide all feeling.

“He’d be a few years older than you.”

“Then I did know him.” Stewart fiddled with his pencil, some deep emotion welling up, threatening to engulf him.

“I’m sorry.” Ainslie’s words were sincere but they sounded feeble.

“So am I, Matthew. Sorry I ever made his acquaintance."

Lessons for Sleeping Dogs #12

Jonty, recognising the signs, concentrated on his food. Orlando’s tetchiness could only mean one thing. “You need a case. To improve your mood.”

Orlando opened his mouth as if he was going to argue, then shut it again and laid down his fork. “You’re right. I have no idea how I filled my days before this all happened.” He swept his hand in a gesture that seemed to take in Jonty, their cottage, and the elegant piece of silverware on the mantelpiece. The long-necked jug, a gift from a grateful client, was symbolic of investigations.

Jonty held his tongue. He had no idea how Orlando could have survived back then, cocooned in his own little world.

“Maybe,” he said at last, “our guardian angels—the ones you refuse to believe in despite all the evidence that they’re working like billy-o—are even now trying to push a case in our direction. The devil makes work for idle hands, and they wouldn’t want us put into temptation, would they?”

Orlando broke into a grin. “You do talk rot.”

Jonty lifted his napkin to his mouth. “So, can you take the field for me? You’ve an excellent eye for a ball, and that fifty you put together back in May for the St. Bride’s Fellows XI was a poem. A sonnet in itself, iambic pentameter or not.”

The talk turned to sport, and the beef was enjoyed against a background of leg spin and off drives.

Lessons in Loving Thy Murderous Neighbor #12.5

Cambridge 1922
“Owens? Owens?” Orlando Coppersmith’s voice sounded louder, and clearer, from his chair in the Senior Common Room at St Bride’s than it had ever sounded before. And with good cause.

“Steady on, old man. We’re in enough of a state of shock without you making sufficient noise to wake the dead.” Jonty Stewart smiled at his friend’s uncharacteristic outburst. Although friendship would hardly be the most accurate way to describe their relationship. Even the description “lovers, companions, colleagues and partners in solving crime” didn’t quite cover the depth of the bond they’d build up in nigh on twenty years. If their hair bore the odd silver thread, their ardour hadn’t cooled.

“Wake the dead or, harder still, wake some of the dons,” Dr. Panesar agreed, mischievously.

“Good point, Dr. P.” Jonty sniggered. “Some of them give the impression they’ve been asleep since 1913.”

A quick glance around the oak panelled room supported his assertion. St. Bride’s may have been one of the most forward looking of the Cambridge colleges, embracing the fact the year was 1922 rather than pretending it was still 1622, but some aspects of the university, including crusty old dons, seemed to be an immutable fixture.

“In which case,” Orlando pointed out, “we’d have ten years of history to explain to them, much of it unpleasant, let alone this latest scandal. St. Bride’s men being asked to defend Owens. What is the world coming to?”

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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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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.

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EMAIL:  cochrane.charlie2@googlemail.com

Lessons in Power #4

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Lessons for Sleeping Dogs #12

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Lessons in Loving Thy Murderous Neighbor #12.5

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Cambridge Fellows Mysteries

Series #1-12

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Series Novellas

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Cambridge Fellows Box Set #1-12

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Alasdair & Toby Investigations Series

An Act of Detection #1

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The Case of the Grey Assassin #2

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The Case of the Undiscovered Corpse #3

(👀Alasdair & Toby and Cambridge #1👀)

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The Case of the Deadly Deception #4

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