Romance Readers Book Of The Week
May 8, 2006
ARCHIVED FEATURE
BLOOD
MOON OVER BRITAIN
by Morag McKendrick Pippin
Genre: Historical Romantic Suspense
Format:
Mass Market Paperback
ISBN: 0-8439-5582-1
Buy This Book:
Available at
Dorchester
Publishing
FROM THE BACK COVER:
LONDON, 1942
With the clouds of war dark and cold hanging over her, Britain is fighting
the Nazis nearly alone. German U-Boats are sinking homeland-bound supply
ships, the Desert Fox’s panzers are winning in North Africa and the
Luftwaffe seems to be shooting the RAF out of the skies. But Britain has an
ultra-secret weapon: The German Enigma Code has been broken, and agents at
Bletchley Park are spending 24 hours a day decoding the messages. Hope
remains.
Cicely Winterbourne is one of the workers at Bletchley Park.
She’s an ordinary girl, but nearly every dirty little secret of WWII passes
through her hands. One may get her killed. Already two people have been
murdered, and Cicely must find out who wants her dead: the Germans, the
Russians, or an entity too terrifying to consider. The world hangs in the
balance, and as perhaps the only person in Britain able to save her country,
Cicely knows she! can confide in no one—not even Alistair Fielding, dashing
war hero of Dunkirk.
The first law of espionage is to never trust anyone, not
even those who make you burn with desire. Especially not when there’s
a…BLOOD MOON OVER BRITAIN
WHAT OTHERS ARE SAYING ABOUT THIS
BOOK:
The long and short of it is that BLOOD MOON OVER
BRITAIN contains everything you need for a perfect story: A murder
mystery, a hero and heroine you admire and wish you knew, spies, love,
intrigue, tension, humor, sadness, and romance. It's believable and
exceptional. The same formula that propelled me to fall for the first one,
works in the follow up, too. Unfortunately for Morag McKendrick Pippin, I
now expect perfection every time!
~ Shannon Johnson - Romance Reader at Heart
4 Stars
You’ll be biting your nails as this espionage thriller races to its
harrowing conclusion. Pippin expertly captures wartime Britain with dialogue
filled with the era’s slang, courageous characters and the realities of war
intrigue.
~ Kathe Robin - ROMANTIC TIMES
MEET THE AUTHOR:
I didn’t start out to be a writer. But I have always been a voracious
reader. An activity which my father encouraged and my mother discouraged
because she knew all too well if left to my own devices I wouldn’t do
anything else!
Although born in the U.S., I hold dual US/UK citizenship
through my Scottish father and English born mother. Originally from the
Pacific Northwest, near Seattle, I was very lucky to spend summers in
Scotland with one set of grandparents or in Winnipeg, Manitoba with the
other set.
After leaving college with a degree in Journalism and
discovering the compensation less than generous I set out to become a ‘Jill
of all ! trades,’ dabbling in various ventures: bartending and bar
management, modelling, travel consulting, bookkeeping, retail and commission
sales - and moonlighting as entertainment columnist for a paper in southern
California - or as it now pronounced in some circles, ‘Caaalleeefoornia.’
Eventually my prince charming located me and after gallantly
sweeping me away into happily ever after, he discovered me one night in bed
with his rival – a romance novel.
"Unfaithful wench!" he cried. "You read so many books why
don’t you write one yourself?"
"Write!" I gasped in horror. "Write? That’s far too hard a
job. I don’t want to work that hard! Why, I’d rather dance naked in a strip
bar!"
My husband snorted. "‘She doth protest too much methinks.’"
To my consternation, his idea continually crept into my
conscious mind. It figures prince charming would turn out to fit Lady Caro
Lamb’s description of Lord Byron as ‘mad, bad, and dangerous to know.’
After learning with various degrees of success to control
both my fear of the blank page and rejection, I yielded and set out to pen
my first book. Eventually, BLOOD MOON OVER BENGAL was written, refined and
purchased by Dorchester one year after its completion.
Oh, by the way, prince charming removed us to Honolulu where
we now live over looking Mauna Lua Bay with two monster Maine
Coons:Dynofelis Fergus McMouser and Smilodon St. John Blue.
READ AN EXCERPT:
CHAPTER
ONE
London
November 1942
Some return from the fields of glory . . .
Scottish traditional song
"You don't want to go in there, guv. Bloody mess, it is."
Alistair Fielding snapped shut his Special Branch identification holder
and returned it to the breast pocket of his tweed blazer. The rank odour of
stale blood brought back the memories with a merciless clarity.
