INTERNATIONAL PRAISE FOR
“Extraordinary…. Cox has crafted a fictional epic that’s reminiscent of Charles Dickens…. Unfailingly suspenseful.”
–
“Fascinating.”
—
“An unadulterated pleasure…. Thrilling…. An entertaining love letter to the bizarre and dangerous hypocrisies of Victorian England.”
—
“Like the great Victorian novels, this one is brimming with assumed identities, lost birthrights, revenge, murder, treachery and subterfuge, ensuring suspense to the end.”
—
“A page-turning gothic thriller.”
—
“An enthralling literary page turner…. From start to finish, it’s a thrilling journey.”
—Cleveland
“A rewarding, sinister yarn.”
—
“An enthralling journey into the depths of Victorian London and the psyche of a man obsessed….
—
“Resonant with echoes of Wilkie Collins and Charles Dickens…. Its exemplary blend of intrigue, history and romance mark a stand-out literary debut.”
—
“A bibliophilic, cozy, murderous confection.”
—
FICTION
BIOGRAPHY
ANTHOLOGIES
(with R.A. Gilbert)
EDITOR
(Oxford World’s Classics)
COMPILER
Contents
PART THE FIRST
Death of a Stranger: October–November 1854
PART THE SECOND
Phoebus Rising: 1819–1848
INTERMEZZO: 1849–1853
PART THE THIRD
Into the Shadow: October 1853
PART THE FOURTH
The Breaking of the Seal: October–November 1853
PART THE FIFTH
The Meaning of Night: 1853–1855
Editor’s Preface
The following work, printed here for the first time, is one of the lost curiosities of nineteenth-century literature. It is a strange concoction, being a kind of confession, often shocking in its frank, conscienceless brutality and explicit sexuality, that also has a strongly novelistic flavour; indeed, it appears in the hand-list that accompanies the Duport papers in the Cambridge University Library with the annotation ‘(Fiction?)’. Many of the presented facts – names, places, events (including the unprovoked murder of Lucas Trendle) – that I have been able to check are verifiable; others appear dubious at best or have been deliberately falsified, distorted, or simply invented. Real people move briefly in and out of the narrative, others remain unidentified – or unidentifiable – or are perhaps pseudonymous. As the author himself says, ‘The boundaries of this world are forever shifting – from day to night, joy to sorrow, love to hate, and from life itself to death.’ And, he might have added, from fact to fiction.
As to the author, despite his desire to confess all to posterity, his own identity remains a tantalizing mystery. His name as given here, Edward Charles Glyver, does not appear in the Eton Lists of the period, and I have been unable to trace it or any of his pseudonyms in any other source, including the London Post-office Directories for the relevant years. Perhaps, after we have read these confessions, this should not surprise us; yet it is strange that