The Bookshop Murders

Genres: Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

From Book 0:

London, 1928. Lucy Darkwether has always made her own rules. After breaking off her engagement to pursue a degree in Ancient History, she's now the proud owner of London's newest antiquarian bookshop.

So when a rival shop in Cecil Court is chosen to host an exhibition of Egyptian treasures, Lucy's pride is stung - until the grand opening ends in a gruesome murder. Is this the revenge of a disgraced colleague? A private vendetta? Or a curse visited upon those who disturb the past?

Ignoring the Inspector's warning to stay out of it, Lucy refuses to stick to the script. But murder isn't a game - and what she uncovers will have consequences for them all . . .

Release date: April 24, 2025

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 320

Sample

Chapter 1

The man speaking at the lecture podium was handsome, famous, widely celebrated – and Lucy Darkwether disliked him on sight.

Dr Lyle was the leader of the famous expedition and tomb discovery in Egypt. He wore his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms, his fair hair was artfully rumpled and he had intensely blue eyes. He might have been standing on a rocky outcrop in Persia instead of on-stage in the British Museum’s elegant reading room, opened that night especially for the occasion – his lecture on the discovery of the mummy.

‘Look at him,’ Lucy murmured. ‘He’s central casting for dashing explorer. A bit too good to be true, don’t you think, Professor?’

‘It would seem he can do no wrong,’ said her friend and colleague Mr Tollesbury, his pale-blue eyes crinkling in a smile. ‘The golden boy of archaeology. But rumour has it the man never lets the facts get in the way of a good story.’

Lucy had never seen Dr Lyle before that night, but she’d heard plenty about him. Most people had – Dr Lyle was famous up and down the country. The leader of many an expedition to the Middle East, he had most recently headed up the Egyptian Society’s expedition to the pyramids of Giza. The expedition had also been funded in part by the wealthy American heiress Mrs Moira van Buren, and Sir Archibald Drake, an elderly peer whose family fortune had long benefitted the Society. The press and public, their interest whetted by the notorious opening of Tutankhamun’s tomb five years earlier by Lord Carnarvon, had all avidly followed the story. After all, Lord Carnarvon had died, suddenly and mysteriously, only a few months after the tomb opening. That had been all that was needed to seed sensationalist newspaper reports of the cursed tomb. The public were avidly awaiting something equally thrilling.

So far, this had surpassed expectations.

First, an actual burial chamber of a king had been discovered by the motley crew on the expedition. Rumours of vast piles of gold and jewels swirled in the press. Public imagination had then reached fever pitch when Sir Archibald Drake had suddenly died on the very day the tomb was opened. As soon as the press got hold of the news, they had only fanned the flames: now anyone who was anyone in London believed there was a curse bestowed upon the tomb.

Now plucked from Egypt and brought to British shores – such was the expedition’s ‘Finders Keepers’ attitude – the tomb was set to be put out on display somewhere in London over the next few days and excitement levels throughout the city were through the roof.

It was the mummy itself, of course, that would draw the crowd, and Lucy had been waiting with interest to see where it would be exhibited in London ever since she’d heard the news. She had a keen interest in Ancient Egypt herself, having studied Ancient History at Oxford. When she heard that the museum was looking for a more intimate venue, rather than its own vast rooms, to place the body, she even wrote to them to suggest her own bookshop in Cecil Court. She had heard nothing back.

Although she had never really expected that they would take her up on her suggestion, her excitement turned to irritation when she discovered that the valuable exhibition was in fact being housed a mere few metres away from her shop at Dakin & Co Rare Books, owned by her most disliked neighbour.

‘Mr Dakin,’ Lucy had fumed to whoever was around her when she’d heard the news, ‘is a charlatan who knows as much about the Ancient Egyptian period as I do about – about fishing.’ She had to admit her dislike of Mr Dakin was partly to do with his uncanny ability to always be in the right place at the right time. He had large premises and his bookshop was the first port of call for the great and good of society. Next to them, Lucy’s own bookshop was something of an underdog. Snaring the mummy was a coup by Dakin. Just that morning, Lucy had been forced to watch as the precious mummy was transported into the space, with him issuing anxious instructions.

Despite her fury, Lucy had been curious enough to attend the lecture tonight at the famous British Museum with her old college professor. Although there was no mummy to catch a glimpse of, Lucy was nevertheless excited to watch Dr Lyle speak here tonight. Or rather, she had been before she arrived – desperate simply to hear the secrets that had led them to their discovery. What she hadn’t anticipated was how galling it would be to watch Dakin smirking in the wings as Dr Lyle held forth. Dakin was a short man with lavishly pomaded hair and an expression Lucy could only describe as smug. Close to the podium, the rest of the Egyptian Society were seated – Mrs van Buren herself, a tall, elegant woman with a striking grey streak in her dark hair; Sir Hector Derwent, a red-faced peer who had backed the expedition, and a bearded man who Lucy didn’t recognise, who kept glancing at the clock, looking rather bored with the lecture.

