Poor Resa. Aside from all the listening and tea, my wife took care of Ada all alone on many more weekends than was fair. She was also the one who pointed out that my original ending was rubbish. If you have a partner like Resa, 90% of your life is perfect. Thanks, hottie. (Using this nickname in public will definitely get me killed.)
Let’s talk a little bit about my editors, Alison Hennessey, Shana Drehs, and Grace Menary-Winefield. Devil had to be dug out, word by word. It kicked, and spat, and bit. They had to read so much dross and were nothing but kind and positive. Devil wouldn’t exist without them.
My agent Harry Illingworth is … tall, so there’s that. In all seriousness, he’s my mate who knows a lot about publishing. This is marvellously helpful. He’s also brilliant at not crying when I tell him I’m going to miss ANOTHER deadline, and he has to break the news to Alison. These skills can’t be taught.
Big Phil’s abandoned us, so she’s dead to me. I was going to say how brilliant her campaign for Seven Deaths was, and how ace the campaign for Devil was shaping up to be. I was going to say she’s a pal, but she selfishly got pregnant and went on maternity leave, so I’m not going to say any of those things. They’re all equally true of Amy, so I’ll say them to Amy alone. Amy, you’re a miracle worker. Thank you. And Phil, of course. I can’t really be mean, because you’ve got a newborn. That’s punishment enough.
Glen brings me brownies whenever I sign books. For that and letting me talk his ear off as we crisscross London bookstores, I thank you. David Mann designs wonderful covers. The two for Seven Deaths were his. The Devil cover was his. I love them all. Ta, mate. Emily Faccini drew the map you’ve been ogling. She’s supremely talented. She did the Seven Deaths one, as well, which is why that’s also wonderful.
Caitlin, Valerie, and Genevieve have managed to shove my books in front of so many faces I’m surprised people aren’t tripping over them when they leave the house. Thanks guys. And let’s not forget Sara Helen, making the production process look effortless, even in the midst of a pandemic. Nice work. Ta!
And, finally, mum, dad, and spud. How do you thank the earth you stand on and the ozone layer for protecting you from incineration? I’ve been trying to be an author for a long time. They never stopped believing I would be. That still matters.
Queue the music. Queue the tears. I’m out of here.
Case #1: The Body Under the Black Snow
I’m often asked how I met Samuel Pipps, and what my first impressions were. As with most questions, it’s easier to ask than to answer.
It was 1629, and I had recently returned from war, after spending two years advancing and retreating under an increasingly tatty flag of independence. We had been trying to liberate the besieged town of Breda from the Spanish, but, for all our effort and death, nothing had been achieved. As summer rolled into winter, the war was packed up neat and put away. Nobles don’t like fighting in the cold and they had retreated to their castles to hunt and eat and dance until they could resume their slaughter in the sunshine.
Short of coin and sick of everything, I’d made my way to Amsterdam, falling into thief taking. It was fist work, mostly. People with grievances took them to Olfert, an old soldier with one leg, one arm and one eye, who kept a desk outside the half-finished Begijnhof church, claiming that a man with his ill luck needed to keep as close to God as possible. Plaintiffs would shout their complaints above the hammering, and Olfert would put on a kindly manner and promise prompt restitution. Often, this required me to drag a drunk fool off his stool and punch him until he settled his dues.
In return, Olfert paid enough coins to fill a calf’s mouth.
That morning Olfert had given me a handwritten note from somebody called Samuel Pipps, asking that I meet him at a dubious tavern in the narrows at midday. That part of the city was a rat’s nest of crooked lanes and thieving hands, impossible to navigate, let alone emerge from safely.
It was a peculiar request. Nobody in the narrows could read, let alone write. And they certainly couldn’t afford vellum. I thought it likely Pipps was just a bored noble, living dangerously for an afternoon so he’d have a story to tell his friends that evening. No doubt, he needed somebody to escort him safely home.
Truth be told, I nearly tossed his note to the wind. I was past tired of serving nobility. I’d seen too many good souls die wailing because a king wanted his flag planting on somebody else’s hill. I was so sick of the butcher’s yard, I’d already vowed not to go back to war. For most, that would have seemed like sense, but fighting was my only talent.
In some quarters, I was famed for it.
Casting battle aside was liking throwing away the only suit of clothing I owned, for I had no wife, no children. No friends, or close family. I had built nothing and could be proud of nothing. I truly didn’t know what else there was for me.
Much as working for a noble might taste sour in the mouth, I reasoned they’d likely put a few extra coins in my pouch, buying me week or more of comfort to set myself on a new path.
Black snow was falling – the white flakes stained by the soot rising out of chimneys – when I came upon the tavern in question.
A shingle hung over the door, squeaking in the wind.
I sighed, blowing out a breath. There was a dead man lying a few paces from the door, a shovel jammed into his back, and a light dusting of snow shrouding him. Steam rose from his body, and his blood oozed into the mud, but of his assailant there was no sign. The alley was empty, aside from a rickety cart further up the alley, tools spilled from the back.
I burst inside the tavern, sounding the alarm, only to be met with indifference and annoyance. Evidently, murder was common enough round here that it didn’t warrant shouting about.
‘Did he at least die in an interesting way?’
I had to squint to find the voice.The tavern was low-ceilinged and cheerless, smelling of mead and the sawdust covering the floor. Five guttering candles lit as many tables, the patrons rolling dice, or staring mournfully into their cups.
I realised the voice belonged to a short fellow in beautiful clothes who was scraping mould off the wall into a clay pot. He hadn’t bothered to turn around, but this could only be the author of the note in my pocket, for his fine dress spoke to education and abundance. Not to mention foolishness. I reckoned more than a few men in that tavern were biding their time, waiting for him to leave, so they could follow him into the dark.
‘You Pipps?’ I asked, suspiciously.
‘Yes, and you’re Arent Hayes.’ He hadn’t even looked at me, he was still intent upon his scraping. ‘Tell me about this murder.’
I’ll confess, I didn’t enjoy his abrupt manner, or the way he immediately assumed I was a servant to be ordered around.
‘Come outside and look for yourself.’
‘Oh, I’m much too busy for that,’ he said, absently. ‘Just tell me how he died. Slit throat? Knife in his chest? Was it bloody and boring?’
‘There’s a shovel in his back,’ I said, annoyed by his cavalier attitude to such a terrible crime.