THE HAUNTING - Book review

This is Alan Titchmarsh’s eighth novel (published 2011) and the first of his that I’ve read. Titchmarsh is a gardener who became a broadcaster in TV and radio. His first novel was published in 2001.

The Haunting (an over-used title) is an episodic tale alternating between two time periods: 1816 and 2010.

In 1816 a housemaid Anne Flint goes missing at the same time as the daughter of the local lord is found dead by the stream. The mysterious death is compounded by the fact that the dead girl is wearing Anne’s clothing…

In 2010 history teacher Harry Flint is nearing the end of his tenure at St Jude’s School. He is still recovering from a failed marriage and purchases Mill Cottage where he will spend his time with his many books and tracing his ancestry…

Gradually, with consummate ease, the mystery is resolved.

The book relies on several coincidences, but that’s no bad thing. Life is full of them. The same goes for the plethora of clichés – people use them all the time.

The characters, both main and subsidiary, are rounded and interesting. There’s humour and pathos, and humane warmth. Certain unsavoury aspects in the past are dealt with off-stage.

The recounting of a death is restrained and very affecting.

Titchmarsh excels in description of both place (especially evocative with his broad knowledge of plants and trees and wildlife) and character: viz.

April 16, 1816: ‘Air as clear as crystal; the sort of day when the whole world seems to sparkle and glisten – freshly laundered by a shower of rain, buffed up by the gentlest of breezes and then polished to perfection by clear sunlight.’ (p1) Then the same words are used for April 16, 2010 (p11). Emphasising parallels in time.

‘Around her shoulders lay an elaborate wrap that had seemingly once belonged to a member of the fox family blessed with three heads and five feet, and upon her head sat a collection of feathers which, had they been seen in the road, would have been identified as an unfortunate thrush who had come off badly in an argument with a coach-and-four.’ (p143)

Author intrusion is not greatly apparent until the last (ill-judged) paragraph.

I intend to read another of Alan Titchmarsh’s books – The Scarlet Nightingale (2018) soon.

Death of Shakespeare and Marlowe

On 23 April 1616 Shakespeare died; he was fifty-two. Not surprisingly, his plays have been translated into every major living language and are performed more often than those of any other playwright.

Controversy has lingered over the authenticity of some of his works. I decided to play (!) with this idea for a science fiction story, ‘If We Shadows Have Offended’, which can be found in the collection Nourish a Blind Life (2017).

The story is set in 2093 and concerns Zeigler, who has gained approval from the Time Door Committee, to research a specific event in the past. Here’s an excerpt:

He smiled at his great ancestor’s photograph. In 1895 WG Zeigler, a Californian lawyer, had been the first to suggest that Christopher Marlowe’s death on 30 May 1593 was staged and that the poet actually went underground to write the plays using Shakespeare’s name.

Now, at last, he would be able to prove once and for all whether or not Shakespeare had written everything attributed to him.

***

The twelfth night arrived.

In the greying mackerel sky, the sinking sun streamed red down onto the white concrete square building with a circular tower, similar in style to the old-fashioned long superseded light-houses. Above the tower hovered a shimmering black cloud. But this was no ordinary cloud. It hung perpetually over the tower, possessing no depth or discernible edge. Gleaming. Apparently as fathomless as the deeps of the oceans.

One of several Timedoors into the past.

Zeigler had frequently passed this and other Timedoors, and on each occasion he had been drawn by the weird unearthly sight of those black clouds. Such awesome power, so frightening to contemplate, and now he was destined to travel through one.

He stood outside the door marked ENTRANCE. Above was a plaque with a quotation, ironically from Shakespeare:

            ‘The end crowns all,

             And that old common arbitrator, Time,

             Will one day end it.’ - Troilus and Cressida

Zeigler read the small red print alongside the doorway.

He was to give his name, age, occupation, ID number, and his appointment reference number. Making sure he got it in the right order, he complied.

The door opened upwards with a hiss.

The interior was blank metallic walls on three sides bathed in glowing red light.

A faint humming reached him as he entered. He hardly noticed it. His was the last generation not to live wholly in an electronic, mechanical world together with its concomitant noises. He could still remember when silence was accessible on the planet. It was an irrational thought, but he wondered what the next-but-one generation would do if confronted with total silence. He shuddered to think and recalled Coriolanus: ‘My gracious silence, hail!’