"Aye, well, Sergeant, we all must do things we find distasteful
nowadays," he said and entered the bathroom. It was large, probably a
redesigned dressing room, and bare. A cold radiator hugged the far wall and
beside it, a deep-bowled pedestal sink, with an age spotted mirror hanging
above it.
A claw foot tub occupied the centre of the room. Fielding felt his jaw
clench and forced himself to keep his eyes open. Enduring four days of
butchery and slaughter on the beach at Dunkirk could not inure him to human
suffering. At least it didn't look as if this poor sod suffered long.
The tub was full to the rim with blood and water. A foot dangled over the
end and an arm hung over the side. A vertical gash ran from the wrist to
nearly the elbow, and ! although it no longer dripped, the evidence on the
floor clearly attested that it had for some time.
Fielding skirted the pool of congealed blood and stepped to the head of
the bath tub. The dead man's glassy eyes stared sightlessly at the wall
opposite and his nose rested on the surface of the water. His skin was
pallid, waxen. Rigour had come and gone. He'd been dead at least two days.
Maybe more as the flat was ruddy cold.
"It's a suicide, guv, plain as the nose on your face." The middle-aged
sergeant still stood in the doorway, a dubious look etching his plump
features. "Don't see the need for Special Branch to muck about with some
poor tosser cockin' up his own toes."
Fielding shot him a warning look. "It's not your concern why I'm here,
Sargeant. Let it suffice that I am." He tugged the victim's head backward b!
y the hair and thumbed the eyelids fully open, examining the pupils. The
motion set the water in the bath tub gently lapping at the sides, revealing
the well healed stump of what remained of the man's right leg.
Shutting his own eyes and steeling himself, Fielding bent close to sniff
the mouth of the corpse. He stepped back hastily, fished for the
handkerchief in his pocket, and took a deep breath through it. "Who found
the body and when?"
"His cousin, about an hour ago. A Miss Winterborne. She's in the sitting
room now. A bit shaky, she is."
"Did she touch anything? Did you, Sargeant ~?"
"Cummings, Sir. Shouldn't think she'd want to, and I certainly didn't."
Probably hadn't even entered the room, Fielding thought as he bent,
peering under the tub. He picked up the carving knife by the handle using
his handkerchief. It was black and crusted with dried blood. "Find a bag to
secure this."
The sargeant made a choking sound and fled. He returned a moment later
with a canvass shopping sack, hesitating at the threshold. Fielding dropped
the knife into the sack and closed the loo door behind him. "No one enters
that room, is that clear, Sargeant? Now show me the cousin."
Cummings led him down the dark corridor and opened the door to the
sitting room. Painted a cheery yellow in a bygone era, now it appeared drab
and colourless in the lengthening shadows of the late afternoon. A layer of
dust clung to the utility furniture and no ornaments adorned the room save
for a few old hunt scenes hanging on the wall. The fireplace was empty and
cold.
At first he didn't see her, and then he wondered how he could have ever
missed her. She sat straight and motionless in a ladder back chair, staring
out the window at the rain. The one spot of colour in the musty room, then
she turned the full power of her stunning beauty toward him.
Hair, a vivid auburn, waved back from the translucent skin of her
forehead in tall Victory rolls, high Nordic cheek bones, a sharply defined
chin, delicate brows, and lips that looked as if they were still red and
swollen from kissing her lover.
"Miss Winterborne, I'm Inspector Alistair Fielding, Met." Something murky
in her dark blue eyes flickered, but was instantly gone. "I realise you've
had a difficult day. I'll do my damnedest not to prolong it, but I have a
question or two."
She placed the plain white cup an! d saucer she'd been cradling in her
lap on the window sill with a clatter, and turned her serene gaze on him.
Miss Winterborne was either frightened or hiding something. He wondered
which it was.
* * *
Cicely turned toward the gravelly Scottish voice. This Scotsman had
missed his calling. He could have made a fortune as a matinee idol or even a
professional rugby player for that matter. He stood several inches over six
feet and weighed 15 stone at least. His features were chiselled, proud, and
aristocratic. Black hair quarrelled with his effort to ruthlessly slick it
down. A slight cleft marked his chin. He stared at her with fathomless dark
brown eyes. A poet's eyes. But a soldier's bearing. He frowned slightly and
reached into his smartly tailored wool trouser pocket for his cigarettes.
