Publisher's Weekly Review
The detecting and diplomatic skills of Thomas Pitt, now assigned to the Special Branch, are tested as never before in bestseller Perry's solid 25th novel to feature the Victorian sleuth (after 2005's Long Spoon Lane). In 1893, the discovery of a prostitute's mutilated corpse in a Buckingham Palace cupboard after a stag party presided over by the prince of Wales could spell political disaster for the monarchy. Pitt soon eliminates the members of the sizable household staff as suspects, narrowing his focus to the prince himself and his close friends, who, it turns out, have been planning a major construction project in Africa-a railway that would run from South Africa to Egypt. Though the sensitive nature of Pitt's assignment precludes any active involvement by Charlotte, his wife and partner in earlier cases, he's able to place her maid, Gracie Phipps, on the palace staff to assist him. Perry does a nice job with some plot twists, even if most readers will quickly discount the heir to the throne of England as a viable suspect. (Mar.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
The venerable Queen Victoria remains on the British throne. Her son, the middlle-aged Prince of Wales, awaits the time to come for his occupancy of the throne. In the meantime, he fills his days and nights with wine, women, and song. One such evening explodes when, the next morning, in a linen closet in Buckingham Palace (the queen, fortunately, not in residence at the time) is discovered the bloody body of a prostitute who had been part of the previous evening's entertainment, when the Prince of Wales hosted a gathering of businessmen to discuss a certain engineering project in which he was interested. Called in to quickly and discreetly get to the bottom of the murder is Inspector Pitt (a recurring Perry character), whose strategy includes installing the maid from his own household as an undercover employee in the palace. In a mystery novel, or any novel, with such a setting, it would have been easy for the author to trip over titles and protocol, but Perry has done her homework and does not stumble.--Hooper, Brad Copyright 2008 Booklist
New York Review of Books Review
BUCKINGHAM PALACE GARDENS (Ballantine, $26) is Anne Perry's 25th novel featuring her 19thcentury police inspector, Thomas Pitt. But unlike so many detective series gliding on cruise control, this mature work provides a fine introduction to Perry's alluring world of Victorian crime and intrigue. Ever the master of her milieu, she delivers sumptuous descriptions of life among the gentry when England still basked in its imperial glory. And in an intricate plot about a murder at the palace while the Prince and Princess of Wales are in residence, she also marshals the series's major themes: the way crime reverberates throughout the social classes; the precarious status of women of every rank; and the need for honorable heroes to preserve and protect the Empire, sometimes from itself. The glittering centerpiece of Pitt's latest adventure is a formal dinner party attended by the royal couple and their guests, including four entrepreneurs intent on building a railway from Cape Town to Cairo. By the time Perry is finished with the menu, the wives' gowns and the barbed conversations, we've been given subtle insights into every character. The one we care about most is Elsa Dunkeid, the abused but loyal spouse of the most ruthless of the master builders who are seeking the prince's support. Elsa has an independent mind, but because she's no rebel and keeps her intelligence to herself, her views on palace politics seem more authentic than those of the extraordinary protofeminists who tend to dominate Perry's novels. To make her point that the most insignificant life matters, even in the most classbound society, Perry employs an irresistibly appealing "Upstairs, Downstairs" perspective. While the prince and his guests try to explain to Inspector Pitt how the naked body of a prostitute got into a linen closet and bled all over Queen Victoria's own bedclothes, Pitt's clever housemaid, Gracie Phipps, infiltrates the servants' hall, alert to clues that her social superiors might miss. But it isn't young Gracie who is most changed by all this exposure to the powerful elite. It's the idealistic Pitt: "He had still imagined in them a love of the same values as the best of their subjects." Disillusioned by royal reality, he's wiser now, but still committed to restoring order to his imperfect world. The emotional stakes must be high, excruciatingly so, for a suspense novel to maintain its tension, a point obviously understood by David Levien when he wrote CITY OF THE SUN (Doubleday, $24.95). While it deals with the practical mechanics of how a private detective tracks down a boy who has been missing for more than a year, this relentless novel is really about how parents suffer the loss of a child. As such, the story conveys a piercing sense of honesty, even when the investigation itself seems implausibly free of complications. Twelveyearold Jamie Gabriel was snatched off his