Be not untimely slain by lethal fiction.
When the publishers Polygon mooted the idea of a McLevy novel, I felt like running for the hills. I work on instinct – formalised thought and structure is not my port of call – I know where I’ll end, but how I actually get there is always a complete mystery. Mind you – it was supposed to be a mystery story in any case.
Third up – Trick of the Light – covers mesmerism and the American Civil War. A satanic monster bent upon revenge stalks the Edinburgh rooftops to avenge past treachery and McLevy once more shakes hands with death. Arthur Conan Doyle makes appearance as unpaid assistant and by dint of a mighty arm and hard cricket ball, earns the inspector’s thanks. Yet at the end, a beautiful woman dies for nothing, Doyle’s heart is broken and James McLevy has deep and dark secrets that he keeps to himself. Not unlike a writer.
Writing books almost kills me. But not quite. At the back of my head, a burly figure waits in the darkness ready to investigate should I be untimely slain by lethal fiction.