By then of course they might be virtually deaf - his nephew’s hearing was 30% poorer than his, and the lad was average for his age.

The door glissaded shut behind him.

The pitch of humming heightened. If the slight upsurge of his entrails was anything to go by, he was rising in a remarkable lift - no, there was no lift cubicle: he was rising bodily up a shaft, probably in some kind of anti-gravity beam.

The instructions had been unable to prepare him for anything like this, doubtless for security reasons.

Markers on the walls showed his ascent. At the fifty-foot mark he stopped with a queasy reaction in his stomach.

An opening appeared in front of him and he stepped into a brightly lit circular room, the walls crammed with computer facia and attendant hardware. Seated at a tubular steel desk, a young beardless man in a white smock beckoned for Zeigler to step forward.

The young man’s ample stomach pressed tightly against the coat, reminding Zeigler of Henry VIII: ‘He was a man, Of an unbounded stomach.’

‘You are on time, Mr Zeigler - a trait sadly lacking these days!’ The man shoved across a quarto printed sheet. ‘Please read this and sign. It is the Official Secrets Codicil (TPC) 2058. Afterwhich, kindly enter that stall over there.’ He pointed to a recess in the wall, between two orange steel computer cabinets.

The cubicle was uncomfortably narrow.

‘This won’t hurt, Mr Zeigler. But we have to be sure you are the real you! And, you see, access to the Timedoor is only permitted if you’re completely fit and germ-free.’

A flash appeared in front of his eyes. It felt as though his eyelashes had been seared off. But it was over so fast he remained unmoved.

Zeigler found that the man with an unbounded stomach was blurred. ‘Yes, Mr Zeigler, your physiogram matches with State records. You have also been made bacteria-free. Your unique bacteria, however, will be coated back onto you when you return. Be careful while in Elizabethan England, sir, for you are now exceedingly vulnerable to illness of any kind.’

‘Haven’t you any panacea-type injection you could give me?’

‘No, the side effects while undergoing the time-journey are deleterious in the extreme. We lost two esteemed pioneers that way - they were devoured from the inside by various bacteria that grew to huge proportions. As yet we don’t know why - but at least we detected it. This is another very good reason why you’ve signed this piece of paper, Mr Zeigler.’ The man wafted the form and smiled; he was not so blurry an image now. ‘Not a word, mind. To anyone. You will be free to report on your findings only. The rest will be erased from your mind once the report is filed and copyrighted; however, any credit will be yours entirely.’

‘I never realised how - delicate, no, how dangerous - this time-travelling is. It puts me in mind of The Merchant of Venice: “Men that hazard all, Do it in hope of fair advantages”.’

‘Really, sir? And what’s your “fair advantage”?’

‘Oh, confirmation of my research paper, to vindicate an ancestor.’

‘I see. Well, we’re meddling with things our ancestors only dreamed about, Mr Zeigler. Our fail-safes even have fail-safes, hence this little gadget.’

The young nameless man held up a small black box. ‘Please remove your shirt, sir. Here is a pamphlet about this little beauty. Read it carefully.’

Although very curious as to why the box was being secured over the fleshy bulge of his left shoulder blade, Zeigler scanned the pages of small print.

It appeared that the device would self-destruct should he do anything to disturb the balance in the past. By self-destructing, it would also take him with it, leaving no trace whatsoever. Then the Timedoor would close on his ashes and the pod would disintegrate.

Connected remotely to the box was a pendant, an eye. The man draped this round Zeigler’s neck. ‘The simple act of removing the eye or breaking it will also result in the box self-destructing.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘We must protect ourselves as well as our past.’ He grinned. ‘Selfish maybe, but I wish to continue in existence!’

‘You mean some applicants might seriously contemplate disrupting the past to change the future? Don’t they realise they’d be putting their own existence in jeopardy?’

‘Some fanatics think it worth the risk, Mr Zeigler.’

Zeigler went cold and thought how chilling the words from Richard II were in this context: ‘O! call back yesterday, bid time return.’

‘Right, Mr Zeigler, now you are ready. Please stand on that circular brass plate.’

Zeigler was lifted up another anti-gravity beam. ‘Enjoy your trip!’ called the young attendant.

Again, Zeigler rose but this time it was a green zone: olive and yellowish. Quite sickly.

