04 March 2025
Witty, clever and an utter delight, this mixed-media thriller from barrister Guy Morpuss KC combines nail-biting courtroom drama with a Christie-esque locked room murder mystery.
There’s a killer in the court, but are they in the dock?
‘A delicious mystery’ DAILY MAIL
‘My verdict: all rise for a future book of the year’ JANICE HALLETT
‘If you like your thrillers multi-layered, clever and compelling, this one’s for you‘ JENNIE GODFREY
Daughter of the Revolution
Act Three
April 1793, Colline du Château, Nice, France
Faint moonlight illuminates a dark courtyard. There is the sound of a strong wind. Lightning flashes overhead, followed by a roll of thunder.
In the darkness, somebody screams.
As the light fades the night seems blacker than ever.
But in that moment, what stood at the centre of the courtyard had briefly been illuminated: a hulking monstrosity of wood and metal; a tall frame supporting an angled blade.
The sound of drums can be heard, getting louder.
Three figures enter the courtyard. The first, a step ahead of the others, is dressed all in black, apart from a golden waistcoat, and a red, white and blue sash tied around his waist. He wears a tricorn hat adorned with a rosette in the same colours. His expression is stern. In one hand he holds a rope, the end of which is tied about the neck of the second figure.
She is dressed in a brown hooded robe, covering her from head to toe. Beneath the hood she wears a black mask. Her hands are behind her back, seemingly tied – for she stumbles, but makes no effort to save herself.
Instead, it is the third figure who reaches out to steady her. She is a young woman. Her dark hair is dishevelled, and tears stream down her cheeks.
‘Be strong, Mother,’ she says.
‘Quiet!’ shouts the man. His voice is deep, gravelly and harsh. Commanding.
He tugs on the rope, pulling the woman towards the guillotine. The drumbeat gets louder.
The younger woman tries to say something more, but her words are drowned out by another roll of thunder as lightning crackles overhead.
Again there is a scream, this time from the hooded figure. She tries to draw back, but is yanked forward, for a second time almost falling. Again she is saved by her daughter gripping her elbow.
The man pushes the younger woman away. When she tries to resist he slaps her across the face.
‘Stay back,’ he shouts. ‘Or Madame la Guillotine will taste your blood next!’
He seizes the hooded woman by the shoulders, shoving her face down onto the bed of the guillotine. Before she can react, he locks wooden stocks around her neck, holding her in place. She tries to pull back but pinned as she is she cannot escape.
The executioner unties the rope from around her neck but leaves the hood and mask in place.
For a third time lightning flashes and thunder echoes.
The other woman is standing back, tugging at her hair with one hand. She takes a hesitant step towards the guillotine, resting a hand on its wooden frame.
The man turns towards her, snarling angrily, and she freezes in place.
He walks around the guillotine, swiftly pulling straps tight around the legs, waist and shoulders of the prone woman.
The drumbeat slows.
He walks back around the wooden frame, seizing a handle that protrudes from the right-hand upright.
For a fourth time there is a blinding flash of light, longer this time.
As the thunder fades away the condemned woman kicks against the straps that bind her. Her head twists frantically, and she screams: ‘No!’ The drums rise to a new crescendo, drowning her cries.
The executioner’s hand moves.
The blade drops.
The woman’s head falls, caught in a basket beneath the guillotine. A stream of blood spurts from her severed neck, a final pump of the heart, then trickles to nothing.
The younger woman seems about to collapse, gripping the frame of the guillotine for support.
The executioner looks slowly about him.
The drums are silent.
‘Justice is done!’ he shouts.
He reaches into the basket that contains the fallen head, and lifts it up. Blood drips onto his boots. He smiles, and kisses the bloodstained mask.
‘Vive la France! Justice is—’
Then he freezes, his mouth half open, his gaze fixed on his grisly prize.
His hand slowly opens. The head thumps to the floor, rolling away into the darkness.
‘Oh my God!’ he squeals. His voice has changed, high-pitched and scared.
He paws desperately at the blood on his lips, then looks around.
‘Oh, God. It’s real!’
