Death of a Stranger

by Anne Perry Narrated by Ralph Lister

Overview

Few authors have written more mesmerizingly about Victorian London than Anne Perry. Readers enter her
world with exquisite anticipation, and experience a rich variety of characters and class: aristocrats living in
luxury, flower sellers on street corners, ladies of the evening seeking customers on gaslit streets, gentlemen
in hansom cabs en route to erotic diversions unknown in their Mayfair mansions. Now Perry gives her myriad
fans the book they've been waiting for-the novel in which William Monk breaks through the wall of amnesia
and discovers at last who he once was.
DEATH OF A STRANGER
For the prostitutes of Leather Lane, nurse Hester Monk's clinic is a lifeline, providing medicine, food, and a
modicum of peace-especially welcome since lately their ailments have escalated from bruises and fevers
to broken bones and knife wounds. At the moment, however, the mysterious death of railway magnate Nolan
Baltimore in a sleazy neighborhood brothel overshadows all else. Whether he fell or was pushed, the shocking
question in everyone's mind is: What was such a pillar of respectability doing in a seedy place of sin?
Meanwhile, brilliant private investigator William Monk acquires a new client, a mysterious beauty who asks him
to ascertain beyond a shadow of a doubt whether or not her fiancé, an executive in Nolan Baltimore's thriving
railway firm, has become enmeshed in fraudulent practices that could ruin him.
As Hester ventures into violent streets to learn who is responsible for the brutal abuse of her patients, Monk
embarks upon a journey into the English countryside, where the last rails are being laid for a new line. But
the sight of tracks stretching into the distance revives memories once stripped from his consciousness by
amnesia-as a past almost impossible to bear returns, eerily paralleling a fresh tragedy that has already begun
its inexorable unfolding.

Editorial Reviews

The Barnes & Noble Review
As the bestselling author of two Victorian-era mystery series, Anne Perry knows the mannerisms and fine historical details of gaslight England. In her 12th novel featuring investigator William Monk, she continues to entertain with a story that finally reveals her protagonist's amnesia-shrouded past.

Monk is hired by Katrina Harcus to investigate her fiancé, Michael Dolgarno, who is possibly involved with railroad fraud. As soon as he begins his inquiries, Monk is assailed by bits of memory that lead him to believe he, too, may have been a criminal of some sort. Although his marriage to Hester is a stabilizing force in his life, he fears the potential results of his investigation and tries to keep his wife at arm's length. But when a railroad mogul is murdered in a London brothel and three battered ladies of the evening seek help at the clinic operated by Hester, Monk is drawn into yet another puzzle that may have something to do with his former life.

Unlike Perry's other Victorian sleuth, the sociable Thomas Pitt, Monk has always been a tormented individual ultimately alone in the world. Perry should be credited for her slow yet memorable planting of clues across all the previous Monk novels, subtly forming the framework for his past. She adroitly and convincingly manipulates several plot threads to give the reader a startling and remarkable disclosure in this fascinating, powerful entry in the Monk series. Tom Piccirilli

Publishers Weekly

Bestseller Perry's latest novel (after 2001's Funeral in Blue) to feature mid-Victorians William Monk and his wife, Hester, offers an ingenious and baffling plot, compelling characters, both major and minor, plus plenty of courtroom drama, but is something of a diamond in the rough. In London's East End, Hester, a former nurse with Florence Nightingale, has established a shelter for prostitutes where the ill and injured can be treated. One night, a well-known railway magnate is found dead in a nearby brothel, and the police presence in the area grinds the illicit business of the pimps and prostitutes to a halt. William, meanwhile, has undertaken a private investigation into possible fraud. His client, the fianc e of a young executive for the same railway as the murder victim, fears her betrothed may be implicated in the fraud scheme. As William recognizes parallels with the past, memories that he lost in an accident seven years earlier start to haunt him. Unfortunately, the book suffers from hasty execution, as reflected in repetitious phrasing, pronouns with unclear antecedents and confusing narrative transitions between Hester and William and between William in the present and William before his amnesia. The result is a challenging read, though established fans will likely forgive the author her lapses because she tells such a wonderful story. (Oct. 1) Forecast: Perry is also the author of the Thomas Pitt Victorian series, most recently Southampton Row (Forecasts, Jan. 14), which was up to her usual high standard. Pressure to deliver the same quality on the first of her forthcoming WWI quintet may account for the relative weakness of what seems like a wrapup of the Monk series. Nonetheless, this entry should sell well enough. Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.

