Covert in Cairo - A Review, Excerpt, & Giveaway

Review

COVERT IN CAIRO by Kelly Oliver
The Second Fiona Figg & Kitty Lane Mystery 

With a threat to the Suez Canal, Fiona Figg along with Kitty Lane and Captain Clifford Douglas have arrived in Egypt. Certain that the spy Frederick Fredericks is behind the plot Fiona is determined to find him as well as a missing British agent. Cryptic notes, a female master of disguises, and argumentative archeologists, not to mention that shifty South African spy, have Fiona befuddled. Will she be able to get to the heart of the matter and save the Suez Canal? Or will she find herself entombed with the mummies of Egypt, without ever receiving a promotion?

I have always been fascinated with Egypt, so I was delighted to see that Fiona Figg's latest adventure was set in Cairo in 1917. I loved reading about Shepheard's and enjoyed meeting a cranky Howard Carter prior to his big discovery. The detailed descriptions really captured the feeling of the city and I felt as if I was there, be it in the plush confines of that famous hotel, or atop a camel in a most uncomfortable saddle.

COVERT IN CAIRO is a bit silly, but it's also good fun. There's a jolly good mystery, a bit of romance, and lots of laughs. There's also a hint of something deeper-Egyptian nationalism in the face of British colonialism. I loved the ingenious ways that clues were given and discovered by our intrepid trio...well quartet, we can't forget Poppy. I wish Fiona would forget about Archie. I still think he's the real bad guy, not Fredericks. At any rate, Fredericks certainly keeps things interesting and I believe he genuinely cares for her while Archie does not!

COVERT IN CAIRO is a lighthearted historical mystery complete with intrigue, espionage, and lots of disguises.

*********************************************************************

Covert in Cairo

by Kelly Oliver

April 24 - May 19, 2023 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

1917 Cairo.

Ancient mummies aren’t the only bodies buried in the tombs of Cairo.

The notorious Fredrick Fredricks has lured Fiona to Egypt with a cryptic threat on the Suez Canal.

But when a cheeky French archeologist is murdered, and an undercover British agent goes missing, the threat moves closer to home.

Is the notorious Fredrick Fredricks behind the murders? Or is the plot even more sinister?

Competing excavators, jealous husbands, secret lovers, and belligerent spies are the leading suspects.

As they dig deeper, soon Fiona and Kitty are up to their donkeys in dead bodies.

If they can’t unwind the clues and catch the killer, they might end up sharing a sarcophagus with Nefertiti.

With humor as dry as the Arabian desert, and pacing as fast as a spitting camel, Fiona and Kitty are back in another sparkling adventure, this time in WW1 Egypt.

PRAISE FOR FIONA FIGG:

“Perfect for fans of Downton Abbey and Maisie Dobbs.”
BookTrib

“Tantalizing and riveting with a good dose of humor while keeping the heartbreaking reality of war in the mix.”
The Los Angeles Post

“A clever mix of humor and espionage that will keep you turning the pages and laughing all the way!”
Dianne Freeman, author the Countess of Harleigh mysteries.

“A perfect blend of wit, fun, and intrigue.”
Debra Goldstein, Author of the Sarah Blair Cozy Mysteries

“The perfect wartime spy: Fiona Figg. Smart, sneaky, and full of surprises… A fun whodunit that will keep you turning the pages!”
Cathi Stoler, author of The Murder On The Rocks Mysteries

“Fun, easy-to-read, witty mystery that had me happily turning the pages.”
Melissa’s Bookshelf

“Humor, action, and intrigue. I found myself thoroughly entertained.”
Urban Book Reviews

Covert in Cairo Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Cozy Mystery
Published by: Boldwood Books
Publication Date: April 2023
Number of Pages: 300
ISBN: Coming Soon
Series: A Fiona Figg & Kitty Lane Mystery, 2 (These are Stand-Alone Mysteries)
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

This bloody war had taught me nothing was black and white… except perhaps a strong cup of tea with milk, when you could get it.

My mouth was parched, and my bottom bounced on the hard wooden bench I shared with Captain Clifford Douglas, my glorified chaperone. I glanced over at our carriage companions, Miss Kitty Lane—whom I’d known until a week ago as Eliza Baker—and a stranger who leaned against the wooden armrest, reading.

The Egyptian railway carriages were white wooden trollies. Nothing like the black iron horses back home. Deuced hot, too. The soot flooding in through the window was the same, though. British or Egyptian. It didn’t matter. We all choked on the same smoke.

As the carriage clacked along the tracks through the desert from Alexandria to Cairo, I distracted myself with Annie Pirie’s The Pyramids of Giza. Book in one hand, I held a lavender-scented handkerchief to my nose with the other.

Annie Pirie claimed it was under one of these grand pyramids that she’d met her future husband while they were both laid up with food poisoning. Having nursed soldiers suffering from that very same affliction back at Charing Cross Hospital, I didn’t find anything romantic about the squalls of salmonella.

Still, there was nothing like the vulnerability of the body to move the soul.

Why not fall in love over a bedpan?

After all, I’d met Archie Somersby when he was convalescing with a shot-up arm. He’d asked me to help him write a letter to his mother. So sweet. Writing to his mum.

My cheeks burned. Oh, Archie. Would I ever see him again? Did I want to see him again, now that I knew he was a government-sponsored assassin? When I closed my eyes, I could still smell his citrus cologne mixed with the lingering scent of Kenilworth cigarettes.

I dropped The Pyramids of Giza on the seat next to me and withdrew a fan from my purse. Even with the windows open, it was beastly hot, and the desert seemed to go on forever. Winter in Egypt was a far cry from the chilly dampness of London or the snow in New York.

No. I couldn’t allow myself to think of Archie. Dead or alive.

Instead, I looked out of the window.

Oblivious to the carriage’s shaking and clattering, with her legs stretched across the bench seat, Kitty had her nose buried in the latest issue of Vogue fashion magazine. Wearing dark glasses, a flowing pink chiffon skirt dotted with tiny roses, a white blouse with pearl buttons, and an adorable sailor hat, she looked the part of a fashion model herself.

Poppy, the girl’s Pekingese, had a pink ribbon in her topknot that matched her owner’s outfit perfectly. The furry nuisance sprawled across Clifford’s lap, her outstretched paw touching my knee. Only because the animal had rescued me from imprisonment in a loo on my last mission did I indulge her encroachment on my person.

Clifford was another matter. Indulging him often tried my patience. Captain Clifford Douglas had been sent along by the War Office to chaperone us, despite the fact I’d already completed four missions. And Kitty, well, for all I knew, she was an assassin in petticoats.

While engrossed in his hunting magazine and fantasies of killing, at least Clifford was quiet for a change.

“I say!” Clifford looked up from his magazine.

Blast. I knew it was too good to be true.

“Gezira Sporting Club has fox hunts with English hounds.” Clifford beamed. “Do you ladies fancy a hunt?”

My eyes met Kitty’s and we both laughed.

“We’re not in Arabia for sports.” I scolded him. “Hunting.” I gestured from Clifford to Kitty. “Fashion… You’d think we were on holiday instead of…” I glanced over at the stranger in our compartment. “Instead of on business.”

If it hadn’t been for the stranger sharing our compartment, I would have chastised my companions. While I was busy preparing for our mission by studying guidebooks, they were faffing about with pretty dresses, gruesome blood sports, and fussing over a spoiled little dog.

“You can tell our priorities by our reading material.” I held up my book. “Mine is written by a scholar and a lady explorer.” I nodded for emphasis. “She—”

“If you want to get to know a people,” the stranger interrupted, “study their poetry.”

I sat blinking at him. His English was heavily accented, but I didn’t recognize the accent. And yet there was something familiar about his voice.

