Front Page Murder by Peter Bartram - Blog Tour Review

I'm very honoured today to be kicking off the blog tour for the latest novel in the Crampton of the Chronicle series. Front Page Murder, by Peter Bartram. I also have an exciting extract, so stick around after my review to check that out!

Front Page Murder - A Crampton of the Chronicle mystery

It's December 1963 and Archie Flowerdew is sitting in a cell at Wandsworth Prison waiting to be hanged. On Christmas Eve. It's not exactly how he planned to spend the festive season. But, then, Archie was found guilty of murdering fellow comic postcard artist Percy Despart.

It seems there's nothing that can stop Archie's neck being wrung like a turkey's. Except that his niece Tammy is convinced Archie is innocent. She's determined he will sit down on Christmas Day to tuck into the plum pudding. She persuades Brighton Evening Chronicle crime reporter Colin Crampton to take up the case.

But Colin has problems of his own. First, that good turn he did to help out Chronicle sub-editor Barry Hobhouse has come back to bite him on the bum. Then Beatrice "the Widow" Gribble, Colin's trouble-prone landlady, needs him to sort out her latest faux pas - she's accidentally sent a Christmas card to her local butcher suggesting she's available for hot sex. And that's before Brighton cops clap Colin and girlfriend Shirley Goldsmith in jail on the charge of harbouring a fugitive from justice.

And, anyway, the more Colin investigates Archie's case, the more it looks like he is guilty… Pick up the third full-length novel in the Crampton of the Chronicle mystery series to get you in the mood for a murderous Christmas!

My Review

Front Page Murder is another book by Peter Bartram that's kept me up at night just wanting to read the next page and see what happens next! 

Colin Crampton is a fantastic character, I love his sarcasm and sass and I love that he's always getting himself into scrapes just for the sake of a byline. Though he has a jack the lad attitude, he's a softy on the inside and that's the reason he gets in to trouble half of the time. 

The story of Front Page Murder follows the story of Archie Flowerdew in the days before his hanging and his niece who is trying to prove his innocence of the murder of fellow local post card artist Percy Despart. Colin has to think outside the box as to how to prove his innocence as all of Archie's clemency hearings have failed. As usual he does things that are borderline illegal (only just) but anything to provide justice.....and a good story! 

One of my favourite things about Front Page Murder was the description of all the different scathing post cards that Percy Despart had drawn before his untimely death. They were hilariously described and I could really picture all of them. I just wish there has been sketches of them scattered throughout the book. 

Being a crime novel, I can't discuss the story without spoilers, but I can say that it is incredibly well written and plotted out. 

Overall an excellent read and I'm already looking forward to the next in the series. 

I gave this book 5 stars. 

An Extract From Front Page Murder

By Peter Bartram

Colin Crampton crime correspondent on the Brighton Evening Chronicle is investigating a case of murder. Colin has discovered that the victim had a book which included a photograph of a painting called the Avenging Angel. The painting hangs in St Rita's church. But the vicar, Canon Gideon Burke, has a reputation as a randy old goat. Colin visits St Rita's for morning service and afterwards decides to investigate further. He takes up the story…

I made my way to the back of the church and hung around for a bit. I wanted to have a nose about. I fancied a quick look-see at the painting of the Avenging Angel by a pupil of Raphael. During Burke's sermon I'd been looking around. Each of the church's transepts held a small chapel. Most of the artworks seemed to be hung in these chapels. The chapel off the right-hand side of the nave looked the most ornate. I guessed that's where the Avenging Angel would be slinging her thunderbolts.

  I threaded my way through the pews and entered the chapel. I was right. The Angel hung on the end wall above a small altar. After viewing the colour plate in The Art of Sussex Churches, I'd been expecting a large canvas. But this was strangely unimpressive. An ornate, portrait-shaped frame about twenty inches high by fifteen across held a picture that lacked the vibrant colours I'd seen in the book. Old paintings, I knew, gathered dirt over the years and were cleaned by specialists. The Avenging Angel looked as though she were long overdue a spruce up.

