Alasdair and Toby Investigations #2
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...
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.
London, 1952
“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.
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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.
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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
Sunday's Short Stack
Monday's Mysterious Mayhem
Alasdair and Toby Investigations
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
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Cambridge Fellows Mysteries
