QSFer Edale Lane has a new FF historical collection out, Wellington Mysteries book 2: Perilous Passages.
After solving a minor case for a major payout, Stetson embarks on a trip to America with Evelyn and her burlesque company, hoping to find her long-lost father. But the inventive detective leaves with an unidentified art thief still at large.
Musician Evelyn has grown to love the unique woman who bends the rules to pursue her dreams. But facing the disapproval of her family and society at large, how can their relationship move forward?
Can Stetson keep her newfound love alive, or will confronting lethal foes end in her own death?
From Award-winning, best-selling author, Edale Lane. Perilous Passages: The Wellington Mysteries, Vol. 2, Adventures of a Lesbian Victorian Detective is a collection of six sequential novellas, each encompassing its own exciting mystery while furthering the story of Stetson’s life in London. If you enjoy crime dramas, Victorian era fiction, or a sweet lesbian romance, then you’ll love Perilous Passages!
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Excerpt
Footsteps echoed down the murky London alleyway in the middle of the night. An eerie moonlight glowed through the smoky mist snaking its way in and out of the maze of lanes in Southwark. A figure with short hair topped by an old grey cap pressed against the soot-laden bricks and listened to determine the bearing of the rapid clap of hard soles against the cobblestones. After a moment, the hunter lit out in pursuit with slipper-soft steps on an identical course.
While the stalker may have appeared to be a man, Stetson Goody was every inch a woman, albeit one who often pretended otherwise in order to pursue her career as private investigator Xavier Wellington. Her prey tonight was an unknown art thief she spied exiting the Dulwich Picture Gallery. The curator hired Mr. Wellington to recover a stolen masterpiece and to catch the bandit before he struck again. Stetson, following a series of clues, had discovered he planned to return for a second robbery, and she had been watching for him all night.
Stetson’s plan was not to intercept the burglar, but to shadow him to his lair so she could recover both paintings—hence her choice of footwear. She held no intentions of using the Ulster Bulldog revolver in her coat pocket, but it provided comforting insurance as a last resort.
Halting at the next corner, Stetson peered around it to view a glimpse of the criminal. He carried a thin rectangular object wrapped in a dark bag tucked under his arm: the pilfered painting. She would have to take care that the priceless work of art remained in mint condition.
Despite the dampness of the air, the late spring evening was too warm for a coat, so, both Stetson and the thief wore black shirts to better blend into the night. She crept behind just swiftly enough to keep him in sight, stopping if he appeared to be glancing to his rear.
After half a mile, her quarry slipped into a doorway. The sleuth approached with caution and read a placard posted beside an ebony door bearing a slit glass window. Rocking Cock After-Hours Club: members only. Good heavens! Stetson could guess what kind of den of debauchery this was. Two windows on each of three floors were heavily draped and iron steps descended to a basement entry below street level. The perpetrator had entered by the front door.
This was the right part of town for such an establishment, but it seemed odd to Stetson that such a seedy enterprise would require a membership. Could this bar and brothel be a facade for a high-price theft ring? Surely he isn’t stopping by for a drink and jollies with stolen art. No. His prize would be a target for every drunkard in the hall… if there even was one.
Stetson cupped her hand to the narrow pane and listened. The stiff smell of tobacco and whiskey wafted through the door-crack, and she heard murmurings, but no boisterous hilarity. Someone occupied the place.
While she hovered outside, calculating her next move, a sliver of illumination flickered from behind the downstairs curtain. That must be him. A basement would be a perfect place to hide stolen loot. The window with the slice of light was on the left end and the below street-level entrance lay to the right. A different room? Yes. He would not risk keeping valuables in an area with an exterior egress. As quiet as butterfly wings, Stetson stole down the iron treads into the pitch below. She tested the knob—secured, as she presumed. Out came her picks, and she worked the lock blind.
Ready for anything to await her on the other side, Stetson eased the door a fraction—black as a coalmine, save for a stripe of light seeping from underneath an interior door. In case she needed a quick get-away, she left the exit open smidgeon and crept her way across the room until she stubbed her toe on some large, immovable object. Stetson froze and held her breath, fingering the revolver in her pocket. Now she had something to live for, a truly exhilarating inspiration for remaining on this earth for the foreseeable future: Evelyn Merritt. The woman who enhanced every aspect of her life had lost one lover to a violent death, and Stetson would not put her through that grief again.
When no rush of rogues burst in to accost her, Stetson pressed on to the chamber door and inched it open. Across a narrow hallway, the door to the other front room stood ajar, and she detected movement in the shadowy light. Muted sounds above informed her there was no crowd, probably a few die-hard drinkers at this hour—or accomplices, perhaps? No matter. She would surprise the thief, knock him unconscious, snatch the paintings, and tip off the police.
Her eyes having adjusted to the paltry illumination offered through the thin fissure, Stetson made out a brass spittoon, which she hoped was empty, and picked it up. She edged her way through the doorway, then sprang into instant action, bursting through the opposite door with the spittoon raised.
The man she had been following spun and thrust up a forearm to block her blow. He threw a punch that caught her in the ribs. Adrenaline kicked in and her foot snapped out, connecting hard to his knee. She tried one more swing with the brass container, this time whacking the side of his face, but the man remained on his feet. Stumbling backward, he grabbed a letter opener that lay on the desk under the open window. Stetson glanced around, more to locate the paintings than anything, and her eyes landed on an umbrella propped in the corner by the door. He swiped at her with the tiny blade. She hopped back and grabbed the umbrella, wielding it like a sword.
Author Bio
Edale Lane is an award-winning author (Rainbow Awards, Imaginarium Awards, Lesfic Bard Awards) who is realizing her dream of being a full-time writer. She is the alter-ego of author Melodie Romeo, (Tribute in Blood, Terror in Time, and others) who founded Past and Prologue Press. Both identities are qualified to write historical fiction by virtue of an MA in History and 24 years spent as a teacher, along with skill and dedication regarding research.
A native of Vicksburg, MS, Edale (or Melodie) is also a musician who loves animals, gardening, and nature. After driving an 18-wheeler cross-country for eight years, she now lives with her partner in beautiful Chilliwack, B.C. Canada.
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