It was so crowded in the auditorium that many were standing. Lucy found herself crammed at the very back, along with Mr Tollesbury and a cleaner clutching a broom.

‘Sorry you lost out on getting the mummy in the shop, Lucy,’ said Mr Tollesbury. He had always possessed an uncanny knack for knowing exactly what Lucy was thinking, even now, as Lucy pretended to pay attention to what Dr Lyle was saying.

‘Dakin does have more room than us,’ Lucy replied, practically. ‘We’d have to move all of your first editions.’

Mr Tollesbury shuddered. ‘Over my dead body. One day those will be worth a lot of money.’

They fell silent as Dr Lyle concluded the thrilling tale of the discovery of the tomb, culminating in bandits attacking the camp and storms battling the ship on their return voyage.

‘And now,’ Dr Lyle said, beaming out at the audience, ‘you’ve humoured me long enough. I wish only to thank you for coming tonight.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Many of you will have read the lurid tales of an ancient curse and might be surprised to see myself and the other members of the expedition still standing – and yet we remain well, my friends.’

Sir Hector, down in the front row, mimed mopping his brow, while Mrs van Buren smiled faintly. The bored-looking bearded man craned his neck to look again at the clock.

‘I only hope my words have been helpful in satisfying your curiosity regarding this extraordinary discovery – for we can’t all travel to Egypt, can we?’ There was a murmur of laughter. ‘And I am delighted that you will all be able to visit the exhibition at none other than Dakin’s Rare Books in Cecil Court tomorrow night, before the mummy is removed for study at the museum.’

Mr Dakin gave a small bow to the audience’s applause.

‘Now, before we step into the hall outside to raise a glass or two to the historic discovery, are there any questions?’ asked Dr Lyle, smiling out at his rapt audience.

A man near the front raised his hand. ‘Do you believe you’ve unleashed the mummy’s curse?’ he asked.

Dr Lyle shook his head. ‘Sir Archibald Drake’s death was indeed tragic, but there was no supernatural force at work. He had a long-term heart condition, exacerbated by the heat. The doctor present – Mr Ahmed here – is certain he died of a heart attack.’ The bored-looking man to his left inclined his head slightly – the expedition doctor, Lucy thought. Not a member of the Egyptian Society, but still in attendance when the tomb was opened.

‘And yet you disrespected the king’s soul by disturbing his resting place!’ called a woman.

‘We undertook this expedition in pursuit of public knowledge,’ said Dr Lyle, unfazed. ‘We are men of science, not superstition.’ He nodded at Mrs van Buren. ‘And women, of course,’ he added quickly.

‘Because the Ancient Egyptians knew nothing of science,’ Mr Tollesbury murmured to Lucy.

‘I suppose it suits the Society to have the public half-believing in a curse,’ Lucy said, looking around at the rapt audience. ‘It’s why most of them are here, let’s be honest. The potential for gossip and death is more exciting to them than Ancient Egypt, unfortunately. Lyle certainly knows how to pack a lecture hall.’

Dr Lyle continued to field questions with ease and charm, then held out his hands for quiet. ‘I will be happy to answer any more questions outside,’ he said. ‘But before we leave, I would like to thank the rest of the team, without whom the exhibition would never have been possible. To our patrons, our sadly departed Sir Archibald Drake, and to Mrs van Buren, without whose generosity the Society would never have made the strides it has done. To Sir Hector, our long-standing patron and the founder of the Society. To my dear Mr Dakin, who will be giving my humble discovery a safe home for one evening only. Thank you, each and every one of you—’

‘What about me?’ cried a shrill voice from the crowd. ‘Leaving me out, are you Lyle?’

Dr Lyle paused and peered out at the crowd, still smiling. ‘What was that?’ he said. ‘Not the voice of an Ancient Egyptian king I hope!’

There was a ripple of laughter, and then a scuffle as a dishevelled man in a crumpled suit and unkempt hair shouldered his way through the crowd. He looked to be about thirty and was trembling with rage.

