An excerpt from A Knock at the Door by Peter Rowlands @peterrowlands_1

My guest today is Peter Rowlands, author of A Knock at the Door, which was published in October 2023. It’s available to purchase in paperbook or as an ebook.

A Knock at the Door is described as ‘part mystery thriller, part detective story, and part romance’. It’s had rave reviews from readers with comments such as ‘refreshingly different’, ‘a totally new take on a mystery’ and ‘a real page-turning, edge of your seat mystery story’.

Intrigued? Then you can read an excerpt from the book below.

About the Book

A brain-teasing mystery that grabs you right from the start – and then delivers

A bedraggled woman turns up on Rory Cavenham’s doorstep in the middle of a storm, convinced that the year is 1972, but claiming to have lost her memory.

Despite his own troubled past, Rory is drawn to her; but she’s fearful of authority and frightened of mysterious pursuers, and insists on keeping a low profile as she adjusts to modern life.

Determined to help her, Rory finds links to two strong but compromised women, but the truth behind their interlocking stories remains elusive. Meanwhile, the pursuers turn out to be all too real, and the pace builds as the story lunges towards its remarkable and redemptive climax.

Find A Knock at the Door on Goodreads

Excerpt from A Knock at the Door by Peter Rowlands

Had I been wise last night to invite this unknown woman into my house and give her refuge from the storm? She seemed harmless enough, but her loss of memory was baffling, and I felt out of my depth.

I switched on the television, hoping to catch the latest news about the flooding, and left her there while I cleared away the breakfast things. When I returned she looked up at me in consternation.

“What on earth’s going on?” she demanded unhappily.

“What do you mean?” I sat down.

“That’s not my world.” She pointed at the television screen, where a group of young people were protesting outside a glass-fronted building. “To me that looks like a film set – something out of science fiction.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Everything’s different. The clothes, the cars, the buildings, everything. Are you telling me that’s real?”

I listened to the commentary for a moment, then said, “Yes, it’s real. It’s a news report from somewhere in London.”

She stared at it in bewilderment. “How can it be?”

I grabbed the remote control and switched the television off.

There was a long silence. Finally she said, “The TV isn’t the only thing that’s wrong. There are other things, too.”

“What things?”

“You keep saying things that don’t make sense. You asked me if I have a phone. Why would I carry a telephone around with me?”

“You’d be considered odd if you didn’t have one.”

“I don’t understand.”

I reached into my pocket. “This is mine. You saw it yesterday.”

“But it’s tiny, and so thin.” She looked down at it. “It lights up. That’s a phone?”

“It certainly is.” I sat back. “This is such a bizarre conversation. You’re telling me you don’t know about stuff that everybody in the world knows about.”

“Everybody except me, apparently.”

“Have you really, really, really never seen a mobile phone before?”

She seemed to have no answer to that. After a moment I asked, “Do you think someone has kept you captive somehow, and prevented you from knowing what’s happening in the outside world?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. My life is like a giant blur.” She glanced around, and after a moment added, “I like this room. Apart from that giant TV, it seems pretty normal to me.”

“That’s probably because Max didn’t change anything for about thirty years.”

“Who is this Max that you keep talking about?”

“This is his house. I’m looking after it for him.”

She glanced around. “It has a familiar feel to it.”

“It’s typical of its day, but it’s pretty dated now.”

“Not to me.”

Neither of us spoke for a moment, then on a whim I said, “As far as you’re concerned, what year is this?”

Without hesitation she answered, “Nineteen seventy-two.”

* * *

“Actually it’s twenty twenty-two.” I waited.

She stared at me for a long moment, her expression alternating between irritation and total disbelief. Finally she said, “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re seriously telling me I’ve jumped fifty years forward in time?”

“This is definitely twenty twenty-two, but what you’re saying is impossible. You might as well tell me you believe the earth is flat, or you’ve seen the Loch Ness monster.”

“No, no, no, you have to be kidding me. Why are you saying this?”

The latest copy of the local free advertising magazine was lying on the dresser. I reached over and handed it to her. The date was clearly indicated on the cover. She examined it closely, then looked up and said, “This must be some kind of trick.”

“I promise you it isn’t.”

“But this can’t be right! It’s nineteen seventy-two!”

“I’m afraid not.”

Abruptly she stood up. “This is ridiculous! Why are you telling me the impossible is true?”

I’d bought a copy of The Times when I was last in the village shop. I said, “Wait a second,” and went through to the office to fetch it.

She snatched it from me and ran her eyes over the front page for a moment, then flicked through some of the other pages. She looked at me again. “What’s going on here? I don’t understand this.”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

Angrily she said, “You think I’m making this up?”

“No, I can see that you believe it. I’m wondering what to make of it.”

“Now you’re being patronising.”

“I don’t want to mislead you, that’s all. It would be patronising if I pretended to accept what you’re saying just to humour you.”

She looked sharply at me. “So you’re saying that in this amazing future, such a thing has never happened before? Never once in the whole history of the world, until now?”

“Not that I know of.”

There was a long silence. A gust of wind threw a scattering of raindrops against the windows.