Her perusal complete, she replied with a twist of her lips. "'Difficult',
Inspector Fielding, is discovering a ladder in one's last pair of pre-war
silk stockings. 'Difficult' is queuing for hours at the butcher's and then
being turned away empty handed. 'Difficult' is a rather an anaemic word to
describe my day. Harrowing is far more appropriate, Inspector."
Standing, Cicely turned her back to him and gazed out the rain lashed
window. The bitter November wind blew in through cracks in the casement and
she shivered. Charcoal clouds massed on the horizon threatening a thunder
and lightening storm. Her hands gripped tightly at her waist. She nearly
jumped when Fielding spoke.
"Cigarette?" he offered. She hadn't heard him approach and now he towered
over her, so closely she could smell his sandalwood cologne, feel his body
heat, and ! see the individual whiskers of his late afternoon beard.
After she pulled a cigarette from the extended box, he clicked open a
silver lighter. His eyes drew hers like a magnate over the flame. As soon as
the tobacco caught, she stepped to the fireplace and stared into the empty
grate, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
"When did you last see your cousin, Miss Winterborne?" Fielding remained
by the window.
"Five days ago – Friday. Graham and I took the train down from
Buckinghamshire together. We work – in different departments, of course – in
a supply directory in Bucks." Cicely flicked ash from her cigarette into the
grate and swung around to face him. "We decide who receives what. Usually,
although not always, we stay at the Directory during the week and come down
to London at the weekends. He hasn't shown up for work this! week, nor
answered his phone, so I arranged for a bit of leave to check on him."
His gaze rested on her speculatively. "You and Graham were close? Maybe
you are aware of his reason for taking his own life?"
Cicely threw her unfinished cigarette into the fireplace. "Just what is
this bosh about, Inspector? My cousin committed suicide. What is Scotland
Yard doing mucking about with some poor sod who split open his wrists? Have
you nothing better to do? Able bodied men are desperately needed; you might
sign up for service!"
Fielding shot her a gimlet look and snapped, "Aye lass, you see there's
this wee bit of annoying shrapnel lodged in my knee, left over from an
exploding bomb on the beach at Dunkirk. HMG sent me back to my former
profession and sees I generate enough bumf to justify my existence." He
switched on a ! lamp and sat on the shabby plaid chesterfield, stretching
out his left leg. "So why don't you do your patriotic duty and keep me busy
tonight."
She froze at the words she and every other young woman heard from the
soldiers. Especially the oversexed, overpaid, and over here Americans at the
Women's Voluntary Services dances, in the Underground, and at the shops. But
Fielding wasn't even looking at her - he was rubbing his left knee.
She lifted her chin, gave her hair a quick pat and said, "My apologies,
Inspector." Taking a deep breath, she said, "You-you saw his - what remained
of Graham's leg?" At his nod, she continued. "He lost it at Dunkirk. They
discovered him on that bloody beach beneath a pile of dead bodies, Inspector
Fielding. It was no longer an evacuation when they found him, but a
recovery. For four days he lay in his own blood and that of his fellow
soldiers. His entire company perished – except for him. For two and half
years he's found it . . . 'difficult'", she threw Fielding's word back at
him, "to live with."
Making
her way to the opposite end of the room, Cicely opened Graham's drinks
cabinet, extracted a nearly empty bottle of Hennessy VSOP and poured herself
two fingers. The bottle hovered over a second glass. "Inspector?" He shook
his head and she shrugged, taking a long sip. Fire slicked down to her
stomach and expanded in her veins like lava, giving her courage. A fool's
courage. She took another sip.
"No, we weren't particularly 'close', Mr. Fielding. Graham didn't let
anyone close to him. Always a bit of a loner, he was. No siblings and his
parents emigrated to Canada before the war. None of them shared a particular
fondness for pen and paper. Besides my parents in Cornwall, he's the only
family left to me."
She shrugged again. "He needed to feel useful after Dunkirk, so I
arranged a job at my place of employment." And if she hadn't, Cicely thought
bitterly, he might still be alive. She drained her glass.
The door to the sitting room burst open bringing in a draft of chilly air
and a tall, thin brunette in an Air Raid Precaution uniform. She strode
straight to Cicely and engulfed her in an embrace. "Cicely! You poor thing!
How frightfully dreadful!"
Monty's sympathy nearly threatened Cicely's hard won composure, but she
hugged her back, then broke free, blinking her eyes against gathering tears.
"And you are?" Fielding's voice cut across the room like a lancet. He
rose from the chesterfield.