‘Leaving me out, are you?’ he demanded again, more forcibly. He was unshaven and his eyes were wild. ‘I’d like to know, who raised the possibility of a tomb in the first place? Who spent the last five years uncovering its location? Who pinpointed the co-ordinates? Who—’

There were murmurs and gasps from the crowd, and a scattering of shocked laughter. Dr Lyle shook his head, still smiling, although Lucy thought his expression was a little fixed. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ His eyes moved over the man’s head and Lucy noticed a security guard lay a hand on his arm.

‘Come with us, sir,’ the security guard said reassuringly. ‘This isn’t the place. If you’ve something to discuss with Dr Lyle, then you can do it after. You can have a nice chat.’

‘Something to discuss!’ cried the man with a high-pitched laugh. ‘A nice chat! Lyle stole my life’s work! He’s standing there holding forth about the expedition that made him famous and I, who discovered the tomb, have nothing! I’ve lost my job, my reputation! I have a wife and child! I—’

‘My dear Dr Curry!’ cut in Dr Lyle sharply. ‘You are confused.’

So, Dr Lyle clearly knows the intruder, thought Lucy.

‘Confused,’ shrieked the man bitterly. ‘Confused am I, Dr Lyle? I have evidence, you know! Evidence that this tomb was found because of research by me, Dr W. Curry, that you stole.’ He appealed to the gathered audience. ‘I was out there in Egypt with them! I led them to the spot. The tomb would never have been opened without me!’ He gave a loud and nasty laugh. ‘Sir Hector, Dr Lyle, Mrs van Buren – the esteemed Society, ladies and gentlemen! And yet I know their secrets. I could ruin each and every one of—’

‘Enough!’ snapped Sir Hector sharply, half-rising and nodding at the security guard. ‘Remove him, if you please.’

Another man took hold of Dr Curry’s other arm.

‘I will have revenge on the Society!’ the man cried, as he was urged backwards. ‘I’ll bring down the whole rotten lot of you!’

‘Oh dear,’ murmured Lucy.

The man wasn’t going without a fight: he aimed a vicious kick at one of the guards, who yelped and bent over. By this point, the guards had managed to drag him to the back of the room to be level with where Lucy and Mr Tollesbury were standing.

Mr Tollesbury sighed. ‘I think I’m needed,’ he said nobly.

‘Professor, remember your blood pressure,’ Lucy said, as he squared his shoulders and entered the fray. For a man in his sixties, the professor was surprisingly wiry, and together he and the two security guards managed to wrestle the struggling man out of the door. ‘There, there,’ Mr Tollesbury could be heard saying. ‘Come and get some fresh air and cool off a bit.’

‘He’s lying – why won’t anyone listen – I have proof—’

The heavy door closed behind Dr Curry’s faint protests. The cleaner beside Lucy, a stooped man with a drooping moustache, sighed. ‘If this overruns, I’ll miss the bus,’ he muttered, to no one in particular. ‘Got to wait to clear up after.’ Lucy took in his dejected air, before snapping back to the front as Dr Lyle once again spoke.

‘Apologies, ladies and gentlemen.’ He smoothed a lock of fair hair off his forehead as he did, and Lucy caught a sheen of perspiration in the lights. In spite of his wide smile, she thought he looked shaken. ‘These expeditions catch the public fancy, and that can attract some interesting types. Unlike your good selves, of course!’ Polite laughter broke out. ‘Now, shall we continue this conversation over some drinks?’

The audience filtered out into the atrium, where certain objects from the tomb were displayed, leaving museum staff to stack chairs and sweep up. In the atrium, waiters circled with trays of champagne. Dr Lyle took up a position in front of an iron dagger and was immediately surrounded by a crowd of audience members, brandishing their programmes and asking more questions.

Mr Tollesbury came back in after a short while, straightening his tie as he approached Lucy again.

‘Are you all right?’ Lucy asked.

‘He was perfectly meek once we got him outside. I put him in a taxi and he promised to go home quietly,’ the professor said. ‘I think he scared himself. All bark and no bite.’

‘Well done,’ said Lucy, selecting a stuffed mushroom from a silver tray. ‘Lyle didn’t like the interruption, did he? I wonder who that man was – a Dr W. Curry, he said.’

‘Exhibitions like this can attract a strange crowd,’ said Mr Tollesbury philosophically. ‘Frustrated academics and historians and all sorts of hangers-on – I should know.’ He shuddered, clearly thinking of his long and somewhat dull tenure at Oxford as professor of Ancient History, punctuated by the occasional dispiriting dig in the English countryside. ‘I’m glad to be out of that game. It’s thankless work for the most part, so everyone wants a piece of the glory when they finally strike gold. Dr Lyle will go down in history for this discovery.’

‘Speaking of which, shall we introduce ourselves to the man of the hour?’ said Lucy, nodding at Dr Lyle, who was standing with the rest of the Society and the expedition doctor, Mr Ahmed. ‘I’m curious to meet him.’

