The Tumbling Girl

Book 1: Variety Palace Mysteries

by Bridget Walsh

Genres: General Fiction; Mystery; Historical Mysteries; Female Sleuths; Thrillers; Historical Thrillers

Synopsis

The 1st in an award-winning series of thrilling historical murder mysteries, set in the Victorian London music hall scene and the bustling world of vaudeville

“Walsh’s rich and nuanced portrayal of the period will leave readers feeling like they're on the soggy streets of London . . . Un-put-downable.” — Publishers Weekly, Starred Review

1876, Victorian London’s West End

The feisty Minnie Ward is scraping a living as a scriptwriter for the Variety Palace Music Hall when the body of her best friend is found in a dingy riverside archway. The police write off the death as a suicide and declare the case closed, but Minnie is convinced that her friend was murdered. Determined to discover the truth and get justice for her friend, she teams up with the dashing private detective Albert Easterbrook.

Together, they navigate the streets of London, from high-class gentlemen's clubs to shady drinking dens. While the pair investigate the murder of Minnie’s friend, a notorious serial killer is wreaking havoc across London. As the bodies pile up, they must rely on one another if they're going to track down the killers. But the closer they get to the truth, the more Minnie suspects Albert of hiding something. And as their paths become more and more intertwined, Minnie fears that the truth may have devastating consequences…

The Tumbling Girl kicks off a thrilling a historical crime series featuring an irresistible crime-solving duo which can be read independently but also feature an exciting overarching storyline. Taking place against the thrilling backdrop of the Variety Palace Music Hall in gritty Victorian London, it's perfect for fans of historical crime fiction, such as books by Sarah Waters, Stacey Halls and Elizabeth Macneal.

