Alf’s friends told me that he loved a practical joke. This time, they turned the tables.

When he suffered an unfortunate posterior accident involving a shove, a slippery floor, and a gin bottle, his pals volunteered to run for a doctor. They left the pub for my charity clinic in Whitechapel, only a few streets away. Twenty minutes later, they returned to the Crown and Anchor with me in tow. I found the patient waiting in the backroom, propped forward against a barrel of ale.

“What’s this?” Alf squeaked. “I’m not dropping me knickers for a woman.”

A burly man with a cue-ball pate said, “Wouldn’t be the first time, mate,” to raucous laughter.

A second man with a splitting grin pulled up a chair. “Blimey. This is better than the music hall.”

“Sixpence to stand,” I said. “Nine for a front-row seat.”

“What?”

I shrugged. “If you turn the pub into a surgical theater, you’ve got to pay the ticket price.”

The sitting man called my bluff and jingled some coins. I caught the eye of the barman, who jerked his thumb.

“All right, Burt. Show’s over. Now, hop it.”

He got up and followed the other men into the pub room. Thirty minutes later, a red-faced Alf pulled up his braces, muttered his thanks, and rejoined his friends. A burst of laughter and applause greeted him.

I’d packed my case and prepared to leave when the pub owner handed me two shillings. I looked at him, surprised. “Whitechapel Clinic serves the neighborhood. I don’t charge for my services.”

“Consider it a contribution, Doc. When word gets around, they’ll be three deep at the bar, wanting to hear the story.” He grinned. “A lady doctor, pulling glass out of Alf’s arse? Priceless.”

I understood the novelty. In the Year of Our Lord, 1866, I was only the third woman in Britain listed on the Medical Register. The fourth woman, I corrected myself, remembering the story that made the newspapers a year ago. Dr. James Barry, born female, had lived and practiced medicine as a man, serving as an army surgeon for forty years, no less. Only after Barry died was the doctor’s secret revealed. One thing I knew for sure: I’d never treat as many men as Dr. James Barry.

Some days, more than others, reminded me that I was akin to a carnival sideshow. Today was one of them. This morning, my grandfather had sighed and passed a letter across the breakfast table. Another male patient had declined an invitation to join my practice. Grandfather had suffered a heart attack and was winding down. But what did I expect? With no medical schools in Britain accepting women, I’d traveled to Philadelphia to earn my degree. As a female with a foreign diploma, I was as odd as a fairground’s bearded lady. Probably stranger.

When I arrived at Whitechapel Clinic at noon, Nurse Clemmie, my head of staff, had handed me a solicitation from a medical supply company offering Dr. Julius Lewis their services.

“Perhaps I should consider changing my name.”

Then, just before teatime, came the summons to the Crown and Anchor for Alf.

Afterward, I returned to Whitechapel Clinic and paused to listen to the chimes ringing from the local bell foundry, grace notes in an otherwise blighted neighborhood. Then I pushed through the double doors, saw my benches filled with women and children, and remembered.

I’m lucky to be doing what I love. Life is good.

Murder by Lamplight, A Dr. Julia Lewis Mystery Book #1
Genre: Historical Mystery
Release: February 2024
Format: Print, Digital
Purchase Link

For fans of Andrea Penrose and Deanna Raybourn, and anyone who relishes riveting, well-researched historical fiction, this inventive and enthralling debut mystery set in Victorian London pairs the unconventional, trailblazing Dr. Julia Lewis with a traditional and skeptical police inspector, as they try to stop a wily serial killer whose vengeance has turned personal.

November 1866: The grisly murder site in London’s East End is thronged with onlookers. None of them expect the calmly efficient young woman among them to be a medical doctor, arrived to examine the corpse. Inspector Richard Tennant, overseeing the investigation, at first makes no effort to disguise his skepticism. But Dr. Julia Lewis is accustomed to such condescension . . .

To study medicine, Julia had to leave Britain, where universities still bar their doors to women, and travel to America. She returned home to work in her grandfather’s practice—and to find London in the grip of a devastating cholera epidemic. In four years, however, she has seen nothing quite like this—a local clergyman’s body sexually mutilated and displayed in a manner that she—and Tennant—both suspect is personal.

Days later, another body is found with links to the first, and Tennant calls in Dr. Lewis again. The murderer begins sending the police taunting letters and tantalizing clues—though the trail leads in multiple directions, from London’s music halls to its grim workhouses and dank sewers. Lewis and Tennant struggle to understand the killer’s dark obsessions and motivations. But there is new urgency, for the doctor’s role appears to have shifted from expert to target. And this killer is no impulsive monster, but a fiendishly calculating opponent, determined to see his plan through to its terrifying conclusion . . .

Meet the author
Patrice McDonough is a Jersey girl, splitting her time between the Garden State and Florida, “which should have improved my golf game but hasn’t!” She spends her leisure time traveling, sailing, begging her golf ball to land on the fairway, watching classic movies, and reading the histories, mysteries, and historical novels piled high on her night table. “I was lucky to grow up in a reading and history-loving family and discovered Agatha Christie early.” So, history and mystery were a perfect combination. Murder by Lamplight is the first novel in her Dr. Julia Lewis Mystery series set in Victorian England.

Sign up for Patrice’s monthly newsletter for reading suggestions, mystery/film pairings, short stories, and publication updates at pmcdonough1789@gmail.com.