Library Journal

In this novel, Perry takes us back to the Victorian England of William Monk, a private investigator who is working on a new case-one that is awakening disturbing images from his amnesia-shrouded past, and he is not quite sure he wants to revisit that time. Meanwhile, William's wife, Hester, a nurse who works in a free clinic, is beginning to see patients who are from a better class than the usual prostitutes she treats, and their injuries are more severe. When a wealthy railway magnate is found dead in a local brothel, the number of clients and the severity of their injuries increases. The author manages quite a few plot lines at one time, and listeners new to this series might become a bit confused as the story jumps from plot to plot and from William's current life to his amnesiac past. David Colacci gives an animated performance, ably handling the various dialects. Recommended for all public libraries.-Theresa Connors, Arkansas Tech Univ., Russellville Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

In the seven years William Monk (Funeral in Blue, 2001, etc.) has plied his trade as an inquiry agent, his fear of what he might find has prevented him from ever inquiring very closely into his own past, curtained off by amnesia. Now a new pair of cases holds a dark mirror uncomfortably close. Eminent railroad builder Nolan Baltimore has been found dead near a brothel in the London neighborhood of the shelter Monk’s wife Hester runs for abused prostitutes, with every indication that he was killed by a lady he’d engaged for the evening—perhaps a recent debtor to a usurer like Squeaky Robinson who recoiled in murderous horror when she realized the price of interest service on her debt. Katrina Harris, all but engaged to Baltimore’s partner, Michael Dalgarno, comes to Monk with suspicions that cast Baltimore & Sons in an even more sinister light. She wants Monk to refute the evidence she’s uncovered that links Dalgarno to a construction fraud that could lead to a hideous accident just like the train crash 16 years ago that killed 40 children—a crash that sent Monk’s mentor, banker Arrol Dundas, to die in prison, and one that Katrina’s evidence suggests Monk himself may have been more closely implicated in than he cares to remember.

Perry (Southampton Row, 2002, etc.) is so intent on tracing the fatal misalliances her Victorians forge across class lines they pretend are sacrosanct that she neglects to flesh out her passionate muckraking with characters worth caring about. Only Monk, Hester, and their crusades shine through the period trappings.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940192214268
Publisher:	Recorded Books, LLC
Publication date:	10/08/2024
Series:	Inspector Monk , #13
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

There was a noise outside the women's clinic in Coldbath Square.
Hester was on night duty. She turned from the stove as the street
door opened, the wood still in her hand. Three women stood in the
entrance, half supporting each other. Their cheap clothes were torn
and splattered with blood, their faces streaked with it, skin yellow
in the light from the gas lamp on the wall. One of them, her fair
hair coming loose from an untidy knot, held her left hand as if she
feared the wrist were broken.

The middle woman was taller, her dark hair loose, and she
was gasping, finding it difficult to get her breath. There was blood
on the torn front of her satin dress and smeared across her high
cheekbones.

The third woman was older, well into her thirties, and there
were bruises purpling on her arms, her neck, and her jaw.

"Hey, missus!" she said, urging the others inside, into the warmth
of the long room with its scrubbed board floor and whitewashed
walls. "Mrs. Monk, yer gotter give us an 'and again. Kitty 'ere's in a
right mess. An' me, an' all. An' I think as Lizzie's broke 'er wrist."