“You must read Hafez Ibrahim, poet of the Nile.” The stranger opened both his hands in offering. He clasped his hands together in prayer.

“Do I know you, sir?” Clifford dislodged the pipe from his mouth.

There was something uncanny about the man. I too had the uneasy sense of déjà vu.

“You don’t even know yourself,” the stranger scoffed. “If you English can’t make yourselves welcome with arrogant promises of freedom, you resort to armored tanks and Vickers machine guns.” His mustaches quivered.

“Well, I say,” Clifford huffed. “No need to be rude.” He tugged on the bottom of his jacket. Good old reliable Clifford. Quick to defend king and country… and any women within a twenty-mile radius.

“Those hunting hounds were brought here to fulfill your countrymen’s desire to turn every place into their homeland.” When the stranger waved his arms, the loose sleeve of his jacket danced a frenetic jig. “They died from the heat.” His dark eyes flashed. “Let that be a lesson to you.”

“Look here, whoever you are.” Clifford stood up. “This is no way to talk in front of the ladies.”

Good heavens. I hoped Clifford didn’t do something stupid like challenge this fellow to a duel or punch him in the nose.

The carriage swayed and Clifford fell back onto the seat, nearly landing in my lap.

“Now, now.” I patted Clifford’s arm. “The ladies can defend themselves, thank you.”

The stranger held up his book. “Here, you must learn Arabic if you want to do anything but see yourselves reflected in a mirror of your own hubris.” He stood up. “Since Egypt was occupied by the French before the English, you’ll get by passably well with French.” He opened the door to the compartment. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I, too, have work in Cairo.”

As he crossed the threshold, a folded paper fell out of his book.

I reached down and picked it up. The paper was heavy and thick.

“You dropped something,” I said to the closed door.

The stranger had vanished.

“What is it?” Kitty said.

“I say.” Clifford snatched it from my hands and snapped it open. “Why, it’s a map!”

“Heavens.” I gazed down at it. “Not just any map.” I grabbed it back.

A map of the Suez Canal. Marked with a big black X. 

***

Excerpt from Covert in Cairo by Kelly Oliver. Copyright 2023 by Kelly Oliver. Reproduced with permission from Kelly Oliver. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Kelly Oliver is the award-winning and bestselling author of three mystery series: the seven-book suspense series, The Jessica James Mysteries; the three-book middle grade kids’ series, Pet Detective Mysteries; and the four-book historical cozy series, The Fiona Figg Mysteries, inspired by those trips to the Green Hills Library.

Currently, Kelly is the Vice President of Sisters in Crime.

When she’s not writing novels, Kelly is a Distinguished Professor of Philosophy at Vanderbilt University.

To learn more about Kelly and her books, go to:
www.kellyoliverbooks.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @KellyOliverBook
Instagram - @kellyoliverbook
Twitter - @kellyoliverbook
Facebook - @kellyoliverauthor

 

 

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JOIN IN ON THE GIVEAWAY:

This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Kelly Oliver. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

 

 

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Currently Reading...

I'm currently reading Covert in Cairo by Kelly Oliver. This book is the second in the Fiona Figg & Kitty Lane Mystery series and was released last month.

With a threat to the Suez Canal, Fiona Figg along with Kitty Lane and Captain Clifford Douglas have arrived in Egypt. Certain that the spy Frederick Fredericks is behind the plot Fiona is determined to find him as well as a missing British agent. Cryptic notes, a female master of disguises, and argumentative archeologists, not to mention that shifty South African spy, have Fiona befuddled. Will she be able to get to the heart of the matter and save the Suez Canal? Or will she find herself entombed with the mummies of Egypt, without ever receiving a promotion?

Chaos at Carnegie Hall - A Review, Excerpt, & Giveaway

 Review

CHAOS AT CARNEGIE HALL by Kelly Oliver
The First Fiona Figg & Kitty Lane Mystery

 

Dreams of bringing down the notorious spy Frederick Fredericks have Fiona Figg excited to embark on her next mission, that is until she discovers that she's working as a babysitter for her boss's teen-aged niece and has a chaperone. Sailing to America to see a famed soprano Fiona encounters suspicious German conversations, outspoken Americans, and has a surprise reunion. Will Fiona bring down her man? Or will the tables be turned?

CHAOS AT CARNEGIE HALL is the first Fiona Figg and Kitty Lane mystery, however it is not the first mystery featuring Fiona Figg. I'm a stickler for reading series in order and found myself a bit adrift here as this was my first encounter with Fiona. While it works as a standalone I felt a bit behind when it came to Fiona's relationships with Archie and Fredericks and I feel I would have appreciated everything more if I had read from the actual start of the series instead of the start where Kitty Lane comes in.     

 

Appearances can be deceiving, and I'm not just talking about Fiona's disguises, and don't get me started about Kitty. I trust Archie much less than I do the known spy, who may be my favorite character, I found Fiona to be a bit silly. In fact, I didn't really like any of the characters, although, I didn't dislike them either. The addition of real life historical characters was fun. I enjoyed disliking Edison, who I've always thought was a jerk, and I like the wink and a nod to J. Edgar Hoover's lesser known proclivities. 

 

CHAOS AT CARNEGIE HALL is a fun mystery that takes readers from high seas to high Cs.

 

************************************************************************         

Chaos at Carnegie Hall

by Kelly Oliver

December 5 - 30, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Agatha Christie meets Downton Abbey in the Fiona Figg and Kitty Lane Mystery series opener.

Can Fiona catch a killer and find a decent cup of tea before her mustache wax melts?

1917. New York.

Notorious spy, Fredrick Fredricks, has invited Fiona to Carnegie Hall to hear a famous soprano. It’s an opportunity the War Office can’t turn down. Fiona and Clifford are soon on their way, but not before Fiona is saddled with chaperon duties for Captain Hall’s niece. Is Fiona a spy or a glorified babysitter?

From the minute Fiona meets the soprano aboard the RMS Adriatic it’s treble on the high C’s. Fiona sees something—or someone—thrown overboard, and then she overhears a chemist plotting in German with one of her own countrymen!

And the trouble doesn’t stop when they disembark. Soon Fiona is doing time with a group of suffragettes and investigating America’s most impressive inventor Thomas Edison.

When her number one suspect turns up dead at the opera and Fredrick Fredricks is caught red-handed, it looks like it’s finally curtains for the notorious spy.

But all the evidence points to his innocence. Will Fiona change her tune and clear her nemesis’ name? Or will she do her duty? And just what is she going to do with the pesky Kitty Lane? Not to mention swoon-worthy Archie Somersby…

If Fiona’s going to come out on top, she’s going to have to make the most difficult decision of her life: the choice between her head and her heart.

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Cozy Mystery
Published by: Boldwood Books
Publication Date: November 2022
Number of Pages: 298
ISBN: 9781804831564
Series: The Fiona Figg Mysteries
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

* * *

Inside, the cabin was the opposite of Hugo Schweitzer’s. Whereas the German’s room was disorderly and repulsive, this man’s berth was tidy and attractive. In fact, it hardly looked occupied. The bed was made in a neat military style. There wasn’t an article of clothing nor a personal item in sight. A faint scent of pine and citrus graced the room. Like a familiar embrace, the uniform order and pleasing smell put me at ease.

Hugo Schweitzer’s disgusting mess had allowed clues to remain hidden in plain sight. This man’s neatness required clever hiding places. Where would I hide a secret document in this room? Under the mattress? In the wardrobe? Sewn inside an article of clothing?

I crossed the room. Getting to the wardrobe was considerably easier than it had been in Schweitzer’s clutter. When I opened the wardrobe, a waft of pine and citrus caressed my nostrils again. I thought of Archie. When would I see him again?