They joined the admiring group around Dr Lyle, who was mid-anecdote, flushed and beaming, a drink in his hand. A lock of his golden hair had fallen rakishly over one eye. ‘Yes, yes dear lady – there were indeed bandits at the tomb! A whole horde of them. And that is why I always carry a revolver,’ he finished triumphantly, patting his breast pocket. ‘You never know when the locals might turn nasty.’

‘It does sound terribly dangerous,’ said a woman, clutching her furs to her fearfully. ‘Bandits – and heart attacks – and then storms at sea . . .’

‘All in the pursuit of knowledge, dear lady,’ said Dr Lyle. He took a large swallow of champagne. ‘Although not every incident was archaeology related.’ He nudged Sir Hector, who was standing next to him. ‘Remember that married woman outside of Port Said?’

‘A misunderstanding,’ said Sir Hector coldly. ‘When it comes to the dig itself,’ he assured the animated crowd, ‘we of course ensure a level of protection. The natives can be unfriendly.’

The exhibition doctor, Mr Ahmed, shifted and Lucy turned to study him. He was a tall man with grizzled hair at the temples and wire-rimmed glasses. He turned his champagne glass in long fingers. ‘People don’t want their dead disturbed,’ he said, his calm voice carrying above the chatter. ‘I should think you’d get the same response if you started digging up Westminster Cathedral.’

‘Oh quite, quite,’ said Dr Lyle, with a grin, his mind clearly still running along coarser channels. His handsome face was ruddy, his voice was slightly slurred, and Lucy was beginning to wonder if he’d had too much champagne, or was simply intoxicated by his triumph. He lowered his voice, although it still carried. ‘This country can be as prickly. My first ever dig in the Dales, sleepy little place and not a decent-looking girl in it – I was there for the Victoria Caves, I remember – and I still found myself in hot water with a local girl. Couldn’t pack fast enough. Why, she had a club foot and a squint eye.’

The mood in the surrounding area turned cooler. ‘Well!’ murmured the woman in furs, in a scandalised voice. Beside Lucy, Mr Tollesbury flinched and Sir Hector scowled. Mr Ahmed set down his drink. Lyle beamed at them all, unconscious of any offence.

‘I think I’ll be off now,’ said Mr Ahmed. ‘I’m in surgery first thing tomorrow.’ He nodded to them all and left.

‘But those days are done, eh,’ said Sir Hector, shooting a dark look at Dr Lyle.

‘Absolutely! I am a happily married man now!’ Dr Lyle exclaimed, gesturing to a woman sitting in the corner, resplendent in purple velvet, who was immersed in a paperback. ‘Married to a wonderful woman.’

Married to a wonderfully rich woman, Lucy thought. Mrs Lyle had been Lady Dartington before she married and had funded her husband’s expeditions from then on, alongside Sir Archibald. Although, Lucy recalled, not the last one. The Society had needed funding for that urgently – it was only thanks to Mrs van Buren stepping in that they had been able to go.

‘Congratulations,’ Lucy said now, taking control of the conversation and pushing through the group to get closer to Dr Lyle to shake his hand. ‘My name is Miss Darkwether – my shop is just next door to where the mummy will be housed tomorrow night. I can think about nothing else.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Dr Lyle, beaming at her. He took another large swallow of champagne. ‘You will have to come along for the unveiling.’ He winked. ‘If you’re not too scared, of course, my dear.’

‘I’m not scared,’ Lucy said. ‘I studied Ancient History at Oxford, with Mr Tollesbury here and I know better than to believe in sensationalist stories. I’m more than familiar with—’

Mr Tollesbury put out his hand and shook Lyle’s. ‘Quite a wonderful discovery,’ he said warmly. ‘Really, I must congratulate you, Lyle. I have long admired the research that led you to the tomb. I am in the field myself, you know.’

‘Really,’ said Dr Lyle, casting a disparaging glance at Mr Tollesbury, in his worn but neatly darned tweed suit. ‘I don’t think our paths have ever crossed.’

‘Probably not,’ agreed Mr Tollesbury. ‘You move in more prestigious circles – I’m only a humble, retired professor. Lucy, I see our neighbour Mr Dakin over there – we must congratulate him too.’ He bowed to Dr Lyle. ‘Goodnight.’

‘What a nightmare of a man,’ Lucy said, refreshing herself with another sip of champagne after they moved away. ‘Not what I expected. How strange to have such a brilliant mind – and yet be so – so coarse, to use one of my mother’s favourite words.’

