My new WIP

A very funny take on a horror story involving a Wizard Detective, a very much alive and dapper skeleton, a talking cat whose IQ outshines them all, and a teenage werewolf in denial. What could possibly go wrong? Everything. Absolutely everything! Where do I start?

Publishing before Christmas 2025. (Fingers Crossed!)

---

Here is a random sample chapter, well, not that random, it’s chapter 2. Throughout the book, there is also the continuing and slightly bizarre correspondence between Mathew and Julia, his ex-fiancée. Will love rekindle, or are the embers cold? Who knows? More importantly, who cares? First draft, so needs polishing.

2. The Missing Alchemist (Now Found, Slightly Annoyed)

Mathew Mathews was not, by any definition known to man, elf or tax accountant, as a morning person. It wasn’t that he was lazy – heavens, no – but rather that real sleep evaded him like a tax form at a wizard convention. He went to bed early enough, brushing his teeth with peppermint-flavoured illusion, pulling the covers up to his chin with hopeful intent, and closing his eyes to the soothing sounds of late-night sewer gurgling. But rest? Ha!

If it wasn’t the cat arguing with his reflection in the mirror again (“He started it!”), it was the fridge howling in hunger like a Banshee on a diet. And if neither of those charming interruptions were in play, his dreams would drag him into the vivid, exhausting realm of elsewhere. Not just dreaming of being somewhere else – no, he actually was somewhere else. Sometimes he woke up with sand in his shoes, ink on his nose, or once, memorably, someone else’s moustache.

The cat, by the way, an incorrigible ginger tom, was named Smudge. A fact he resented with every neutered fibre of his being. The name, the lack of testicles, the indignity of it all. He blamed Julia (Mathew’s Ex), for that most egregious of injustices, even though she wasn’t the one who actually wielded the surgical scissors. The fact that the vet had been female simply confirmed Smudge’s unshakeable belief that all women were, in some cosmic sense, out to get him.

Mathew shuffled downstairs in the greying light of a preposterously early morning and brewed his usual cup of coffee. Not coffee as you or I know it, but coffee in capital letters – thick, black, Colombian roast that could double as jet fuel and tasted like revenge. No milk. No sugar. No prisoners.

On the kitchen table sat a manilla file. Unmoved, unchanged, and still emitting all the warmth of an arctic fox’s armpit.

“Still here, then,” Mathew muttered.

Smudge, perched on top of the fridge like a furry gargoyle, stretched and yawned with feline disdain. “Probably a cold case,” he quipped, tail flicking. “Get it? Cold? Because it’s freezing?”

“You’re hilarious,” Mathew said flatly. “And you look dreadful.”

“That’s rich coming from a man who’s been snoring like a bagpipe full of badgers all night. And anyway, it wasn’t my fault. We were arguing.”

“We?”

“Me and my reflection. He’s a smug bastard.”

“Wonder where he gets that from.”

Mathew sighed and sat down with his coffee. “Let’s look at the file.”

“Don’t bother,” said Smudge. “Some eccentric alchemist vanished from a locked room years ago. Probably dead. Or, worse, boring.”

“You know, reading other people’s mail is incredibly rude.”

“And not reading it is incredibly pointless. What else am I supposed to do while you’re upstairs reliving your past lives as a hedge wizard?”

“Quiet. Let me look.”

“You just glanced at it.”

“I don’t read words, Smudge. I read the paper, the smell, the weight, the ink. The file speaks to me.”

“Right. So, what’s it saying now?”

“It says we’re looking for a very famous, extremely eccentric, and probably senile alchemist named Lord High Alchemist Cuthlebuck Groundshorn.”

Smudge blinked. “Sounds like he should be hosting a children’s programme. Didn’t you once say real wizards had names like Dave or Sarah?”

“I did. His real name is Alan. He chose ‘Cuthlebuck’ himself. Something about it sounding ‘distinguished.’”

“Sounds like someone sneezed into a tin of cutlery.”

“Well, regardless, we need to investigate.”

“May I come? Or shall I stay here and lick my wounded pride?”

“You may come. Just don’t cause a scene. In you go.”

Mathew opened his coat, revealing the inner pocket, which, of course, was not a mere pocket. Inside was a fully furnished studio apartment, complete with a plush armchair, a water bowl, a shelf of sardine-based snacks, a tiny telly tuned to reruns of Feline Gladiators, and a mirror so Smudge could keep bickering with himself in comfort.

Smudge hopped in with a grunt and a sneer.

Mathew tucked his wand up his sleeve and left the house, utterly confident he had no idea where he was going. But that was fine. He rarely did.

He caught the first bus he saw and flashed his senior citizen’s pass.

“Sorry, mate,” said the driver. “Not valid till 9.30.”

Mathew wound his wristwatch forward fifteen minutes. “Check again.”

The driver, confused but easily beaten down, compared his watch to his phone and then to Mathew’s face. “Fair enough. On you get.”

Mathew sat beside a bewildered elderly woman and reset his watch.

“Where are you off to, dear?” she asked.

“I haven’t the foggiest. I’ll know when I get there.”

She stared at him for a moment, then turned away and thought, ‘Why do I always sit next to nutters?’ Coincidentally, Mathew was thinking precisely the same thing.

