Excerpt from Melmoth by Sarah Perry, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

As Hoffman departed – mouth coaxed shut, and decently zipped up inside a nylon shroud – a police officer arrived, her manner that of a teacher disappointed in her pupils. When had the old man arrived? They couldn't say: doors were not always locked when they ought to be. What time was the file left at the cloakroom desk? Nobody knew: it had been tucked a little out of sight, and gone unnoticed an hour or so. Why, of all people, should it be left to – Dr Pražan, did he say? He had no idea, and the authorities were welcome to it, so far as he was concerned. Had no one seen that one lamp shining? Had no one heard the lifting of the latch? No one had seen; no one had heard. Still (the police officer shrugged, and put on her overcoat): short of discovering a blade in the kidney, that was very likely to be that. The notice of refusal was taken down from the door: the students returned, and it was clear from their festive air that word had got round, and would brighten up the ordinary working day.


Karel pauses: lights another cigarette. The file is on the table between them. Outside, a group of girls in white ten-gallon hats go arm-in-arm along the cobbled alley. Snow has begun again to fall, sifting down against the kerb. The last girl – lagging behind, her feet sore in new shoes perhaps, or slowed by heaviness of heart – looks up at the window as she passes, and sees there a man and a woman, silent, grave, gazing down at something out of sight. They're entirely unalike, these two, but something in the cast of their faces – say, a kind of melancholy exhilaration – makes them seem cut from the same stone. The girl shrugs – moves on (a lovers' tiff, perhaps?) – and never thinks of them again.

'Still,' says Helen. 'Is it so bad, after all? Sorry, of course, for your loss; and the dead, they –' There is a pause so slight it passes Karel by. 'It's an affront. The sight of it. It is unbelievable. But he was old, and likely knew nothing about it. Blew out like a light bulb that should have been changed, that's all.'

'That he is dead doesn't trouble me. I miss him, that's all. It's what came later –' He stands, seeming suddenly impatient, or perhaps angry: Helen is conscious of having failed a task for which she never volunteered, and moreover is entirely unsuited. 'Look, I must get back. Thea will wonder where I've gone – yes, all right, I'll take your scarf. And you take this – then you'll see.' He unwinds the leather cord again, and withdraws a sheaf of paper. It is only half the contents. This he gives to her, without flourish or warning: he seems, she thinks, to have lost all interest in it. 'Take it,' he says. 'Read it or not, I don't care. Come and see us next week – Thea sends love – then you can have the rest of it, if you like.' Again, and for the final time, there's that look which sits so poorly on the face of a friend: a little private, a little malicious. It is this, above all, which gives Helen pause; then she takes the paper she's offered, and puts it into her satchel. 'Well – take care,' she says, meaning it more now than she ever has, but he's gone, on a dismissive gesture, out through the curtains, out through the door; swiftly, as if hunted.


Helen Franklin lives east of the river on the fifth floor of an apartment block. It is by no means inconvenient for the Metro, thought certainly it could be closer; it is not the city's worst district, nor does it have much to commend it. There is a lift, which she doesn't use: she only ever takes the stairs, enduring patiently the aching limbs, the palms scored by the handles of heavy plastic bags. At the threshold she pauses, the door ajar, awaiting the inevitable call – a woman's voice, grainy, querulous: 'Helen? Is that you?'

Excerpted from Melmoth by Sarah Perry. Copyright © 2018 by Sarah Perry. Excerpted by permission of Custom House. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.