The worst book I've read — or listened to — in ages. This book shows the pitfalls of pastiche. Cox may have read a lot of Victorian novels, but he's only succeeded in writing a tedious, pompous, overwrought vomit pile of Victoriana. Okay, maybe "vomit pile" is a bit over the top. It's true that the plot is straight out of a Wilkie Collins or Mary Elizabeth Braddon novel, but it only highlights the level of their craft that they were able to elevate what really is very silly stuff to gripping page-turners that have real literary merit. Sadly, Cox has missed it by a mile.