Cabaret macabre

Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

A pair of potential murders give way to two baffling real ones in Mead's ingenious third whodunit featuring retired magician Joseph Spector (after The Murder Wheel). In 1938 England, Lady Elspeth Drury summons Spector to help prevent her husband's murder. Sir Giles Drury has been receiving threatening letters that Lady Elspeth believes are the work of Victor Silvius, who was confined to a sanitorium nine years earlier after he tried to stab Sir Giles. Meanwhile, Scotland Yard inspector George Flint has been approached by Silvius's sister, Caroline, who fears the exact opposite--that Sir Giles is conspiring to have her brother killed. Spector's and Flint's inquiries inevitably intersect, and after the two travel together to the Drurys' country estate, they end up investigating two seemingly impossible murders connected to the family. In one, they discover a frozen body in the middle of a pond with no evidence suggesting how it got there; in another, the victim is gunned down in broad daylight by an apparently invisible killer. As in previous Spector cases, Mead hides all the clues in plain sight, constructing a fair-play puzzle that will delight and challenge readers who love pitting their own wits against the author's. It's another crackerjack entry in an exceptional series. Agent: Lorella Belli, Lorella Belli

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

---

Review by Library Journal Review

Mead presents another intricate, atmospheric installment in his historical mystery series. In 1930s England, illusionist-turned-investigator Joseph Spector is once again faced with a seemingly unsolvable series of deaths. From strychnine to stabbing, the mysterious murders just keep coming, putting the erstwhile magician and his powers of perception to the test. He again teams up with Scotland Yard's George Flint. The pair have been hired by opposing parties who each suspect the other of attempting an assassination. Spector and Flint uncover secrets and scandal at every turn, and Spector's unfailing wit and wisdom can always be relied upon to find a logical explanation. This third Joseph Spector novel (following The Murder Wheel) is as fun and fast-paced as its predecessors and features a new narrator, Philip Battley, who seamlessly takes up the role of the rational, refined Spector. His elegant but expressive delivery, paired with short chapters and ever-increasing suspense, creates a compelling listen. VERDICT This audio will appeal to listeners seeking a richly detailed historical mystery with a classic Christie-esque detective denouement. Recommended for fans of Nicola Upson, Fiona Davis, and Jessica Fellowes.--Lauren Hackert

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

---

Review by Kirkus Book Review

A pair of threatened deaths explode into a mind-bogglingly complex series of murders in this impossible-crime saga appropriately set in the run-up to Christmas 1938. Victor Silvius has been confined to The Grange, the private sanatorium run by Dr. Jasper Moncrieff, ever since he attacked Justice Sir Giles Drury with a knife nine years ago because he was convinced the judge had poisoned Gloria Crain, the law clerk Victor loved. But his sister, Caroline, tells Inspector George Flint that neither the attack nor Victor's diagnosis of mental illness warrants his death at the hands of an anonymous correspondent who's been threatening him. Even as Caroline is making her plea, the judge's wife, Lady Elspeth Drury, dispatches Jeffrey Flack, her son by her first marriage, to Flint's sometime collaborator, professional illusionist Joseph Spector, asking him to meet with her so she can urge him to save her husband from the death threats he's received from none other than Victor Silvius. The corpse discovered soon afterward, stabbed to death in the middle of a frozen lake, isn't that of Drury or Victor, but once the floodgates have opened--there'll be a total of five more victims, some of them killed in remarkably ingenious ways--there's no guarantee that either of them will survive. Working once more with Flint, Spector traces the clues to the killer, solves the mystery, and then does it again and again, incorporating new twists and new depths each time. To bolster his Golden Age credentials, Mead supplies a dramatis personae, a family tree, two floor plans, a challenge to the reader, and dozens of footnotes referencing earlier clues that even the most alert readers will have missed. A lovely valentine to Mead's idol, John Dickson Carr, and even more to Clayton Rawson's tales of The Great Merlini. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