Release date: March 3, 2026

Publisher: Pushkin Vertigo

Print pages: 352

Sample

Minnie Ward wrapped the towel more securely round her hand and took a firm hold of the knife. With one deft movement, she inserted the blade into the hinge of the oyster, twisted it and, with a satisfying pop, prised open the shell. Oysters and beer. Perfect.
A tall young woman in a gentleman’s evening suit, complete with bow tie and top hat, leaned over Minnie’s shoulder, scrutinising her face in the dressing-room mirror. ‘Do you have to do that in here, Min?’ she asked, tucking a few strands of dark hair under her hat. ‘When I’m getting ready, and all? The smell don’t half hang around.’
‘Last one, Cora, I promise,’ Minnie said, sliding the blade around the edge of the oyster to disconnect the muscle. Then she tipped the meat and liquor into her mouth and drained her beer glass, before smiling broadly at Cora. ‘It’s like picking a lock, ain’t it? That lovely little jiggle and you know you’ve got it.’
‘How do you know about picking locks? Or shouldn’t I ask?’ Cora said.
‘Three months as a magician’s assistant,’ Minnie said. ‘Long time ago. I weren’t bad, neither. But me and the doves didn’t exactly hit it off. It got messy.’
Further down the corridor of the Variety Palace Music Hall, bursts of laughter and conversation flared out as other dressing-room doors opened and then slammed shut. An operatic soprano struggled her way up and down a scale, occasionally finding one of the notes.
Minnie winced.
‘Pick a key, Selina,’ she murmured, ‘any key.’
‘Wouldn’t make no difference,’ Cora said. ‘She’d still sound like a cat pissing in a tin.’
Pushing the door closed with her foot, she nudged Minnie onto another seat and positioned herself in front of the mirrors. She finished applying her make-up, her tongue peeping out from between her lips with concentration. When she was done, she pushed a copy of the Illustrated London News over to Minnie, past the pots of greasepaint, other stage make-up and dirty rags littering the table.
‘Here,’ Cora said, ‘what d’you reckon?’
Minnie glanced at the newspaper headline speculating on the identity of the Hairpin Killer, a murderer who had been plucking victims from the streets around Covent Garden and Soho for the past ten years.
‘No, not that,’ Cora said impatiently, tapping her finger on an article further down the page. ‘This fella. Wouldn’t mind him investigating me.’
Minnie glanced at the pencil sketch. A man of about thirty, she reckoned, wearing an evening suit and monocle. The headline blazoned ‘Albert Easterbrook: Champion of the Labouring Classes’. She scanned the article. A gentleman detective whose mission was to ‘help those who cannot help themselves’ had tracked down a pickpocket targeting the elderly and infirm in Bermondsey. The pickpocket was also sketched for the reader, a grisly-looking individual closer to a bear than a man.
Minnie snorted. In her experience, the ‘labouring classes’ were well able to take care of themselves without the help of any toff.
‘Not your type?’ Cora asked, wincing at herself in the mirrors and adding a touch more rouge to her cheeks. ‘They never are, are they, Min? Pickiness won’t win any prizes, my girl.’
‘I ain’t after any prizes, thank you very much. Although I do wonder what he does with the monocle when … you know,’ Minnie said.
Cora lifted one quizzical eyebrow. ‘You, Miss Ward, are a very saucy girl, and not the kind of young lady a “Champion of the Labouring Classes” would want to be courting. Me, on the other hand—’
Minnie pushed the paper to one side and eyed the ha’penny bun on the table in front of her. Cora followed her gaze and smiled. Every Saturday Minnie bought herself a cake, a treat for when she got home. Most Saturdays the cake had been demolished long before she left the Palace.
‘Here, Miss Monroe,’ Minnie said, adopting an aristocratic tone and mournfully handing over the cake, ‘remove this delicious confection from my sight.’
Cora placed the cake in a drawer and locked it, throwing the key in amongst the pots and bottles littering the table in front of her.
‘Hardly seems worth it, Min,’ she said. ‘You’ll be out of here in a few minutes, won’t you?’
‘Should be.’
Then, as if her anticipation of leaving the music hall had put the kibosh on the whole idea, she heard her name being called. The voice drew closer, loud enough now that it set the jars on the table rattling. Without even the briefest of knocks, the dressing-room door burst open. A diminutive man – no one dared call him short, not to his face at least – sporting a brown velvet suit and an elaborate set of whiskers stood in the doorway. Mr Edward Tansford, owner of the Variety Palace. Known to everyone as Tansie.
‘Where is she?’ Tansie bellowed. ‘I’m running a music hall not a bloody free and easy. She’s late and I’ve got no one to fill her slot.’
‘If you’re looking for a mind reader you’ve come to the wrong door,’ Minnie said. ‘Who are we talking about?’
‘Rose. She’s on the missing list.’ Tansie turned to Cora and shouted, ‘You seen her?’
Cora shook her head and made a show of completing her already finished make-up.
Minnie frowned. ‘That’s not like Rose.’
Rose Watkins was a regular performer at the Variety Palace. A tightrope walker and acrobat, billed as the Angel of the Air.