bike while delivering newspapers in suburban Indianapolis. But after more than a year the trail is "iceage cold," and besides, the police always figured him for a runaway. That leaves his parents, Carol and Paul Gabriel, frozen in a state of grief that begins to thaw only when they hire a former cop, Frank Behr, who lost his own young son in a tragic accident. Scenes are brief and sharp, and there are no stalls in the easy flow of the investigation, which ends with Frank and Paul on a grim road trip to Mexico that also proceeds with remarkably few hitches. But despite all the holes in the plot, the truth of the characters and the intensity of their pain is as unbearably real as it gets. Certain books come to mind whenever that little voice whispers in your ear, "Oh, lighten up!" The mysteries of manners that M. C. Beaton sets in the Cotswolds and laces with the acerbic wit of her village sleuth, Agatha Raisin, are always good for a nasty laugh. Somewhat sweeter, but also restorative, are the "Morgue Mama" whodunits of C. R. Corwin, whose smalltown snoop, the longtime librarian at a Midwestern newspaper, has yet to miss a dirty trick. Louise Penny's series about the eccentric residents of a postcardperfect town in Canada can also be pretty funny. Two relatively new series are putting twists on this impulse to laugh in the face of death. "The Spellman Files" was Lisa Lutz's quirky introduction to Isabel (Izzy) Spellman, dragooned into the family firm by parents who run investigations from their San Francisco home. Izzy returns in CURSE OF THE SPELLMANS (Simon & Schuster, $25) with another breathless tale of comic woe, related through intelligence reports ("Subject Is Observed Digging a Hole"), tape transcripts ("The Stone and Spellman Show Episode 48") and annotated accounts of everything from Izzy's exboyfriends to her arrest history. It's nice to hear such an original voice. AVALANCHE (Simon & Schuster, paper, $14) is Patrick F. McManus's second shaggy dog tale (after "The Blight Way") about Bo Tully, sheriff of Blight County, Idaho, and a good man to have around if you're hunting elk. Bo's current case, tracking down the missing owner of a fancy ski resort, gets tricky when an avalanche traps him inside the resort's lodge with his crazyoldcoot father, an assortment of rowdy guests and maybe a murderer. McManus is a columnist for Outdoor Life and Field & Stream, so it's not surprising to find him setting a pretty nature scene. But his idiosyncratic characters and their lunatic ways are what make this folksy whodunit such fun to curl up with. In Anne Perry's latest Victorian crime novel, a murdered prostitute is found in a linen closet at Buckingham Palace.
Library Journal Review
Thomas Pitt must be discreet as he investigates murder at an out-of-control party; the host was the Prince of Wales. With a ten-city tour by request. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Chapter One She was apparently found in the linen cupboard, poor creature," Narraway replied, his lean face dour, his eyes so dark they seemed black in the interior shadow of the hansom cab. Then, before Pitt could say anything further, he corrected himself. "One of the linen cupboards in Buckingham Palace. It was a particularly brutal murder." The vehicle jerked forward, throwing Pitt back in the seat. "A prostitute?" he said incredulously. Narraway was silent for a moment. The horse's hoofs clattered loudly, the carriage's wheels rattling over the cobbles dangerously close to the pavement edge. "Surely that's a bad joke!" he said at last as they swung around the corner into The Mall and picked up speed again. "Very bad," Narraway agreed. "At least I hope so. But I fear it is perfectly serious. However, if Mr. Cahoon Dunkeld proves to be wasting our time exercising his sense of humor, I shall take great joy in personally putting him in jail--preferably one of our less pleasant ones." "It has to be a joke," Pitt said, shivering at the thought. "There couldn't be a murder at the Palace. How could a prostitute get in there, anyway?" "Through the door, exactly as we shall, Pitt," Narraway answered. "Don't be naïve. And she was probably more welcome than we shall be." Pitt felt a little stung. "Who is Cahoon Dunkeld?" he asked, avoiding looking at Narraway. He had a reverence for Queen Victoria, especially now in her advanced age and widowhood, even though he was perfectly well aware of her reputed eccentricities and the fact that she had not always been so popular with her people. She had been in mourning too long, retreating not only from joy but also from duty. And he had gained some personal knowledge a couple of years ago of the extravagance and the self-indulgence of the Prince of Wales, and knew he kept several very expensive mistresses. Pitt had been superintendent of Bow Street then, and the conspiracy around the Prince had cost him his job and very nearly brought down the throne. That was why Pitt was now working for Victor Narraway in Special Branch, learning more about treason, anarchy, and other forms of violence against the State. But the thought