Excerpt from The Darwin Affair by Tim Mason, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Another shot.

He saw a confusion of blue and red and black surrounding the carriage and heard the cries of men and frightened horses. A couple of onlookers had got someone on the ground, thrashing and cursing. The horses of the Guard were rearing, and the coachman was trying to calm the steeds harnessed to the royal carriage. As Field came abreast of the entourage, he saw the Queen, flushed and wide-eyed, talking rapidly to her husband, gesturing and scanning the horror-struck crowd. And then Prince Albert's furious gaze came to rest directly on him, Inspector Field of the Detective.

Her Majesty's alive, anyway, although my own prospects are dim.

The figure on the ground was no longer struggling; a policeman sat on the man's chest while others pinioned his arms and legs.

"Kilvert!" cried Field, and one of the constables, a rail-thin, dour Welshman, appeared at his side. "You and Llewellyn see to it no other blighter in the crowd's got a bloody gun—I've got Hatchet-Face back at St. Albans with a gun or something like it."

" Yes, sir! "

There was a cry and the crack of a whip, and the black-and-gold carriage lurched into motion once again, making a wide arc and turning back toward the palace, its royal passengers seemingly safe after yet another assassination attempt. Field was running in roughly the same direction, back toward St. Albans, determined to find Little Stevie and wrest from him a name, a face, a description.

Stevie, however, as Charles Field, deep in his dark policeman's heart already feared, was no longer available for questioning. What Field hadn't anticipated, however, was to find him just round the corner from where he'd left him. The young man sat beneath the wrought-iron railings behind No. 44, his back against the rods and his head resting on his left shoulder. His narrow face was tilted sideways to the pitiless sky, his waistcoat scarlet and glistening, his throat sliced to the bone.

Inspector Field quickly looked up and down St. Albans Street and then knelt in the widening pool of Stevie's blood. The young man's right hand was thrust into the pocket of his trousers. Field gently pulled Stevie's arm, and the hand emerged, fist still clenched. When he prized it open, a bloodied sovereign dropped from the fingers. Field got to his feet, picking up the coin and grimacing at the sticky feel of wet at his knees and hands.

"You there!"

Two young constables Field didn't recognize ran toward him. One thrust the inspector against the railings and pinned him there with his truncheon.

"Whoa, now!" shouted Field. "Get your hands off!"

A liveried servant, wigless and unbuttoned, approached, carrying a toast-ing-fork, looking both fierce and frightened. "That's 'im!" he cried. "'E did it, I saw it all!"

"Constable," said Field, "you must be new to the Metropolitan. I am chief of detectives, do you understand me?"

The other policeman, crouching beside Stevie, looked up and said, "He's dead all right."

"Murderer!" cried a woman from the corner. She and several others were approaching.

"I saw it all!" repeated the servant from No. 44, shrilly.

"You will release me this instant!" shouted Field. "I've work to do!"

"I believe you already done your work here, sir. You're half-covered in blood, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I was inspecting the body, idiot!" Field glanced down, following the constable's pointed gaze, and saw that not only were his knees and hands wet with gore, but his shirt front and waistcoat were speckled with a fine red spray.

"He had nosebleed, for God's sake!"

The other constable rose to his feet, and as he did so, Stevie's head fell like a lid to the right, exposing vertebrae, oozing clusters of tubes, and a gaping hole where the left ear should have been.

"Good God," murmured Field.

Excerpted from The Darwin Affair by Tim Mason. Copyright © 2019 by Tim Mason. Excerpted by permission of Algonquin Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.