Intrepid and fiercely independent Lucy Hall moves from dancing to sleuthing in 1930s London.
Here are six unusual novellas following her life, loves and battles. A woman half a century ahead of her time.
Age Range: Adult
Size: 111mm x 178mm
Format: Paperback Original
RRP: UK £5.99
1. ISBN: 978-1-908577-68-9
The Chess Player
2. ISBN: 978-1-908577-75-7
A Mouthful of Bread
3. ISBN: 978-1-908577-82-5
One of Us
4. ISBN: 978-1-908577-86-3
5. ISBN: 978-1-908577-91-7
6: ISBN: 978-1-908577-95-5
As it turns out, all the frenetic grinding of my mental wheels was wasted time: the answer came all by itself, unbidden.
He had colossal rings under his eyes, probably from a lack of sleep. Another clue as to the innocence of an imprisoned man for the guilty sleep soundly once behind bars, so I believe. And I think his prostration was a complete breakdown of his faculty to cope with the situation along with the death of his wife. I was to discuss these theories later, in the night, with my regular visitor, who was a source of knowledge as well as a source of other things.
There I stood, hat in hand, undecided as how I was to proceed. Yes, I had run into that cell and closed the door behind me with no plan as to what I was going to do next. I sincerely hoped I would meet someone with a bit more fight in him, but this man was quite the opposite and, if I had been hesitant before, I was certain now that this man had not one angry bone in his body. He was quite innocent of the killing of his wife.
“You didn’t do it, did you?” it just slipped out into the fetid air of the cell.
Rather stupidly I had forgotten that I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. Barney jumped at the sight of the two nasty bruises on my forearms where the attacker’s knees had pinned me down. He grabbed my wrists and lifted my arms to get a better look. He was angry and his gaze conveyed the extent to which he felt betrayed.
“Lucy,” he said, his voice far too controlled. “What did you do? What have they done to you?”
“It’s all right, Barnaby, really,” I pleaded, trying to free my wrists from his grip. “It looks worse than it is, I promise.”
“Fine,” he said, kissing my wrists before laying them down in my lap. “Start talking.”
Maybe that was one of the reasons why the whole city was so up in arms with this story. For one thing, the victim was young and portrayed as innocent, and for another the crime was particularly vicious. What really got people riled up was that it hadn’t happened in the docks or the East End or any scruffy, crime-ridden neighbourhood. This was a respectable part of town by anyone’s standards, where young girls should have been able to walk in complete safety.
It may have been my agitation, but I thought I sensed a tinge of relief in his voice, as if he was glad to see I was looking so much better. I smiled at how softly spoken he could be about intimate things then so enthusiastic about others. But my mind was in a completely different place and I didn’t remark on it. I felt shy and small again, as if he hadn’t promised me absolute forgiveness in that hospital room.
Cecily Riley, a journey towards writing.
I started writing in my early teens, the imaginary worlds I summoned up being far more interesting and kind than life at school. I kept with it, going from novellas to poetry, from novels to plays and movie scripts until, like two comets meeting and sending off sparkles, the ideas of a) sexy novellas and b) a dancer named Naughty Luce came together in June 2017. Ever since then, I have been with those characters, listening to their adventures and trying to keep up with writing them down.