We are delighted to welcome back B. Lloyd to Omnimystery News.
Last month we featured an excerpt from the author's new Julia Warren mystery, Of Soul Sincere (Holland House; April 2016 trade paperback and ebook formats), and today she has provided us with a most interesting guest post, one she titles, "The Julia Warren Mysteries — Julia and Her Editor's Request".
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1928
'It doesn't need to be terribly technical,' her editor had said, attempting to be reassuring, 'don't want to drown them with science — perhaps something along the lines of your favourite character? Or how you started writing mysteries?' None of which reassured Julia at all as she sat staring at the blank piece of paper before her.
How had she started? Had she really sat down one day and decided to write mysteries instead of trailing out in all weathers to pursue the latest story? Of course she hadn't; it had all been much more gradual — but when had she actually sat down to write and why?
She let her mind wander — her first book had been about a retired India Army officer found dead in his (locked) bedroom. Revenge, duplicate keys and a secret passageway, culled from some of her own favourite mystery classics had supplied her with means and motive, and had done rather well at six shillings and five pence a copy; but that hadn't been when she first started writing mysteries. Her mind drifted back still further, and something slipped into her mind: gaggles of people in costume, wandering about a great hallway — then, another figure walked briskly across her memory. Jameson, of course; senior journalist and war reporter when she had just been starting out. Somehow he had recognised her abilities and saw the innate talent for puzzle-solving.
'A mind like yours would be top at cryptography and crosswords' he said once, 'you should do something with it'; then the business of the Costume Ball in...1921? 22? That was why she was thinking about people in costume. Strange weather the whole day, she had almost decided against going, but friends and the odd family relative had persisted, and so a costume had to be thrown together. Both she and her maid had employed ingenuity with thrift and together they produced a flapper-style Columbina.
The set arrived punctually at seven in cabs and whisked Julia off to a world of bright lights, loud music, chatter, shouting, drink and dance. Pirates tangoed with Guineveres, Harlequins foxtrotted with Trojan Helens and, on the surface of it, nobody had a care in the world.
It was after the midnight chimes, a final popping of corks and shouts and halloos were still echoing in the high ceilings of the building when she saw him: a young man in the baggy white induments of a pagliaccio. He held his mask in his hand and was looking about him in a puzzled, bemused way. A band of merry-makers rushed past and swallowed him up and Julia was whirled off for another dance.
It was a good hour or more later and people were beginning to straggle outside in search of cabs; Julia was by the foot of the stairs leading to the upper gallery when she saw him again — this time minus his mask, and with a solitary air.
'I say, excuse me,' he exclaimed, 'I wonder if you could help me? I'm not over-familiar with the area — do you happen to know where Bethelney Street is?'
Julia didn't know, and had never heard of the street before, but she offered to ask around.
'Oh, don't worry,' he said hurriedly, 'sorry to have troubled you,' and before she could say another word he was gone, out into the bustle and confusion as departing guests sought out cabs, made their farewells or staggered about in hysterical circles, laughing and chatting, oblivious to all else.
Julia waited a few minutes more for her own crowd, then, as they seemed inclined to dawdle, she began to wander around. The building was a left-over from the time of the Georges, with its own theatre, a huge high-ceilinged ballroom and a lot of niches and side-rooms for discreet tête-a-têtes. She paused, uncertain whether to go forward or back. Two men were talking quietly in the last but one room. 'Bethelney Street' she heard one of them say to the other. More lost itinerants? Somehow she thought not; there was a sense of — what, urgency? in the man's voice. She caught sight of them: one of Rembrandt's Watchmen, and a Cavalier. In the distance she heard her name called and returned to the entrance.
'Come along, slowcoach,' her party cried, as they piled merrily into the cabs, and someone suggested rounding off with a drink at the Black Cat. There were lengthy arguments and various diversions, and when they finally decided on a route, they were almost immediately held up by a crowd, milling about the entrance to a side-street.