Concentrate, Fiona. Now was not the time to behave like a lovesick schoolgirl.

Two neat suits hung on hangers, spaced apart like sentries guarding a gate. One was a uniform. A British uniform. Could this traitor be in the British army? The other was a black evening suit. Whatever the blackguard was wearing under that trench coat constituted his third and final outfit. There were no more.

Standing to attention at the bottom of the wardrobe were two tall black boots. I bent down to get a closer look. Inside a boot would make a decent hiding place.

“Looking for something?” a man’s voice boomed from behind me.

I gasped and squeezed my eyes shut tight.

If only I were wearing my maid’s costume—although what maid would be cleaning at this time of night? I should have changed into Harold the helpful bellboy. At least then I’d be dressed as a man. As it was, I was wearing a flimsy evening gown and as vulnerable as a lamb in a ship full of wolves. Did I dare turn around and face my accuser?

“Did you find it?” The voice was closer now… and softer… and familiar.

Good heavens. I whipped around and practically flew into his arms. “Archie.”

He chuckled. “I should have known I’d find you breaking into my room.” He pulled me into an embrace. “Fiona. Dear Fiona.” He kissed the top of my head.

I buried my head in his shoulder. Ahhh. The scent of pine and citrus… and those horrible Kenilworth cigarettes. The scent of Lieutenant Archie Somersby.

My heart was racing. From being scared out of my wits, or from being in Archie’s embrace, I didn’t know. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same.” He held me tighter.

“You, first.” I inhaled his familiar presence.

“I will tell you, but only because it’s necessary.” He pulled out of the embrace and held me out at arm’s length. “It’s crucial that you don’t expose me.”

“Expose you?” I had to censor my imagination. His earnest green eyes framed by those dark lashes and that wild lock of chestnut hair falling across his forehead made it deuced difficult.

“I’m on an important mission.” He fortified his countenance with a steely gaze. “You mustn’t let on that you know me. In fact, you should stay away from me.” He pulled a gold pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket and glanced at it.

I pulled my arm out of his grip. “Does your mission involve Hugo Schweitzer?” My tone was pained, but I couldn’t help it. I wished my feelings for him weren’t so strong. After all, I hardly knew him. Still, I knew he worked for British Intelligence, despite Fredrick Fredricks’s accusations to the contrary. Afterall, who was more trustworthy? A German spy or a British soldier, an especially attractive one too?

Archie tilted his head and gave me a quizzical look. “How did you know?”

“I saw you together earlier on deck.” Without a doubt, the trench coat and fedora Archie was wearing, along with his sleek silhouette and graceful gait, were identical to those of my mysterious compatriot and Hugo Schweitzer’s clandestine companion.

He laughed. “I should have known that was you watching us.” He kissed me on the cheek. “Fiona, you’re an ace. I’ve never met a girl quite like you.” His eyes danced mischievously.

The way he was laughing, I didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered. Wait a blooming minute. “Did you forget something?” I’d seen that amused expression before. “Why did you return to your cabin?”

“To catch you in the act, love.” Archie grinned.

“So, you saw me in the corridor?”

He raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Afraid so.”

I punched his shoulder. “And instead of saying anything, you pulled this trick?”

“I’m sorry.” He intercepted my hand and brought it to his lips. “Can you forgive me?”

I pulled out of his grip. “Only if you can tell me about Mr. Schweitzer and the chemists’ war.”

“You know I can’t do that.” He sighed. “It’s classified.”

“What does the war have to do with aspirin, the headache remedy?”

He led me to the bed, sat down, and patted the bedcover, inviting me to sit too.

My cheeks flamed. It was only then that I realized I was alone in a gentleman’s room… after midnight, no less. Dilly Knox’s words echoed through my head. “Our Fiona will do anything for King and country, don’t you know.” That only strengthened my resolve. I was on official business and not a romantic getaway.

I took a seat on the bed and tucked my gown tightly around my thighs. “You were going to tell me about aspirin?”

“You’re nothing if not persistent.” Archie smiled and put his arm around my shoulders.

I scooted to the head of the bed and out of his reach. “Aspirin?”

He shook his head. “You really are quite a girl.”

I folded my arms over my chest and glared at him.

“Righto.” His smiled faded. “Aspirin is made from a chemical called phenol.”

Phenol. I’d heard Hugo Schweitzer mention it. And phenol was in the letter from the Kaiser. The Kaiser’s letter. Should I tell Archie about the letter? Or report it to Captain Hall first? “What does phenol have to do with the war?”

“We need phenol to make trinitrotoluene.” Archie gave me a knowing look.

I gave him an ignorant stare in return. “What is trinitrotoluene?”

“TNT.”

“The explosive?”

He nodded.

“Golly.” Still, why did it matter if aspirin and TNT shared one element? How did that affect the war? Could aspirin be turned into an explosive?

“Golly is right.” When he smiled, tiny dimples appeared at the corners of his mouth.

I had to stop myself from reaching across the bed to touch that tempting lock of wavy hair… and those dimples. Stop it, Fiona. You’re on an espionage mission and not on holiday. A holiday with Archie… how divine. Stop! Just stop.

“I’m sorry we can’t work together in the open.” He took my hand and kissed it. “But for now, I’m undercover and I have to stop Schweitzer at all costs.”

“I have a confession.” I sat on my hands to keep from touching him. “I broke into Hugo Schweitzer’s cabin.”

Archie sat up straighter. “Go on.”

“He has a briefcase full of papers and letters… in German.”

“Yes,” Archie said encouragingly.

“One of the letters was from the Kaiser.” I glanced over at him.

“I don’t suppose you can recount the letter verbatim?” He raised his eyebrows. He’d seen me do it before.

“I don’t suppose you have a pencil and paper?” I released my hands from their bondage.

Archie got up and went to the dressing table. He opened the top drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper and then withdrew a pencil from his breast pocket and held it up.

I joined him and sat down at the table.

He placed the paper on the table in front of me and handed me the pencil. “Work your magic, my love.”

My pulse quickened. Did Archie just call me my love? My cheeks warmed. With a smile in my heart, I closed my eyes and let the words form before my mind like captions across a black screen. I didn’t know what they meant, but I could see them as clearly as if I were holding the letter in my hands. I opened my eyes and began setting to paper what I had seen. My hand was flying across the page. When I finished, I scanned my reproduction and then held it up to Archie. He’d been breathing over my shoulder as I wrote, which was deuced distracting.

As he read, the grim look on his face spoke volumes. “Good God,” he gasped. “So that is what they’re up to. And the phenol plot goes all the way to the Kaiser himself.” He dropped the paper on the dressing table. “Schweitzer is siphoning off phenol from the allies on orders from the Kaiser himself.”

Siphoning off phenol. The chemical needed to make explosives. So that was the phenol plot.

The corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. “Fiona, you’re a genius.”

I couldn’t help but smile.

His eyes hardened. “I’ve got to stop him.” Archie’s hand trembled as he ran it through his hair. “I’ve got to stop Schweitzer.”

I gazed up at him with as much resolve as I could muster.

“You mean we’ve got to stop him.”

***

Excerpt from Chaos at Carnegie Hall by Kelly Oliver. Copyright 2022 by Kelly Oliver. Reproduced with permission from Kelly Oliver. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Kelly Oliver is the award-winning and bestselling author of three mystery series: the seven-book suspense series, The Jessica James Mysteries; the three-book middle grade series, Pet Detective Mysteries; and the four-book historical cozy series, The Fiona Figg Mysteries.

Chaos at Carnegie Hall is the latest Fiona Figg mystery, and the first to feature sidekick, Kitty Lane.

