J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, Agatha Christie, and other literary legends join forces to unravel a deadly conspiracy in this gripping mystery that sweeps from the halls of Oxford to the streets of London and the shores of Loch Ness.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Inklings Detective Agency by John R. Kelly, which is out now.
In the shadowy streets of 1936 Oxford, England, members of a secret society keep turning up dead. When J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, and their fellow literary masterminds, known as the Inklings, are called upon to catch a killer, they trade their pens for magnifying glasses. With time running out, they get a helping hand from mystery writers Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers to unravel a sinister web of secrets.
Packed with historical details, intrigue, and a thrilling whodunit, this novel is a masterful blend of high-stakes drama. Dive into a world where the creators of fantasy and mystery confront a real-life menace in a race against the clock. Will dark forces prevail, or will these literary giants crack the case before the murderer strikes again?
Excerpted from The Inklings Detective Agency by John R. Kelly. Copyright © 2026 by John R. Kelly. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
That was where the Inklings had begun, as an informal meeting of comrades from the outside world. There were no preplanned agendas, no minutes taken, no club officers or stated goals of any kind; the friends spent the time talking, laughing, sharing, and encouraging and learning from one another. But lately, underneath the rosy surface and academic façade, the Inklings were becoming something entirely different.
“If you’re not reading, sirs,” Charlie began. He squinted and moved his blue-eyed gaze back and forth conspiratorially between the two men. “Then is tonight about you-know-what? The other side of the Inklings. Because if it is, I can roust out these old drunks and close up shop in two snaps so you men can get down to business. You can count on me.” He pointed his thumb at his puffed-out chest and raised a brow.
“We can wait until midnight,” Fox reassured him with a gentle smile. He leaned back in his creaking chair. “Though, when the time comes, Charlie, if you could double-check and make sure no one has fallen asleep under a table or in the lavatory, that would be much appreciated. Prying ears and all that.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Charlie Blagrove said with a salute. “Anything I can do to help the cause.” He leaned in close and lowered his voice. “I know what important work you all have started to do, both in the public eye and outside of it. Should you need anything, anything at all, I am your man.” He again hooked a thumb into his chest, winked with a flash of a smile, pivoted, and was off, back toward the bar, wiping tables and whistling “Rule Britannia” as he went.
Fox raised his glass and toasted with reverent somberness, “To those who did not make it through.” Tolkien held his glass high and nodded solemnly before sipping the delightfully warm liquid.
More laughter echoed from the booth where Hugo and Nevill traded compelling tales. Hugo’s curls bobbed up and down as his face turned red with laughter and he pressed down on his stomach. “Tollers,” Hugo called loudly, his first acknowledgment that anyone besides the two of them existed. “You need to hear this. Nevill here was just telling me about Michaelmas term and a precocious student in his Middle English course who felt the need to plagiarize—”
Hugo’s words were cut short when Lord David Cecil entered the room. He looked agitated, even thinner and paler than usual, and his eyes were wide. “We’ll need to move a few things around,” he decided quickly, tapping his finger nervously on the tabletop and flicking his eyes about the space. “Can you all help? Our guest should be arriving soon.”
“Who is arriving?” Hugo asked, getting to his feet. “What’s with all the secrecy? I thought we were on the inside . . .brothers and all that. Spit it out, man!”
“You’ll understand soon enough, Hugo,” Cecil replied, glancing at the nearest occupied booth outside the Rabbit Room to make sure the Bird’s other guests were out of earshot. “I want to make a good first impression, so be on your best behavior.”
“We always are,” Fox said with a smirk. “Or at least, we try to be.”
Cecil frowned. “I’m not worried about the two of you, or even the brothers who I hear won’t be making it—that is, unless the elder drinks too much.” He lowered his voice. “It’s those two who lack verbal filters and certain manners. I don’t want to offend or scare off our special guest; not to-night, please dear God.”
“Good heavens, man,” Nevill said, walking over and helping to turn a chair around to face the fireplace. “I don’t know how much more suspense we can take. Is it the King?”
Cecil flashed a grin. “Better,” he answered before again lowering his voice. “Much better.”
Hugo placed his hands on his hips and scowled. “Better than the King of England?” He furrowed his bushy brow. “I’m not sure that’s possible, Cecil. You realize what country we’re in, don’t you?”
Lord David Cecil went through the motions of taking an ornate golden watch on a chain from his pocket before re-turning it, only to repeat the action a few seconds later. “It’s nearly midnight,” he noted, flexing his right hand. “He should be arriving soon.”
The pub closed. The couples, drunks, and singing merry-makers made their way reluctantly out into the stormy night as approaching lightning flashed in the distance. Charlie blew out candles and turned down the electric lights even further, in all except the back room. After throwing two more dry logs on the fire, he made his exit reluctantly, and a hush fell over the space. Five men now sat silently, facing the fire in a semicircle. Tolkien noted how very different and strange all this was indeed.
“I think we’re ready,” Cecil said finally, nodding his head and once again checking his watch.
Hugo grunted. “Are we having a séance?” he asked, his prominent brow now raised. “Because if we are, I’m leaving.” “In a sense, we are,” Cecil responded. “But it’s not what you’re thinking. Please stay, Hugo. Mind your manners.” He stood and walked to the back entrance.
Tolkien fiddled with his unlit pipe before striking a match in the silence and holding it to the pipe’s bowl. The smell of cherry and walnut wafted and mixed in the air as he heard a door open and close and low voices speaking in the hallway’s shadows. Cecil soon emerged alone without expression and took his seat. Behind him, a man walked out of the dark hallway, and Tolkien felt the breath pull from his lungs. The man was of average height and build. He wore a dark wool coat with a bowler hat and held a glossy black cane. He walked over and warmed his hands by the fire, then took up a place standing in front of the hearth, facing and eyeing the seated Inklings one at a time before finally speaking.
“Yes, yes, I know,” he said with a placating gesture of his hands. “I should be a dead man. I died on July 7, 1930, in Crowborough, Sussex, and was buried in my rose garden at Windlesham Manor. But that is nothing more than nonsense, misdirection, and farce. Something I know a bit about. My name is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. As you can see, I am very much alive, and I need your help in solving a heinous murder.”
