There was no winner among the comments on this post, so I'll hold another contest soon. Thanks everyone. The answer was on the Extras page of my website.
Many years ago when I was in school, a very smart English teacher noticed my boredom and decided to cure it with a book. I was handed a worn copy of “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes” and a love affair was born. I’d long been fascinated by this particular era in
North America, via
television Westerns, etc., but I’d never given a lot of thought to the same era
about Holmes and Watson and their adventures in the atmospheric world of
Victorian London was like a new world opening up, and I was well and truly
hooked on the whole thing. I’ve since lost track of how often I have read all
the Conan Doyle stories and novellas, as well as countless other authors’ take
on this most erudite character. Reading
So, along comes a film called “Murder By Decree” that marries Holmes to the Ripper murders – the other on-going intrigue of the era for me. Imagine my delight, and so well acted with Christopher Plummer as Holmes, too! The intrigue deepens.
By the time Johnny Depp emerged to play Inspector Frederick Abberline in FROM HELL, I was already well and truly taken with the concept of a story in which there were clairvoyant ties to someone connected to the case.
of this era was filled with opium
dens, and the aristocracy of the time were among the frequent visitors, despite
the areas that housed the worst of the dens. London
So, where did I begin when I decided it was time for me to submerge myself in all of these wonderful aspects of a new set of stories? Well, the Ripper murders was the logical starting point, because if your main character is someone who’s worked that case, you’d better have your facts in hand, and not make errors than are spotted by the most casual observer. I began reading, and found an incredibly good resource in a book called “Jack the Ripper: A to Z” – which is simply a quick reference in alphabetical order, with a basic breakdown of facts surrounding the murders, the victims, the dates, and maps of where they were found. Watching documentaries, many from British television, helped get the sequence of events clearly mapped in my mind.
I watched a lot of Sherlock Holmes to absorb the atmosphere of the city at that time. PBS was doing the Jeremy Brett series at that time, and believe me, I was cataloguing every minute detail when I watched those shows, actions, attitudes, manners... all of it. This was also when I discovered author Anne Perry and her Inspector Monk series, which of course then led to Thomas and Charlotte Pitt Mysteries. Ms. Perry’s factual knowledge and attention to detail is amazing. So I made copious notes while I read, or while I watched. Small things like mourning rituals, etc., all things that enrich a story, even if the reader is only aware of it on a subtle level.
The internet resources are too numerous to catalogue. Wikipedia is an endless and wealthy resource for everything! Then I found the VICTORIAN LONDON site owned and operated by author and historian Lee Jackson. It’s like finding the treasure for a pirate! I don’t think there is anything this man hasn’t got an article for, or an answer for – either on his site, or in his head if you write to him with a specific question. He is gracious and helpful, and even if all you want to do is look around... you really should visit his amazing website! The link is: http://www.victorianlondon.org
Maps of the city in the year 1888 were easily found, tracing the steps of the Ripper also relatively easy. So, then came the research into prostitution of the era – that wasn’t pretty, let me tell you. Photos are great, but the best thing about writing this era was that it is so well filmed for all the movies and shows set in the late 19th Century. In the Devane Files, the atmosphere itself is like a character, so it had to be brought to life for the reader. I hope I have done it some justice.
Odd movies also added fragments of “feel” to the layers within these two stories for me. Van Helsing – believe it or not, because it has a timeless yet Gothic/Victorian feel to it in places. League of Extraordinary Gentlemen – Dorian Gray as played by Stuart Townsend almost made me faint, because I’d never seen Townsend before and there I was staring at “Inspector Michael Devane” whom I had created shortly before... So, lots of influences. Even the original black and white Dracula has enough spooky atmosphere to have played a role in shaping my descriptions of
The drug of choice for Devane is a mix of Opium and other toxic and potentially lethal things like Absinthe and Laudanum. The process I describe for Devane is very like the scene in FROM HELL when we see Johnny Depp’s Abberline inducing his visionary sight. Again, research unearthed that it was well-documented that this was the practise and procedure for it in some cases, so that’s the way it was written.
I consulted a lawyer for the legality of having a woman inherit at that juncture in history, and the boundaries I laid out in the books are within accepted legal structure for the era. Again, the small details come into play.
The police force of
London was never in the
public eye quite so glaringly as it was during the investigation of the
notorious Jack The Ripper reign of terror. From that first accepted series of
killings – serial murders – has emerged a timeless fascination with the people
who investigated and failed to bring to justice the bloody killer. In the two
books of my Devane Mysteries, I have once again used these gruesome killings as
a kind of eternal haunting of my hero, Police Inspector Michael Devane. Devane
is haunted, clairvoyant and an opium addict in a time when such things were
common but rarely talked about openly. If you would like to read the books,
please visit Liquid Silver Books for excerpts and purchase links: http://www.lsbooks.com/denyse-m-bridger-c100.php
From The Devane Files: OUT OF HELL
Whitechapel was disturbingly quiet as newly appointed Inspector, Michael Charles Devane walked the streets in contemplative solitude. His eyes missed nothing as he strolled, absorbed with the turmoil inside his head, yet acutely aware of all that was around him. It was instinctive, like so much else about his nature. His promotion had come at a difficult time in his career, his friend and mentor, Chief Inspector Fred Abberline had only retired weeks earlier, and Michael frequently wondered if it was Abberline’s influence that had tipped the scales in his favor when it came time for his Superintendent to consider this promotion. His career before Abberline’s friendship had certainly not indicated he would rise in the ranks to this level. He shivered against the sudden chill of memory, drawn inexorably back to the evening a few years ago when he had been recruited into Abberline’s elite H Division unit of investigators hunting the notorious killer who would become known as Jack The Ripper.
