A Darker God
PRAISE FOR BARBARA CLEVERLY’S
AWARD-WINNING NOVEL
FOLLY DU JOUR
“Cleverly’s fine seventh 1920s historical to feature Scotland Yard’s Joe Sandilands (after 2007’s Tug of War)… [an] engaging sleuth … a puzzling whodunit.” —Publishers Weekly
THE TOMB OF ZEUS
“Award-winning author Cleverly debuts a captivating new series…. In the tradition of Agatha Christie, the characters are complex and varied…. Riveting.” —Romantic Times
“With a spirited, intelligent heroine, a glorious exotic setting, a clever plot, loads of archaeological detail and a touch of romance, there’s nothing not to like in this crisply told first book of a new series by the author of the Joe Sandilands mysteries.” —The Denver Post
“The crisp writing and depth of characterization should please traditional mystery fans.” —Publishers Weekly
“Ellis Peters Dagger winner Cleverly sweeps readers onto the isle of Crete in 1928.” —Booknews from The Poisoned Pen
“Contains enough deceptive clues to keep readers guessing till the very end … Cleverly draws on a wealth of historical detail and breathtaking scenery while ingeniously weaving ancient mythology, illicit love, greed, long-fueled revenge, and a convincing romantic subplot into an entertaining mystery. For all its complexity, following the threads of The Tomb of Zeus makes for a fascinating new literary find.” —The Strand Magazine
TUG OF WAR
“Despite her mastery at vivid scene-setting, Cleverly never loses sight of the historical puzzle that is central to her story. Simply put, it’s a stunner.”
—MARILYN STASIO, The New York Times Book Review
“Cleverly continues to present fine historical mysteries with complex plots, well-developed characters, and colourful settings. Whether Sandilands is solving crimes in France, Raj-era India, or Jazz Age London, he is emerging as one of the most engaging heroes in the history-mystery genre.” —Booklist
“Impressive … Cleverly maintains the high standards set by earlier Sandilands tales, blending a sophisticated whodunit with full-blooded characters and a revealing look at her chosen time and place.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Puzzle-lovers will be appeased by the tale’s crafty convolutions.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Fans of Charles Todd, take note: Barbara Cleverly’s Joe Sandilands series is every bit as good, and in many ways better. Tug of War, the sixth book, is simply terrific. It has fine characters and, in post–First World War France, a great setting. But it’s the plot, devious and brilliant, that keeps this novel moving…. All this densely plotted, beautifully written history builds into an excellent mystery with a murder and love story at its heart…. A lot of fun.”
—The Globe and Mail
“Cleverly re-creates the atmosphere of the shattered world…. Vivid detail.” —Booknews from The Poisoned Pen
“Cleverly depicts well the ‘tug of war’ of her story…. The reappearance of Dorcas Joliffe from The Bee’s Kiss contributes quite a bit of pleasure, spice and commentary to the story. She is a worthy honorary niece to Joe and an equally worthy partner in sleuthing. Next book, please, Ms. Cleverly.”
—Mystery News
THE BEE’S KISS
Nominated for a Macavity Award for Best Historical Mystery
“Stellar … As always, [Cleverly] scrupulously plays fair, and the careful reader who puts the pieces together will be gratified with a logical and chilling explanation.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“The Bee’s Kiss … certainly satisfies.” —Entertainment Weekly
“Intriguing … another enjoyable read.” —Mystery News
“Cleverly combines a colorful historical setting … with a complex plot and well-developed characters…. Make[s] a natural for fans of Elizabeth Peters’ Amelia Peabody.” —Booklist
“Atmospheric … intricately plotted, with red herrings and a denouement that depends on a Lanvin dress.” —Kirkus Reviews
THE DAMASCENED BLADE
Winner of the 2004 CWA Historical Dagger Award—Best Historical Crime Novel
“Introduces an intelligent author and an interesting investigator. The Indian setting is expertly exploited and the climactic scenes are full of satisfying twists.” —Morning Star (UK)
“[The Damascened Blade] is set to bring the author into the big league…. The writing and accuracy of scene are astonishing.” —Bookseller
“This marvelous historical delivers.” —Publishers Weekly
“This excellent historical mystery gains immediacy in light of the recent events in the region.” —Booklist
AN OLD MAGIC
“Spellbinding.” —The New York Times
“A pacy and evocative novel. Well-researched historical detail combines with an intriguing contemporary story line. An enjoyable read.”
—JANE ADAMS, author of The Greenway and Heat Wave
“A compelling tale.”
—SIMON SCARROW, author of Under the Eagle and The Gladiator
“A gripping read … unputdownable.”