Finding himself in another room devoid of furniture or machinery, he was startled to hear a metallic female voice issuing from a grille.

‘The parcel you dispatched separately in accordance with instructions has been examined and you may now put on the clothes. You have chosen a particularly smart set of garments, sir.’

The speaker unit clicked off and a tray levered out from the wall with his pile of Elizabethan clothes lying on its shiny surface.

Irrationally, he felt self-conscious as he undressed; simply because the metallic voice sounded female?

He took a while to slip into the clothes, all the while conscious of the presence of the black box.

The voice returned. ‘Now step back into the shaft. Don’t look down, don’t worry - the ag’s still on!’

Zeigler was not amused. But he didn’t look down; his ruff made that action awkward anyway.

Up again. To the 140ft mark.

‘Alight, please.’ A flesh-and-blood woman’s voice.

This room was roofless and possessed a central dais on which rested a conical transparent pod. The pod was aimed upwards, pointing at the black hole. Even from this close, the true edges of the Time Hole were not readily discernible. The shimmering effect made him dizzy.

‘Step this way, please, Mr Zeigler,’ said an attractive brunette attendant also dressed in white. She possessed angelic features, which he thought somehow appropriate up here.

She eyed his prominent codpiece, arched her eyebrows suggestively and smiled.

He blushed; another first-impression destroyed: I thought her as chaste as unsunn’d snow - Cymbeline. He sighed.

Gently the woman placed Zeigler inside the pod. Although the pod was designed for bigger men than him, it was still a tight squeeze, mainly due to his doublet bulging with the bombast stuffing of the period.

‘Everything all right? You require any paper of the period for notes, or a recorder can be fitted to the “eye” if you like?’

Zeigler shook his head. ‘No, thanks. I’m only after one fact. Have you been able to pinpoint - select the right…?’

‘Yes. May 30th, 1593. Almost 500 years ago to the day, Mr Zeigler. We’ll put you down just outside the town. There’s ample room to conceal the pod in a neglected grove nearby.’

He craned his neck. ‘Are those the screens that you view me on - through the eye, I mean?’

She nodded, then said in a serious tone, ‘Take care, Mr Zeigler - we can’t help you once you leave the pod.’

‘I know,’ he said solemnly, his stomach performing somersaults. ‘I know all the risks. But our faculty must find out if - well, you know my theories, anyway.’

‘Yes. Now I’m going to lower the cowling and secure you inside. You’re liable to feel excessively giddy and you may even lose consciousness for a short while. Our scanners show you obeyed instructions and didn’t eat today - so your ride should be an untroubled one. I trust it will also be successful, sir.’

‘Thanks.’ He smiled.

And she shut him inside.

It was most peculiar, how he suddenly felt trapped, though he could see all round. He closed his eyes, calmed himself. Mustn’t get excited. Be rational, logical. Simply observe.

‘Ready?’

‘Yes.’ His voice came out as a strangled croak.

He felt as though his whole face was suddenly being squeezed off his skull as the pod fired up, the G-forces ramming him hard into the ergonomically-shaped cushioned seat.

Contrary to his original conception, he was not immersed in absolute blackness on entering the Time Hole.

It was like a velvety blue-black, with pinpoints all around, like stars that had forgotten how to twinkle. The sensation of movement had stopped - how long ago? He had no way of knowing, there were no instruments or clocks in here; and his wristwatch had been removed, together with every other personal possession.

Another quotation, from As you like it, reared its head for him to muse upon: ‘Time travels in divers paces with divers persons.’

Dizziness gnawed at the edges of his consciousness but never posed a serious threat. Elation kept him awake. He would succeed where so many before him had failed!

Over the years, anti-Stratfordiana had grown to a flood.

Professor Thomas C Mendenhall counted the letters in 400,000 Shakespearean words, discovering that for both Shakespeare and Marlowe the ‘word of greatest frequency was the four-letter word’, a fact that left the world of letters decidedly unshaken.

Then in 1955 Calvin Hoffman sought documentary proof for his case in the tomb of Sir Francis Walsingham, Marlowe’s reputed homosexual lover. But nothing was found in the tomb. Not even Sir Francis.

Which shouldn’t have come as a surprise, Zeigler reasoned.