of a prostitute in the Queen's home was different. It disgusted him, and he had difficulty concealing it, even though he knew Narraway found him plebeian amd faintly amusing for having such idealism. "Who is Cahoon Dunkeld?" he repeated. Narraway leaned forward a little. The dappled, early-morning sunlight of The Mall made bright patterns on the road. There was little traffic. It was not a residential area, and such horseback riders as were out would be cantering up and down Rotten Row on the edge of Hyde Park. "An adventurer of considerable charm when he wishes, and undoubted ability, who is now seeking to become a gentleman in the more recognized social sense," Narraway answered. "And apparently a friend of His Royal Highness." "What is he doing at the Palace at this hour of the morning?" Pitt said. "That is what we are about to find out," Narraway snapped as they came out of The Mall in front of the Palace. The magnificent wrought-iron railings were tipped with gold. Guards were on duty wearing bearskin helmets, their red tunics bright in the sun. Pitt looked up at the sweeping façade itself and then at the roof. He saw with a flood of relief that there was no flag flying, indicating that Her Majesty was not in residence. At the same time he was inexplicably disappointed. He was quite aware that Narraway would find it gauche of him, but Pitt would like to have caught another glimpse of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. In spite of all common sense, there was a quickening of his heartbeat. Even inside the hansom cab he sat straighter, lifted his chin a little, and squared his shoulders. If Narraway noticed, he did not allow himself even the slightest smile. They swung round to the right, heading for the entrance where tradesmen and deliveries would go. They were stopped at the gate. Narraway gave his name, and immediately the guard stepped back and saluted. The cabdriver, startled into respect, urged his horse forward at a newly dignified pace. Ten minutes later Pitt and Narraway were being conducted up the wide, elegant stairs by a manservant who had introduced himself as Tyndale. He was of slight build but he moved with suppleness, even some grace, although Pitt judged him to be well into his fifties. He was courteous enough, but quite obviously distressed beyond any ability to maintain his normal composure. At any other time Pitt would have been fascinated to think that he was inside Buckingham Palace. Now all he could think of was the enormity of what lay ahead of them. The magnificence of history meant nothing. Was this an idiotic practical joke? Tyndale's pallid face and stiff shoulders said not, and for the first time since Narraway had made his extraordinary statement in the hansom, Pitt considered the possibility that it might be true. They were at the top of the stairs. Tyndale walked across the landing and knocked on a door a little to the left. It was opened immediately by a man of much greater height than he, with broad shoulders and a dark face of remarkable dynamism. He was severely balding, but this in no way diminished his handsomeness. His gray hair must once have been black because his brows still were. His skin was burned by sun and wind to a deep bronze. "Mr. Narraway has arrived, Mr. Dunkeld," Tyndale said quietly. "Good," Dunkeld replied. "Now please leave us, and make sure that we are not interrupted. In fact, see that no staff come up onto this floor at all." He turned to Narraway as if Tyndale was already gone. "Narraway?" he asked. Narraway acknowledged it, and introduced Pitt. "Cahoon Dunkeld." The big man held out his hand and shook Narraway's briefly. He ignored Pitt except for a nod of his head. "Come in, close the door." He turned and led the way into the charming, highly overfurnished room. Its wide, tall windows overlooked a garden, and beyond them the trees were motionless billows of green in the morning sun. Dunkeld remained standing in the middle of the floor. He spoke solely to Narraway. "There has been a shocking event. I have never seen anything quite so . . . bestial. How it should happen here, of all places, is beyond my comprehension." "Tell me exactly what has happened, Mr. Dunkeld," Narraway responded. "From the beginning." Dunkeld winced, as if the memory were painful. "From the beginning? I woke early. I . . ." Deliberately Narraway sat down in one of the large overstuffed chairs covered in wine-colored brocade. He crossed his legs elegantly, if a little rigidly, at the knees. "The beginning, Mr. Dunkeld. Who are you, and why are you here at this hour of the morning?" "For God's sake . . . !" Dunkeld burst out. Then controlling himself with obvious difficulty, body stiff, he sat down also and began to explain. He had the air not of having grasped Narraway's reasoning so much as being given no choice but to humor a lesser intelligence. His fingers drummed on the arm of his chair. "His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, is deeply interested in an engineering project that may be undertaken by my company, and certain of my colleagues," he began