The Kingdom of Bones is the haunting story of Tom Sayers, a former boxing champion who must continue to fight--to clear his name after a series of gruesome murders, for the heart and soul of a leading lady, and to uncover the truth behind a legend as old as evil itself. Wrongly accused of the slaughter of pauper children in the wake of the touring theater company he manages, Tom Sayers is forced to disappear into a twilight world of music halls and traveling boxing booths. Beginning with a chance encounter in a Philadelphia pleasure park one weekend in 1903, this brilliantly macabre mystery traces Sayers's journey from England's provincial playhouses through London's mighty Lyceum Theatre and on to the high society of a transforming American South--with many a secret to be uncovered in the dark alleyways, backstage areas, and houses of ill repute that lie along the way.
As Sayers seeks the truth behind the killings, he is pursued in turn by the tireless Detective Inspector Sebastian Becker. Desperate to ensure the safety of actress Louise Porter, Sayers calls on an old friend, Bram Stoker, for help. But Stoker's links with the world of the Victorian occult lead Sayers to discover a danger even greater than he could have imagined.
Thrown into a maelstrom of obsession, betrayal, and sacrifice--where even the pure may not escape damnation--Sayers must face the implications of an unthinkable bargain: the exchange of a soul for a chance at eternal life.
With action that spans continents, decades, and every level of society, The Kingdom of Bones follows the troubled lives of those touched by Tom Sayers, ultimately weaving their stories into a harrowing climax that stirs the mind--and the blood.
Questions for Stephen Gallagher
Jeff VanderMeer for Amazon.com: Could you describe your surroundings as you answer these questions?
Gallagher: I'm in my study with a bare wood floor and a beamed ceiling that goes all the way up to the roofline. The lighting comes from a rack of spotlights on one of the beams. There are two desks back-to-back with a flatscreen monitor on each and a swivel chair so that I can spin from one to the other in your basic Evil Genius world domination setup. The house is a rural Victorian cottage about half an hour's drive from Lancaster, England, and until ten years ago this room was just space above the garage. Back then I rented an office in town, but it made more sense to spend the money creating a dedicated workspace while putting the house back to its period look.
Amazon.com: What provided the spark for The Kingdom of Bones?
Gallagher: Writing a short story called "Old, Red Shoes" for a Ripper-themed collection edited by Gardner Dozois. It was a contemporary tale but the work involved visiting all the Whitechapel locations and researching the period, and I came out hooked. Not so much on the Ripper stuff as on that whole rich and epic environment. I saw the prospect of attempting something utterly real and historically accurate, but with a genuine operatic sweep.
Amazon.com: I assume there was some research involved. Can you share a few interesting details that didn't make it into the novel?
Gallagher: It was fascinating to sort through Bram Stoker's working papers for Dracula in Philadelphia's Rosenbach museum and get a sense of another writer's process. The way he sketched out rough structures for each chapter and set a wordage target for each, striking each one out with a single pencil stroke when the chapter was done. Sudden flashes of insight scribbled on hotel stationery. None of this makes any direct appearance in The Kingdom of Bones, but it helped me get a real sense of Stoker's presence. As you probably know, he was Henry Irving's right-hand man and stood right at the heart of the theatrical and social scenes of the day. But no contemporary portrayal ever quite seems to nail him.
Amazon.com: Besides making sure the historical detail didn't overwhelm the story, what was the biggest writing challenge for you with this novel?
Gallagher: There were so many strands that it allowed me to pull together. The biggest challenge was in making them all work to a single end. I wanted to capture some of the energy of the old dime novels and story papers but also to be able to say something meaningful about love, death and obsession along the way. However you think I did, give me some credit for aiming high. There's no reason why popular fiction should be devoid of theme, and no reason why serious art shouldn't entertain.
Amazon.com: Do you have a favorite scene in The Kingdom of Bones?
Gallagher: That would have to be the scene where Tom Sayers climbs up into the ironwork of a railway bridge to take shelter and to hide from his pursuers on the day of his arrest. He's got nothing but the clothes he's wearing and the coat he just stole from a beerhouse, and no money for food other than some pennies he found in the coat's pocket. Steam trains are thundering over his head, and smoke and sparks are falling around him like fairy rain. It's the first time he's been able to stop and draw breath. He's been falsely accused, beaten by the police, and faces a hanging if they catch him. But all he can think about is the safety of the woman he loves. That's despite the fact that she doesn't love him back, and almost certainly never will. I suppose it's my favorite scene because it's one of those moments where we can see fate being determined by character.
Amazon.com: What has reader reaction been like to the book?
Gallagher: Unbelievable. I mean, genuinely. Complete strangers have been tracking me down just to tell me how they feel about it. It's only been out a few weeks and it's drawn the biggest reader reaction of anything I've ever done. People are doubling up copies to give them as Christmas presents. Which I'm entirely in favor of.
Amazon.com: What are you currently working on?