When she’s not writing novels, Kelly is a Distinguished Professor of Philosophy at Vanderbilt University.

To learn more about Kelly and her books, go to:
www.KellyOliverBooks.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @KellyOliverBook
Instagram - @KellyOliverBook
Twitter - @KellyOliverBook
Facebook - @KellyOliverAuthor

 

 

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaway entries!

 

 

GIVEAWAY:

This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Kelly Oliver. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

 

 

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

 

Chaos at Carnegie Hall - An Interview, Excperpt, & Giveaway

I'm pleased to welcome Kelly Oliver to Cozy Up With Kathy today. Kelly writes the Fiona Figg and Kitty Lane Mystery series. CHAOS AT CARNEGIE HALL is the fourth mystery featuring Fiona Figg, but the first Fiona Figg and Kitty Lane Mystery.

Kathy: The Fiona Figg and Kitty Lane Mystery series takes place during World War I. What made you pick this time period for your series?

KO: The first book in my Fiona Figg Mysteries—before Fiona got a sidekick—was inspired by Agatha Christie. I set it in 1917, the year Christie published her first Hercule Poirot mystery.


Kathy: Historical mysteries require an extra special brand of research. What's your favorite method to research this time period?

KO: I love handling and looking at antique Baedeker’s guides to the regions where my novels are set. The one I’m working on now is set in Northern Italy and a tattered 1910 Baedeker’s guide is right here on my desk. I also read biographies of the people upon whom I base some of my historical characters. For CHAOS AT CARNEGIE HALL, I read biographies of Dorothy Parker and Margaret Sanger. I’ve also had fun in the past with Mata Hari, and Mileva Einstein (Albert’s first wife and collaborator). Currently, I’m reading everything I can find about French aviator and sportswoman, Marie Marvingt. I love reading about powerful and interesting women who have been nearly forgotten by history.


Kathy: In CHAOS AT CARNEGIE HALL Fiona Figg is invited to hear a famous soprano. I am a huge opera fan. Are you? Do you have any favorites either opera or composer? When it comes to today's operatic sopranos Diana Damrau is my favorite.

KO: I am an opera fan! I remember the first time I saw an opera performed on stage. I was an assistant professor at the University of Texas at Austin and finally had something like a salary. The opera was Turandot by Puccini. It was transcendent. I wept from the beauty of those voices.

I love the classics. Mozart, Puccini, Bizet, Rossini. My latest soprano crush is Latonia Moore. The story of how she came to opera from the University of North Texas jazz program is inspiring.


Kathy: Fiona winds up investigating Thomas Edison. I imagine it's great fun to write famous people into your story. What are the benefits of adding real historical characters to a work of fiction? What are its pitfalls?

KO: I wanted to include Thomas Edison because I had done research on him in my scholarly life as a philosophy professor. He was one of the inventors of film and of the electric chair. I was researching the relationship between the two and found a lot of really troubling stuff about Edison. Needless to say, I was keen to make him a bad guy in a novel. It is eye-opening when you learn the truth about some historical heroes.

It is fun to write about famous people from history. And their stories are often pre-made plot lines, which is great. The downside is that their timelines and stories don’t always fit my plans for them!


Kathy: What first drew you to historical mysteries?

KO: I love to read historical mysteries. They transport you to another world, the world of the past. And I love to learn. So why not learn something while reading a novel.

As a writer, reclaiming women’s stories is important to me. My passion as a novelist and a scholar has always been women’s issues. I’m on a mission to find extraordinary women who have been forgotten.


Kathy: Do you write in any other genres?

KO: As a philosophy professor in my day job, I’ve been writing nonfiction about women’s issues, animal ethics, environmental ethics, and lots of other subjects for decades.

My first novel was in my contemporary suspense series, The Jessica James Mysteries. It was based on my own experience in graduate school…. Except I didn’t kill my thesis advisor.

I’ve also written a middle-grade, kid’s mystery series, The Pet Detective Mysteries.


Kathy: Tell us about your series.

KO: Meet the characters in the Fiona Figg Mysteries:

Fiona Figg

What’s the best way to forget a philandering husband?

Become a spy for British Intelligence, of course.

Desperate to get out of London and determined to help the war effort, file clerk Fiona Figg volunteers to go undercover. More comfortable wearing a fake mustache than a ballgown, Fiona fancies herself a master of disguise.

As she tracks her nemesis from the English countryside, across the continent, to New York, can Fiona prevent the deadly “panther” from striking again, save her own skin in the process, and find a decent cup of tea… all before her mustache wax melts?

Fredrick Fredricks

A charming South African war correspondent has tongues wagging. His friends say he’s a crack huntsman. The War Office is convinced he’s a traitor. Fiona thinks he’s a pompous prig. What sort of name is Fredrick Fredricks anyway?

Too bad Fiona doesn’t own a Wolseley pith helmet. Murderers are on the prowl, and it’s not just the big-game hunter who's ready to pounce.

Captain Clifford Douglas

Good old reliable Clifford. He proposes to Fiona at least once a month.

Sent by the War Office to chaperone, Clifford means well. But much to Fiona’s embarrassment, the incorrigible blabbermouth is constantly sticking his foot in it, ruining her investigations, and blowing her cover.

Lieutenant Archie Somersby

From the moment she met the handsome (shirtless) flyboy in Charing Cross Hospital where he was nursing a wounded wing, he captured her heart.

But how well does she really know him?

Fredrick Fredricks claims the lieutenant is a double agent.

Archie claims “it’s classified.”

Who should she believe?


Kathy: Do you have a favorite character? If so, who and why?

KO: I love writing Fiona Figg. She is so different from me! She’s witty and funny, but so straight-laced… or so she thinks.


Kathy: Did you have a specific inspiration for your series?

KO: As I mentioned, the Fiona Figg Mysteries are inspired by Agatha Christie. They are also inspired by my love of Elizabeth Peters’s Amelia Peabody series. I’m also a huge fan of Rhys Bowen’s Her Royal Spyness series.


Kathy: What made you decide to publish your work?

KO: As I said, I’m on a mission to bring women’s issues to the attention of as many readers as possible. Needless to say, academic philosophy is not very widely read.


Kathy: What are you currently reading?

KO: Naomi Hirahara’s brilliant CLARK AND DIVISION. And I fell behind on one of my favorite series, The Perveen Mistry Mysteries by Sujata Massey. So, I’m finishing THE BOMBAY PRINCE. I’ve also fallen in love with Mia Manansala’s Tita Rosie’s Kitchen Mysteries.


Kathy: Will you share any of your hobbies or interests with us?

KO: Does caring for three demanding felines count as a hobby? It’s more like a fulltime job. But when I’m not writing, reading, or chasing cats, I like to hike and x-country ski.


Kathy: Name 4 items you always have in your fridge or pantry.

KO: Sencha green tea. Matcha green tea. Gyokuro green tea. And popcorn.


Kathy: Do you have plans for future books either in your current series or a new series?

KO: I have a six-book contract with Boldwood Books for The Fiona Figg and Kitty Lane Mysteries. Two down, four to go. I would like to continue writing the Jessica James Mysteries. And I have a fun idea for a new cozy series—if I ever have time to write it.


Kathy: What's your favorite thing about being an author?

KO: Inventing worlds where justice for women is real. 

******************************************************************

Chaos at Carnegie Hall

by Kelly Oliver

December 5 - 30, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Agatha Christie meets Downton Abbey in the Fiona Figg and Kitty Lane Mystery series opener.

Can Fiona catch a killer and find a decent cup of tea before her mustache wax melts?