—SALLY SPEDDING, author of Wringland and Come and Be Killed
RAGTIME IN SIMLA
“Fully developed characters and a convincing portrayal of time and place lift Cleverly’s second historical…. The author’s talents seem capable of transcending any shift in scene.” —Publishers Weekly
“Captivating and enchanting. Attractive, magnetic, duplicitous women grab all the best roles in Ragtime in Simla. Between the natural beauty of the setting and the seductiveness of the women, it’s a wonder that Joe Sandilands gets out of Simla with heart and mind intact.” —The New York Times Book Review
“Ragtime in Simla contains enough scenes of smashing action in and around the marvelously invoked Simla to delight even Rudyard Kipling.” —Chicago Tribune
“Ms. Cleverly deftly transports readers to an exotic locale filled with intrigue, suspense, and characters skilled in the art of deception. This is a perfect travel companion for historical mystery fans.” —Booklist
“Cleverly gets credit for a fresh and fascinating setting. She gives her tale a final flip that will leave readers guessing and surely keep Joe Sandilands busy for many books to come.” —Rocky Mountain News
THE LAST KASHMIRI ROSE A New York Times Notable Book
“Spellbinding debut mystery … embellished by the vivid colonial setting … and enriched by characters too complicated to read at a glance.” —The New York Times Book Review
“An accomplished debut in a historical mystery that has just about everything: a fresh, beautifully realized exotic setting; a strong, confident protagonist; a poignant love story; and and exquisitely complex plot.” —The Denver Post
“An impressive debut … an engrossing tale of serial murder. Classic whodunit fans should look forward to Cleverly’s future efforts.” —Publishers Weekly
“A well-plotted … enjoyable read … The atmosphere of the dying days of the Raj is colorfully captured.” —The Sunday Telegraph (London)
“A strongly evocative narrative, sensitive characterizations, artful dialogue, and masterly plotting make for an excellent first historical.” —Library Journal
“A clever debut … The reader will get a strong sense of life in India for the British in the early part of the last century. At the same time, they will be treated to a puzzling mystery that demands their attention and keeps the pages briskly turning.” —Deadly Pleasures
“A formidable and likeable first novel. Ms. Cleverly is going places.” —Literary Review
“Deftly plotted and filled with unexpected twists, effectively captures the sights and sounds of 1920s India and provides a fascinating look at the social and political climate of the time
.” —Booklist
“An ambitious, charming first novel.” —The Buffalo News
“The best mystery I have read in years! The denouement is so good, even the most experienced reader will not guess the ending.” —Mysterious Women
ALSO BY BARBARA CLEVERLY
THE JOE SANDILANDS MYSTERIES
The Last Kashmiri Rose
Ragtime in Simla
The Damascened Blade
The Palace Tiger
The Bee’s Kiss
Tug of War
Folly du Jour
THE LAETITIA TALBOT MYSTERIES
The Tomb of Zeus
Bright Hair About the Bone
To my good-humoured, eagle-eyed editor, Kate Miciak
PROLOGUE
Mycaenae. 1200 B.C.
The watchman fastened his sheepskin cloak more tightly around his shoulders before he set about climbing the ladder up to the palace roof. It was autumn now and the wind off the sea was a flenching knife to his old carcase these nights. He crept on all fours, staying below the line of the pediment as he’d been instructed, to reach the wool-stuffed cushion he kept up there. He lowered his skinny buttocks onto it, grateful for the warmth it had retained from the day. Cross-legged and stiff-backed, he sat exposed in the northern corner, training his gaze on an arc of hills running between north and east.
The queen herself had told him in which direction to look and what he was to watch out for.
Back in the summer when he’d been glad enough to be posted up here, she’d even climbed the ladder after him, fancy oiled-wool skirts bundled up around her knees, linen undergarments rustling, sandaled feet slapping, unhesitating, on the treads, so eager was she that he should not misunderstand a word of her instructions. A sudden blast of the hot royal breath on his ankles as he hauled himself upwards had almost caused him to miss a rung but he’d held tight and made it up onto the roof.
“Never mind the moon and the stars, you old goat!” she’d told him. “I know what you shepherds are like! Stargazing zanies, the lot of you! It’s fire you’re to keep an eye out for. The signal. It will start far away on Mount Ida, above Troy, and from there will bounce across to the rock of Lemnos and on to Mount Athos.” She counted out the names, holding up her fingers in front of his face, mouthing the words as though he were a child learning his lesson. “Mount Makistos will take up the tale, then Messapion, Kithairon, the headland over the Saronic Gulf, and finally it will flare on the head of the Black Widow over there.”
She’d made him point out the peak she had in mind to be sure he’d understood. And then the curt instructions were followed by an appeal to his Achaean honour. “You, my man, are the final link in a long chain of vigilant and dutiful men. Do not fail your compatriots at the last.” She had sighed, staring with distaste at his rheumy eyes and bony frame, assessing his competence. Her voice took on a brisker tone: “The fire will be of brushwood and heather. You can expect it to be bright, but it won’t last long. The moment you see the summit of the Black Widow ablaze, you run and tell me. No one else. I don’t want you screeching the news all over the palace. Do you understand? If you fall asleep … if you miss it … I’ll have you impaled.”
She hadn’t explained—just delivered orders and threats as usual. But he’d worked it out anyway. It was the prophecy, of course. This was the year, they said. Her lord, the High King of Mycaenae, would come sailing home victorious from Troy before the year was out. How many summers had it been? Too many. Some had said it might even stretch to ten. Now, that was an exaggeration, surely? A nice round sum of years that would trip off the tongues of the storytellers. But there were boys running around the town with wooden swords, boys who’d been squawking babies when their fathers had sailed away in their black ships.