'What's up?' went the general query. Responses were confused : 'Drunk and disorderly', 'Some sort of a brawl' and 'Gent got stuck by a knife'; amidst the confusion however, Julia heard the words 'all dressed up for a ball — one of them Pierrots....' and leaned out to peer over people's shoulders at the doll-like figure lying on the damp cobbles. It was the same young man she had spoken to not half an hour since. A dagger protruded from his chest, now covered in a spreading flower of red.
'I say, has anyone called the police?' asked one of her party.
Inspector Lovell knelt and looked over the body. He lifted one of the arms and something fluttered from the cuff — a wisp of yellow cord.
'From a tassel,' said Julia instantly. Lovell looked up sharply. 'That sounds very definite,' he commented drily.
'That's because I've seen it before — this evening, at the Ball. One of the guests was dressed as one of the Nightwatch — with gold-yellow tassels and fringes.'
'And who was this other guest?'
'I'm afraid I only heard him speaking; he was wearing a mask, like so many others.'
'Have you a moment to spare, then?'
It was nearly dawn by the time Julia returned to her flat; the dead young man had been identified as one Ralph Egerton, dress designer at one of the fancier houses in London. But nobody had ever heard of Bethelney Street.
Over the next few days Julia found herself idly puzzling over the whole incident, when she was supposed to writing up yet another article on fashion (from the perspective of the working woman). She leafed through the pages of Vogue, wondering at the names: Paris Emberton, Clara Monte Carlo, Tiffany Oaks — why would anyone call themselves Tiffany Oaks? And if their parents were the true culprits, why not change it? And there was another one: Athelney Parks.... why would anyone, in whatever creative profession, whether model, designer or artist, go through life willingly under the soubriquet of Athelney Parks?
A sudden small voice in her head then said: 'And if Athelney Parks, why not Bethelney Street? Oh, I wonder if they thought of that?'
When she called Inspector Lovell, he was quietly appreciative of her suggestion: 'All a bit hush-hush, and I have to ask you to keep it to yourself for the time being — I know I can rely on your discretion,' and then he asked if she would be good enough to do a little interviewing on his behalf. Taken aback (to date, the police tended to view any form of journalism with deep suspicion) she asked in what capacity.
'Oh, that I leave to you,' was his reply, 'only as I believe you may be familiar with the person I have in mind, it might be easiest as a straightforward journalist. The name is Brigitte Foucharde — yes, I thought you did. You will? Excellent — only do take care; I shall of course have a few officers on the qui-vive.'
He gave her a few more brief instructions (dressed up as suggestions) and after a few days she presented herself at the Salon de Foucharde, armed with notebook and pencil. There were photographers, mannequins, socialites and other journalists milling around, looking for their chairs, their bags, their coats — the mannequins were looking for somewhere they could smoke in peace, the photographers were looking for the mannequins, and over it all presided the up and coming couturier, Mlle Brigitte Foucharde, dark, smart and smooth. The show flowed past in a series of pale pink chiffon, peacock blues and greens, and a lot of feathers.
From the applause it could surely be considered a success — then the lights were lowered dramatically, and a silhouette appeared against the backscreen: long, elegant, with a huge feathery headdress, standing in profile, one hand raised nonchalantly with a cigarette holder.
'La Foucharde!' exclaimed someone; the backscreen separated, La Foucharde turned her head, blew out a perfect circle of smoke and stepped forward, in silver and white, to more applause. She made a pretty speech, with some words of regret that her favourite designer could not be with them today — there was a brief introduction to the merits of Alonse Soyer and his band and with a quick trill from the saxophonist, the music started, and waiters began to circulate with trays.
Julia found her moment and approached La Foucharde as she was withdrawing to her changing room. A brief interview? La Foucharde would be delighted. The season had started well, didn't Mlle Warren think so? And there was more to come; some very promising young designers in the Salon de Foucharde now …
'How fortunate — after such a tragic loss.'
La Foucharde's eyes flickered briefly (had she been a wolf, though Julia, you might have noticed the teeth baring), but she rallied well.