  I was mulling this over when a voice behind me said: "Just because she's small, don't underestimate her power."

  I turned. Burke was standing there in his canonical gear. He had the kind of grin gangsters use when they're collecting protection money but want to keep it friendly.

  I said: "Size isn't everything - for women or men."

  Burke took that in his stride. "I haven't seen you at divine service before."

  "It's my first time. I just felt it might help me think out a worry on my mind."

  I'd had an idea which might help me discover whether the rumours about Burke and the virgins were true.

  "Would you like to talk about it, my son?"

  "It's difficult. Very personal. And a bit embarrassing."

  "Embarrassment is only your conscience talking to you. Listen to it."

  "The thing is it involves a girl."

  "Really?" Burke flicked a lizard-like tongue over his lips. He moved closer.

  "Yes, it's my girlfriend Shirley."

  "Does it involve your feelings for Shirley?"

  "In a way, but it's more her feelings for me."

  "You are both wondering whether you should consummate your love, perhaps? I have to tell you I do not believe in sex before marriage."

  I grinned. "Especially if it delays the ceremony, vicar."

  "This is not a matter for misplaced levity."

  "I'm sorry. To come to the point, Shirley wants me to make love to her - and I'm not sure it's right for me to do what she wants."

  A fleck of spittle had appeared at the side of Burke's mouth. "And what does she want?"

  "She wants me to dress as a vicar while I'm giving her the benefit. Well, actually, not the full gear. She wants me to skip the robes and all that and just wear the main item."

  "The main item? I don't understand."

  "The dog collar."

  Burke's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Let me get this right. Your girlfriend wants you to make love to her wearing only a dog collar."

  "That's about the size of it. Of what she wants. Not the size of the dog collar. I expect they come in different sizes. Do they?"

  Burke's jowly cheeks had become red. A bead of sweat trickled down his brow. "Yes, they do come. I mean in different sizes. But that is not the point."

  "What is the point, vicar? That's what I want to know."

  Burke took a guilty glance at the Avenging Angel.

  "I think you should bring your girlfriend Shirley to see me. It's clear the girl needs divine guidance."

  "You really think that's the answer?"

  Burke harrumphed. For the first time, he looked embarrassed. Perhaps his conscience was talking to him. Or, more likely, he'd just told it to shut up.

  "I could manage a short interview with her at about half past seven this evening," he said. "After the evening service."

  "That would be very helpful, vicar."

  "I shall call upon the spirit of St Rita to guide me."

  "I'll let Shirley know. I think she knew a Rita as well. I believe she was a hostess in a nightclub. More of a sinner than a saint."

  I turned to leave. Looked back over my shoulder. Burke had taken a handkerchief from somewhere in his vestments and was wiping sweat from his brow.

About The Author

I was lucky enough to interview Peter Bartram when I reviewed his previous full length novel, Stop Press Murder, which you can check out here. 

Peter Bartram brings years of experience as a journalist to his Crampton of the Chronicle crime mystery series, which features Colin Crampton, crime correspondent of the 1960s fictional newspaper the Brighton Evening Chronicle. Peter began his career as a reporter on a real-life local newspaper not far from Brighton. Then he worked as a journalist and newspaper editor in London before becoming freelance. He has done most things in journalism from door-stepping for quotes to writing serious editorials. He’s pursued stories in locations as diverse as 700 feet down a coal mine and Buckingham Palace. Peter's "Swinging Sixties" murder mysteries combine clue-solving with comedy - the laughs are never far from the action. Other books in the series, which has already logged more than 100 5-star reviews on Amazon, include Headline Murder and Stop Press Murder.

Front Page Murder e-book is on special offer until the end of December for 99p/99c

For readers who want to start the series at the beginning, there's a deal which includes Headline Murder, Stop Press Murder and Front Page Murder in e-book formats for £4.97/$4.97. This offer also closes on 31 December.

