Subsequent Wickedness
Spectres in the Smoke ‘Honi soit qui mal y pense’
Spectres in the Smoke
A Creeping Narrative
Tony Broadbent
*********************************************************
On top of which, he hadn't even given me time to plan the creep properly, and I hated a rush job, that was always a sure way for things to go wrong in a hurry. I heard a sound and sent my senses flying out across the rooftops again. But, just as before, it was nothing. So I melted back into the walls and let the Smoke swirl around me like a wet army blanket to dampen down all thoughts of irritation. There's never any place for ruffled fur on a creep, and even waiting is work in my business.
It was very frustrating. And there was nothing else for it, but to go to plan B: go for the diamond jewellery; tiaras, rings and stuff: set the place in a roar: then just set back and see what happened. I slipped out and made for the(Ladies) bedrooms.
Pge 33
‘Honi soit qui mal y pense’
*********************************************************
It's the austere 1948 world of post-war, black-market-riddled England, and Jethro, the cat burglar and jewel thief, has been pushed out onto the rooftops of London again by Colonel Walsingham of MI5.
And so, forced once again to step out from behind his disguise as a part-time stage-hand in London's West End, Jethro does a creep in Mayfair and sets in motion a tale of dark and deadly dealings that mixes national politics with black magic, orgies of abandon, and blackmail.
Things get even deadlier when he stumbles across a royal cover-up and then uncovers a plot to topple Clement Attlee's Labour Government.
And always ever present, looming in the background, are the twin spectres of the growing communist menace and a rebirth of fascism. There are even rumors the Americans are poking their noses deep into things and that a mysterious OSS agent is roaming around London with his eagle eye set on someone who looks a lot like Jethro.
To top it all, Walsingham comes up with a plan---"in Defence of the Realm"---that calls for Jethro to steal his way into the very heart of English aristocratic circles.
However, Walsingham's behind-the-scenes string pulling also has unintended consequences in London's gangland that result in Jethro finding himself up to his neck again in the never-ending battle between two of London's most notorious gang bosses, Darby Messima and Jack Spot.
And all this is just a precursor to Jethro having to do a very serious bit of burglary at a certain very grand country house, the success or failure of which could mean England saved from going to the dogs or spell curtains for Jethro.
In Spectres in the Smoke, Tony Broadbent has created a dark, shadowy vision of post-war London and spun a truly enthralling tale.
Prologue:
It'd promised to be a very different world after the War ended. But now, nearly three years later, we were all of us still waiting for the dust to settle and clear. At times, in between the curtains of soot-laden fog, it seemed as if London was one huge wasteland. There were bombsites everywhere. Dark toothy gaps a dozen houses long in streets otherwise untouched or whole streets and neighbourhoods gone, with solitary buildings left, here and there like pinched, blackened stubs in an ashtray. And even those rows still standing bore the marks of doodlebug, incendiary bomb, and fire.
And with so many things busted, broken, or blown to smithereens no one knew quite where to begin. Was it better to start by clearing away all the mess and confusion? Or better to soldier on, build what you could on top of the rubble, and simply hope for the best?
Most families had suffered a tragic loss of some kind. A dad, a son, an uncle, a brother, who'd once waved a "cheerio" by the front door and gone off to war, then never returned. Or a sister, a granny, an auntie, a mother, who'd watched and waited, and then had perished to blazes in the Blitz. And all of them now gone forever, leaving gaping holes that could never be filled. True, a lucky few did manage to come through the War unscathed, and some did very well out of it. And more than one or two had lined themselves up to prosper whichever way the War went. Not that you could pick them out in a crowd, mind you, but they were there. They always are.
As there was still no end in sight to the Government's austerity measures, most people also had gaps of a more pressing if no less dispiriting sort to contend with. Empty shelves and empty shopping-baskets seemed to be the rule, more often than not. And with officially-allotted allowances going up and down like a see-saw most weeks, people stood in queues for hours on end, never knowing what they'd get for their troubles. All basic everyday foods were on ration points, all clothing was on coupons, and as soap was rationed, too, it left people feeling pretty lousy about things. And what with it having been another especially hard winter, it was a miserable old time for most Londoners. Continuing fuel and electricity shortages meant that even the bright lights of Piccadilly Circus stayed forever dark. With no tinsel to be had anywhere, but down the picture house, life seemed forever grey.
To give them their due, Clement Attlee's Labour Government were still struggling to get to grips with the five giants of want, sickness, squalor, ignorance, and idleness, and were slowly starting to make good on their promise to provide everyone "comfort and care, from cradle to the grave." And despite bitter opposition from conservatives of every stripe, they forged ahead and introduced the National Health Service that meant free spectacles and false teeth for anyone that needed them, and a doctor or a hospital bed when you were ill. They promised better state pensions for the old and poor; new housing for slum dwellers; and secure employment for the men that'd fought the War. Add a new Education Bill, so kids could stay in school longer and go on to grammar school or even university if they had the talent, and you had the makings of something very different to what'd gone before. Even, perhaps, a new and better Britain.
