The Silent House of Sleep
‘No one likes death. It just happens to be our business.’
Nobody who meets Dr Jack Cuthbert forgets him. Tall, urbane,
brilliant but damaged, this Scottish pathologist who works with Scotland Yard
is the best the new DCI has seen. But Cuthbert is a man who lives with secrets,
and he still battles demons brought back from the trenches.
When not one but two corpses are discovered in a London park
in 1929, Cuthbert must use every tool at his disposal to solve the mystery of
their deaths. In the end, the horrifying truth is more shocking than even he
could have imagined.
As he works the case, Cuthbert realises that history rarely
stays in the past. And even in the final moments, there is still one last
revelation that leaves him reeling.
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Author Bio –
Allan Gaw is a Scot who lives and works near Glasgow. He
studied medicine and is a pathologist by training but a writer by inclination.
Having worked in the NHS and universities in Scotland, England, Northern
Ireland and the US, he now devotes his time to writing.
The Silent House of Sleep is his debut novel and is the
first in the Dr Jack Cuthbert Mystery series.
You can read more about him and his work at his website: https://researchet.wordpress.com/ .
Social Media Links
Twitter (X): https://twitter.com/ResearchET
The Silent
House of Sleep
by
Allan Gaw
EXTRACT
In
this extract from the opening chapter of the novel, the protagonist, the
Scottish pathologist Dr Jack Cuthbert, has just completed giving his expert
testimony at the Old Bailey. On the
witness stand, he has been assured and in complete command of the
situation. Now, on his way home, we see
a very different side to him.
London: December 1928
…
‘Dr Cuthbert, thank you for your testimony.
You may stand down.’
With that, the reporters in the courtroom
were readying themselves for a swift conclusion to the trial. One or two were
already reaching over the rail, trying to pass notes to Mrs Everett’s lawyer in
order to secure an exclusive interview with her when she was released. The
lawyer read these and scrunched them up, scowling at the press benches as he
did so.
Cuthbert did not stay in the courtroom to
hear the outcome, for that was not what interested him. He regarded his task as
one of examining the evidence in order to provide the truth of the matter. This
was a truth that would only reveal itself through logical enquiry of the
circumstances, careful evaluation of the physical evidence and detailed
analysis of the human remains. When he delivered this truth, it was up to
others to use it appropriately.
He left
the Old Bailey and as it was already almost five o’clock, he chose to walk back
to his home in Bloomsbury rather than return to the hospital. The late
afternoon air was cold and damp, and the pavements of London were still wet
with the melting slush from the previous week’s snowfall.
Cuthbert trod carefully to avoid the worst of it, but
as he turned on to Fleet Street, there were large, dirty puddles of melting ice
everywhere. He cursed his decision to walk. His boots, normally black and
polished to the highest of shines, were already wet and dull. He shook his head
in irritation, and before their condition affected him any further, he hailed a
cab.
It would only be a short journey to Gordon Square and Cuthbert
spent it bent over, trying to polish the worst of the slush away. However, the
damp, dirty stains on his boots were refusing to yield to his handkerchief. He
rubbed all the more, almost scratching the leather as his force became frantic.
Suddenly, he was caught by the bitter cordite burning
his throat. He tried to swallow to rid himself of it, but his mouth was dry and
his tongue was rough. His heart began to thump in his chest. The colour drained
from his face. It was starting again. Taking great gulps of air, he shook his
head from side to side, vainly trying to clear his mind of the noise and the
gunfire. He flinched and cowered on the seat of the cab at the monumental thuds
of the exploding shells all around him. The cab driver was watching him in the
rear-view mirror. His fare was sweating and shaking. He had seen it before but
never in a gentleman like this.
‘All right, guv’nor?’
Cuthbert could not speak to reply. He just gripped his
briefcase close to his chest, trying to steady himself and hide the worst of it
from the driver. Finally, he managed to nod and was relieved that they had
already stopped outside his front door on the square. His hand was still
shaking as he handed over the coins, and he did not wait for his change.
Fumbling, Cuthbert managed to get his key in the lock. He almost fell into his
hallway and slammed the street door behind him. With the door at his back, he
sank to the ground waiting for the horror to subside. It would pass for it
always did, but not before it had crushed a little bit more of him.
He was grateful at least that his housekeeper had been
spared this sight of him. The attacks were now less common than they had been,
but when they came, they always caught him unawares. For a man so guarded and
always so much in control of his own feelings, that was the worst of it.
His heart was now slowing in his chest, but his hands
were still shaking as he wiped the tears of the terror from his eyes. He
struggled to his feet and found his way into the sanctuary of his study on the
ground floor. It was too late to think about anything else.
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