Walsingham had contrived a most corrupt system of espionage at home and abroad, enabling him to reveal the Babington plot which implicated Mary Queen of Scots in treason, and to obtain in 1587 details of some plans for the Spanish armada. Queen Elizabeth I acknowledged his genius and important services, yet she kept him poor and without honours, and he died in poverty and debt in 1590. At least he seemed to live longer than Marlowe.

The twenty-nine-year-old son of a shoemaker, Marlowe had died with a dagger in his brain, the precise circumstances quite obscure.

Marlowe had from time to time been engaged in government employ, a euphemism for secret service work, and had become embroiled in the theatre of conspiracy and intrigue, the tumultuous, often dangerous life of London’s underworld.

At the age of twenty-one, Marlowe was employed as an agent provocateur, posing as a Catholic to spy on other Catholics, and acted as a renegade to trap such people.

He did it for the money, insinuating himself into the households of Earl of Northumberland and Lord Strange. As a projector he actively fostered treason in the employ of Sir Francis Walsingham and later of Sir William Cecil Burghley.

Wily young Marlowe’s apparent atheism was just a ruse for trapping free thinkers into indiscretion. Finally, he was set up as a conspirator by the Earl of Essex as a way of striking at Sir Walter Raleigh.

On that fateful night, Marlowe was knifed over his right eye in a drunken brawl at a tavern in Deptford, but the swift pardon of his murderer, Friser, twenty-seven days after the poet’s burial, suggested to Zeigler that the death had other, possibly political, undertones.

Hoffman had believed the whole affair was staged by Sir Francis Walsingham to remove his lover from the threat of imminent arrest for alleged blasphemy and atheism. Hoffman argued that the coroner was bribed to accept a plea of self-defence on behalf of Marlowe’s alleged killer and docilely accepted the stated identity of the body.

Hoffman believed Marlowe settled on the Continent and continued to write and sent his manuscripts to Walsingham, who had found a reliable if dull-witted actor fellow, William Shakespeare, ready - for a stipend - to lend his name as the author of Marlowe’s works.

As Walsingham had apparently died two years earlier than the Deptford incident, Hoffman’s theory was far from acceptable, but it suggested other similar possibilities to Zeigler.

Since most of Shakespeare’s plays were written after the recorded death of Marlowe, Marlovian theorists must prove Marlowe lived after the Deptford incident in order to write the plays.

Marlowe had been deeply influenced by the writings of Machiavelli, so any intrigue along these lines would most certainly appeal to him.

Other contenders over the years for the mantle of “greatest writer in the English language” included Sir Francis Bacon (died 1626), Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford (died 1604), Sir Walter Raleigh (died 1618), Michel Angelo Florio (died 1605), Anne Whateley (died 1600) and even Queen Elizabeth herself (died 1603). As Shakespeare’s last known work The Tempest was attributed to 1611, the literary prowess of some of these contenders can be marvelled at, Zeigler thought, capable of even writing beyond the grave.

In the latter part of last century, computers had been used to join in the academic fray.

Shakespeare databases were built as early as 1969 on an ICL machine, the KDF-9. Since then, ICL’s Content Addressable File Store - Information Search Processing and Oxford’s Concordance Program, written in Ansi Fortran had been used to word-count and create concordances, ostensibly to facilitate research. The DEC VAX 11/70 computer research gave credit to Shakespeare for Acts Four and Five of Pericles but not Acts One and Two; the researcher or computer never mentioned Act Three!

Certainly in the world of letters it was a controversial theory and Zeigler had some sympathy with Shakespeare. Lines from his Venus and Adonis seemed apt:

‘By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,

             Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,

             To hearken if his foes pursue him still.’

Zeigler wondered if Shakespeare waited still, far off on some heavenly hill, wondering if his detractors would ever cease pursuing him.

Poor Will, thought Zeigler. Well, the Timedoor Committee evidently felt the Zeigler theory had sufficient merit for them to accept his research request. And now he was almost there!

After some time, Zeigler noticed a lighter patch ahead, getting bigger. The indefinable edges again, the tint of a dusky sky...

He didn’t recall passing through the hole or landing. Perhaps he simply materialised?

Darkness. Raised jaunty voices. The rank stench of open sewers. These were his first impressions. It was night. He looked around and discovered he was still lying in the pod amidst a grove of bushes.

He checked the two console buttons. Red for his return signal. Green for opening the pod. Another button, on the reverse of his eye-pendant, worked the pod’s entrance-hatch for ingress.