Hester put down the wood and came forward, glancing only
once behind her to make sure that Margaret was already getting hot
water, cloths, bandages, and the herbs to steep, which would make
cleaning the wounds easier and less painful. It was the purpose of
this place to care for women of the streets who were injured or
ill, but who could not pay a doctor and would be turned away
from more respectable charities. It had been the idea of her friend
Callandra Daviot, and Callandra had provided the initial funds before
events in her personal life had taken her out of London. It was
through her also that Hester had met Margaret Ballinger, desperate
to escape a respectable but uninteresting proposal of marriage. Her
undertaking work like this had alarmed the gentleman in question
so much he had at the last moment balked at making the offer, to
Margaret's relief and her mother's chagrin.

Now Hester guided the first woman to one of the chairs in the
center of the floor beside the table. "Come in, Nell," she urged. "Sit
down." She shook her head. "Did Willie beat you again? Surely you
could find a better man?" She looked at the bruises on Nell's arms,
plainly made by a gripping hand.

"At my age?" Nell said bitterly, easing herself into the chair.
"C'mon, Mrs. Monk! Yer mean well, I daresay, but yer feet in't on
the ground. Not unless yer offerin' that nice-lookin' ol' man o'
yours?" She leered ruefully. "Then I might take yer up one day. 'E's
got an air about 'im as 'e could be summat real special. Kind o'
mean but fun, if yer know wot I'm sayin'?" She gave a guffaw of
laughter which turned into a racking cough, and she bent double
over her knees as the paroxysm shook her.

Without being asked, Margaret poured a little whiskey out of a
bottle, replaced the cork, and added hot water from the kettle.
Wordlessly she held it until Nell had controlled herself sufficiently
to take it, the tears still streaming down her face. She struggled
for breath, sipped some of the whiskey, gagged, and then took a
deeper gulp.

Hester turned to the woman called Kitty and found her staring
with wide, horrified eyes, her body tense, muscles so tight her
shoulders all but tore the thin fabric of her bodice.

"Mrs. Monk?" she whispered huskily. "Your husband . . ."

"He's not here," Hester assured her. "There's no one here who
will hurt you. Where are you injured?"

Kitty did not reply. She was shuddering so violently her teeth
chattered.

"Go on, yer silly cow!" Lizzie said impatiently. "She won't 'urt
yer, an' she won't tell no one nuffin'. Nell's only goin' on 'cos she
fancies 'er ol' man. Proper gent, 'e is. Smart as a whip. Dresses like
the tailor owed 'im, not t'other way 'round." She nursed her broken
wrist, wincing with pain. "Get on wiv it, then. You may 'ave got all
night--I in't."

Kitty looked once at the iron beds, five along each side of the
room, the stone sinks at the far end, and the buckets and ewers of
water drawn from the well at the corner of the square. Then she
faced Hester, making an intense effort to control herself.

"I got in a fight," she said quietly. "It's not that bad. I daresay I
was frightened as much as anything." Her voice was surprising: it
was low and a trifle husky, and her diction was clear. At one time
she must have had some education. It struck in Hester a note of
pity so sharp that for a moment it was all she could think of. She
tried not to let it show in her expression. The woman did not want
the intrusion of pity. She would be only too aware of her own fall
from grace without anyone else's notice of it.

"Those are bad bruises on your neck." Hester looked at them
more closely. It appeared as if someone had held her by the throat,
and there was a deep graze across the front of her breastbone, as
though a hard fingernail had scored it deliberately. "Is that blood
yours?" Hester asked, indicating the splatters across the front of
Kitty's bodice.

Kitty gave a shuddering sigh. "No. No! I . . . I reckon I caught
his nose when I hit him back. It's not mine. I'll be all right. Nell's
bleeding. You should see to that. And Lizzie broke her wrist, or
somebody did." She spoke generously, but she was still shivering,
and Hester was certain she was far from well enough to leave. She
would have liked to know what bruises were hidden under her
clothes, or what beatings she had endured in the past, but she did
not ask questions. It was one of the rules; they had all agreed that
no one pressed for personal information or repeated what they
overheard or deduced. The whole purpose of the house was simply
to offer such medical help as lay within their skill, or that of
Mr. Lockhart, who called by every so often and could be reached
easily enough in an emergency. He had failed his medical exams at
the very end of his training through a weakness for drink rather
than ignorance or inability. He was happy enough to help in return
for company, a little kindness, and the feeling that he belonged
somewhere.

