The Paris Apartment meets Only Murders in the Building in this debut murder mystery with an intriguing cast of characters inhabiting a quirky block of flats in modern-day London.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Nicola Whyte’s 10 Marchfield Square, which is out 1 April 2025.
When a minor criminal is murdered in the smallest residential square in London, elderly heiress and landlady Celeste van Duren recruits two of her tenants to investigate. Her cleaner, Audrey, knows everyone and is liked by all, while failed writer Lewis is known by no one. He hates his job, hates his life, and he’s not that fond of Audrey either—but Celeste is persuasive.
As they hunt for clues in and around the Square, they discover everyone has something to hide, including their fellow residents. Audrey and Lewis must find a way to work together if they’re to find the killer in their midst. Assuming of course, there’s just the one . . .
Audrey sat beside Linda Glead on the Captain’s bench. Mrs. Hildebrandt had brought out a cup of strong sweet tea, which Linda sipped only when Audrey reminded her to, and every now and then she’d give a little shake of the head, as if struggling to compute what was happening. Roshan Jones sat silently on her other side, his expression still and unreadable.
It was dark now, and the Victorian street lamps lit the courtyard in circles of orange light. The Captain stood beside the side gate, chatting to the police officer stationed there, while another two officers stood beside the main gate, directing personnel in and out of the square. The man from Flat 5, meanwhile, hovered around outside Linda’s flat. Today was the first time she’d ever seen Flat 5 Guy up close, and he was behaving oddly. Taller than average, with dark curly hair and brown eyes, she’d have put him in his mid-thirties, yet he was behaving like a child at a theme park. He seemed interested to the point of excitement in every thing going on, and kept his phone in his hands the entire time, typing furiously the minute the police weren’t looking. Prob ably posting about it on social media, or acting the big man on some lads’ text group. He looked the type, in his junior- stockbroker suit and too- shiny shoes.
A female uniformed police officer stood beside the bench. Occasionally she glanced down at Linda and smiled reassuringly, but Audrey saw her gaze lingering on Linda’s black eye, visible beneath her makeup, and the livid purple bruises on her wrists. Audrey could tell what she was thinking, and had to resist the urge to tell Linda to pull her sleeves down.
It was impossible to live in Marchfield and not know the situation with the Gleads. There’d even been a visit from the police once, but nothing had changed, and every time the husband’s friends slunk through the square on their way to Flat 10, the other residents muttered under their breath and exchanged knowing looks. Audrey would be the last person to blame Linda if she’d finally taken matters into her own hands.
But if Linda was pretending to be shocked by her husband’s death, she was doing a very good job of it.
“Audrey, hey,” said Mei, emerging from the darkness and giving her a start. She was carry ing her briefcase, and her work suit barely had a wrinkle, in spite of having just done a nine- hour day. “I left as soon as I got your message. What’s going on?”
With a quick glance at Linda, Audrey rose from the bench and pulled Mei to one side.
“Richard Glead’s dead. He was shot.”
Mei raised her eyebrows and peered round Audrey to Linda.
“Did she do it?” she murmured.
“I don’t think so. She seems genuinely shocked.”
“Not upset though,” Mei observed.
“Would you be?”
They stood quietly, watching Mrs. Hildebrandt fuss around Linda, tucking a blanket around her shoulders with trembling hands. Mei scanned the square, her gaze taking in the police on the balcony before shifting across to the gates.
“Oh, shit,” she said, abruptly turning away. Audrey looked up to see a man and a woman walking toward them. They were an odd pair, the man short and rough- looking, in spite of his suit, which strained at the buttons under a touch of middle- aged spread, while the woman was younger, maybe around thirty, tall and willowy with beachy blonde waves, and somehow making her suit look like it was fresh off the catwalk.
“What?”
“Sofia,” muttered Mei.
“Who?”
“Sofia Larssen. We had a date last year.”
“The detective who hated defence lawyers and Phil Collins?”
“That’s the one. How could I be with anyone who didn’t like Phil?”
The detectives reached the bench and looked down at Linda.
“Mrs. Glead?” asked the man, a small black notebook in his hand. “I’m Detective Inspector Banham, and this is Detective Sergeant Larssen. How are you doing?”
Linda lifted her head but didn’t speak.
“How do you think she’s doing?” growled Roshan, and Audrey glanced at him in surprise. She’d never heard him speak like that. DS Larssen sat down beside Linda.