Front Page Murder on Amazon.com

Front Page Murder on Amazon.co.uk

Crampton of the Chronicle 3-book series on Amazon.com

Crampton of the Chronicle 3-book series on Amazon.co.uk

Don't Forget The Rest Of The Tour

Morning, Noon And Night Trilogy by Peter Bartram - Book Extract

A while ago I was on a blog tour for Stop Press Murder, a Crampton of The Chronicle mystery by Peter Bartram and I absolutely loved it (you can check out my review here). So when Peter contacted me to say that he was releasing a whole trilogy of novellas as part of the Crampton series I was extremely excited.

I will be bringing my review to the blog soon as I finished all three novellas, but today I have something super exciting to share, an extract from Murder in the Morning Edition.

Murder in the Morning Edition - Book 1 of The Morning, Noon & Night trilogy

Chapter 1

My Australian girlfriend Shirley took a luscious lick of her ice-cream and said: "Why is that man wearing gloves on the hottest day of the year?"

  Shirley flicked her gaze towards the man sitting three tables away. We were on the terrace of the Black Rock café, looking out over Brighton beach. The sun was shining from a sky as blue as Max Miller's jokes. It was August 1963 and a long hot summer was drawing to a close.

  I resisted the temptation to swivel my head and stare. In my line of work, it's not wise to show too much interest in the wrong sort of people. I'm Colin Crampton, crime correspondent on the Evening Chronicle. The kind of characters I peek at on the sly would give you a punch on the snout if they caught you gawping.

  And that's just the cops.

  So without moving my head, I swivelled my eyeballs left until they felt they were about to fall out of their sockets. I squinted at the bloke through a grey mist.

  I said: "One thing's for sure. He's not come for a fun day by the seaside."

  I shifted my chair a little so that I could eyeball the mystery man more discreetly. He was a thin wiry bloke who looked like he hadn't spent his forty-odd years on earth wisely. He had a swarthy complexion, a small scar above his upper lip, and a penumbra of five-o'clock shadow around his jaw. Central casting wouldn't have thought twice about handing him a role as one of the black hats in a spaghetti western.

  He was wearing a grey three-piece suit which would have been perfect for Sunday morning church or a meeting with his bank manager. On Brighton beach he looked out of place - like a smile on a traffic warden's face.

  A small fawn attaché case lay on the table in front of him. Beside the case was a thick white envelope. His gloved fingers drummed impatiently on the case. His flinty eyes glowered at the envelope and then surveyed the bustling activity around him.

  The café throbbed with life as more people arrived. They'd come from a train that had just pulled into Black Rock station on the Volk's railway, a few yards from the café.

  The fresh crowd irritated Glove Man. He drummed his fingers on his case and glanced anxiously around.

  At the table behind him, a spotty boy, watched by a stern-faced nanny, dug his spoon deep into a giant knickerbocker glory. To his right, a pensioner couple smeared strawberry jam on their buttered scones. To his left, a pair of young lovers took turns to snap pictures of one another with a fancy camera.

  A perky waitress in black skirt and white pinafore swung her hips as she weaved between the tables.

  Glove man glared at her as she wiggled by.

  Shirley slurped her ice-cream cone. "I bet those gloves set him back a few saucepan lids," she said.

  "Saucepan lids?"

  "Quid."

  I grinned. "Could be as much as a Lady Godiva."

  "What?"

  "A fiver."

  I focused in on the gloves while Shirley sucked her chocolate flake. It stuck out of the ice-cream like a telegraph pole in a swamp.

  The mystery man's gloves were as different from the mitts I wore when I drove my MGB on a cold day as a beach pebble from the Kohinoor diamond. They'd been tailored from some fancy brown leather. Probably by some ancient craftsman with white hair and hunched shoulders who agonised over every stitch. They fitted Glove Man's hands like a second skin. He could have sat at the upright joanna in my mum's old parlour and tinkled Rachmaninov's second piano concerto note perfect without taking them off.

  And then knocked out My Old Man's a Dustman as an encore.