again. "Four of us are here at his invitation in order to discuss the possibilities--the details, if you like. Our wives have accompanied us to give it the appearance of a social occasion. The other three are Julius Sorokine, Simnel Marquand, and Hamilton Quase. We have been here two days already, and the discussions have been excellent." Pitt remained on his feet, listening and watching Dunkeld's face. His expression was intense, his eyes burning with enthusiasm. His left hand, gripping the chair arm, was white at the knuckles. "Yesterday evening we celebrated our progress so far," Dunkeld continued. "I assume you are a man of the world, and do not need to have every detail drawn for you? The ladies retired early. We sat up considerably longer, and a certain amount of entertainment was provided. The brandy was excellent, the company both relaxing and amusing. We were all in high spirits." Not once did he glance at Pitt as he spoke. He might have been as invisible as a servant. "I see," Narraway answered expressionlessly. "We retired between one and two in the morning," Dunkeld went on. "I awoke early--about six, I imagine. I was in my robe, not yet dressed, when my valet came with a message that he had received over the telephone. It was a matter His Royal Highness had asked to be informed of immediately, so, in spite of the hour, I took it to him. I returned to my room, shaved and dressed, had a cup of tea, and was on my way back to see His Royal Highness further about the matter, but passing the linen cupboard in the passage I saw the door slightly open." His voice was harsh with tension. "That in itself, of course, is of no interest, but I became aware of a curious odor, and when I pulled it wider . . . I saw . . . probably the most dreadful thing I have ever seen." He blinked and seemed to need a moment to compose himself again. Narraway did not interrupt him, nor move his gaze from Dunkeld's face. "The naked body of a woman, covered in blood," Dunkeld said hoarsely. "There was blood all over the rest of the linen." He gulped air. "For a moment, I could not believe it. I thought I must have taken more brandy than I had imagined and become delirious. I don't know how long I stood there, leaning against the door frame. Then I backed into the corridor. There was no one else in sight." Narraway nodded. "I closed the door." Dunkeld seemed to find some comfort in remembering the act, as if he could at the same time close the horror from his inner vision. "I called Tyndale, the man who called you. He is the principal manservant in this guest wing. I told him that one of the women from the previous evening had been found dead, that he must keep all servants from that corridor; serve breakfast to the other guests in their rooms. Then I asked for the telephone and called you." "Is His Royal Highness aware of this event?" Narraway asked. Dunkeld blinked. "Naturally I had to inform him. He has given me full authority to act in his name and get this ghastly tragedy cleared up with the utmost haste, and absolute discretion. You cannot fail to be aware of the scandal it would cause if it became public." His eyes were hard, demanding, and the very slight lift in his voice suggested he needed reassurance of both Narraway's intelligence and his tact. "Her Majesty will be returning next week, on her way from Osborne to travel north to Balmoral. It is imperative that your investigation is entirely accomplished before that time. Do you understand me?" Pitt felt his stomach knot, and suddenly there was barely enough air in the room for him to breathe. He had been here minutes, and yet he felt imprisoned. He must have made a slight sound, because Dunkeld looked at him, then back at Narraway. "What about your man here?" he asked abruptly. "How far can you trust his discretion? And his ability to handle such a vital matter? And it is vital. If it became public, it would be ruinous, even affect the safety of the realm. Our business here concerns a profoundly important part of the Empire. Not only fortunes but nations could be changed by what we do." He was staring at Narraway as if by sheer will he could force some understanding into him, even a fear of failure. Narraway gave a very slight shrug. It was a minimal, elegant gesture of his shoulders. He was far leaner than Dunkeld, and more at ease in his beautifully tailored jacket. "He is my best," he answered. Dunkeld looked unimpressed. "And discreet?" he persisted. "Special Branch deals with secrets," Narraway told him. Dunkeld's eyes turned to Pitt and surveyed him coolly. Narraway rose to his feet. "I would like to see the body," he announced. Dunkeld took a deep breath and stood up also. He walked past Pitt and opened the door, leaving them to follow him. He led the way along the corridor with its ornately plastered and gilded ceiling, and up another broad flight of stairs. At the top he turned right past two doors to where a young footman stood at attention outside a third door. Excerpted from Buckingham Palace Gardens by Anne Perry All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