“Linda, is it?” she asked gently. Linda nodded. “Can you tell us when you found your husband?”
“When I got home,” said Linda, her voice low. It was the first she’d spoken since Audrey had emerged from the flat.
“And what time was that?”
“I don’t know.” Linda looked around, as if hoping to find a clock somewhere.
“I heard her scream at around four forty- five,” said Audrey, stepping forward. DS Larssen turned, and as Mei moved to stand beside her, Audrey saw the detective’s eyes flicker with recognition. She nodded once, although whether that was in response to Audrey’s comment or in greeting to Mei, she couldn’t tell. Banham was still focused on Linda.
“Did you go into the kitchen immediately after arriving home?” he asked.
Linda nodded.
“And when you found your husband’s body, what did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“What DI Banham means,” interjected DS Larssen, “is did you touch your husband at all? Check if he was breathing or try to revive him?”
Now Linda frowned, seeming to wake up a bit.
“He was dead,” she said firmly. “Blood all over him. I didn’t touch him. I didn’t need to.”
The detectives exchanged the briefest of glances, then DI Banham turned to Audrey. “And you? Are you the one Mr. McLennon said was next in the flat after Mrs. Glead?”
“McLennon?” DI Banham consulted his notebook.
“Lewis McLennon. Flat Five. What’s your name, please?”
“Audrey Brooks,” said Audrey. He wrote that down. “Flat Seven. I heard the scream and ran over. Like Linda said, it was obvious he was dead. I didn’t touch anything either.”
Mei reached for her hand and squeezed it. She’d be worried about her, Audrey knew, but she felt strangely unaffected.
“Then what did you do?” “The guy from Flat Five said he’d call the police, so I went back outside. Brought Linda down here.”
DI Banham nodded and turned back to Linda.
“Mrs. Glead, I think it would be best if you came back to the station with us. We have a number of questions, and this isn’t the right place to ask them. Is there someone who can come with you, or who you’d like to call? Do you have anywhere you can stay tonight?”
“My sister, Jane.” Linda’s hand automatically went to her side. “Oh! My phone. It’s in my bag. I left it . . .” She looked helplessly up to the open door of her flat, the light within glowing faintly in the darkness.
DI Banham turned to DS Larssen.
“Would you take Mrs. Glead back to the flat? Help her find her bag and pack a few things.”
“Of course,” said DS Larssen. She put her hand under Linda’s elbow and they rose from the bench together.
Mei broke away from Audrey and hurried over to Linda.
“Linda, I don’t know if you have a solicitor,” she began, her eyes flicking to DS Larssen, “and you might not need one, but just in case, here’s my card.” She pressed her business card into Linda’s hand. “Call me any time.”
Linda looked bemused, but nodded and pocketed the card. Audrey watched as DS Larssen escorted her away.
“You can head home now, Ms. Brooks,” said DI Banham. “I’m sure your friend is keen to make sure you’re all right. It can be a shock, finding a body. We’ll call on you in due course if we need more information. You too, Mr. Jones.”
The caretaker ignored him, still staring after Linda. Audrey opened her mouth to protest, but Mei took her arm.
“Thank you,” she said to the detective, pulling Audrey away. “Come on, let’s get home. We have a lot to talk about.”
As they reached their landing and Mei opened the door, Audrey glanced across to the opposite balcony, where Lewis McLennon was chatting to the uniformed officer standing sentry outside the Gleads’ flat. She couldn’t help but notice that while she’d been dismissed, his presence was being amiably tolerated. She’d ask Celeste about him tomorrow, find out what the deal was.
Celeste. She must have noticed the commotion by now. What must she be thinking? Horrified at a murder in Marchfield Square? Or delighted by the excitement? Knowing Celeste, it was prob ably the latter, but you never could tell.
“Audrey?”
Mei stood in the doorway, looking concerned.
“Sorry, I was just thinking about Celeste. I hope she’s okay.”
Mei laughed. “Are you kidding? Celeste will be loving this. Finally, some infamy! Now come inside, I need to know every last detail. What the hell happened to Richard Glead?”
Excerpted from 10 MARCHFIELD SQUARE by Nicola Whyte. Copyright © 2025 by Nicola Whyte. Published by Union Square & Co., an imprint of Grand Central Publishing, a division of Hachette Book Group.