1917. New York.

Notorious spy, Fredrick Fredricks, has invited Fiona to Carnegie Hall to hear a famous soprano. It’s an opportunity the War Office can’t turn down. Fiona and Clifford are soon on their way, but not before Fiona is saddled with chaperon duties for Captain Hall’s niece. Is Fiona a spy or a glorified babysitter?

From the minute Fiona meets the soprano aboard the RMS Adriatic it’s treble on the high C’s. Fiona sees something—or someone—thrown overboard, and then she overhears a chemist plotting in German with one of her own countrymen!

And the trouble doesn’t stop when they disembark. Soon Fiona is doing time with a group of suffragettes and investigating America’s most impressive inventor Thomas Edison.

When her number one suspect turns up dead at the opera and Fredrick Fredricks is caught red-handed, it looks like it’s finally curtains for the notorious spy.

But all the evidence points to his innocence. Will Fiona change her tune and clear her nemesis’ name? Or will she do her duty? And just what is she going to do with the pesky Kitty Lane? Not to mention swoon-worthy Archie Somersby…

If Fiona’s going to come out on top, she’s going to have to make the most difficult decision of her life: the choice between her head and her heart.

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Cozy Mystery
Published by: Boldwood Books
Publication Date: November 2022
Number of Pages: 298
ISBN: 9781804831564
Series: The Fiona Figg Mysteries
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

* * *

Inside, the cabin was the opposite of Hugo Schweitzer’s. Whereas the German’s room was disorderly and repulsive, this man’s berth was tidy and attractive. In fact, it hardly looked occupied. The bed was made in a neat military style. There wasn’t an article of clothing nor a personal item in sight. A faint scent of pine and citrus graced the room. Like a familiar embrace, the uniform order and pleasing smell put me at ease.

Hugo Schweitzer’s disgusting mess had allowed clues to remain hidden in plain sight. This man’s neatness required clever hiding places. Where would I hide a secret document in this room? Under the mattress? In the wardrobe? Sewn inside an article of clothing?

I crossed the room. Getting to the wardrobe was considerably easier than it had been in Schweitzer’s clutter. When I opened the wardrobe, a waft of pine and citrus caressed my nostrils again. I thought of Archie. When would I see him again?

Concentrate, Fiona. Now was not the time to behave like a lovesick schoolgirl.

Two neat suits hung on hangers, spaced apart like sentries guarding a gate. One was a uniform. A British uniform. Could this traitor be in the British army? The other was a black evening suit. Whatever the blackguard was wearing under that trench coat constituted his third and final outfit. There were no more.

Standing to attention at the bottom of the wardrobe were two tall black boots. I bent down to get a closer look. Inside a boot would make a decent hiding place.

“Looking for something?” a man’s voice boomed from behind me.

I gasped and squeezed my eyes shut tight.

If only I were wearing my maid’s costume—although what maid would be cleaning at this time of night? I should have changed into Harold the helpful bellboy. At least then I’d be dressed as a man. As it was, I was wearing a flimsy evening gown and as vulnerable as a lamb in a ship full of wolves. Did I dare turn around and face my accuser?

“Did you find it?” The voice was closer now… and softer… and familiar.

Good heavens. I whipped around and practically flew into his arms. “Archie.”

He chuckled. “I should have known I’d find you breaking into my room.” He pulled me into an embrace. “Fiona. Dear Fiona.” He kissed the top of my head.

I buried my head in his shoulder. Ahhh. The scent of pine and citrus… and those horrible Kenilworth cigarettes. The scent of Lieutenant Archie Somersby.

My heart was racing. From being scared out of my wits, or from being in Archie’s embrace, I didn’t know. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same.” He held me tighter.

“You, first.” I inhaled his familiar presence.

“I will tell you, but only because it’s necessary.” He pulled out of the embrace and held me out at arm’s length. “It’s crucial that you don’t expose me.”

“Expose you?” I had to censor my imagination. His earnest green eyes framed by those dark lashes and that wild lock of chestnut hair falling across his forehead made it deuced difficult.

“I’m on an important mission.” He fortified his countenance with a steely gaze. “You mustn’t let on that you know me. In fact, you should stay away from me.” He pulled a gold pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket and glanced at it.

I pulled my arm out of his grip. “Does your mission involve Hugo Schweitzer?” My tone was pained, but I couldn’t help it. I wished my feelings for him weren’t so strong. After all, I hardly knew him. Still, I knew he worked for British Intelligence, despite Fredrick Fredricks’s accusations to the contrary. Afterall, who was more trustworthy? A German spy or a British soldier, an especially attractive one too?

Archie tilted his head and gave me a quizzical look. “How did you know?”

“I saw you together earlier on deck.” Without a doubt, the trench coat and fedora Archie was wearing, along with his sleek silhouette and graceful gait, were identical to those of my mysterious compatriot and Hugo Schweitzer’s clandestine companion.

He laughed. “I should have known that was you watching us.” He kissed me on the cheek. “Fiona, you’re an ace. I’ve never met a girl quite like you.” His eyes danced mischievously.

The way he was laughing, I didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered. Wait a blooming minute. “Did you forget something?” I’d seen that amused expression before. “Why did you return to your cabin?”

“To catch you in the act, love.” Archie grinned.

“So, you saw me in the corridor?”

He raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Afraid so.”

I punched his shoulder. “And instead of saying anything, you pulled this trick?”

“I’m sorry.” He intercepted my hand and brought it to his lips. “Can you forgive me?”

I pulled out of his grip. “Only if you can tell me about Mr. Schweitzer and the chemists’ war.”

“You know I can’t do that.” He sighed. “It’s classified.”

“What does the war have to do with aspirin, the headache remedy?”

He led me to the bed, sat down, and patted the bedcover, inviting me to sit too.

My cheeks flamed. It was only then that I realized I was alone in a gentleman’s room… after midnight, no less. Dilly Knox’s words echoed through my head. “Our Fiona will do anything for King and country, don’t you know.” That only strengthened my resolve. I was on official business and not a romantic getaway.

I took a seat on the bed and tucked my gown tightly around my thighs. “You were going to tell me about aspirin?”

“You’re nothing if not persistent.” Archie smiled and put his arm around my shoulders.

I scooted to the head of the bed and out of his reach. “Aspirin?”

He shook his head. “You really are quite a girl.”

I folded my arms over my chest and glared at him.

“Righto.” His smiled faded. “Aspirin is made from a chemical called phenol.”

Phenol. I’d heard Hugo Schweitzer mention it. And phenol was in the letter from the Kaiser. The Kaiser’s letter. Should I tell Archie about the letter? Or report it to Captain Hall first? “What does phenol have to do with the war?”

“We need phenol to make trinitrotoluene.” Archie gave me a knowing look.

I gave him an ignorant stare in return. “What is trinitrotoluene?”

“TNT.”

“The explosive?”

He nodded.

“Golly.” Still, why did it matter if aspirin and TNT shared one element? How did that affect the war? Could aspirin be turned into an explosive?

“Golly is right.” When he smiled, tiny dimples appeared at the corners of his mouth.

I had to stop myself from reaching across the bed to touch that tempting lock of wavy hair… and those dimples. Stop it, Fiona. You’re on an espionage mission and not on holiday. A holiday with Archie… how divine. Stop! Just stop.

“I’m sorry we can’t work together in the open.” He took my hand and kissed it. “But for now, I’m undercover and I have to stop Schweitzer at all costs.”

“I have a confession.” I sat on my hands to keep from touching him. “I broke into Hugo Schweitzer’s cabin.”

Archie sat up straighter. “Go on.”

“He has a briefcase full of papers and letters… in German.”

“Yes,” Archie said encouragingly.

“One of the letters was from the Kaiser.” I glanced over at him.

