Review: The Legacy of Beauregarde by Rosa Fedele

Five stars from me!

If you like authors such as Daphne du Maurier...you'll love The Legend of Beauregarde

I read The Red Door before being gifted an ARC copy of Rosa Fedele’s new novel, which, I must say, is well worth a read if you enjoy strong characters and an intriguing plot.  The style is on the literary side – which I love.  Skilled and imaginative use of language add an extra layer of delight in my opinion. 

The Legacy of Beauregarde is moody and, at times, sinister.  There are touches of the paranormal and shades of horror.  As you read, you feel as though you are sinking into the history of the place, its houses, and its characters (some of whom are not at all what they seem at first), wrap themselves around you.

It’s true that there is a lot to take in, and that you need a sharp mind to keep up, but some of my favourite books make me work hard in order to repay my efforts tenfold.  And why not?  That's the way a good book draws you in.

I must say also that the artwork scattered throughout the book, even in the ebook version, is captivating, and certainly helps to enhance the reader’s experience.

Would I read it again?  This is one of my personal yardsticks in judging the quality of a novel.  And the answer is yes!  In fact, I’m looking forward to it.

New Release - Download Hit and Run using the link below.

Here's what readers are saying:

'Unputdownable'  Amazon reviewer

'I found myself wondering what was happening with the characters while I was at work, or driving (you know those times when you can't just pick up the book to find out!).'  Amazon reviewer

'It kept me guessing as to how all the clues would pan out and kept me turning the pages.' Amazon reviewer

***

I’m excited to announce the publication of my second Alice Candy novel.

It’s been a real test of endurance, having needed one major re-write and several drafts, all because characters grew, sprouted their own personalities and refused to be sidelined.  So we have, in no particular order, a handsome Reverend, a talented artist and her wild, dysfunctional sister, a dodgy-dealing ex-husband, an enigmatic lord of the manor and his equally intriguing staff, a missing teenage boy, and of course the very distinctive and unorthodox DCI Alice Candy, not forgetting her sharp and pragmatic sidekick, DS Will Brady.

One cold January morning, the day begins with a brutal hit and run at Breton Manor, but Alice quickly discovers there is much more to this case than meets the eye.  And so we embark on a tale of complicity and deception, of red herrings and strange twists, only to find ourselves at the end of another cul de sac. 

Tantalising and  complex, Hit and Run is the kind of novel that will keep you guessing until the end.  A full-blooded crime-mystery for readers who love characters they can believe in and a plot that seeks to outfox them.

Available as an ebook for the moment.  Paperback version to follow.

 Click to view on Amazon

Locked Away

When you have to outwit your captor to survive...

Readers' comments: 

'A page turner.'

'A quick, tense read.'

'Character, conflict, and a unique new sleuth.'

The first Alice Candy novel, Locked Away, is very different in tone, having been originally conceived as a New Adult novel.  It has been re-worked and revised, but remains much more dramatic and at times hysterical, as the main protagonist is a girl in her early twenties, Ellie Braintree, who has been kidnapped on her birthday and finds herself in the cellar of a house, terrified in the darkness that surrounds her.  She is, however, no pushover and soon begins to put her quick mind to use to work out who her captor is and how to get the better of him or her and escape.

Things take an extraordinary turn when a second victim arrives, cold and terrified, crouched in the shadows, too scared to say a word.

Ellie needs all her strength and intelligence to cope with this new challenge.  Now, there are two lives at stake.

Alice Candy needs all her skills to find the cellar room before it’s too late. 

Available as an ebook or in paperback.

Click to view on Amazon

SUMMER MADNESS

24-hour offer - 2nd July only

Get all three of the Bev and Carol adventures for £1.99 (usual price £6.47)!

Click here to view book on Amazon

Read an excerpt from Book one: One Summer in France (two girls in a tent):

Polka-dot Pants and Gallic Gall

It was late afternoon when we arrived in France. 

There was a train to Paris that we could catch if we hurried and, this time, there was nothing to stop us.  The carriage we chose was almost empty so we settled down and snoozed our way through the French countryside.

We changed at Paris and boarded another train bound for a place called Narbonne.  I can’t remember why we took this route, but it was probably because the train to Perpignan was not due at a convenient time.  We had plenty of scope for detours, anyway.  And we didn’t realise how big France actually was.

For a while, it was fun to gaze out at passing vineyards, miraculous fields of sunflowers and impressive chateaux.  This was definitely a foreign land.  But there were reminders of England – wooded hillsides and open meadows, a solitary oak.  This was a place that was different enough without being too intimidating.   What struck me most was the scale of everything.  The distances between towns and cities huge, the fields were enormous.  No wonder French cows were so happy.

‘Let’s get off here and find a campsite!’ said Carol, long before we reached our destination and after far too many hours travelling without a proper night’s sleep.  I didn’t need persuading.