‘Well, it’s like her tonight,’ Tansie said. ‘Have you asked Billy?’
‘Can’t find him neither. He’s meant to be on the doors in thirty minutes, and he’s nowhere.’
‘Checked the bar?’ Minnie asked.
‘No, I haven’t checked the bar. I’m the bleedin’ proprietor of this establishment, Minnie, not some backstage runner.’
‘I could have a look?’ Minnie offered.
‘Yes, you could, couldn’t you? Quick smart.’
Minnie bridled. ‘I think the phrase you’re looking for is, “Thank you so much for offering to help me, Minnie, when I know you were due out of here ten minutes ago.”’
‘Just find her, Min,’ Tansie growled.
Minnie left the dressing room, navigating her way through the poky backstage corridors. Cigar smoke caught in her throat, its dusty odour always reminding her of burnt coffee. Mingled with the smell of greasepaint and cheap perfume, it felt familiar and safe.
Passing one of the dressing rooms, she heard breaking crockery, followed by quiet sobbing. She glanced at the cards pinned on the door, one of which said ‘Betty Gilbert, Plate Spinner’. Minnie didn’t know her. Must be her first night and, clearly, rehearsals weren’t going to plan. Minnie made a mental note to check on her after she’d spoken to Billy and wondered if she’d ever get home in time for supper.
She came out onto the stage. A tall plant stand, topped with a large aspidistra desperately in need of a drink, was positioned to one side. It was Tansie’s idea of a sophisticated accompaniment to Madame Selina, the unfortunate soprano. Facing the row of unlit footlights, Minnie was reminded for a moment of her days as a performer, the hungry eyes trained on her, eager to be entertained. Her stomach turned, and she dashed off the stage.
The lamplighters were at work. Hundreds of gas burners around the auditorium were being coaxed into life. The candles in the chandeliers were already lit and offered enough light for Minnie to see her way. She weaved through the groups of tables towards the promenade at the front of the auditorium. There were four doors tucked behind the mahogany bar that stretched along the front wall. Minnie tried the first two with no luck, before opening the third to find Billy Walker lolling on a gilt-wood couch upholstered in a vivid shade of pink.
Billy leapt up as the door opened, almost dropping his pipe. Seeing Minnie, he relaxed back onto the sofa. He was tall, well-built, as a chucker-out needed to be. Tansie made a lot of noise about keeping a respectable house, and men like Billy dealt with the more unsavoury characters. Leaning back, pipe in hand, he made an impressive sight, with his dark hooded eyes and biceps the size of a man’s thigh. But Minnie knew Billy Walker’s type all too well, and was unimpressed by his charms. She had tried warning Rose when he’d first started sniffing around. ‘But he’s so lovely to look at, Min,’ Rose had said. ‘Those eyes! And his arms!’
Yes, and those fists, Minnie had thought.
‘Well, ain’t you quite the don,’ Minnie said, pushing Billy’s feet off and perching on the end of the couch. ‘Wait until Tansie catches you in here, Billy. You’ll be for it.’
Billy shrugged, tamped down the tobacco and carried on smoking.
‘I mean it, Bill. Tansie spent a small fortune doing up these snuggeries.’
‘Yeah, and for what?’ Billy asked. ‘For gentlemen to entertain their lady friends? Toffs and their dollymops, more like. Having a quiet smoke in here’s nothing compared to what’ll go on later tonight.’
‘Look, I ain’t here to have a go. Rose is on the missing list.
You seen her?’
Billy shook his head. ‘Not since this morning. I went round her house just before midday, but she was on her way out. Wouldn’t say where.’
Minnie thought for a moment. ‘What was she wearing?’ ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Might give us a clue where she was going.’
‘I dunno.’ Billy shrugged. ‘Clothes. She was wearing them shoes.’
‘The new ones?’
‘Yeah, the new ones. She must think me a proper muff. She got a right collar on, telling me it was none of my business what she did with her time. Let’s just say we had an exchange of language, and I ain’t seen her since.’
Rose and Billy had been courting for six months, and arguing for half a year. Everyone at the Palace had grown used to hearing them row, but their most recent one had been the worst. Billy had found an expensive pair of cream silk shoes, embroidered with tiny red roses, in the dressing room Rose shared with two other girls. They would have cost several weeks’ wages, and Rose wouldn’t reveal how she’d come by the money. Billy had jumped to the obvious conclusion, and Minnie couldn’t say she blamed him.
‘And you’ve got no idea where she might be?’ Minnie asked. ‘Don’t sell me a dog, Billy. If you know where she is, you’d best say now.’
‘Don’t know. Don’t care. She can sling her hook as far as I’m bothered.’ He stood and stretched lazily. The room suddenly seemed a lot smaller. ‘If you see her before me, tell her to stay out of my way. I’ve got a liking to make it a little warm for Miss Rose Watkins.’ He clenched his fists reflexively. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, Min, I’ve got punters to let in, and troublemakers to keep out. This is a respectable establishment, remember?’