“I don’t suppose you can recount the letter verbatim?” He raised his eyebrows. He’d seen me do it before.

“I don’t suppose you have a pencil and paper?” I released my hands from their bondage.

Archie got up and went to the dressing table. He opened the top drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper and then withdrew a pencil from his breast pocket and held it up.

I joined him and sat down at the table.

He placed the paper on the table in front of me and handed me the pencil. “Work your magic, my love.”

My pulse quickened. Did Archie just call me my love? My cheeks warmed. With a smile in my heart, I closed my eyes and let the words form before my mind like captions across a black screen. I didn’t know what they meant, but I could see them as clearly as if I were holding the letter in my hands. I opened my eyes and began setting to paper what I had seen. My hand was flying across the page. When I finished, I scanned my reproduction and then held it up to Archie. He’d been breathing over my shoulder as I wrote, which was deuced distracting.

As he read, the grim look on his face spoke volumes. “Good God,” he gasped. “So that is what they’re up to. And the phenol plot goes all the way to the Kaiser himself.” He dropped the paper on the dressing table. “Schweitzer is siphoning off phenol from the allies on orders from the Kaiser himself.”

Siphoning off phenol. The chemical needed to make explosives. So that was the phenol plot.

The corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. “Fiona, you’re a genius.”

I couldn’t help but smile.

His eyes hardened. “I’ve got to stop him.” Archie’s hand trembled as he ran it through his hair. “I’ve got to stop Schweitzer.”

I gazed up at him with as much resolve as I could muster.

“You mean we’ve got to stop him.”

***

Excerpt from Chaos at Carnegie Hall by Kelly Oliver. Copyright 2022 by Kelly Oliver. Reproduced with permission from Kelly Oliver. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Kelly Oliver is the award-winning and bestselling author of three mystery series: the seven-book suspense series, The Jessica James Mysteries; the three-book middle grade series, Pet Detective Mysteries; and the four-book historical cozy series, The Fiona Figg Mysteries.

Chaos at Carnegie Hall is the latest Fiona Figg mystery, and the first to feature sidekick, Kitty Lane.

When she’s not writing novels, Kelly is a Distinguished Professor of Philosophy at Vanderbilt University.

To learn more about Kelly and her books, go to:
www.KellyOliverBooks.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @KellyOliverBook
Instagram - @KellyOliverBook
Twitter - @KellyOliverBook
Facebook - @KellyOliverAuthor

 

 

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A Pocket Full of Lodestones - A Review, Excerpt, & Giveaway

Review

A POCKETFUL OF LODESTONES by Elizabeth Crowens

The Time Travel Professor Book 2

Music professor John Patrick Scott happens to be visiting his hometown in Scotland when World War I breaks out. Unable to return to his life in Germany he decides to enlist. Life as the lowest soldier, with a commanding officer who has it in for him, is not what the concert pianist had imagined. In fact it's nothing like his good friend Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's exploits in the Boer War. Spending his days digging latrines and burying the dead, Scott spends his time on night watch continuing his psychical experiments. Going back in time, visiting past lives, he tries to discover just why his sergeant hates him so much. He also tries to use his special abilities to help his platoon, even if it's only telling them stories from his special red book. Will his abilities help him survive the war, or merely showcase just how different he is from his fellow soldiers? 

Fraught with the horrors of war, this second book in the Time Travel Professor series continues to tell the story of pianist and music professor John Patrick Scott. There are not only vivid descriptions from the front lines of World War 1, but from the various past lives that Scott visits as well. Although the war separates Sir Arthur Conan Doyle from Scott while Scott is on the front lines, we continue to follow Doyle's life as well, as well as the past lives they shared together.

There are a lot of fascinating details and I like how Scott is able to recognize people with whom he's currently involved in his various time travels. However, there are too many unanswered questions, anecdotes seemingly pulled from thin air, and too many paths taken.

A POCKETFUL OF LODESTONES is an interesting but rambling tale that doesn't end; it just stops. There is no conclusion, and I must assume there will be a third book. Although Scott is learning about his past lives, and some of the reasons for current friendships and dislike by others, he doesn't seem to be growing.

**************************************************************************

The Time Traveler Professor, Book Two:

A Pocketful of Lodestones

by Elizabeth Crowens

on Tour October 1-31, 2019

Synopsis:

In 1914, the war to end all wars turns the worlds of John Patrick Scott, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, H.G. Wells, Rebecca West and Harry Houdini upside down. Doyle goes back to ancient China in his hunt for that “red book” to help him write his Sherlock Holmes stories. Scott is hell-bent on finding out why his platoon sergeant has it out for him, and they both discover that during the time of Shakespeare every day is a witch-hunt in London. Is the ability to travel through time the ultimate escape from the horrific present, or do ghosts from the past come back to haunt those who dare to spin the Wheel of Karma?

The Time Traveler Professor, Book Two: A POCKETFUL OF LODESTONES, sequel to SILENT MERIDIAN, combines the surrealism of Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five with the supernatural allure of Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell set during WWI on the Western Front.

The Time Traveler Professor, Book Two: A POCKETFUL OF LODESTONES was the First Prize winner of the Chanticleer Review’s Paranormal Fiction Awards.

Book Details:

Genre: Alternate History, Mystery, Fantasy Noir
Published by: Atomic Alchemist Productions LLC
Publication Date: August 1st 2019
Number of Pages: 334
ISBN: 9781950384051
Series: The Time Traveler Professor #2
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One: Kitchener’s Call to Arms