  I switched my attention back to Shirley. A summer tan had gently bronzed her perfect skin. The fringes of her blonde hair ruffled in a gentle breeze. She was wearing a stylish pair of Gucci shades which made her look like a film star. Perhaps dodging the paparazzi at the Cannes film festival. Or sneaking into Cinecittà in Rome to act in a new Visconti movie. She was wearing a lemon yellow dress that seemed to have given up any hope of covering her legs shortly after it had left her bum.

  Not that I'm complaining.

  I'd been dating Shirley since last summer when she'd pitched up in Brighton. She was working her way around the world and had found a job in a seafront café to earn the money for the next leg of her trip. She was still putting money by, but I hoped it would be a long time before she bought her next ticket.

  Shirley crunched on the last of the ice-cream cone and said: "Perhaps old Glove Man is on his way to a business meeting."

  "That explains the suit and attaché case but not the gloves," I said.

  "Perhaps the guy's got sensitive hands."

  "So why's he drumming his fingers on the case like he wants to beat a hole in it?"

  "He's impatient. He's waiting for someone."

  "I don't think so. The person he came to meet has already left."

  "How do you know that, clever clogs?"

  "Because whoever it was left him the envelope. They would have been and gone before we arrived. If he were waiting to meet someone and give them the envelope he'd keep it in the case."

  "Why the impatience?"

  "He wants to put the envelope in the case. But he doesn't want to open the case with everyone around - in case someone sees what's inside."

  "So what's inside?"

  "It must be something a casual passer-by would immediately recognise as important at a glance. Perhaps something suspicious."

  Shirley's eyes widened in disbelief. "You can't know that."

  "True. I don't know it for certain. But he keeps looking at the case and the people moving around him. He's choosing his moment when he can sneak the envelope in the case with no risk of anyone peeking inside."

  "We'll never know," Shirley said.

  She leaned forward and kissed me. Her lips tasted of ice-cream. Vanilla. Personally, I prefer chocolate. But when ice-cream comes served on Shirl's lips I'm prepared to compromise. Her lips felt cold and hot at the same time. I tried to figure which I liked best. Decided it depended on what I was going to do next. And as we were sitting in the middle of a crowded café the options were limited.

  I wrenched my mind back to Glove Man and said: "When he leaves, why don't we follow him?"

  Shirley's eyebrows arched over the top of her sunglasses like the loops of the Loch Ness monster breaking the surface. "Nuts," she said. "We can't follow an innocent man."

  "We don't know that he's innocent."

  "Listen up, whacker. I believe a man is innocent until he's proven guilty."

  "We're not pointing the finger of guilt at the bloke. We just want to find out why his fingers are in those fancy gloves while the temperature is over eighty."

  "What for?"

  "There could be a story in it."

  "Man in glove sensation! Give me a break."

  "I've known big stories begin from more trivial beginnings. Besides, you're the one who wanted to know why he's wearing gloves on the hottest day of the year."

  "And I guess we'll never know."

  I grinned. "Perhaps not."

  Perhaps Glove Man was as innocent as a baby sleeping in a crib. But I've got a reporter's mind. Suspicious.

And I could think of at least one guilty reason for wearing gloves on a sweltering day.

And that's it! How great is that, thank you so much to Peter for providing me with the extract today.

About The Author

Peter Bartram brings years of experience as a journalist to his Crampton of the Chronicle crime mystery series. His novels are fast-paced and humorous - the action is matched by the laughs. The books feature a host of colourful characters as befits stories set in Brighton, one of Britain's most trend-setting towns.

You can download Murder in Capital Letters, a free book in the series, for your Kindle or other e-reader from www.colincrampton.com.

Peter began his career as a reporter on a local weekly newspaper before editing newspapers and magazines in London, England and, finally, becoming freelance. He has done most things in journalism from door-stepping for quotes to writing serious editorials. He’s pursued stories in locations as diverse as 700-feet down a coal mine and a courtier’s chambers at Buckingham Palace. Peter is a member of the Society of Authors and the Crime Writers' Association.