For a few short weeks in the Autumn of 1888, a silent horror stalking the badly lit streets of London’s Whitechapel posed another hazard for those seeking to scratch out an existence of sorts in one of Queen Victoria’s most notorious lower working class ghettos.  Whoever it was didn’t even have a name until some... Continue Reading →

So what goes into the creation of an historical novelist?  A self-belief bordering upon arrogance, limitless quantities of coffee (nicotine optional) and uncontested use of a computer with Internet access.  It works for me, anyway. Second question – what goes into the creation of an historical novel?  In my experience as both a reader and... Continue Reading →