Monty started and whirled round. Lifting a hand to her hair, she eyed !
him boldly. Monty loved men. Especially tall, dark, handsome men in uniform.
Cicely didn't think the lack of the latter really mattered in this case.
Cicely set her empty glass on the drinks cabinet. "This is Monetary
Smith, my flatmate, Inspector. This is Inspector Fielding of Scotland Yard,
Monty."
Monty extended her hand and approached Fielding with a sparkle in her
eye. "So pleased to meet you, Inspector. . ." Her step faltered and her hand
fell to her side when Fielding merely regarded her with a flat stare. She
frowned and retraced her steps. "Why is Scotland Yard responding to a
suicide?"
"Apparently we are to answer his questions, dear, not the other way.
Well, Inspector," Cicely said, a cheeky tone to her voice now the liquor was
taking effect, "you must be feeling quite useful now there's two of us to
keep you busy. What may we do for you?"
Monty's brows lifted in askance and Fielding frowned darkly. Cicely knew
she was out of line and didn't care. She wanted out of Graham's flat. She
needed someplace safe to gather her thoughts, to think what to do. But where
was safe?
"You may go now, Miss Winterbourne," Fielding said slowly. "Our
conversation can wait a day or two."
"An excellent idea." Monty took Cicely by the arm and threw Fielding an
annoyed glare over her shoulder. "Come on, old girl, we have just enough
time before my shift for a nice cup of tea."
Outside on the pavement, Cicely gathered the collar of her wool coat
around her neck against an icy east wind. Thunder boomed in the distance.
Nearly everybody looked apprehensively at the sky and scuttled for shelter.
Except for two men across the street. Cicely spotted one, directly adjacent,
dressed as a labourer, leaning against the wall of a newsagent's, leisurely
smoking a fag. Catching her eye, he glanced quickly away. The other chap,
sporting a mac and a trilby, half a block behind, scrutinized a toy store
window.
Monty started to run. "Come on, old girl, the Underground's just around
the corner," she called. "If we hurry, we shan't be soaked."
They boarded the train at King's Cross, and ten minutes later disembarked
at Russell Square, making their way south toward the British Museum.
Normally in the late afternoon, light would be glowing between the enormous
pillars and students, scholars, and tourists pouring in and out. But it was
wartime, a repository had been bombed two years before, and the massive
building stood empty, the Empire's treasures evacuated. Wi! th blackout in
effect the pillars were shrouded in shadow and surrounded by sand bags.
Few people came and went now. Across the street, the Museum Pub made up
for the museum's lack of custom. Although it too, was piled high with sand
bags and it's windows painted black, the sounds of singing and tinkling
glasses leaked out, following them two doors down where they entered an
arched doorway.
Just as they ducked in and mounted the wide concrete steps to their flat
thunder boomed, exploding like a Jerry bombing raid. The sky opened in
torrents of rain.
The second floor landing was narrow with a flat at either end and a
blacked out window in the centre. Cicely slotted a key into the lock of the
right flat. Inside it was dark and draughty, and after hanging their coats,
the girls went straight to the kitchen.
"Brr, the Aga needs turning up." Cicely rubbed her upper arms and headed
for the bright yellow stove.
Monty pulled a ladder back chair back from their small dining table.
"Sit. You've had a frightful shock. I'll feed you bikkies and tea before my
shift and you can fill me in on the details – that is if you are up to it,
old girl." She filled the kettle from the tap and set in on the burner.
"That Inspector chap was a nice bit of alright." She shot Cicely a
speculative look. "He didn't seem interested in me, worse luck, but I
glimpsed a touch of curiosity about you."
Cicely rolled her eyes and settled herself in the chair. "Really Monty!
Don't your RAF chaps keep you busy?"
Monetary shrugged. "At this point I could likely teach the green ones to
fly a Spitfire or a Hurricane - and I haven't seen the cockpit of either
one. I! 've decided to try Americans for a change of pace. Besides, they're
such fun to listen to – 'Hey Princess, aren't you just a livin' doll'. And
the chocolate!" She winked. "They couldn't possibly eat all those Hershey
bars by themselves." She reached into the cupboard for the tea tin, measured
out two tiny pinches, then turned around, leaning on the counter and folding
her arms across her chest. "Now then, why did Graham do such an awful thing?
Who did he think would find him if not you?"
Cicely propped her elbows on the table, resting her face in her hands.