The sign on the platform announced that we had arrived in a place called Carcassonne.  It sounded pretty.  We stepped down, and I was grateful for the solidity of the ground beneath my feet.  I was not yet fully recovered from my ordeal on the ferry and was as keen as Carol to set up somewhere for the evening.  Anywhere, in fact, that wasn’t moving.

‘Excusez-moi?  Nous cherchons un camping près d’ici,’ I said, to a woman who had started scowling even before I had started speaking, and who obviously did not realise that I was a master of her mother tongue.

‘Perhaps she’s not French,’ said Carol, peering at a large brown patch on the woman’s neck.

‘Let me try another one.  There!  He looks normal.’

Carol approached a man dressed in white tennis shorts and a purple floral shirt.

‘Excusez-moi, monsieur?  Le campsite, ici?’ I winced at Carol’s appalling grammar.

The man looked even more confused than the woman.

‘Sorry, I don’t speak French,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders and wobbling his chins.

Soon, Carol and Mr. Plunket had become bosom buddies and it wasn’t long before he was loading our bags into the back of his hired BMW.

It was a short drive to Carcasonne centre and what we saw as we looked out of the windows were flowers.  They were everywhere.  Along the verges, in pots along the road, at roundabouts.  Everywhere.  We had arrived in a land of colour and fragrance.  I wound the window down and a French wasp flew in.  Several screams and swipes later, Carol wound down her window and, to everyone’s relief, it flew back out again.  Pulses returned to normal and, after consulting one of the many maps our patient escort had thought to bring along, we arrived at our destination.

Jethro Plunket dropped us off at the municipal campsite and pressed a five-hundred-franc note into Carol’s hand, saying that he had a daughter of his own who was about our age and that he believed in karma.

‘Thanks, Mr. Plunket.’

‘Call me Jethro.’

‘Thanks, Jethro.’

‘What kind of a name is Jethro?’ I asked, as he drove away. ‘Do you think it’s his real name?’

‘No, probably working under cover, doing good deeds for vulnerable girls travelling through France,’ said Carol.

‘Really?’

‘No!!’

Carol said that she didn’t know how I would survive without her and, picking up her bag, marched off to reception, leaving me to feast my eyes on the view of her red polka-dot knickers, which were exposed to the world due to the fact that she had caught her skirt on her bag.

‘Welcome in Camping Municipal of Carcassonne!’ said the sign in the window.

We peered inside and, just as we were about to venture in, a dumpy girl, eating a doughnut, loomed into view and locked the door from the inside.

End of excerpt. 

Free Detective Fiction (ends 9th June)

'Another cracking read from B A Spicer. You definitely won't spot the murderer from the outset, and you won't expect the outcome. Very well written.' Amazon reviewer

Hanson's Hunch 

British Detective Inspector Hanson is on the track of a serial killer.

view on Amazon

Bunny on a Bike by Bev Spicer is just 99p this week.

When I left university with my friend, Carol, I didn't have a clue what I wanted to do.  The career officer's spiel dulled my senses with suggestions that made the future into a nine to five nightmare.  I panicked.  Did I really have to choose?  Couldn't I put it off for a while?

Then I saw the advert for Playboy croupiers.  Never in a million years had I ever wanted to be a croupier and especially not for Playboy.  I imagined boobs, wild orgies and middle aged men pinching my cotton-tailed bum.  Somehow, reverse logic kicked in and I saw it as a challenge.

So, because it was a totally random thing to do and because it would undoubtedly shock a lot of people, I told Carol and we applied.

Bunny on a Bike tells the story of our adventure in 80s London, training in Victor Lownes' mansion and dealing blackjack in Playboy's London casino.  It's not a kiss and tell story.  It's a story of friendship, stolen teabags and comically lustful landlords.  And what it was really like to work for Playboy.

I'm so glad I did it.  And I'm so glad I did it with my lovely friend, Carol.

It's just 99p this week, if you want some fun between literary masterpieces.  Just click on the link below.  Hope you like it. 

view book on Amazon

My French Life

Pinks (oeillet d'Inde)  

Did you know they’re called pinks because they’re frilly, not because they’re pink?  I didn't.

The garden is still a mess but I see there is life poking out here and there.  I’m digging up weeds today when I should be editing my latest detective novel.  It’s as though there are two of me, and the one who likes to be outside wearing gardening gloves and standing in mud is generally the winner.

I do keep popping back to the laptop, not to check a spelling or deliberate over a comma, but to follow the progress of my youngest son who is sitting on a plane waiting to be taken to Singapore.  He was supposed to be travelling with a friend, but there’s been some mix up over passports and so he’s on his own for the time being. 

Still waiting on the runway.

Back in the garden, I inspect the new plants I purchased in Saintes – the most beautiful French town, and on my doorstep – on Monday.  A man pitched up with his wares, a real French raconteur.  His prices were irresistible and so I loaded my bags, eventually managed to pay, laughed at his 'I love you' routine and promised to marry him when I left my husband - all in the name of getting a bargain and being pleasant, you understand.  Anyway, I’d put my purchases out in the fresh air and watched from my back door as rain bucketed down, suddenly turning to hail, thrashing anything that moved, including next door’s cat who’d been bird watching with his evil twitching tail.  I was glad he got his comeuppance.  Now, there’s bright sunshine and my plants seem fine.  I think I’ll dig in three pinks under my kitchen window, some primroses by the back door and leave the others where I can view them as I stand at the sink (daydreaming and scheming, not washing up). 