Zeigler operated the green button and no sooner had he stepped out than the hatch shut behind him.

As he walked a few paces out of the bushes, he glanced back and was surprised to find he could no longer see the pod; its see-through capabilities aided concealment: someone would have to virtually stumble over it to discover the craft’s presence.

He didn’t have far to walk before he came to the town with its tumbled toppling street, black and white timber awry, cobbles threatening to pitch him every which way. Cats fought for thrown out fish-heads and other unidentifiable scraps.

Zeigler felt very vulnerable strolling the streets, for in these times no man was safe from the reach of the torturer or the smell of the dungeon. A carrion odour blew towards him and he retched emptily: ahead he noticed the swaying hanging remnants of a human being; some of the hideous butchery on the scaffold was sufficient even to turn the stomach of an Elizabethan crowd.

A building belched forth the soul of an alehouse but, gagging on the riot of smells, he passed it by. He needed to find Mistress Turner’s lodging house, up a squeeze-gut alley.

***

The full story can be found in the collection of 21 tales, Nourish a Blind Life (paperback and e-book) The title story won a prize; the judge stated:

‘I read a lot and like to think that I’m fairly hardened to the human experience. Your story Nourish a blind life however, moved me enormously. With a powerful understanding you avoided any mawkish melodrama. The ending, although sad, gave satisfaction knowing the narrator was soon to be free! Thank you.’ – Eve Blizzard, judge

 ***

The full story was published in my blog on 23 April and 24 April 2016 on the 400th anniversary of Shakespeare's death.

Pressure of work

I regret that I won't be posting as regularly as hitherto as pressure of work is demanding more time. I have a number of writing projects that are close to completion, and the publishers are waiting...

I must admit it's a good position to be in. 

So, please bear with me.

As the projects complete, I'll keep you informed.  In the meantime, please browse earlier posts.

Irony of ironies

Ironic, really. When I knew I would be away (in UK) for about two weeks, I prepared a daily blog to be scheduled for publication each day (I know, that's why it's 'daily...)  Now, on the day following my birthday, I find I'm running out of time and don't blog at all!

In mitigation, we're busy preparing for two visitors from UK, a week each more or less... A trip to the local tip for garden refuse, shopping, cleaning windows, floors, pool, the usual chores... Colouring in a Spiderman picture for grandson Darius at his behest (he's quite bossy, aged almost six)... And still trying to catch up on the so many birthday greetings on Facebook; thank you everyone for making the effort to post greetings.

So, I'll be back here as soon as feasible. (Memo to self: prepare a few 'standby blogs' to post to use in cases where I can't get to the computer!)

Thanks again for reading my blog.

PS - For leisure, please try one of the many Saturday Stories you will find here. Thanks!

Saturday Story - 'Remorseless Time'

REMORSELESS TIME

Nik Morton

 

‘Why do you go back?’ the very thin and pallid temporal engineer asked, the last in a long litany of familiar questions. One of these days, he might get a different answer from me. But not this time.

            ‘I want to suffer contrition,’ I said, as usual, ‘but can’t.’

            Sitting opposite, the NB judge leaned back and sighed. ‘You can’t change the past, Mr Thurston.’ The judiciary had dispensed with wigs fifty years ago. He looked like a kindly uncle rather than a hanging judge. Not that they hung anybody in New Britain. In a way, indoctrination was much worse. Death was final. Indoctrination seemed like a living death to free spirits like Donna, Tim and me.

‘You know the law, Mr Thurston. You have to live with what you have done. Be suitably contrite and then we can all move on.’

            ‘I need to go back, your honour,’ I insisted, ‘it’s my just punishment, after all.’

            ‘Very well, then.’ He cleared his throat and rubber-stamped the authorisation. It may be the twenty-second century, but some in authority still relished the old-fashioned methods. He handed the authority to my attractive probation officer sitting beside me.

‘Stuart, you’re booked for Tuesday week,’ she said with an insipid smile. ‘At 2.55am.’

            I turned back to the judge. ‘Thank you, your honour.’

            His face twisted in a half-hearted scowl. ‘On your return, I trust you will show more remorse.’ He didn’t care, I could tell. As long as he got paid handsomely with a protected pension fifteen years earlier than the taxpayers who financed his position, he didn’t need to care.