Gallagher: Another big period story. It's not a sequel, but a standalone novel of similar character. Some of the same people play a part, but you see them at a very different time and place in their lives. What I do next may depend on the progress of the WGA strike. The format rights of my last UK series have been picked up by Jerry Bruckheimer and that's opened some doors into American TV, but everything's on hold until the issues are resolved. But earlier this year I roughed out the key story points for a third book in The Kingdom of Bones vein, so there's no danger of me standing idle.
The Brit Stephen Gallagher isnât new to genre fiction, having published more than a dozen novels and collections, most recently The Painted Bride (2006), The Spirit Box (2005), and Out of His Mind (2004). The Kingdom of Bones does not masquerade as a historical novel. Rather, despite some slow spots and anachronisms, it succeeds as a thriller that perfectly captures the Victorian eraâs culture. Thanks to attentive research, Gallagherâs narrative tapestryâ"particularly his portrayal of Victorian society on two continentsâ"is as rich as that of Caleb Carrâs The Alienist or The Angel of Darkness, with which the novel will undoubtedly be compared.Copyright © 2004 Phillips & Nelson Media, Inc.
Review
“Grafting supernatural elements onto straightforward detective stories, Stephen Gallagher shows the occult mystery in its best light.... Stylish.”
—New York Times Book Review
“Highly addictive . . . Gallagher pulls it off with genuine skill. The chance of immortality and the occult are compelling and deftly handled....No reader will be let down by the ending.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“[A] swift-moving supernatural thriller.”
—Los Angeles Times
“If thriller-reading were a sin, Stephen Gallagher would be responsible
for my ultimate damnation.”
—Dean R. Koontz
From the Trade Paperback edition.
About the Author
STEPHEN GALLAGHER is a novelist, screenwriter, and director. He is the author of fourteen novels, including Nightmare, with Angel; Red, Red Robin; and The Spirit Box. He lives in England.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
Philadelphia
1903
ONE
They were driving sheep through the middle of town again. The office window was open and Sebastian Becker could hear them from his desk. All through the afternoon Oakes, the bookkeeper, had been finding reasons to look down into the street. Now he had another.
Sebastian laid down his pen and tilted back his chair. His eyes hurt. He yawned and stretched and pressed the heels of his palms into them and wondered, not for the first time, whether he needed to be checked out for eyeglasses.
Then he realized what he was doing, and cut the yawn short as best he could.
He said, “Are you expecting someone, Mister Oakes?”
Oakes looked back into the office. “Only the boy with the bag from New York,” he said.
“The boy’s been and gone,” Sebastian said. “There was nothing that can’t wait until Monday.”
Oakes hesitated for a moment and then moved out of the slanting sunlight and away from the window. There were at least half a dozen other desks in the room, none occupied, but all of them piled high with paperwork. One chair had a waistcoat slung over the back of it. Another, a gun belt.
As Sebastian lifted his pen again, Oakes gathered together some ledgers and moved them from one place to another. The sheep were almost out of earshot now, their eerie half-human cries pursued by the impatient clanging of an obstructed streetcar. Oakes began to straighten chairs. Despite Sebastian’s permission, he seemed reluctant to leave.
“Mister Oakes . . .” Sebastian prompted him.
Oakes said, “Mister Bearce has said he’s unhappy with my work.”
“We’ll find some way to change his mind,” Sebastian said. “On Monday. Go home, Mister Oakes.”
“If you’re certain . . .” Oakes said, fishing for further reassurance. But Sebastian just looked at him, so he went.
Alone now and with one less distraction, Sebastian tried to return his attention to the words on the page. Despite having left the room, Oakes was still somewhere in the suite of offices. Sebastian could hear him moving around, bothering someone else, finding a few last things to do . . . almost as if the building might absorb his dedication, and then whisper of it to the absent Mr. Bearce.
The General Business letter was a report on the ongoing work of the agency. Compiled every two weeks and sent to George Bangs in New York City, it covered all the investigations that were under way and any new business that might have come in. Bangs would draw together information from all the agency offices and then deliver his summary to the Pinkerton brothers.
Sebastian had been an assistant superintendent for just over a month. The paperwork called for skills he could muster but didn’t enjoy using. It was a warm Saturday afternoon, and he and most of Philadelphia were in a weekend mood. There was also the distraction of the telegraph message that he’d tucked under the corner of his blotter. Personal to him, it caught his eye every now and again.
When the letter was finished, he dropped the handwritten pages into the out-tray for the stenographers and reached for his coat from the back of his chair. He was stiff from sitting, and his eyes ached from the sustained concentration.
Sebastian Becker was a man in his early forties. He had not yet gone to seed, and some thought him handsome—his wife, for one. When he looked in a mirror, what he mostly saw was the face of his father coming through. That, and some of the traces of old pain. Intending no offense to his late father, he didn’t see handsome at all.