About the Author

Peter Rowlands is the author of ten mystery thrillers, including three stand-lone novels (A Knock at the Door is one of them) and seven novels in the Mike Stanhope Mysteries series.

Peter has had career of writing and editing, chiefly in the field of trucking, transport, logistics and information technology. He co-founded and edited a magazine covering the processes behind home shopping delivery. He draws on these experiences in his books.

Peter was born in Newcastle upon Tyne, and studied English at Cambridge University. He has lived nearly all his adult life in London, and is now based in Fulham, west London, close to the river Thames at Putney bridge.

Connect with Peter
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An excerpt from In Leicester Fields by Ross Gilfillan

My guest today is Ross Gilfillan, author of In Leicester Fields, which was published on 26th September 2025. It’s available to purchase now in paperbook or as an ebook.

Set in 18th century London, In Leicester Fields is described as ‘a darkly compelling tale of guilt, corruption, and the terrible price of art’ and promises to immerse the reader in ‘a boisterous London of Hogarthian crowds, buzzing coffee houses, Grub Street newspapers and public executions’. I don’t know about you, but as a fan of historical fiction, I have to say that sounds rather enticing.

Below is an excerpt from In Leicester Fields to further whet your appetite.

About the Book

London, 1783. Dying artist Henry Grace seeks redemption for unspeakable crimes committed with a secret society, but his act of atonement threatens the city’s most powerful men.

When fiery female apprentice Michel Angelo and Grub Street journalist Morris “Mouse” Malone investigate Grace’s final masterpiece, they are drawn into a world of scandal, opium and murder that stretches from the stark wards of the Foundling Hospital to the artists’ salons of Paris and Venice.

Find In Leicester Fields on Goodreads

Excerpt from In Leicester Fields by Ross Gilfillan

Golden Square, Mayfair.  From where he perches atop his hemp-bound tower of creaking, wooden scaffolding, he is lord of London. 

He lays down his trowel upon the newest-laid course of small, yellow bricks, pops a broken, clay pipe unlit between thick, brown lips, and surveys the city, “Made glorious,” he loudly declaims across the tranquil square, “By this pink God’s summer sunshine!” 

Golden Square is wonderfully quiet, he thinks, a continent apart from the crowded court where he sleeps, when God wills it, with his wife and four children. 

Fifty feet below, the sounds from the street, the chivying of shovel on stone as mortar is mixed, and the complaining of iron-bound cart wheels on new-laid road, are muted by altitude and his own happy distraction. 

He arcs his south-easterly gaze from somewhere in the direction of the gardens of Burlington House, over a wilderness of brick and smoking chimney pots towards Covent Garden, that magical place where last night he surrendered himself and a full week’s wage to the fragile embrace and juniper breath of a virgin child no more than eleven years old, they had assured him. 

It’s not been a day since that happened, but already he feels better, so much improved. It is, as he said to Pissing Billy that very morning, like two full hods of Essex bricks had been lifted clean from his shoulders. 

 Now someone is calling from the street below. It’s not Billy – he’s off to find a place to piss again – but the pretty girl with the unmarked face who sells milk from the beast she drives before her with a switch. 

“Milk, milko, warm from the cow, milk a half-penny a pint,” she’s calling. She looks country-fresh and young, someone a man might spend a night with and not pay the awful price. 

And now there’s the rattle of a bunch of keys and the scrape of a heavy door opening. A kitchen maid in a bright white bonnet, clutching a jug and hitching her skirts, pops up from down in the area of the house next door. 

The milkmaid unstraps her stool and gets to work, talking to her customer all the time, balls of shrill laughter bouncing across the empty square and one or two unfettered words rising to the rooftops.

Now, as if called on stage for his amusement, come the chairmen again, turning into Golden Square, as they have at this time for five Thursdays past, the big, ox-faced one at the front huffing and cursing and a damn to the fines and behind, the other one whose face is hidden by an oversized hat from which sprouts the cue of a grey wig.

The big one offers a loud profanity as he sees not only the cow and two heedless women but three men who are unloading stacks of slates from a carrier’s cart. Like two flatirons with a box between them, the men in the dark hats snake and dog-leg around and between the obstacles in their way, the chair swinging wildly, the chairman cursing and whoever is inside holding on, no doubt, for sweet life. 

The builder chuckles and his broad, white smile follows them as they progress quickly down the road until they turn, a little too sharply, onto Brewers Street and are lost to sight. 

About the Author

Ross Gilfillan is an established literary novelist and former Daily Mail book reviewer (1998–2009). The Snake-Oil Dickens Man was 4th Estate’s lead fiction title at the Frankfurt Book Fair and sold at auction. His second novel, The Edge of the Crowd, was runner-up for the Encore Award for Best Second Novel. After completing a non-fiction title, Crime and Punishment in Victorian London, and debuting in crime fiction with The Capos Daughter (Rampart Books, 2025) under his pseudonym J.R. Fillan, Gilfillan now returns to his roots in literary historical fiction with the devastating In Leicester Fields.

Connect with Ross
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