She kept seeing Graham as she had found him: naked, pale, and so still, in a
bathtub full of blood. She wanted to block out the sight and the smell, but
was afraid it would never go away, never leave her in peace. She must move
past the shock. And discover just what Graham had known.
Taking a deep breath, Cicely said, "He must have reached his breaking
point. I wasn't due back from Bletchley until the weekend - for three more
days. Likely it occurred to him his cleaning lady might find ~" she started
as the kettle screamed.
"Ballocks." Monty turned to pour the boiling water into the teapot. "He
may not have nurtured any closeness between you, but he knew bloody well if
he didn't turn up for work for several days, you'd come down to London to
see why." She brought the tea and a plate of vanilla biscuits to the table.
Pausing, she looked carefully at Cicely. "Might it have anything to do with
. . . with your work? I'm aware ~" She swallowed and started over. "Mums the
word, of course, but I know you don't ruddy well work in a supply
distribution centre at Bletchley."
Cicely froze, then lowered her tea cup. She searched her dearest friend's
face. "Why would you not think I distribute supplies?" She gave a small
laugh. "Goodness, you don't imagine I'm into the cloak and dagger stuff?"
Monty stared at her. "Really, Monty! It's all these spy propaganda posters.
My job is quite innocent, I assure you. And dull. I'm a file clerk." That
much was true, at least. But it wasn't dull and it wasn't innocent.
Monty continued to regard her with a speculative gleam over the rim of
her teacup. "I'm no boffin, but I know when I hear a load of double dutch. I
realise you can't blow the gaff. We'll say no more about it." She swallowed
the last of her tea and stood. "If any hypothetical situations arise and you
need to talk, you have a sympathetic – and discreet listener. Now I'm off
for my shift, keeping an eye out for the Hun in the sky," she said, lifting
her hand in a playful salute.
When the door slammed behind Monty, Cicely rose from her chair, flipped
off! the light switch, and made her way in the gloom to the window. Very
carefully she lifted the tight fitting black out blind and peered outside.
Heavy clouds and pelting rain contributed to an early darkness. The
street lights were dimmed and the few vehicles out burning petrol wore
shields over their lamps, allowing a mere pinprick of illumination.
Monty ran across the road, her neck hunched into her collar and her mac
flying out behind her from the force of the wind. She dashed right by a man
leaning against the iron spike fence surrounding the museum. He wore a
trench coat and a trilby pulled low over is face.
Cicely's gaze darted in every direction. Not many ventured out in the
blackout. The few who did, hurried to find shelter, or had already found it
in shop doorways.
She glanced back at the man in the trench coat. He'd pushed his trilby to
the back of his head and was staring up at her. Rain poured down his face,
but he didn't blink. Cicely felt those eyes burn through her like red-hot
daggers. Finally, he righted his hat and strode away, enveloped in blackness
and a torrent of rain.
She jumped when the loud banging on her door started.
ROMANCE READERS CHATS WITH THE
AUTHOR:
Why did you
wait so long to commence writing after deciding to do so?
I had to psych myself up to start and to keep going no matter what. I
used that time to research the publishing industry and to study and analyze
the stories I read.
How do define success in writing?
Finishing that first manuscript!
Finishing a book requires down and gritty determination. It's frosting to
have it published:-)
If you could 're-tool' one of your characters, which one would it be?
I wouldn't. If I did, it wouldn't be the same character and thus it would
become a different book as well.
Where do you place your major emphasis - plot points, historical
accuracy, character development, or romantic tension between lead
characters?
Character development and romantic tension - these two can lead to plot
points. Historical accuracy can be researched.
To what extent are your characters based on people you know?
My characters may have a characteristic or two in common with people I'm
acquainted with, but none of them are based on real people.
How does your family feel about having a writer in their midst?
I'm very lucky. My husband, my mother, the rest of my family and in-laws
are very proud of me.
What would you like to write about that you do not yet feel qualified to
write?
I'd love to write a contemporary espionage romantic thriller!
Unfortunately, I doubt I could keep all the super modern spy gadgets
straight.
What sports interest you?
My three favorite are:
Shoe shopping
Shoe shopping
and
Shoe shopping
You write non-traditional time settings for romance. What led you to do
this?
All my characters can get away with more adventuresome behavior than
earlier centuries would allow, but the settings are still far enough past
for a romantic aura.
What don't you want the public to know about you?
Must I answer this one? Ok, I'm just going to close my eyes and spit it
out: I'm stark, raving petrified when starting a new book. Now please forget
I ever said that!