Devane had been a mediocre police officer, but several small cases that had baffled other investigators had been solved by his unorthodox and admittedly questionable methods. Like Fred Abberline, Michael Devane knew the district intimately, and he spent long periods of time actually living in Whitechapel. The locals trusted him. The prostitutes had laughingly befriended him in the first years of his adult life, and subsequently, the early days of his career with the police force. He had contacts that even Abberline didn’t have access to, and the then Inspector in charge of the ground forces, wanted Michael on his team. Strings had been pulled, and his transfer had been made in the space of days. If he’d known then what the events of the coming months would bring to his life, Devane might have chosen a more peaceful method for destruction of his mind, his emotional balance, and his life in general.
Mist curled around his feet; the thick, cottony clouds of fog that were uniquely London clinging to his pants with cloying wetness. His footsteps, lost in the swirl of sickly white on the cobble-stoned ground, sounded vaguely muffled. He pulled the collar of his overcoat a little higher and glanced around. There were still people brave enough to walk the streets, but fear lingered behind the boldness of the gazes that met his stare, then slid away too quickly. He shuddered as he spotted The Ten Bells tavern, and the chill of the night sank deeper into his being. Almost four years since the Ripper murders, but it might have been yesterday to many. It felt like yesterday to him. Every time there was a particularly messy murder, it was attributed to the infamous Ripper; and there had been several that did, indeed, look like the madman’s work. After all, the police had never caught the notorious Jack the Ripper. Had they? A great number of people blamed Chief Inspector Fred Abberline. Others were not so specific and targeted anybody who was even remotely associated with the nightmarish case. Few people knew the truth. It would always be that way, too, he knew, truth being subjective, and loyalties as eternally ambiguous as the evidence. Conspiracy theories had abounded at the time of the killings, and many more had been formulated and put forth since those grisly days in the latter half of 1888.
Devane’s sergeant, David Goodwin, chided him often for his penchant for inviting death, whether it was walking the Whitechapel streets, or caught in the limbo dream-world created by his continued use of opium. ‘Chasing the dragon’, as Goodwin, (and a few others), noted with his worry-tainted contempt of the practice. Devane knew the bursts of anger were born in concern, and he frequently ignored what another police inspector would have disciplined in his “junior”. That irony never ceased to bring a flicker of wry amusement to the younger man’s handsome features, and it did so now; Devane felt the telltale twitch of movement at his mouth--just beyond his conscious control.
A hand touched his arm, tugged less than gently, and he turned to look into the lascivious smile of a local whore. He saw a multitude of things in her pale eyes as they looked at each other, among them was the ever-present fear. Her gaze dropped for an instant as she took stock of him, a potential customer. His expression remained passive, and when her head rose to meet his stare a second time, she was apologetic.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” she mumbled, and ran off before he could utter a word.
Inspector Devane was not typical of her customary clientele, in any way. He was young, exceptionally handsome, and dressed like a gentleman. His eyes were dark, intelligent, and if anyone peered too closely, the shadows of perpetual pain and deeply-rooted loss would become visible. Few people were permitted that privilege, of course.
Devane continued his interrupted walk, and eventually the worn sign of Mitre Street caught his attention. Again, the icy breath of past death caressed his insides. Just beyond the Street was Mitre Square and the ghost of Catharine Eddowes, Jack The Ripper’s fourth victim. He turned away, unwilling to go further in that direction. Abberline had been quick to see the value of his gift of near-clairvoyant insight, and had quickly given him the rare opportunity to be among his men on the streets. It had been a mixed blessing, indeed. He’d gained invaluable experience working with Abberline’s team, but the horrors he’d seen had never quite faded safely into vague oblivion.
The Ripper had been haunting him anew recently. Devane’s dream-vision had once again been filled with gore and terror. Not entirely unique in his experience, but the horror of the attacks, and the violence in the residue that remained with him throughout the day, was vividly reminiscent of the Ripper murders that had occurred over a period of several months. He knew that it was not the work of Jack The Ripper, yet something was drawing him back into that macabre nightmare world that had cost him a piece of his soul, as well as his faltering marriage, and then threatened his very sanity in ways about which he tried to avoid thinking.
His footsteps quickened slightly, and it took only a single heartbeat for him to recognize the reason for it; behind him, the sound of a carriage approaching, moving fast and with purpose. Pulling his thoughts inward, cloaking himself in cultivated control, Devane turned to face the nearing vehicle. Repressing his annoyance, he went to join Goodwin when the sergeant’s broad face appeared in the window and he beckoned.
