LONGLISTED FOR THE CWA JOHN CREASEY NEW BLOOD DAGGER
'Walsh does a splendid job depicting Minnie’s flea-bitten yet appealing theatrical world and Albert’s monied yet treacherous milieu' Wall Street Journal'A narrative that neatly weds historical detail and quiet wit' Sunday Times
‘A sparkling novel and a complete delight to read. The characters and world are wild, vivid and enchanting. A wry, warm and proper rib-tickling slice of dirty Victorian gothic . . . I can’t wait to see what Minnie and Albert are up to next’ Julia Crouch, author of The Daughters
‘Beautifully evocative, deftly plotted and with engaging characters, it was a page-turner from beginning to end’ Sheila O’Flanagan, author of What Eden Did Next
'A brilliantly written page-turner. A bravura performance tumbling us into a compelling mystery in a vivid, richly imagined world. You can smell the greasepaint and hear the roar of the crowd on every page' Imogen Robertson, author of The Paris Winter
‘Minnie Ward is a woman you want to follow through all the wicked twists and turns of Victorian London. Bridget writes wonderfully. It had me on the edge of my seat until the final page’ S. J. Bennett, author of Murder Most Royal
'I absolutely loved The Tumbling Girl. Bridget Walsh is a fresh and fabulous new voice in historical crime fiction' Elizabeth Chadwick, author of The King's Jewel
‘Brilliant . . . Beautifully written . . . keeps you guessing till the end’ A. J. West, author of The Spirit Engineer
'Gripping, dark and thrilling and takes the reader on a rollercoaster journey from music hall to gentleman's club and back again; all in the company of two engaging protagonists' W. C. Ryan, author of A House of Ghosts
‘An accomplished crime murder mystery, with an addictively gritty plot and truly remarkable cast of characters . . . deliciously dark and compelling’ Essie Fox, author of The Somnambulist
'One of the most engaging double acts I've read in ages. Delightful, dark and depraved' Trevor Wood, author of You Can Run
'A racy and thrilling ride that doesn't let up till the last sentence. Superbly done' Femi Kayode, author of Lightseekers
'Walsh resurrects the culture and crimes of Victoriana without cliché or condescension, but with warmth, wit, remarkable texture and rare authority' Tom Benn, author of Oxblood
‘Smart, funny and expertly plotted, The Tumbling Girl cartwheels off the page . . . A cracking start to a charismatic and distinctive series’ Emma Styles, author of No Country for Girls
'Walsh’s diligent research pays off in spades here, and her rich and nuanced portrayal of the period will leave readers feeling like they’re on the soggy streets of London. Imogen Robertson readers will be eager for a sequel to this un-put-downable mystery' Publishers Weekly (starred review)
'This atmospheric debut historical mystery captures the world of music halls and the danger to women in Victorian London. Will appeal to fans of Leonard Goldberg’s 'Daughter of Sherlock Holmes' mysteries, Sherry Thomas’s 'Lady Sherlock' books, or the show Miss Scarlet and the Duke' Library Journal (Starred Review)
'Minnie's world reeks of greasepaint, stale tobacco and oysters, populated by characters J. B. Priestley would have been proud of' Katherine Mezzacappa, Historical Novel Society
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
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, scrutinizing 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 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 at 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 Working 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 as Tansie by everyone. ‘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.