August 1914

“Have you ever killed a man before?”
I had, but close to three hundred years ago. So, I lied and just shook my head.
“Your name, son?” the recruitment officer asked.
“John Patrick Scott,” I said, with pride.
The officer handed me a card to fill out. “Write your date of birth, where you live and don’t skip any questions. When finished, bring this over to Line B.”
Born during the reign of Queen Victoria, somehow or other I managed to travel to the 23rd century, feudal Japan, and ancient China long before the Great War started. The army wanted to know all the places I had traveled, but it was doubtful that much information was required.
Since the war to end all wars commenced, recruiting centers sprang up like wildflowers. This one took over an Edinburgh public library. If unaware as to why the enthusiastic furor, one would’ve guessed the government gave away free land tracts with titles.
“Let’s see how clever you blokes are. Tell me the four duties of a soldier,” another enlistment administrator called out.
An overeager Glaswegian shouted, “Obedience, cleanliness, honesty and sobriety, sir!”
The chap next to him elbowed his side. “Takes no brains to read a bloody sign.”
Propaganda posters wallpapered the room with solicitous attempts at boosting morale. Kitchener wanted us and looked straight into our eyes. Proof of our manhood or perhaps stupidity. Queues of enthusiasm wound around the block. Impatient ones jumped the lines. We swore our allegiance to the King over a bible. As long as the war lasted, our lives were no longer our own.
Voices from men I’d never see again called out from the crowd.
“It’ll be over in six weeks.”
“Are you so sure?”
“Check out those men. All from the same cricket team. Play and die together. Medals of Valor in a blink. Local heroes with celebrations.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
A crusty old career soldier yelled out to the volunteers, “Does anyone speak Flemish?”
Suddenly the place got quiet. Then he looked at me. “Soldier, do you know anything besides the King’s English? French?”
“Fluent German,” I said. “That should be helpful.”
“Since when were you with the Bosches?”
“Fourteen years, sir. Before the war.”
“And what were you doing in enemy territory?”
“Worked as a teacher. A music professor and a concert pianist when I could get the engagements and sometimes as an amateur photographer. They weren’t our enemies then, sir.”
“Have you ever shot a rifle, son?”
“Actually, I have…”
“Find a pair of boots that fits you, lad. Hustle now. Time’s a wasting.”
The Allied and German armies were in a Race to the Sea. If the Germans got there first, then England was in danger of invasion. Basic training opened its arms to the common man, and it felt strange to be bedding alongside Leith dockworkers and farmers, many underage, versus the university colleagues from my recent past. Because of the overwhelming need for new recruits, training facilities ran out of room. The army took over church halls, local schools and warehouses in haste. Select recruits were billeted in private homes, but we weren't so fortunate.
Except for acquired muscles, I slimmed down and resembled the young man that I was in my university days except with a tad more gray hair, cut very short and shaved even closer on the sides. No more rich German pastries from former students as part of my diet. At least keeping a clean-shaven face wasn’t a challenge since I never could grow a beard. Wearing my new uniform took getting used to. Other recruits laughed, as I’d reach to straighten my tie or waistcoat out of habit despite the obvious fact that I was no longer wearing them.
While still in Scotland during basic training, I started to have a series of the most peculiar dreams. My boots had not yet been muddied with the soil of real battlefields. New recruits such as I, had difficult adjustments transitioning from civilian life. Because of my past history of lucid dreaming, trips in time travel and years of psychical experimentation I conducted both on my own and with my enthusiastic and well-studied mentor, Arthur Conan Doyle, my nightmares appeared more real than others. My concerns were that these dreams were either actual excursions into the Secret Library where the circumstances had already occurred or premonitions of developments to come.
The most notable of these episodes occurred toward the end of August in 1914. In this dream, I had joined another British platoon other than my own in Belgium on the Western Front. We were outnumbered at least three to one, and the aggressive Huns surrounded us on three sides.
Whistles blew. “Retreat!” yelled our commanding officer, a privileged Cambridge boy, barely a man and younger than I, who looked like he had never seen the likes of hardship.
We retreated to our trenches to assess what to plan next, but instead of moving toward our destination everyone froze in their tracks. Time was like a strip of film that slowed down, spooled off track, and jammed inside a projector. Then the oddest thing happened to our enemy. For no apparent reason, their bodies jerked and convulsed as if fired upon by invisible bullets over the course of an hour.
When the morning fog lifted, the other Tommies and I broke free from our preternatural standstill and charged over the top of the trenches with new combat instructions. Half of our platoon dropped their rifles in shock. Dead Huns, by the thousands, littered No man’s land long before we had even fired our first retaliatory shot!
I woke up agitated, disoriented and in a cold sweat. Even more disturbing was finding several brass shell casings under my pillow — souvenirs or proof that I had traveled off somewhere and not imagined it. I roused the sleeping guy in the next bed and couldn’t wait to share this incredible story.
“Shush!” he warned me. “You’ll wake the others.”
Meanwhile, he rummaged inside his belongings and pulled out a rumpled and grease-stained newspaper clipping that looked and smelled like it had originally been used to wrap up fish and chips.
He handed it to me with excitement. “My folks sent this me from back home.”
The headlines: “Angels sited at the Battle of Mons”
Almost as notable was the article’s byline written by my best friend from the University of Edinburgh, Wendell Mackenzie, whom I had lost track of since the war started.
He begged me to read on.
“Hundreds of witnesses claimed similarities in their experiences. There were rumors aplenty about ghostly bowmen from the Battle of Agincourt where the Brits fought against the French back in 1415. Inexplicable apparitions appeared out of nowhere and vanquished German enemy troops at the recent Battle of Mons.”
“This looks like a scene from out of a storybook.” I pointed to an artist’s rendition and continued.
“Word spread that arrow wounds were discovered on corpses of the enemy nearby, and it wasn't a hoax. Others reported seeing a Madonna in the trenches or visions of St. Michael, another saint symbolizing victory.”
“Now, I don’t feel so singled out,” I said and handed the newspaper articles back to my comrade.
For weeks, I feared talking to anyone else about it and insisted my mate keep silent. Even in wartime, I swore that I’d stay in touch with my closest acquaintances, Wendell Mackenzie and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It was easier to keep abreast of Arthur's exploits, because of his public celebrity. On the other hand, Wendell, being a journalist, could be anywhere in the world on assignment.
* * *
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie,
I regret having missed Wendell when he never made it over to visit Scotland, and you wonder if someone up above watches over us when we make decisions where to go and when. In my case it was when I decided to take a summer vacation and travel to Edinburgh before the war. Those without passports or proper documentation endured countless detours and delays getting back to their respective homelands. One of Mrs. Campbell’s lodgers had been detained in France.
With nothing to return to back in Germany, I joined the Royal Scots. Military training commenced in Edinburgh, and at least they had us wearing uniforms of pants tucked into gaiters as opposed to the Highland troops who wore kilts. Although I was born and bred in Scotland, as a Lowlander that’s one outfit you’d have to force me into with much duress.
Our tasks would be in the Scots Territorial units deployed on our coastline in case of an enemy invasion. Potential threats could come from spies or submarines, but most say that the worst enemy has been the frigid wind blowing off the North Sea.
As there is always talk about combining forces and transfers, my aunt can always forward letters. It would mean more than the world to hear from Wendell saying that not only is he all right, but also in good spirits.
Yours most devoted,
Private John Patrick Scott
* * *
Dear Arthur,
In our last correspondence, I conveyed that I was unable to return to my teaching post in Stuttgart. With your tour in the Boer War as my inspiration, I joined the military. We learned the basics: how to follow commands, first aid, march discipline and training in all matters of physical fitness. My feet have been in a constant state of rebellion, since my previous profession as a pianist was a sedentary occupation.
Deployment was supposed to be along the coast of Scotland, but the army reassigned me despite first promises because of too many staggering losses on the Western Front. I requested to be part of the air corps and a pioneer in new battle technology, but my recruiting officers had other plans. Our regiment left for Ypres in Belgium. None of the Tommies could pronounce the name of this place, so everyone called it Wipers. You’re no stranger to war, but everyone has been surprised that it lasted longer than anticipated.
Yours Most Devoted,
Private John Patrick Scott
* * *
Troops from all over under the wing of the British Expeditionary Forces piled on to ships to sail out to the continent. The locals from Edinburgh didn’t expect to leave bonnie ole Scotland. They told us we’d defend our shores from foreign invasions. I’d crossed the North Sea before, but then it was a sea of hope and a new life full of opportunity when I got my scholarship to continue my musical studies in Germany, now the enemy.
I turned to the nearest stranger, hoping that a random conversation would break the monotonous and never-ending wait until we set anchor in Belgium. “How was your basic training?”
“Three months at an abandoned amusement park,” the soldier replied. “We trained for the longest time in our street clothes and were told they ran out of uniforms. Probably sent recycled ones after the first troops died. Used wooden dummy rifles until the real ones arrived. What about you?”
“We used an abandoned dance hall. Never could get used to waking at 5:30 a.m.”
“Word got around that in Aldershot soldiers had luxury facilities with a billiards room, a library, private baths and a buffet. I suspect that was for the regulars, the old-timers, not new recruits like us.”
“I should’ve enlisted elsewhere,” I grumbled, not that it would’ve made much of a difference if we’d all die in the end.
He pointed to my face and examined my flawless hands. “You don’t look like much of an outdoorsman. Pale, hairless complexion. No scars.”
“I’m a concert pianist.”
“Not much use on the Front.”
“Probably not. Excuse me, I need some air.” I bundled up in my great coat, wrapping my muffler a wee bit tighter.
Wasn’t sure which were worse — the soldiers with their asphyxiating cigarettes or numbing sleet turning into ice pellets. Hadn’t gotten my sea legs, yet. Stormy swells churned my stomach. Sweet Scotland. Lush green grass and the sky the color of blue moonstone. Never thought I’d be so sentimental. Continued staring until brilliant hues of the shoreline merged into dismal grays of a foggy horizon. In the transition from civilian to soldier, I stepped through a door of no return unless I desired to come back home in a coffin.