To be honest, though, a lot of people—me included—had thought the Labour Party a right load of duffers when they'd first started nationalising everything in sight, and things had gone from bad to worse. And although many in Britain regarded the Welfare State as the promised light in the wilderness, a good few saw it as the first flicker of the all-consuming fires of Communism. The middle and upper classes felt uneasy, under siege, and resentful. To them, Socialism promised nothing but the end of the Britain they knew and loved; they were terrified of power passing over into the wrong hands. Fears made all the more real when Communist trade union leaders down the London Docks voted repeatedly to go on strike, crippling imports and exports. And so it was, as night follows day, that the spectre of Fascism began to rise from out of the ashes again and draw people to its "Britain First" banner.
Was it any wonder then that the very idea of "a new Jerusalem" gave rise to such bitter disagreement in England's green and pleasant land? Or that for one dark moment Britain stood at a crossroads, as if spellbound, with no one knowing whether the morrow would bring a glorious social revolution or mobs roaming the streets looking to put heads on sticks.
"Crikey," I can hear you saying. "What's all this politics malarkey got to do with an honest-to-goodness London cat burglar, when he's at home?" Well, you'd be surprised what people will try and steal from you when you're not looking, really you would. But I have to admit I had to keep asking myself that same question, over and over again, during this caper; what with all its "who's who's" and "what's what's" and all its strange comings and goings. I tell you, it's not easy being a pawn in someone else's game, especially when the clock's ticking and you're being played as a promoted knight out to lay an old ghost and save a king. And all the while, you're worrying yourself sick about one old mate who's in dead trouble and you're fighting to help keep another old china's dream alive.
Review
As in THE SMOKE, SPECTRES IN THE SMOKE is a well-written and atmospheric novel. Broadbent vividly presents war-ravaged England with descriptions of both the physical destruction and the emotional damage its people feel. He uses details of life and society with which many are familiar, combined with fictional situations, to demonstrate his point. Broadbent has the ability to make it seem as though the reader is experiencing the events in this book rather than merely reading about them.
Jethro is an engaging and entertaining character. Even though he works on the outside of the law, he has his own standards of acceptable criminal behavior. To this end, he has little patience for those who do not follow his own code of conduct. Jethro is very loyal to his friends and family regardless of the trouble they find themselves in.
In addition his voice as narrator is very appealing. His voice is cynical and world-weary; yet, he is also hopeful and eager to see any situation improve. The way he demonstrates his views on the world and society through his actions, words, and thoughts is one of the many things that makes this story work. Hopefully Jethro will remain a solid and reassuring character as this series progresses.
Reviewed by Sarah Dudley, June 2006
Spectres in the Smoke ‘Honi soit qui mal y pense’
Spectres in the Smoke
A Creeping Narrative
Tony Broadbent
*********************************************************
On top of which, he hadn't even given me time to plan the creep properly, and I hated a rush job, that was always a sure way for things to go wrong in a hurry. I heard a sound and sent my senses flying out across the rooftops again. But, just as before, it was nothing. So I melted back into the walls and let the Smoke swirl around me like a wet army blanket to dampen down all thoughts of irritation. There's never any place for ruffled fur on a creep, and even waiting is work in my business.
It was very frustrating. And there was nothing else for it, but to go to plan B: go for the diamond jewellery; tiaras, rings and stuff: set the place in a roar: then just set back and see what happened. I slipped out and made for the(Ladies) bedrooms.
Pge 33
‘Honi soit qui mal y pense’
*********************************************************
It's the austere 1948 world of post-war, black-market-riddled England, and Jethro, the cat burglar and jewel thief, has been pushed out onto the rooftops of London again by Colonel Walsingham of MI5.
And so, forced once again to step out from behind his disguise as a part-time stage-hand in London's West End, Jethro does a creep in Mayfair and sets in motion a tale of dark and deadly dealings that mixes national politics with black magic, orgies of abandon, and blackmail.
Things get even deadlier when he stumbles across a royal cover-up and then uncovers a plot to topple Clement Attlee's Labour Government.
And always ever present, looming in the background, are the twin spectres of the growing communist menace and a rebirth of fascism. There are even rumors the Americans are poking their noses deep into things and that a mysterious OSS agent is roaming around London with his eagle eye set on someone who looks a lot like Jethro.
To top it all, Walsingham comes up with a plan---"in Defence of the Realm"---that calls for Jethro to steal his way into the very heart of English aristocratic circles.
However, Walsingham's behind-the-scenes string pulling also has unintended consequences in London's gangland that result in Jethro finding himself up to his neck again in the never-ending battle between two of London's most notorious gang bosses, Darby Messima and Jack Spot.
And all this is just a precursor to Jethro having to do a very serious bit of burglary at a certain very grand country house, the success or failure of which could mean England saved from going to the dogs or spell curtains for Jethro.
In Spectres in the Smoke, Tony Broadbent has created a dark, shadowy vision of post-war London and spun a truly enthralling tale.
