Rod Duncan writes alternate history, fantasy and contemporary crime. His novels have been shortlisted for the Philip K. Dick Award, the East Midlands Book Award and the John Creasey Dagger of the Crime Writers' Association. A dyslexic with a background in scientific research, he now lectures in creative writing at DeMontfort University.

Some might say that he is obsessed with boundary markers, naive 18th Century gravestones and forming friendships with crows. But he says he is interested in the way things change.

The Fall of the Gas-Lit Empire 2: Unseemly Science by Rod Duncan

In the divided land of England, Elizabeth Barnabus has been living a double life – as both herself and as her brother, the private detective. Witnessing the brutal hanging of someone very close to her, Elizabeth resolves to throw the Bullet Catcher's Handbook into the fire, and forget her past. If only it were that easy!

There is a new charitable organisation in town, run by some highly respectable women. But something doesn't feel right to Elizabeth. Perhaps it is time for her fictional brother to come out of retirement for one last case? Her unstoppable curiosity leads her to a dark world of body-snatching, unseemly experimentation, politics and scandal. Never was it harder for a woman in a man's world…

 
 

BOOK PREVIEW

Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Revolution was never sparked by political philosophy. It has ever been the price of bread that shakes the pillars of the world. Yet they lock up thinkers and leave the bakers free.

From Revolution

There was never a public hanging without a mob. And of those concerned citizens who crushed together at the foot of the gallows, no less than half belonged to the gentle sex. Lewd heckles were as likely to be called out in women's voices as in men's, and a sea of hat feathers quivered above the heads of every such expectant crowd. Thus, it was not to hide my sex that I stepped out that day disguised as a man. Rather it was to hide my identity.

But disguise is merely an outer layer. There was something in the bewhiskered face staring back at me from the hand glass that always triggered a deeper transformation. By the time I crept from the houseboat and closed the hatch behind me, my movements had changed to that of a man. Striding off along the canal, I found myself planting my heels rather than my toes and letting my shoulders roll as I walked. It was a gait that might seem unnatural. But from years of practice it was my second nature.

Had anyone been awake and watching, they would have assumed they saw my brother, the private intelligence gatherer, off on another of his nocturnal adventures. Thus I climbed the embankment without fear of discovery and set off along the track towards the road.

There is a time between the revelries of night and the necessity of morning when the comfortable classes do not venture from the warmth of their beds. This was such a time. No lights shone in the scatter of houses between the canal and the road. The smell of dew hung in the air and the crackle of gravel under my boots seemed loud. I turned but saw no one following, though for a moment I had felt a tingle on the back of my neck.

Having waited on the roadside only a few minutes, I heard iron-shod hooves of the five o'clock omnibus approaching, then saw its lamps shining through the thin mist.

Everyone stared as I climbed aboard. The driver and conductor were uniformed in company blue. Everyone else wore the clothes of the working masses – coarsely woven wool in drab greys and washed out browns, flat caps and simple bonnets. My top hat and taupe jacket did not blend in.

I edged along the aisle towards the back with every face turning to track my progress. All the benches were taken. But as I reached up to grip the leather strap, a weather beaten woman struggled to her feet. She must have been twenty years my senior.

"Here you go, sir," she said.

I hesitated. But to refuse would have been to attract yet further attention. Swallowing a pang of guilt, I nodded my appreciation and sat. The driver called, "Walk on." He flicked his whip and the horses set us rattling along the road.

With a waft of body odour and tobacco smoke, the man next to me leaned closer. "You'll be going to the hanging then," he said.

"Not at all."

"It's alright. There's most on this bus would go if they'd money for the crossing. The works foreman's going. Taking the wife and kids. Better than a holiday, he says. And cheaper."