“Good-evening, sir,” Goodwin said quietly, once Devane was seated next to him and he’d told the driver to continue onward to their destination.
“What is it this time, Sergeant?” Devane enquired, gazing outward, seeing nothing.
Goodwin winced at the resignation in the younger man’s strong, quiet voice. He didn’t really know what to say to Devane a great deal of the time now. Goodwin had worked with Devane for a number of years, and they’d become friends. But, things had changed after the Ripper case. Not in overt ways, but the more subtle undercurrents had shifted into a murky grey area where he was no longer always certain of Devane’s dark genius. Fred Abberline had hinted it might happen, but Goodwin hadn’t believed it; he’d known Devane for such a long time, and his faith had been unshakable, until that terrible case. And, this new one was going to put more pressure on a personality that was fraught with edginess on the best of days.
Goodwin started visibly and tried to look away from the intensity of Devane’s expectant gaze. It was impossible. It always had been.
“There’s been a murder,” he imparted cautiously. Devane released him by turning to look out the window again, drinking in the night and its secrets.
“What of it?”
“It was messy, Inspector. They’re already whispering about The Ripper being back at work. Though that makes little enough sense in this case, since the victim is a man, not a Whitechapel bang-tail.”
Devane closed his eyes and leaned back in the safe confines of the jostling carriage. He was suddenly drifting into lethargy, tired beyond weariness. His head fell back and a hiss of breath escaped from between clenched teeth. Before he could hold back the images, blood spattered his mind’s eye and held him in the semi-consciousness of familiar dream-scapes. A scream, deafening yet soundless, split the silence inside his head. He turned, and a graceful, eerily beautiful arc of liquid fire sprayed upward, glistening drops of crimson life held suspended against the stark glow of gaslights. A sliver of silver glimmered, vanished, then returned again, covered in scarlet gloss. Then the screaming amplified and enveloped him for timeless seconds, until it slowly pulsed to a soft, steady heartbeat. Through the haze of red, a face tried to take form, and failed. Devane inwardly twisted away, eager to escape the marred beauty that pleaded with his tortured soul...
Goodwin’s concerned shout penetrated the fog, and banished the siren and her song. Devane nodded, opened his eyes, and peered out to look at the pale grandeur of a Kensington townhouse. Two uniformed constables flanked the massive double doors that were the entrance to the place, and Devane knew Goodwin would have two others positioned at the rear of the house as well. As he descended the steps and felt solid ground under his feet again, his equilibrium reasserted itself. Goodwin waited until he led the way, and they approached the house in resolute silence.
Before they had reached the landing at the top of the stairs, the huge doors swung open and an immaculately dressed, somber butler awaited them. They presented an incongruous pair, and the butler’s flickering gaze did a quick inventory of the two policeman. Goodwin was a big man, half a head taller than his companion, and twice his bulk. He was older, with a friendly, broad face that was deceptive about its owner’s perceptiveness. Sharp eyes belied the illusion of a cheerful bear of a man, and his stance was faintly protective as he stood next to the smaller man. Goodwin’s clothes were less stylishly cut and less expensive, as well. But, there was no denying his imposing presence.
“This is Inspector Devane, Mr. Carstaires,” Goodwin said, apparently having already met the typically haughty servant.
The Inspector was a slender man, dressed in a deep midnight blue suit and pristine white shirt with black tie, the knot very slightly askew. He was pale, features fine and angular, very striking in quiet demeanor and possessed of a forceful personality that wasn’t evident until you met his startlingly dark eyes. He wasn’t six feet tall, yet this was the stronger and more dangerous of the two men, the butler realized instantly. Whatever Devane lacked in physical strength was more than compensated for by his quick, agile mind.
“Lady Bradshaw is waiting for you in the Library. The family physician has been sent for,” he added in explanation. “I will inform you upon his arrival.”
“I’ll need to see the body and the crime site first,” Devane inserted quietly. “Then the family.”
Carstaires digested the request, nodded slowly, then changed the direction they’d been going in and stopped at the foot of the long, curving staircase that dominated the huge foyer of the house.
“I believe Sergeant Goodwin can show you which room,” the butler said with a faintly questioning look at Goodwin. The sergeant smiled and nodded, and the expression turned to a soft chuckle as he indicated the stairs.
“Shall we, sir?”
The Devane Files: Book One - OUT OF HELL
Available from: Liquid Silver Books
Read More HERE: http://www.lsbooks.com/out-of-hell-p425.php
The Devane Files: Book Two - AN UNSPOKEN BETRAYAL
Available from: Liquid Silver Books
Read More HERE: http://www.lsbooks.com/an-unspoken-betrayal-p67.php
~ ~ GIVEAWAY ~ ~
For anyone who is now intrigued with the whole idea, I’ll give away a copy of the two books to one of the visitors who leaves a comment. Somewhere on my website is a gorgeous ad that features the first Devane mystery on it – tell me the name of the magazine that did that feature, and I’ll choose a winner from the correct comments. Winner will be announced Monday afternoon.