Prologue:
It'd promised to be a very different world after the War ended. But now, nearly three years later, we were all of us still waiting for the dust to settle and clear. At times, in between the curtains of soot-laden fog, it seemed as if London was one huge wasteland. There were bombsites everywhere. Dark toothy gaps a dozen houses long in streets otherwise untouched or whole streets and neighbourhoods gone, with solitary buildings left, here and there like pinched, blackened stubs in an ashtray. And even those rows still standing bore the marks of doodlebug, incendiary bomb, and fire.
And with so many things busted, broken, or blown to smithereens no one knew quite where to begin. Was it better to start by clearing away all the mess and confusion? Or better to soldier on, build what you could on top of the rubble, and simply hope for the best?
Most families had suffered a tragic loss of some kind. A dad, a son, an uncle, a brother, who'd once waved a "cheerio" by the front door and gone off to war, then never returned. Or a sister, a granny, an auntie, a mother, who'd watched and waited, and then had perished to blazes in the Blitz. And all of them now gone forever, leaving gaping holes that could never be filled. True, a lucky few did manage to come through the War unscathed, and some did very well out of it. And more than one or two had lined themselves up to prosper whichever way the War went. Not that you could pick them out in a crowd, mind you, but they were there. They always are.
As there was still no end in sight to the Government's austerity measures, most people also had gaps of a more pressing if no less dispiriting sort to contend with. Empty shelves and empty shopping-baskets seemed to be the rule, more often than not. And with officially-allotted allowances going up and down like a see-saw most weeks, people stood in queues for hours on end, never knowing what they'd get for their troubles. All basic everyday foods were on ration points, all clothing was on coupons, and as soap was rationed, too, it left people feeling pretty lousy about things. And what with it having been another especially hard winter, it was a miserable old time for most Londoners. Continuing fuel and electricity shortages meant that even the bright lights of Piccadilly Circus stayed forever dark. With no tinsel to be had anywhere, but down the picture house, life seemed forever grey.
To give them their due, Clement Attlee's Labour Government were still struggling to get to grips with the five giants of want, sickness, squalor, ignorance, and idleness, and were slowly starting to make good on their promise to provide everyone "comfort and care, from cradle to the grave." And despite bitter opposition from conservatives of every stripe, they forged ahead and introduced the National Health Service that meant free spectacles and false teeth for anyone that needed them, and a doctor or a hospital bed when you were ill. They promised better state pensions for the old and poor; new housing for slum dwellers; and secure employment for the men that'd fought the War. Add a new Education Bill, so kids could stay in school longer and go on to grammar school or even university if they had the talent, and you had the makings of something very different to what'd gone before. Even, perhaps, a new and better Britain.
To be honest, though, a lot of people—me included—had thought the Labour Party a right load of duffers when they'd first started nationalising everything in sight, and things had gone from bad to worse. And although many in Britain regarded the Welfare State as the promised light in the wilderness, a good few saw it as the first flicker of the all-consuming fires of Communism. The middle and upper classes felt uneasy, under siege, and resentful. To them, Socialism promised nothing but the end of the Britain they knew and loved; they were terrified of power passing over into the wrong hands. Fears made all the more real when Communist trade union leaders down the London Docks voted repeatedly to go on strike, crippling imports and exports. And so it was, as night follows day, that the spectre of Fascism began to rise from out of the ashes again and draw people to its "Britain First" banner.
Was it any wonder then that the very idea of "a new Jerusalem" gave rise to such bitter disagreement in England's green and pleasant land? Or that for one dark moment Britain stood at a crossroads, as if spellbound, with no one knowing whether the morrow would bring a glorious social revolution or mobs roaming the streets looking to put heads on sticks.
"Crikey," I can hear you saying. "What's all this politics malarkey got to do with an honest-to-goodness London cat burglar, when he's at home?" Well, you'd be surprised what people will try and steal from you when you're not looking, really you would. But I have to admit I had to keep asking myself that same question, over and over again, during this caper; what with all its "who's who's" and "what's what's" and all its strange comings and goings. I tell you, it's not easy being a pawn in someone else's game, especially when the clock's ticking and you're being played as a promoted knight out to lay an old ghost and save a king. And all the while, you're worrying yourself sick about one old mate who's in dead trouble and you're fighting to help keep another old china's dream alive.
Review
As in THE SMOKE, SPECTRES IN THE SMOKE is a well-written and atmospheric novel. Broadbent vividly presents war-ravaged England with descriptions of both the physical destruction and the emotional damage its people feel. He uses details of life and society with which many are familiar, combined with fictional situations, to demonstrate his point. Broadbent has the ability to make it seem as though the reader is experiencing the events in this book rather than merely reading about them.
Jethro is an engaging and entertaining character. Even though he works on the outside of the law, he has his own standards of acceptable criminal behavior. To this end, he has little patience for those who do not follow his own code of conduct. Jethro is very loyal to his friends and family regardless of the trouble they find themselves in.
In addition his voice as narrator is very appealing. His voice is cynical and world-weary; yet, he is also hopeful and eager to see any situation improve. The way he demonstrates his views on the world and society through his actions, words, and thoughts is one of the many things that makes this story work. Hopefully Jethro will remain a solid and reassuring character as this series progresses.
Reviewed by Sarah Dudley, June 2006