04 November 2026
‘An entertaining read’ – SUNDAY TIMES
‘A treat for anyone who hankers for a light-hearted, modern-day Trollope’ – S.G. MACLEAN
‘Historical fiction at its finest’ – JANICE HALLETT
The hunt for an ancient king could prove deadly…
Leicestershire, 1774. Following a minor royal scandal, Susan Bell’s father has lost his post as Dean of Westminster, and the two find themselves exiled to the family’s country seat, Fortune Hall. Susan fills her days attempting to prevent her fiancé Lindley from being married off to a richer bride, while her father takes on the tutorship of Francis North, son of the Prime Minister.
When a visiting surveyor mysteriously disappears near a fast-flowing river, the man is presumed to have drowned. Susan alone is not convinced by this explanation, or by that of eccentric visiting librarian Mr Quintrel, who declares the surveyor likely lost in the tunnels that form the tomb of the mythical King Lear. But when the young Francis North also disappears, Susan knows that her family’s reputation is at stake and she must investigate. What did the surveyor stumble upon that someone would possibly kill to hide? And what darker secrets are waiting to be revealed?
It was much later – perhaps even seven o’clock, since I believe we were beginning to think about supper – when Ransome, the butler, came into the drawing room with an apologetic air. I thought he meant to draw the curtains (though that would be a task rather below his dignity), for the rain was bringing the darkness in prematurely. But, instead, he crossed to my uncle and spoke to him in a low and urgent voice.
Uncle Clement’s eyes widened and Lindley, who was sitting not far off, evidently caught the gist of Ransome’s murmur, for he sprang to his feet and hastened to join their conclave. Father was dozing, oblivious to it all (he had been hard at it with Frank since church and was probably dreaming of gerunds and ablatives), but Great-aunt Maud was as bright as a button and wide awake beside me at the work-table under the window.
‘What is it, Clement?’ she called out in her old but melodious tones. ‘What is amiss? Loosen your neckcloth, my boy, or you shall have an apoplexy.’
Father jerked awake as the men came over to join us at the work-table.
‘Very bad news,’ Uncle Clement said faintly, and he did, in fact, look very bad as he slumped down in a chair. ‘Tell them, Lindley. I am too set about to make any sense of it.’
Lindley in turn gestured for Ransome, the butler, to repeat his tale, being the fount of all information.
‘It’s that surveyor feller, Chickering,’ Ransome explained with a hint of regrettable relish. ‘Gone and drowned himself.’
‘What?’ Father bounced to his feet, appalled.
I stood up to place a soothing hand on his arm. Ransome was going on regardless, for the benefit of Great-aunt Maud and Gwen (who had also been woken from a thoughtful reverie over an unread book, probably about her hair, or Delamer Grey, or both).
‘The Greys’ bailiff Jem Rose found all ’is things floating in the river.’
‘Good God,’ said Lindley. ‘Not his theodolite? It will be ruined.’
‘According to Ransome, he’ll have no further need of it,’ I said, thinking my beloved’s concern rather misplaced. I turned to the butler. ‘Have they brought in the body?’
‘No, Miss Susan.’ Ransome’s eyes were now ablaze with excitement. ‘No hide nor hair of him to be found at all. And the maids tell me his bed has never been slept in at all. Who knows? He may have drowned last night for all anyone knows, and his body swept quite away.’
At this news Uncle Clement looked grave but determined. ‘If there is no body yet, we must send out men directly, with torches against the dark. After all, he may still be alive, despite appearances.’
Ransome didn’t seem to think so, and nor in truth did I, for I was now as old a hand at curious deaths as ever Father was. Unless Chickering had thrown his equipment into the river for reasons only known to himself, and then found other shelter than Fortune Hall to wait out the bad weather, there could be nothing to account for it, except that he had been prevented from returning by some accident and was likely now floating face-down in the river, quite as ruined as his poor theodolite.