I wander round the garden eyeing up last year’s successes and failures.  I’m a serial mover of plants.  They don’t get much peace in my garden.  But most of them survive and some flourish.  Like my Mexican Orange bush, which is taking over a little too raucously.  I’ve cut it back and moved a rose that was being stifled, but big is big – nothing can make it downsize really.  What I need is a larger garden.  Must tell my husband.  He wants to treble the size of his garage for his motorbikes – the ones he has and the ones he wants to have.

I’m inside again, reading about pinks.  They need coarse sand, it says.  I don’t have any about the place and can’t think of an alternative, apart from skimming the impasse for some chalky pebbles.  I have a bucket and a rake, but do I dare?  My neighbour, who owns the land to the front of my house, has a big white van and thinks very little of running over my hollyhocks if provoked.  Perhaps I’d better go to the garden centre and buy an inadequate and overpriced bag of grit and be done with it.

Update: Alfie is eating his way around Singapore, and I’ve visited two garden centres whose staff knows nothing of coarse sand for planting (‘...pas en France, Madame!’).

Not sure I'd like an Indian pancake for breakfast...

Happy Days 

Sunday Walking in France II

I must be wired this way – I’d rather be outside.

With the sky blazing blue and the sun yellow as an egg I wrapped up warmly and set off from Royan along the beach towards St Georges de Didonne.  The chill wind had me pulling up my cagoul hood leaving only my sunglasses and nose for a face.  I like to be warm more than I like to be pretty.

No more than a handful of people on the beach, as is normal before lunch here in south west France.  A calm sea and soft sand flicking up inside my trainers, I began to ask questions like ‘I wonder how many people have walked along this beach in the past thousand years?’ or ‘How long does it take to make a grain of sand?’.  At the same time I thought about the poem I’d promised to write and deliver on my daughter’s wedding day.  It had seemed like a good idea at the time.  She doesn’t want Shakespeare.  No sonnets.  She showed me an Ogden Nash which we both liked.  But Ogden Nash doesn’t know her, and I do.

Lines came to me: ‘impish smiles’ and ‘vagabond wishes’, ‘arms around you, arms around you’, flitting through my brain – if only I’d had a dictaphone with me. There are others I can’t remember and they won’t come back, if past experience is any guide.

Preoccupied with one immovable fact, I walked on. My mother is suffering.  She has heart failure – it’s actually a condition you can live with, according to the NHS site, and can be graded from 1 to 4.  It doesn’t matter how you grade it, the fact is that it’s serious and means that mum has limited time to be with the ones she loves and do the things she still wants to do.  Pictures float in and out of my mind.  I see her young and strong on the hockey field (she was a county player), or rushing out to the ‘pumps’ to administer petrol to a lunchtime motorist (my dad managed a Shell petrol station for some years), or on a bike as we all sped round the lanes in Broseley where she made her home after the divorce.  More recently, she and I have driven to St Palais and eaten Camembert on french bread, adorned with ripe tomatoes and accompanied by a beaker of Bordeaux.  We sat on benches by the sea and felt like kings.  I hope we can again.

Incoming thoughts led me back to wedding days and rhyming couplets.  Maybe Ogden Nash would be better.  At least he’s a poet.  But I will rise to the challenge – what is anything worth if it’s too easy?

On I went, to the centre of St Georges de Didonne, where I found a café serving good coffee and homemade biscuits.  I read a magazine and lingered over an article on plants and how they can cure almost anything.  Funny what we can believe in moments of crisis.

Back round the coast along a different path, towards the lighthouse.  Few people still.  A woman sat alone reading, perfectly at ease.  There were boules pitches to the side of the path with the sea yards away.  I dug out my phone and discovered, as usual, that there was no power to take a picture.  The setting was blissful.  The sea surged gently and waves rose up against the rocks, echoing along the coast.  The only sound.

I re-joined the walkway along the road to Royan and wandered amongst ever increasing crowds.  Hats, scarves, gloves.  Still cold, but the sun had climbed higher and I was toasty.  I found my car and drove home, listening to Ed Sheeran, Indochine, Imagine Dragons, enjoying the sense of calm that still travelled with me, induced almost drug-like.

Arriving home, Al was in the garage welding.  I told him I loved him.  He said my sisters had rung and that mum has liquid in her lungs, which is why she’s finding it hard to breathe.  A common symptom of heart failure, apparently.  At last, something that makes sense.  There is medication to fix this.  My heart swelled with love as I walked around the garden and saw the pinks and primroses and buds upon the rose bush mum bought. 

I think of weddings and of beating the odds and having mum to stay again.

Happy Days