London, December 1892 - A mist drifts in from the river - on the streets there are gas lamps and Hansom cabs. But there are dirty doings at Sadler's Wells and even dirtier doings on the Royal Train. The Prince of Wales has designs on another man's wife, and visiting Royalty look like getting shot. One way or another, somebody is coming to a sticky, sticky end. The Freemasons are in there somewhere, but what's their interest? Then things really begin to fall apart. The constabulary turn out to be no use at all - and meanwhile the body count is rising - inexorably. Who's going to be the most help: young Charlie Chaplin, Sherlock Holmes, or Mr. Fowler the engine driver? "A Victorian railway caper in a snowstorm: gripping, ruthless, and very funny. An absolutely brilliant book, fantastic fun. Just Read It!"

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