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 3: The Custodian of Marvels by Rod Duncan

The explosive conclusion to Rod Duncan's The Fall of the Gas-Lit Empire series.

You'd have to be mad to steal from the feared International Patent Office. But that's what Elizabeth Barnabus is about to try. A one-time enemy from the circus has persuaded her to attempt a heist that will be the ultimate conjuring trick. Hidden in the vaults of the Patent Court in London lie secrets that could shake the very pillars of the Gas-Lit Empire.

All that stands in Elizabeth's way are the agents of the Patent Office, a Duke's private army and the mysterious Custodian of Marvels. Rod Duncan returns with the climactic volume of The Fall of the Gas-Lit Empire, the breathtaking alternate history series that began with the Philip K. Dick Award-nominated The Bullet-Catcher's Daughter.

 
 

BOOK PREVIEW

Excerpt

Chapter One

SEPTEMBER 2009

Take off the disguise and another is revealed beneath. Regard well the many people you must be. There is no innermost layer.

The Bullet-Catcher's Handbook

(As recorded in the Harry Timpson manuscript.)

The question of how to approach Professor Ferdinand presented a singular problem, in that the costume that would get me past his gatekeepers was not the same as the one I judged necessary to engage his curiosity.

On my first attempt I progressed only as far as the entrance hall. The soles of my shoes, being soft rope, made no sound on the flagstones. But before I was halfway across that empty chamber, a side door creaked open and a porter wearing a black bowler hat scurried out.

"Hey! You there!"

I put a hand to my chest, as if expressing the shock of one not used to being hailed in coarse language.

"You can't come in here," he said.

"I'm looking for the Department of Ethnographic Studies."

His brow creased. He looked me up and down, taking in the blue calico skirt, the cloth bag hanging from my shoulder and the brass charms on a plaited cord at my waist. His confusion turned quickly to resolve.

"Out!"

"But…"

"I'll get rough if that's the way you want to play it. Don't think I won't." He emphasised the point by jabbing a finger towards me, then back in the direction from which I'd come.

My second attempt to access the inner cloisters was via a narrow passageway running past the college's massive kitchens. Empty crates were stacked waiting for collection outside. I picked one, which bore the legend Mallaig Kippers, and carried it before me as if hurrying on a delivery.

This simple device took me between the service buildings, into a lawned quadrangle, past a group of students, who cast me not a glance, and into the shade of a covered walkway overhung by wisteria. It was here that I found my way barred by a janitor, who held a mop across his body like a musket.

"What you got there?" he asked.

"It's for Professor Ferdinand," I said.

Until then I'd had to guess where the professor's rooms might be located. But, on hearing my words, the janitor turned his gaze from the fish crate to the upper storey of an ivy clad building.

"Best I take it," he said.