A promising start that didn't quite live up to the first book in the series.
A Mummy unwrapping - a thoroughly Victorian thing, tales of a ritual that could prolong life. A series of gruesome murders. Run along side this a series of disappearances of young women and a rogue agent that leaves a very bad smell in their wake.
Of course they all come together to be part of the same case.
Watch as Sir Maurice Newbury descends into further narcotic addition - if the Laudinum wasn't bad enough he's now graduated to Heroin.
Gasp as he realises he can never be with Miss Hobbes - because, well - actually there isn't a very good reason. OK, so he's realised that she's an agent to the Queen, sent to keep an eye on him (spy is a very harsh word). Because they genuinely seem to care for each other - so why can't they get it on and just be done with it. Why be so terribly English about it. Everyone knows that the Victorians were screaming sex monsters for goodness sake.
I'm sick of series that play on the sexual tension between central characters.