---

Bit by bit, Joseph Spector's world was shrinking. He was an old man now; his friends were dying off one by one; his legs and back ached. A new decade--the 1940s--was scarcely a year away, but to Spector this felt less like a new beginning than an eked-out ending. However, time had left two of Spector's attributes mercifully unharmed. The first was his mind, which was as quick and devilishly brilliant as ever. The second was his hands, which had lost none of their spindly dexterity. In the distant past he had been a music hall conjuror, and he still dressed like one in a suit of black velvet, with a cloak lined in red silk. He brought a touch of old-world flamboyance into the murky 20th century; he walked with a silver-tipped cane and dabbled in the occult. He was out of step with his era, and yet he was an indelible product of it; an embodiment of the baroque, the Grand Guignol. Spector was on his way back from a meeting of the London Occult Practice Collective when he first realised someone was following him. The meeting had been out in Greenwich. It was a pleasant trip with good food, good conversation, and one or two amusing tricks into the bargain. Spector waited for the train back into the City feeling fat and happy. But as he perched on one of the metal benches which lined the platform, he felt eyes on him. It was mid-afternoon, and already dusk was closing in. The platform's overhead lamps flickered to life and clutches of travellers chatted, smoked and stamped their feet to stave off the chill. Spector sat motionless with his bare fingers twined around the handle of his cane. Once he realised he was under scrutiny, he waited a moment or two to make sure it was not simply his imagination, or a trick of the gathering dark. But it wasn't. Somewhere among the little clusters of waiting travellers, somebody was watching him. Very slowly, Spector turned, and with a sweeping glance took in the entire vista of the platform. There were a few lone commuters, but only one viable suspect: a tall man whose head was now hidden behind a three-day-old Herald. Spector studied the man's lower half, which was all that could be seen of him. Smart, tailored trousers and impeccable patent leather shoes; a poor choice for this weather. Whoever the man was, he was certainly no professional. Soon enough, the train arrived in a shriek of steam, and Spector smiled to himself as he boarded. He disembarked at Paddington and took a gentle amble through the crowds. He was in no rush to get back to Putney. And once again, the eyes were on him. The man followed him along the central concourse, past the various concession stands, as he threaded his way through the bustle and toward the stone steps down into the Underground. Before he began his descent, Spector cast a quick glance in the man's direction, just to check that he had not lost him. He hadn't. There the fellow was, loitering in the shadow of a nearby pillar beneath the clock. Spector headed down the steps, and the man followed. His pursuer maintained a careful distance on the Tube, but even though he frequently employed his out-of-date newspaper, Spector got a good look at the man's face. He was younger than Spector had first thought, which went a considerable way toward explaining these idiotic "Boy's Own" antics. He had a merciless Gwynplainian grin, but there was a vacancy in his eyes that told of both ignorance and arrogance. He was convinced that he had the upper hand. Stepping off the train at Putney, Spector ascended the steps to street level and wondered briefly how best to go about dealing with this fellow. There were two places in which he was truly comfortable: the first was his home in Jubilee Court, a weird ramshackle dwelling crammed with decades' worth of macabre bric-a-brac. The second was the nearby public house, The Black Pig; an ill-lit, low-ceilinged Elizabethan tavern. To step through its door was to step back in time. Spector was as much of a fixture there as the brass beer taps; it would not be the same without the grey fug of his cigarillo smoke choking the atmosphere, or his skeletal, cheerily funereal figure seated by the fire in the snug. From time to time he gave impromptu displays of legerdemain: cardistry or coin manipulation to bamboozle the regulars. The Black Pig glowed warmly at the other end of the street, its painted sign swinging in the icy breeze. The young man halted. The magician had pulled off some kind of vanishing act--the street was empty. The young man continued at a slower pace, his brow creasing. He tilted his trilby back, as though he might find Joseph Spector hiding behind the brim. "What in the hell--" he said, before his words were cut off by a sudden, sweeping motion at his feet. The silver-tipped cane clipped his ankles and sent him sprawling, his hat scudding off into the darkness. The young man rolled onto his back with a groan, and Joseph Spector towered over him. The old conjuror smiled. "I don't believe we've met." Excerpted from Cabaret Macabre by Tom Mead 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.

---