‘Indeed – very coarse. I don’t approve of those sorts of stories or behaviour,’ Mr Tollesbury said severely. ‘Why, that story about the girl – I should have been ashamed to act like that as a young man. I dare say I’m awfully old-fashioned. There’s Dakin. I suppose he can’t resist gloating.’

‘Miss Darkwether. Professor.’

Lucy turned to see Dakin, pale gooseberry eyes protruding with his own importance. ‘My neighbours from Cecil Court! How nice of you to join us. I came to offer you two invitations to my little exhibition tomorrow night.’ He pressed two embossed cards into Lucy’s hand. ‘It’s completely sold out! I heard you applied to host it yourself, my dear lady. I can understand the museum’s reasoning though – I must say, such a precious artefact needs expert handling and care.’

‘I imagine you’ve created quite the spectacle,’ said Mr Tollesbury, before Lucy could retort. ‘Expectations are high. London can talk of nothing but the mummy – and tomorrow night they will lay eyes on it. What an occasion! A great deal of responsibility for you, of course.’

‘Indeed,’ said Mr Dakin. A look of faint concern crossed his face. ‘It is a great deal of responsibility. I want the exhibition to be a triumph.’

‘Let’s hope the mummy’s curse doesn’t mess it up,’ said Lucy bluntly.

Mr Dakin wagged a finger at her. ‘You’ve been reading the Mirror, my dear! That rag of Max Bird’s. I hope you aren’t nervy about such things.’

‘Aren’t you nervy?’ said Lucy, widening her eyes, hoping to frighten him a bit. ‘Why, within moments of the tomb opening, Sir Archibald was dead. As though we were being warned.’

‘Nonsense,’ Mr Dakin said loftily. ‘I reject superstition!’

‘Superstition is not to be dismissed lightly,’ said Mr Tollesbury, his tone serious. ‘It has a great power.’ He gestured at the crowd clustered around Dr Lyle. ‘You can see it tonight, can’t you? All these rational people, educated people, under the spell of an ancient curse. Wiser men than me acknowledge the dead should not be disturbed. Many papers have been written about it, especially recently.’

‘Nonsense,’ Mr Dakin said again, although more uncertainly. ‘Utter nonsense. Now, Mr Tollesbury, a small favour – as the expert in Egyptology, I wondered if I could ask you about the leaflet I have written to accompany the exhibition . . .’ He led the professor off, Mr Tollesbury casting a desperate look over his shoulder at Lucy.

Shame there isn’t really a curse, Lucy thought gloomily. Dakin deserved one. She knew he would pump the professor for his knowledge so he could look good in front of the audience tomorrow night, and never credit him. She would wait five minutes, then rescue the professor and they would leave. She went to put on her gloves, then realised she must have left them in the reading room, where the earlier talk had been held.

She hurried back inside, where the cleaner from earlier was sweeping the polished floor. ‘Excuse me,’ called Lucy, her voice echoing in the space, ‘I’ve misplaced a pair of gloves.’

The cleaner didn’t pause. ‘I haven’t seen any gloves,’ he said. ‘I found a cigarette case and eleven programmes.’

‘Unfortunately, I’m only in the market for gloves. I’ll have a look,’ said Lucy, walking briskly over to the window ledge where she had been standing. ‘What did you make of the lecture? I was standing with you at the back. You said you had a bus to catch.’

The man snorted, still sweeping. ‘That Dr Lyle? He doesn’t know the first thing about the Armana period,’ he said.

‘Do you think?’ asked Lucy, rifling through a pile of discarded programmes. ‘The British Museum would seem to disagree. He did lead the expedition. Gave this whole talk.’

‘Talking’s one thing,’ the man said, pausing and leaning against his broom. ‘Lyle doesn’t know anything. I saw it tonight. Man’s a charlatan.’

‘Do you know, you’re the first person I’ve ever heard question Dr Lyle’s credentials,’ said Lucy. ‘I suppose he attracts publicity and secures the funding – why, there they are!’ She scooped up the cream leather gloves, which were lying crumpled on a shelf. ‘Thanks awfully. I hope you make the bus.’

‘Missed it twenty minutes ago,’ said the man glumly, returning to his sweeping. ‘Should think I’ll get the next one.’

Lucy found Mr Tollesbury by the door, still pinned by Mr Dakin. He shot Lucy another pleading look. Save me, he mouthed over Dakin’s head.

‘It should be all about atmosphere,’ Dakin was saying. ‘We should feel as though Egypt has arrived in London. We should—’

‘Professor, we must go,’ said Lucy briskly. She’d had altogether enough of Mr Dakin for one n. . .