Excerpt from The Strings of Murder by Oscar de Muriel, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

'Jesus…' I mumbled.

The door was already unlocked; ajar, actually, allowing anybody to walk inside. I swallowed painfully and instinctively felt for my pistol, only to remember that I had unloaded the weapon in the afternoon since I was no longer on duty.

With cautious steps, I made my slow progress into the shadows.

I stopped for a moment, while my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and then my heart stopped as I made out the crouching figures of at least five men along the corridor.

I roared. 'Don't move or else—'

Then a cold hand grabbed me by my shoulder and I heard the door slamming mightily. I turned around, my heart pounding, and pointed my gun firmly at the broad shadow of a man. I could see only a pair of small eyes fixed on me, maliciously, as the intruder spoke.

'Come on, Frey, I know you have no bullets.'

I hesitated, feeling a drop of cold sweat rolling down my temple and hearing the men around me approaching. For a moment I could not believe my ears.

'Is that… Salisbury?'

The man sighed and lit a match. The little flame revealed a bushy beard and the most piercing stare; he indeed was Britain's prime minister. I lowered my gun immediately, utterly puzzled.

'Yes, Frey,' he said, lighting up the nearest oil lamp with the remainder of his match. 'Although it is Lord Salisbury to you, my man.'

Walking into the light came the plump figure of Sir Charles Warren. I had to shake my head at the picture: two of the most prominent men in Britain were breaking into my home in a joint enterprise! The whole situation felt like an odd dream.

'Sir Charles!'

'We do understand how untoward this is,' he said, 'but we have to deal with most urgent matter…urgent enough for us to lurk in the night like common thieves. Can we speak in private?'

'Follow me, please,' I said, leading the way to my small study.

Both men sat in front of my desk; Warren rather let himself fall onto the chair, his legs apparently exhausted.

'I will get straight to the point,' Lord Salisbury began, snorting and grunting in one of my armchairs like an uncomfortable bull. 'Sir Charles has told me that you know about the situation in Scotland? Is that correct?'

'The murdered musician? Yes, My Lord.'

'This is no ordinary murder. The man…' Salisbury seemed more and more uncomfortable… 'He was killed most viciously; throat cut open, then they ripped apart his belly and mutilated his innards.'

'That sound[s] like something the Ripper would do,' I said.

'Precisely,' Sir Charles nodded with sudden vehemence. 'It has to be some sadistic wretch that is aping the Ripper's work.'

'Can you imagine what would become of the British Empire if we suddenly had a Ripper in every county? Panic! Bloody, sheer panic everywhere!'

I shuddered at the picture; the British Isles in an utter state of fear, with similarly ghastly murders committed every week all around us. No wonder they were so worried; the actual death of the man might not be crucial for them, but the context in which it had occurred made it dangerous to the extreme.

'And you want me to investigate,' I murmured.

'Indeed,' said the prime minister. 'I remembered your name this morning, as you probably noticed. The reports of your pursuit of that blasted black widow made the most amusing reading on Sunday mornings…I need one of our best men up there,' Lord Salisbury continued.

I savoured a sip of brandy, 'I presume we will have to craft some excuse for my presence in Edinburgh.'

This selection is excerpted with permission from Oscar de Muriel's The Strings of Murder. Reprinted by arrangement with Pegasus Books. All rights reserved.