            I nodded and said, ‘I will definitely try to show remorse, your honour, next time.’ But I doubt it, I thought, but didn’t say.

 *

Behaviour control started last century with the street corner cameras and the legions of government funded organisations sustaining the monolith of intrusive government. Individuality was frowned upon for thirty years until the Tinkering Triumvirate, as we called it, kicked in - drugs were introduced into cigarettes and alcohol and subliminal messages were sent out through television, primarily during those boring unscripted reality shows and the plethora of soaps.

All of a sudden, individuality stood out and was deemed dangerous.

            By this time Donna, my brother Tim and I and thousands like us, who preferred reading to watching drivel on TV, had cottoned on to what was happening and went teetotal and underground. Literally.

            We’d been quite successful, disrupting the transport of drugs to the water-treatment plants and a few carefully sited explosions shunted several television channels off-air for days at a time.

These so-called public disorder interruptions threw up quite a number of people who suffered withdrawal symptoms which were characterised by discovering the invasive real world. Some committed suicide, others rushed to find an alternative fix, while many joined our rebellious ranks.

 

Wikipedia commons

 *

We rebels were free to think and free to love. Unfortunately, on the very morning that our underground outpost was under attack from government troops, I found my wife Donna in bed with my brother Tim. A red mist descended over me and the next thing I knew, they were both dead at my feet. The smoking revolver was on the floor.

            I was devastated and sank to my knees, which is how the government troops found me.

            I was arrested and charged with rebellion against the state as well as the lesser offences of murdering Tim and Donna. I pleaded guilty, as my good counsel advised.

While we’d been fighting our little skirmishes against the government brain-washing system, they’d moved on.

Wrongdoers were adjured to visit their past crimes – literally – and repent of their sins. Yes, the religious bigots had taken the reins, ousting the accountants who’d made a mess of things.

            When the boffins had discovered time travel, the state was in a position to commandeer the plans. Clearly, certain strata of society were protected against NB indoctrination – the scientists and the ruling elite. As engineering was moribund in the country, no private businesses could afford the time machine’s funding.

Time-travellers were incapable of interacting with the past or its people; they were merely observers. The theory goes, if you see what you did often enough, you’ll be contrite and ask for forgiveness. Only the state can forgive.

            This time, though, the judge had permitted me to arrive at the scene five minutes early. I’d pleaded that if I understood what was being said before I entered the bedroom, I might be better placed to comprehend what happened.

So I arrived at the bedroom door, dressed as I had been on the day. The lights were out. I slipped into the shadows to the left of the door.

            Donna was saying, ‘I’m his wife, I shouldn’t be doing this!’

            ‘Hey, I feel like hell, too. But you fancy me and I fancy you. So let’s do it.’

            She shook her head and then she saw me in the shadows and gasped. ‘Tim, it’s Stuart, he’s here!’ Her eyes screwed up tight.

            True to her words, I watched myself arrive at that moment at the bedroom door and discover them in bed together.

            Like all the other times, my face drained of colour and I simply stared. Not once had I seen myself move from the doorway, not once had I seen myself kill the two people I’d loved most in the world.

            At that same instant, the sirens sounded. ‘Government troops have infiltrated the bunker!’ The tannoy announcement echoed in the room.

Tim swore and fumbled under the pillow, pulling out the revolver.

I could see it in Donna’s eyes, she thought Tim was going to shoot me when I knew he was probably just getting ready to fight off government intruders.

            The gun went off accidentally and Donna fell back. Shocked and appalled, Tim flung the weapon away and it went off again, the bullet hitting him in the chest. The revolver landed at my feet.

I keep going back, but it’s always the same. How can I show contrition? I didn’t kill them; it was an accident. But the judge would never believe me.

So I keep going back – just to see them.

 

Both images of surveillance camera - Wikipedia commons

***

Previously published in Telling Tales #4 – Winter, 2009.

Copyright Nik Morton, 2009, 2014

 

If you’d like to read more of my short stories, many prize-winners, please check out When the Flowers Are in Bloom – Amazon.com e-book here and Amazon.co.uk e-book here – paperbacks are also available.

Or try my Leon Cazador collection, 22 cases of a half-English, half-Spanish private eye, Spanish Eye from Crooked Cat Publishing - Amazon.com e-book here and Amazon.co.uk e-book here – paperbacks are also available.