Several buses, one moderately terrifying train ride, and a cross-country hike later, Mathew found himself at the base of a hill crowned by a thick copse of trees. In the middle of the copse stood a round stone tower. Solid. Silent. Smug-looking.

They approached.

“There’s no door,” said Smudge.

“There is,” Mathew said, tapping the stones with his wand like a demented xylophonist.

Eventually, one stone shivered at his touch. He pressed it. A doorway shimmered into being with a sound suspiciously like a long, theatrical sigh.

They entered.

The spiral staircase split: up or down.

“Up first,” said Mathew, mostly to reassure himself. Down looked dark, very dark.

On the first floor was a lounge that could have comfortably housed a minor royal wedding. Smart kitchen, modern appliances, fridge full of cheese, but Mathew noticed only the silence. Heavy. Expectant. Sort of like a cat watching a hamster with mild homicidal intent.

More stairs. Bedroom. Massive bed. Huge window with breathtaking views of rolling hills. More stairs. Another bedroom, this one overlooking a beach. Then another, facing a waterfall. Then another. Finally, at the very top, an office which seemed to have a 360-degree view of the entire world..

None of this surprised them. It was magic. Magic did what it liked.

“Now down,” said Mathew. “And don’t be dramatic.”

The lower staircase spiralled into the dark. Light kindled itself with every step. At the bottom, they emerged into a vast laboratory – longer than a football pitch and ten times as dusty.

“Creepy,” said Smudge.

“Very,” said Mathew. “Alan? You in?”

Silence.

“CUTHLEBUCK?” Mathew yelled.

“Try the full title.”

“LORD HIGH ALCHEMIST CUTHLEBUCK GROUNDSHORN?”

The silence yawned louder.

“Right,” said Smudge. “He’s definitely not here. Time for my nap.”

“We can’t leave.”

“Why not?”

“Because I forgot to mark the door.”

“Of course you did.”

“Let’s check the office again.”

Back at the top, they searched the desk. Drawers, cupboards, bookshelves.

“Bingo,” said Smudge. He held up a small wooden box. Acacia wood. Brass hinges. No visible way to open it.

“It’s got the same weird seal,” Smudge added. “A spiral in a triangle inside a fish. Looks like someone drew it with their foot.”

Mathew gave the box a good whack against the floor.

BOOM.

A puff of smoke, a gout of glitter, and a very disgruntled elderly man appeared, clutching his leg.

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DID YOU DO THAT FOR? I THINK YOU’VE BROKEN MY ANKLE!”

Before them stood the one and only – mostly only – Cuthlebuck Groundshorn.

“Lord High Alchemist?” asked Smudge.

“Obviously. Who are you?”

“I’m Smudge. This is…”

“I wasn’t talking to you.” He snarled.

“Mathew Mathews,” said Mathew. “Wizard detective. We met once at the Symposium of Arcane Whatnots.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He’s a detective, not a campanologist,” muttered Smudge.

Mathew ignored him. “We were sent to find you. You were reported missing.”

“By whom?”

“Don’t know. Anonymous note. In this manilla file.” He rummaged through his endless pockets. “Let’s see. Rubber chicken, tea cosy, spare moustache, ah – here it is!”

Cuthlebuck didn’t even glance at it. “I wasn’t missing. I was hiding.”

“From what?”

“None of your business.”

“Pretty please?”

A pause. Then, “Thornmaster.”

“Never heard of him.”

“You will. He wants to hoard all magic. Drain it from every wizard he can find and bottle it, and then unleash a super breed of werewolves on London.”

“Sounds like a joy at parties.”

“I was hiding from him.”

“Well, you’re not hiding now.”

Cuthlebuck glared. “No. Thanks to you two. Honestly, breaking the box? I was quite comfortable.”

“Your leg says otherwise,” said Smudge.

“Well,” said Mathew, brushing himself off, “job done, I suppose.”

“Except now he’s going to come for you,” said Cuthlebuck darkly. “And he doesn’t like cats.”

Smudge narrowed his eyes. “I won’t like him either. We’ll get along famously.”

At home, another letter:

Dearest Mathew,

Thank you ever so much for your letter, what a joy to receive something in the post that isn’t demanding money or pretending I’ve won a cruise. Your continued correspondence is like a breath of fresh air (though occasionally it carries the faint whiff of pipe smoke and poor life choices, but I suppose that’s your charm).

Yes, I miss you too, don’t let it go to your head. And of course, I miss my little Smudge. That darling, ginger menace. Leaving him with you was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made, right up there with giving up dairy and trusting you with my spare key. But honestly, the way he looked at me those last few days? Like he was plotting a tiny feline coup. I swear if he had opposable thumbs, I wouldn’t have made it out alive.

Do write again soon, won’t you? Your letters keep me laughing, rolling my eyes, and occasionally questioning our entire relationship, so, all in all, a delightful read.

So yes, do keep me updated on His Royal Fluffiness. I like to imagine him perched dramatically in the windowsill, brooding like a misunderstood poet and knocking over your valuables with that imperious little paw. I hope you’re spoiling him as thoroughly as he believes he deserves. And please, no more tuna-flavoured nonsense. He prefers salmon. Wild-caught. Massaged. Possibly with a side of opera.

With fondness, exasperation, and just a touch of lingering affection,
Julia xx