He folded the telegraph message and slipped it into his pocket. Then he opened his desk drawer, took out a double-action Bulldog police revolver, and checked and spun its chambers before stowing it inside his jacket.
“Is there a problem, Mister Becker?”
He turned around. Oakes was watching him from the doorway, pulling on his own coat as he stood there.
“No problem, Mister Oakes,” Sebastian said. He closed the window and then followed Oakes out of the office.
As they descended the building’s stairway together, Oakes said, “Any plans for the Sunday, sir?”
“I promised to take the Mrs. and her sister out to Willow Grove,” Sebastian said. “She’s heard that Sousa’s conducting in the park.”
“Hardly the music for ladies, I wouldn’t have thought.”
“Mrs. Becker can be an unusual woman.”
The night janitor was waiting by the metal gates. He’d closed up the building and was letting the last few people out in ones and twos. He was a veteran, and never spoke. It was said that cannon fire had made him simple.
Out on Chestnut Street and raising his voice as the metal slid, Oakes said, “Will you take the boy?”
And Becker said, “I rather think we will.”
A streetcar ride and a ten-minute walk took Sebastian home. Home was in a narrow, tree-lined alley just off a pleasant square, a neatly pointed brick row house with shutters on its windows and a small garden to the rear. Before he let himself in, he checked around to see if anyone was observing. A nag was pulling a brewery wagon across the end of the alley, and that was about all.
It was a quiet neighborhood, and strangers would stand out. Come eight o’clock, you’d hear the banging of the shutters, and by nine, all would be dark. But that was the life he’d been looking for.
They’d lived here a month. The rent was a stretch even on a superintendent’s pay, but it was worth it for him to know that his family was secure. When they’d made the move after the rise in his fortunes, he’d had no idea how good the timing of it was. Their old Lehigh Avenue apartment had been right in the heart of the Irish quarter, and in the light of that morning’s news it would have been no safe place to remain.
As he closed the door behind him, his wife’s sister was crossing the hallway with an armful of cut flowers from the garden.
“Good evening, Sebastian,” she said.
“Hello, Frances,” he said. Before he’d finished speaking, the ceiling above their heads began to shiver with the lowest bass notes of a scale from a tenor tuba.
Becker had called his wife an unusual woman. In most respects she was not. She was slight, dark-eyed, pale and freckled and elegantly pretty —all attractive features, but none of them in any way startling or radical. What was uncommon was to find such a woman spending at least twenty minutes of each day in practice on a four-valve euphonium, entirely for her own enjoyment.
He followed the sound up the stairs to the sitting room at the back of the house. When he pushed open the door, there she was. She’d set up her chair and music stand by the window. Against the late sun, not just the brass of the instrument but the entirety of her shone like gold. The floor vibrated like a deck and the very air shook when the low notes sounded. Their son was at her feet, propped on his elbows, oblivious to everything but the magazine he was looking at.
Movement caught her eye, and she saw him. Without missing a beat, she raised her eyebrows in a greeting. Sebastian managed a smile, and wondered at the patience of their new neighbors. They’d discussed the possibility of occasional disturbance with them, of course. Both neighbors had thanked them for their thoughtfulness and insisted that they would not mind. But after a certain amount of Lohengrin, anyone could start to regret being quite so agreeable.
Robert was scrambling to his feet, his dime novel forgotten. He’d seen his father. He came running toward Sebastian and, avoiding his offered embrace, punched him in the leg as hard as he could before slithering by and away. Sebastian could hear Frances calling after him as he scuttled down the stairs.
Elisabeth lowered her euphonium and laid it down with care, before crossing the room to her husband.
“What’s the matter with him?” Sebastian said.
“He’d convinced himself you were going to be early,” Elisabeth said. “That’s all.”
“I never said I would.”
“I know.”
She rose on tiptoe to give Sebastian a kiss of greeting, steadying herself with a hand against his chest. He sensed her sudden tension as she became aware of the Bulldog revolver under his coat, even though her outward attitude showed no change.
“What’s wrong?” she said, dropping back to her usual height.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“I thought English policemen didn’t like to carry guns.”
“I’m no longer a policeman, and this isn’t England.”
“Is someone looking for you?”
He thought about showing her the telegraph message, and decided against it.
“Stop worrying,” he said. “It’s only a precaution.”
“Against what? Can we still go out?”
From most of the women he’d ever known, such a question would have been thrown down as a challenge or with a pout. But not from
his wife.
“We can still go out,” he said.
TWO
After church the next day, and in their summer Sunday best, Sebastian and his family boarded a trolley to the park at Willow Grove. He wore his dark suit and a straw boater. The women wore long, light dresses and Robert a white sailor suit. In deference to Elisabeth’s worries, Sebastian had hidden the revolver in the waistband of his pants. He’d tucked it right around in the small of his back so that she wouldn’t be aware of it, even if the movement of the trolley should throw them together. He...
