Some Danger Involved (26 page)

“I disagree,” I protested. “You saved my life.”

“It took both of us to solve the case. I couldn’t have done it without you,” Barker said. Having finished his tea, Harm belched and went to sleep by his master’s side.

I mused for a moment. “We did it, didn’t we? We actually solved a case. Well, you did, anyway. Racket tried to throw us off the scent, but you saw through it all. There’s just one thing that puzzles me.”

“What is that?” he asked.

“Who’s this widow you haven’t mentioned before?”

He didn’t say anything, but I knew I’d struck a nerve. His pipe went out.

For several years, I was a book reviewer for various organizations, as well as a speaker on Victorian crime fiction. Many recent Victorian mysteries have been written by women, and could be classified as “cozies.” I wondered what it would be like to create a more dangerous detective, a shamus, a gumshoe, and to set him down in this world of Queen Victoria and Jack the Ripper. As a longtime student of nineteenth-century fighting arts, both Asian and European, I wanted to present my own view of those times, in which a walking stick was a weapon and London was a perilous place. I also decided early that my detective would not be the narrator. Instead, I gave him a much-beleaguered assistant, a Watson who is constantly out of his depth, but with a cheeky attitude.

Somehow, from this mélange Cyrus Barker and Thomas Llewelyn began to live and move and have their being, as if without my help. Enquiry Agent Barker proved to be an enigmatic evangelical with a past in China, while young Thomas was overcoming a tragic, George Gissing–like past. Barker’s world began to fill quickly with his own entourage, all with their own quirks and habits. Then one day I came upon a book by Chaim Bermant called
London’s East End: Point of Arrival,
about the Jews pouring into England after pogroms in Eastern Europe, and the germ that became
Some Danger Involved
was born.

I had never attempted to write a novel before, but gradually, over a five-year period, it coalesced. All the while, Llewelyn was jabbering in my ear, demanding I tell his story. What could I do but to take it all down?

Unlike Thomas Llewelyn, I am awash in a sea of women, an enviable position, as any man will tell you. I’d like to thank my wife, Julia, who worked even harder than I to see that this novel was set before the public; my daughters, Caitlin and Heather, who encouraged me and listened to some scenes several times. Thank you, ladies.

To Maria Carvainis, my agent, who boldly took a chance upon a complete unknown; Moira Sullivan, who first thought this book had merit; and Amanda Patten, my editor, who helped to fan the flames, a tip of the hat to each of you.

To Ann, Tracy, and Jennifer, and my other cheerleaders at the Tulsa City-County Library, thanks for being there.

To my family, who always knew I had this in me, thank you. Here it is.