The Whispering Gallery by Mark Sanderson - review

The Whispering Gallery

The Whispering Gallery is one of the wonders of St Paul's; it is also a telling metaphor for Fleet Street's historic trade: both form the heart of the second part of Mark Sanderson's Thirties-set trilogy, which sees the return of the impulsive, ambitious and perpetually beaten-up reporter John Steadman of the Daily News.

The ginger-haired hack's previous adventures in Snow Hill saw him turn over a brothel, make enemies of the local police over corruption, begin to acknowledge a latent homosexual tendresse for his best mate Sgt Matt Turner (a blue-eyed boy in blue), and suffer an assault that many readers found hard to endure in print without sitting on a bag of frozen peas in empathy.

This time, on a pavement-crackingly hot day in the summer of 1937, Steadman is waiting to pop the question to his best gal in the cool of the cathedral when a man jumps from the Whispering Gallery, killing both himself and a passing priest. The newsman in Steadman knows a double bubble of a lead story when he sees it and thoughts of romance are put on hold.

As Steadman struggles with the story, the first of a series of packages arrives at the offices of the Daily News. Each contains the body part of a woman, with a picture of a martyred saint and a threat that Steadman himself will be the final victim. Could the cathedral cover-up and the serial killings be related? Only a dangerous walk on the seamy side of EC4 can offer a solution.

The whodunnit element is, perhaps, one of the lesser reasons for enjoying this series. The orgies and sadism add piquancy, especially given our erroneous view of a rigid Thirties morality, but the real fascination - and what will keep you waiting for the final part - lies in the relationships that drive the tale. Lizzie is married to Matt but carries a thing for John. John loves Matt but knows he could be happy with Lizzie, Matt loves Lizzie and John but has told John that his love had better not speak its name.

Where will it all end? Half-rice and half-chips for all?

As in Snow Hill, Sanderson's story-telling moves at full pelt (sometimes to the detriment of character development) and he combines an engrossing tour of long-gone back streets with a tremendous eye for the louche and grotesque. This compensates partly for some clichés and anachronisms and some tell-rather-than-show exposition that adds an unevenness to the tale.

But Sanderson excels in creating atmosphere. He conjures the smell of a teeming metropolis open for any kind of business: the tanneries, the slaughterhouses, the pubs and printworks as well as the stink of corruption and the honest sweat of grafters raising themselves from the wen.

There's the whiff of honest sweat about Sanderson's writing, too, and if you love London, you'll love The Whispering Gallery.