Chapter Two: The Other Lost World

Ypres, Belgium Late fall, 1914

A sea of strange men, but all comrades-in-arms, all recent transplants marched to their assignments and followed orders without question to who-knows-where on the way to the battlefield sites. We sallied forth, anonymous troops with a distorted sense of time and distance through the streets of has-been cities, once thriving communities. Poetry in ruination.
As we marched through the Grote Markt (Grand Market) heading out toward the Menenpoort (or Menen Gate) I didn’t expect to get an education. The soldier to my left kept talking out loud and compared notes of local tourist attractions. He was probably unaware that anyone else had overheard his comments.
“That long, distinctive building with the church hiding behind it must be the Hallen… or their Cloth Hall. There were impressive paintings on the interior walls of the Pauwels Room depicting the history of this town and its prosperous textile trade.”
“How do you know this?” I asked, trying not to attract too much attention.
“I’m a historian. Used to teach at a priory school in Morpeth.”
Perhaps I was naïve, but I asked, “Why would the armed forces recruit someone with a background in history?”
“That didn’t influence my enlistment although I’m sure it’ll come in handy somewhere. Before the war, I traveled all over Europe when time permitted. I brought original postcards with me as to what this town used to look like. It’s frightening to see the difference.”
“Your name?” I asked.
“Private Watson. What about you?”
“Not John Watson, by any chance?”
“No, Roger Watson, why?”
I shook my head thinking about Arthur and bit my lip to hide a slight smile. “Oh nothing… My name is Private Scott, John Patrick Scott.”
“What brings you to this dismal corner of the earth?”
“Ich war ein Musiklehrer. Pardon me, sometimes I break into German. I’m from Edinburgh but was living in Germany as a music teacher. Can’t be doing that sort of thing now.”
“I suppose not.”
“Roger, sorry to have eavesdropped, but it sounded so interesting. Then you are familiar with the area we just marched through?”
“That was the central merchant and trading hub of Ypres and has been since the mid-fifteenth century. On the north side over there is St. Martin’s Cathedral. You can already see the damage from German attacks.”
There was no escaping the needless destruction by aggressive enemy bombing. We continued marching forward in formation. A little way beyond the city gate, we passed by the remains of a park and children’s playground. The soldiers took a rest break and snacked on portable rations.
Many of them took off their boots and massaged their feet. Not too far away, I found a shattered brick in the rubble of what had been a schoolhouse and brought it back to where everyone was having his makeshift picnic.
Watson noticed that I kept twirling the small fragment in my hand while intermittently closing my eyes. “Scott, what are you doing?”
“Pictures form in my mind similar to movies. It’s the art of psychometry,” I replied.
“Psycho — what?” Another soldier overheard us talking.
“Sounds like something from Sigmund Freud,” one called out.
“Not at all, it’s like a psychical gift or talent. It has nothing to do with psychoanalysis.”
“What’s the point?” the first one asked.
I felt under pressure to put my thoughts into words. “I can understand what building this brick was part of when it was intact and what was here before it was destroyed.”
“That’s incredible!” Watson exclaimed. “If you are able to uncover bygone times by psychical means, I am all ears.”
When everyone else discounted my talent, Watson gave it full praise. Others became impatient and weren’t interested in our sidebar history lesson.
“Can you use those skills beyond inanimate objects?” one soldier asked.
“Find me an object, someone’s former possession,” I said.
Another soldier found a broken pocket watch not far from a trampled garden. He tossed it over, and I caught it with both hands. When I closed my eyes, the images materialized in my mind’s eye.
“A loving grandfather was reading to his grandchildren from an illustrated story book. He was balding. Wore spectacles. Had a trimmed white beard.
“‘Time for bed,’ he said, looking at his watch. Tick tock, tick tock. It was a gift from his father.
“He kissed each grandchild on the forehead as they scampered off. Two girls, one boy, all in their nightgowns. The tallest girl was a redhead with… pink ribbons in her long, curly hair. Then the bombs dropped. Fire. The roof collapsed. All was lost. Then… then… Oh my God!”
“Scotty, what’s wrong?” Watson asked.
I looked at the blank faces around me. “You don’t see him?”
Watson was baffled. “See who?”
“That grandfather,” I said, horrified and clutching onto that timepiece. His ghost was standing right in front of me!
Then I realized that no one else was capable of seeing him. Inside, I panicked until my frozen fingers let go of the watch, and it tumbled into the dirt. That’s when his phantasmal form vanished, but there were still indelible memories impressed upon the ether that refused to fade with the passage of time.
Warning bells tolled from a nearby church. “Quick, run for cover!” our commanding officer shouted.
Double-time over to shelter. Incoming bombs whistled and boomed in the distance. Civilians followed, carrying their most precious possessions, also fleeing for their lives.
The sanctuary already suffered from shell damage that left large gaping holes in its roof. Birds nested above the pulpit. Cherished religious statuary had been knocked over and broken. Several nuns rushed up and motioned the way for us to take refuge in the basement. We joined the crowd of scared families, members of the local community.
“Isn’t Britain giving them haven?” I asked Watson. “I thought most of the civilians evacuated by now.”
“There are still the ones who want to hold out,” he explained. “Wouldn’t you if your entire life and livelihood were here for multiple generations? That’s why they’re counting on us, but the Germans are relentless. Ypres is right on the path of strategic routes to take over France.”
When several farmers brought over their pigs and chickens, our retreat began to resemble a biblical nativity scene. From inside the cellar, we could hear the rumble of the outside walls collapsing.
“We’ll be trapped!” People yelled out in panic.
A group of sisters prayed in the corner. Our trench diggers readied themselves to shovel us out if it came to that. One terror-stricken woman handed me a screaming baby.
“I found him abandoned.” At least that’s what I thought she said in Flemish, but none of us could understand her. Confused and without thinking, I almost spoke in Japanese, but that would’ve been for the wrong place and an entirely different century during a different lifetime.
“What will I do with him?” I said to her in German, but she didn’t comprehend me either. I couldn’t just place him down in a corner. We’d be marching out in a matter of minutes.
I approached a man with his wife and three other children. First I tried English, then German, random words of French, and then I tried Greek and Latin from my school days. Finally I resorted to awkward gestures to see if he’d take the child. But he shook his head, gathered his brood and backed off.
Troops cleared a path out of the cellar. We needed to report to our stations before nightfall.
“Sister, please?” I begged one nun, interrupting her rosary. To my relief, she took the infant.
“Oh Mon Dieu!” I cried out in the little French that I knew. “Danke, thank you, merci boucoup.” Then I ran off to join the others.
Watson slapped me on the back. “Looked like you were going to be a father, mate.”
“Not yet. Got a war to fight,” I replied.
***
Excerpt from The Time Traveler Professor, Book Two: A Pocketful of Lodestones by Elizabeth Crowens. Copyright © 2019 by Elizabeth Crowens. Reproduced with permission from Elizabeth Crowens. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Crowens has worked in the film and television for over twenty years and as a journalist and a photographer. She’s a regular contributor of author interviews to an award-winning online speculative fiction magazine, Black Gate. Short stories of hers have been published in the Bram Stoker Awards nominated anthology, A New York State of Fright and Hell’s Heart. She’s a member of Mystery Writers of America, The Horror Writers Association, the Authors Guild, Broad Universe, Sisters in Crime and a member of several Sherlockian societies. She is also writing a Hollywood suspense series.

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