Agamemnon’s queen, Clytemnestra, would have made a bloody good general, the watchman often thought. She got things done. Had to, of course; with her man away at the war, she’d had the running of the kingdom. And it had survived. After a fashion. It hadn’t been easy, with the men of fighting age (with one glaring exception) off besieging Troy and only the useless old men and a few young lads left behind to keep things going.
Little news of the war got back to the city. Occasionally, a trading ship would put in to the home port or to Aulis, one of those opportunists, more pirate than trader, who’d made it into the war zone carrying supplies in and spoils out. They were always eager to report the bad news: “Won’t be long now! Word has it that there’s been a nasty spat between King Agamemnon and one of the generals—Achilles it was. All over possession of some girl. Naw! Not that one! Some other local charmer … Tetchy blighter, Achilles! He was threatening to pull his Myrmidons out and bugger off back home. And if that happens … well … it doesn’t look good. Men’ll be back soon—what’s left of ’em!”
But mostly the accounts were dull: “… bogged down … no sign of defeat or victory. A little light skirmishing going on in the lands around Troy but the city walls stand strong while the ships of the Greek fleet moulder to dust on the beach. Nothing more than worm-eaten hulks, most of ’em … Some have been upturned to make housing of a sort for the men of the army … and their native concubines and fresh litters of children … Very pretty, you know, some of these Hittite women …” The remarks were delivered with a slanting and cruel smile. And the reports always ended with the same rigmarole: “Any good—all right, then, they’ll settle for any bad—carpenters available? How about you, laddie? You’re needed up there at the war. Fancy working your passage? What about it?” And, last and most tantalisingly: “Well, then. The bit you’ve all been waiting for … Anyone recognise any of this lot?… Cost you—don’t forget! You know the rules: If you touch—you keep! If you keep—you pay!”
The contents of a leather bag would be casually emptied onto the beach and the women would press around, eyes devouring the mass of clay objects, demanding to see one or another more closely, turning them over, throwing them back into the sand, most often, in disappointment. Sometimes, with a gasp of delight and relief, a wife would hold out a hand for a tablet bearing the imprint of her husband’s seal stone and, fondling it, she would try to squeeze from the trader more news than he had or her small fragment of silver would buy.
The watchman grinned to himself. His old wife was too smart to part with a honey cake, let alone a hen or a tenth of a silver bangle. At every docking, she’d be down there, rummaging through the bag-loads, and every time she’d find one—a tablet sealed with a ram’s horn. He’d carved the simple device himself on a piece of soapstone and handed it to his son before he sailed. Thersites never failed. Clever lad with a quick tongue on him. A tongue and a brain to direct it—the boy got that from his mother. She’d never been content for her son to waste his life watching sheep. It was a good thing he’d been taken off with the army before he could get himself into more trouble. Pushy little bastard … Oarsman, carpenter, general dogsbody, it didn’t much matter what he was doing … at least the lad was away adventuring. He’d have stories to tell his own children, as long as he lived to have children, that is. And always assuming there’d be some girl desperate enough to have him. Not exactly favoured by Apollo, Thersites. With his narrow shoulders and hair like sheep’s wool, he’d never been much of a catch. But it was that stroppy mouth of his that would wreck his chances! He could talk himself out of any good deal. Still—so far, so good. At least he was still alive. The tablets kept arriving. Thersites’s mother spotted them all right, but she never picked them out and paid for them. She stirred them up and put them back. Enough for her to see that they were there. Still coming. Thersites would have laughed at her trick and approved. In fact, they’d probably hatched the plan together.
And here the citizens were, placing all their hopes on seal stones and a prophecy. But also on the determination and devotion of a queen who had the foresight to set up a chain of mountaintop bonfires to warn her that her husband was returning. How much warning? The watchman had little idea of the
distances involved, but he’d discussed it casually in a tavern with a seaman who’d worked the Egypt-to-Troy trade route and he’d reckoned that with a following wind and no storms, ten days should do it from Troy to the Bay of Argos. But the bonfires—they could zip across the island-dotted sea and hop from peak to peak down the coast in a single night. What was the queen intending to do with her ten days’ warning? How long did it take to slaughter the beasts, pick the figs, and mix the wines for a banquet? Time enough for all that when the king’s ship was sighted off the point. Even if he drove his chariot at a fast lick from the coast, she’d still be ready, every last bangle in place, every instrument tuned, the bath filled, all the lamps lit.
It was no business of his to know the reason behind her urgency, but the watchman thought he could guess. The sky and the mountains weren’t the only things you could see from this vantage point. The palace courtyards were full of movement on a summer’s night. Lamps skittered like dragonflies from one room to another. Forgotten up here behind his concealing frieze of decorated bulls’ horns and bored out of his wits, he’d followed the lights and, with his shepherd’s instinct for order, his alertness to wayward behaviour in the flock, he’d worked out a pattern. A disturbing pattern.