What We're Writing--Debs Tromping on Literary London

DEBORAH CROMBIE: I've been fascinated for years by the idea of literary Bloomsbury. This part of London near the British Museum is famous for its literary associations with the "Bloomsbury Set", a group of English writers, intellectuals, philosophers, and artists, which included Virginia Woolf, Vanessa Bell, Duncan Grant, Lytton Strachey, E.M. Forster, and John Maynard Keynes, among others. Many of the group lived near 51 Gordon Square. Charles Dickens lived for a time in Doughty Street, and Charles Darwin in Gower Street. This was all heady stuff for me and these associations influenced my decision to move Duncan Kincaid to the police station in Holborn, right in the heart of Bloombury. 

But Bloomsbury had surprises for me! In the book-in-progress, I put two of my characters in a flat in Guilford Street, the location chosen one night when I was walking in London in the rain. Imagine my delight when I discovered just recently that in the 1920s both Virginia Woolf and Dorothy Sayers had lived literally around the corner from my fictional characters in Mecklenburg Square (although not at the same time.) 

We usually see photos of both writers--especially Sayers--when they were older, but I like to think of them as they might have looked in the Mecklenburg Square period, when they were both establishing  independent and creative lives. Here's Sayers as a young woman.

The Mecklenburg Square connection drove me back to Sayers' biographies, which I hadn't read in decades, and I'd forgotten that she had a couple of passionate affairs and an illegitimate child. It was only when she found herself pregnant that she learned her lover was already married, and it was her lover's wife who arranged for her to bear her child in secret. Now that's the stuff of fiction! In Gaudy Night Sayers used her own first floor flat in Mecklenburg Square as Harriet Vane's home.

And then I discovered that Sayers later lived for many years at 24 Great James Street, which is right behind Holborn Police Station. How did I not know this before?

When I can go to London again, I'm going to be walking in Sayers' footsteps!

But in the meantime, here's a little snippet that introduces the flat in Guilford Street, which is not nearly as elegant as the one in the photo above.

 

Melody settled into the back of the panda car beside Kincaid. He was on his mobile again, now talking to someone that she assumed was his team’s case manager. “Who’s available as FLO?” he asked, then nodded as he listened. “McGillivray? Good. Tell her to stand by until we get an address for the family.”

Of course, they would need a family liaison officer to inform the next of kin, Melody thought, and she didn’t envy whoever had caught the rota on that job. Dealing with bereaved relatives had never been her strong suit, and she’d often envied the easy way Gemma seemed to connect with the families they interviewed.

As Kincaid continued organizing his team, Melody realized that her feet felt like blocks of ice. She hadn’t been prepared for standing in puddles in the park and her ankle boots were soaked. Beside her, Kincaid’s coat gave off the distinctive aroma of wet wool as it steamed in the blast from the car’s heater. She thought of Gemma, going home to a warm, dry house, and wondered if she’d been a bit hasty in asking to tag along on this interview when she could be home and dry as well. But the rain-blurred streets zipped by and in moments the car was pulling to a stop, just as Kincaid ended his call.

Glancing out, Melody saw the bulk of Great Ormond Street Hospital rising on the south side of the street. On the north side was a rather grim-looking building in dark brick, its color indistinguishable in the gloom. Kincaid scrolled through his mobile, apparently checking the address. Nodding as if satisfied, he said, “Let’s see if Doug is here yet,” and tapped out a text.

Melody realized this was the first time she’d been alone with Kincaid since the weekend in Gloucestershire when she’d made such a disastrous hash of her life, and felt herself coloring with sudden awkwardness. Kincaid, however, seemed oblivious, and when his mobile pinged with a reply, he put it away and leaned forward to speak to the driver. “If you could wait, I don’t think we’ll be long. And then we’ll need a run to the station.” To Melody, he added, “Doug says he’ll buzz us in.”

Melody followed him as he slid out of the car and crossed the street, picking her way around the rivulets running in the gutters.

The fanlight-topped black door buzzed open as they reached it, and they stepped into a dingy hallway with a scuffed linoleum floor. The door to the ground floor flat opened, framing Doug Cullen. His eyes widened as he took in Melody. “What are you—” He shook his head. “Never mind. You’d better come in.”

He stepped back to allow them into a sitting room. The place was furnished in student chic—including the rice-paper globe covering the hanging ceiling bulb—but looked clean and relatively tidy. A rolling rack filled with women’s clothing had been positioned in front of the window, providing a curtain of sorts. There were a couple of squashy armchairs and a futon covered with layers of Kantha throw blankets and some sequined pillows. The flat smelled faintly of curry.

A high, shallow shelf above the futon held a row of the oddest dolls Melody had ever seen. They had distinctly individual clay faces, some with hats, some with molded hair, and they were dressed in random scraps of colorful cloth. Melody had the uncomfortable feeling that they were watching her.

REDS and readers, do you enjoy walking in literary footsteps? What famous writers' homes have you visited?