He liked to talk, to share food he had been given rather than
paid for, and when he was short of funds he slept on one of the beds.
Margaret offered Kitty a hot whiskey and water, and Hester
turned to look at Nell's deep gash.

"That'll have to be stitched," she advised.

Nell winced. She had experienced Hester's needlework before.

"Otherwise it will take a long time to heal," Hester warned.

Nell pulled a face. "If yer stitchin's still like yer stitched me
'and, they'd throw yer out of a bleedin' sweatshop," she said good-humoredly.
"All it wants is buttons on it!" She drew in her breath
between her teeth as Hester pulled the cloth away from the wound
and it started to bleed again. "Jeez!" Nell said, her face white. "Be
careful, can't yer? Yer got 'ands like a damn navvy!"

Hester was accustomed to the mild abuse and knew it was only
Nell's way of covering her fear and her pain. This was the fourth
time she had been there in the month and a half since the house
had been open.

"Yer'd think since yer'd looked arter soldiers in the Crimea wi'
Florence Nightingale an' all, yer'd be a bit gentler, wouldn't yer?"
Nell went on. "I bet yer snuffed as many o' our boys as the fightin'
ever did. 'Oo paid yer then? The Russkies?" She looked at the needle
Margaret had threaded with gut for Hester. Her face went gray
and she swiveled her head to avoid seeing the point go through her
flesh.

"Keep looking at the door," Hester advised. "I'll be as quick as I
can."

"That supposed ter make me feel better?" Nell demanded. "Yer
got that bleedin' fat leech comin' in 'ere again."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Jessop!" Nell said with stinging contempt as the street door
closed again and a large, portly man in a frock coat and brocade
waistcoat stood just inside, stamping his feet as if to force water off
them, although in fact it was a perfectly dry night.

"Good evening, Mrs. Monk," he said unctuously. "Miss Ballinger."
His eyes flickered over the other three women, his lips
slightly curled. He made no comment, but in his face was his superiority,
his comfortable amusement, the ripple of interest in them
which he resented, and would have denied hotly. He looked Hester
up and down. "You are a very inconvenient woman to find, ma'am.
I don't care for having to walk the streets at this time of night in order
to meet with you. I can tell you that with total honesty."

Hester made a very careful stitch in Nell's arm. "I hope you tell
me everything with total honesty, Mr. Jessop," she said coldly and
without looking up at him.

Nell shifted slightly and sniggered, then turned it into a yell as
she felt the thread of gut pulling through her flesh.

"For goodness sake be quiet, woman!" Jessop snapped, but his
eyes followed the needle with fascination. "Be grateful that you are
being assisted. It is more than most decent folk would do for you."
He forced his attention away. "Now, Mrs. Monk, I dislike having to
discuss my affairs in front of these unfortunates, but I cannot wait
around for you to have time to spare." He put his thumbs in the
pockets of his red brocade waistcoat.

"As I am sure you are aware, it is quarter to one in the morning
and I have a home to go to. We need to reconsider our arrangements."
He freed one hand and flicked it at the room in general.
"This is not the best use of property, you know. I am doing you a
considerable service in allowing you to rent these premises at such a
low rate." He rocked very slightly back and forth on the balls of his
feet. "As I say, we must reconsider our arrangement."

Hester held the needle motionless and looked at him. "No, Mr.
Jessop, we must keep precisely to our arrangement. It was made and
witnessed by the lawyers. It stands."

"I have my reputation to consider," he went on, his eyes moving
for a moment to each of the women, then back to Hester.

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Excerpted from Death of a Stranger by Anne PerryCopyright 2002 by Anne Perry. Excerpted by permission of Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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