'Ah, you mean M'sieur Ralph — Ralph Egerton, no? Le pauvre.Very shocking.Yes, he was very promising.' She took a stole from her dresser and wrapped it around her shoulders; was she trembling?
'Yes. And so unnecessary. He had the answer staring him in the face, right here at Salon Foucharde, didn't he?'
'Pardon?'
'The true meaning of Bethelney Street. He was close to discovering all about it; only he made the same mistake as so many other people did, by mistaking Bethelney Street for an actual place, an address.'
La Foucharde stretched out her hand to press the bell by her dressing table. 'Marie,' she murmured to her dresser. 'Ask Joe and Ricky to join me.'
She turned to Julia: 'And how do you come to know so much about M'sieur Egerton?'
'He asked me the way to Bethelney Street. At the Ball.'
'Ah. The Ball.'
'The Ball was chosen as a nice busy place to exchange vital information, wasn't it? Only Egerton accidently discovered rather too much about your other activities, such as the diamond smuggling, blackmail — the blackmail was why he started trying to track you down in the first place, wasn't it? Someone he was close to got caught up in your web and -'
'Yes, yes, something like that,' interrupted La Foucharde impatiently, 'but there is no more time to explain now — I shall leave that to Joe and Ricky — Marie … Marie! Why are you still here? I asked you to — Marie?'
Marie went to the door and opened it. Two men stepped in. Marie stood to one side, head bowed. La Foucharde clearly did not recognise either of the men, and stood still, outraged, as Inspector Lovell walked in, followed by another plain clothes officer.
The next few moments were rather crowded; police whistles in the distance, the sounds of tables and chairs toppling over, various shouts. Only La Foucharde stood completely still as the Inspector invited her to the station for questioning.
It was months before the whole story was unravelled: undercover operations, informers and traps had been weeks in action for one of the biggest investigations the city had seen.
'Extortion, blackmail, smuggling, the lot,' explained Inspector Lovell. 'Bethelney Street was code for the network — and for La Foucharde herself. Clever woman. Good at covering up her tracks. But arrogant. Bought off one or two of our men — thought she could buy all of them. And everyone else — otherwise, Joe and Ricky would sort them out.'
'Do you think it was Joe and Ricky I overheard at the Ball then?'
'I rather think so. Just as well they didn't catch sight of you.'
Julia felt a little queasy.
Later on again, when she was talking it over with Jameson, he had said: 'Why don't you write it down — I mean, as a story? Change the names, the characters. Make it your own. There'd be a few magazines I can think of who'd gleefully accept it.'
So she had. It was published in a popular literary magazine. Jameson read it, and suggested she write a full-length novel. And so it had begun.
She picked up her pen.
'There was a ball,' she wrote. 'There was a young man dressed as Pulcinello. He asked me the way to Bethelney Street. A few hours later, he was dead. This is how I began to write mystery novels …'
Her editor would be pleased: not only how she had started out, but a real bona-fide murder mystery to boot.
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After studying Early Music in Italy followed by a brief career in concert performance, B. Lloyd exchanged vocal parts for less vocal arts i.e. a Diploma from the Accademia di Belle Arti di Venezia.
Her inky mess, both graphic and verbal, can be found in various regions of the Internet, and appendaged to good people's works (for no visible reason that she can understand).
For more information about the author, please visit her website at website and her author page on Goodreads, or find her on Twitter.
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Of Soul Sincere by B. Lloyd
A Julia Warren Mystery
Publisher: Holland House
When invited by her publisher to assist a well-respected M.P. in writing his memoirs, Julia Warren is at first reluctant to concentrate on anything other than her next novel; however, circumstances (involving among other things unexpected plumbing) conspire to change her mind and she finds herself at once guest and employee at the great man's rather bohemian household.
Almost immediately she encounters memories from the past, of a rather unsettling nature.
— Of Soul Sincere by B. Lloyd. Click here to take a Look Inside the book.
