Ben Canaan returns in this darkly gripping stand-alone adventure mystery set in Hong Kong, sequel to the acclaimed Murder in Constantinople ! Like its predecessor, Death on the Pearl River , this thrilling murder mystery promises to "deliver a multitude of pleasures!" ( The New York Times). Ben Canaan is riding high on the recent string of cases he has solved successfully on the payroll of Her Majesty’s Executive. Then a notorious crime boss is found murdered on the city streets, the latest in a series of brutal killings targeting the most powerful men in the opium trade. The scale of the danger is global. To track down the culprits and prevent more blood from being shed, Ben is sent out to the newly-founded British colony of Hong Kong: a lawless frontier town on the southern shores of China's Great Qing Dynasty. All the victims have had ties to the prominent trading firms that use the Pearl River and the South China Sea as their base of operations – ranging from the firms’ heads, to high-ranking partners, supercargoes, merchants, even sailors. Ben is plunged headlong into a labyrinthine conspiracy, set against the backdrop of an empire in collapse and a sweeping civil war. As his hunt brings him closer to the truth and the ruthless corporate interests that want him dead, Ben is forced to choose between what is necessary and what is just. Alfred Hitchcock meets Indiana Jones, this immersive, globe-trotting historical mystery is the second installment in the acclaimed Ben Canaan Mysteries series. Thrillingly paced and filled with enchanting historical settings, this series provides all the nostalgic reading pleasure of classic Sherlock Holmes. A.E. Goldin is a British writer and musician. He works as a screenwriter for television companies in London and Los Angeles. Murder in Constantinople , his debut novel and the first Ben Canaan Mystery, was published to acclaim in 2024. He lives in London. They found him sprawled face down on the dining table. The blood had long since dried, staining the tablecloth deep bur-gundy. His arms were spread wide, in a crucifix-like gesture, and his face was buried in a half-eaten lemon posset. The cutlery, fine sterling silver, lay scattered across the oak floor, in puddles of Laurent-Perrier and shards of shattered champagne flutes. The candles had almost burnt through their wax and shadows hung heavy around the corpse. It was an oddly peaceful sight: constables drifting through the stillness as they formed a perimeter around the table, a gentle breeze nudging the windowpanes, the barely stifled sobs of Lady Louisa Ellison. She was huddled with the other witnesses at the far end of the dining room, wrapped in the arms of her husband the Earl of Mansfield, whose right hand was edging over her eyes to shield her from the horror. Two men were standing over the body. On the right, vig-orously chewing tobacco, was Sergeant Will Hardy of the Metropolitan Police – his top hat crooked to the right as he fiddled with his specially issued revolver, which he had a habit of keeping in an open holster for easy access. On the left, in a smooth black overcoat and slim-fitting suit, with a neat bowtie nestled under his chin and a thin moustache traced over his top lip, was Detective Ben Canaan. They stared at the gruesome sight with a detachment not unlike that which was writ large on the faces of the Mansfield ancestors whose portraits were affixed to the walls. ‘Did Commissioner Mayne sanction your presence?’ Hardy grumbled. ‘Not quite,’ Ben replied. ‘My own superiors sent for me. Don’t worry: there’s plenty of space on the dancefloor and I’ll be sure not to tread on the Met’s toes.’ ‘You’re more than happy to cling to our coattails. You angling to join our ranks?’ ‘I go where I’m told, Hardy. Besides, I wouldn’t join the Met for all the money and caviar in the world. Now, what say we turn this chap over and get a good look at him?’ Ben and Hardy flipped the body onto its back, and Ben slipped on his glove to wipe away the yellowish dessert that had congealed on the man’s face. Lying dead before them was none other than Lennie Glass: notorious East End gangster – king of the Isle of Dogs. A man whose casual glance used to strike fear into Ben’s heart. Who played with people’s lives like a cat with fresh yarn. And now he too had met a sticky end. Hardy narrowed his eyes. ‘You know our dear friend Mr Glass?’ Ben tut-tutted and flicked the cream from his glove. ‘I owed him a favour once.’ Ben inspected Lennie more closely. The man’s hair was brit-tle and tangled, as when it is caught in the rain and left to dry naturally. Ben parted his lips – Lennie’s pristine white teeth, one of his great prides, were still intact. On the face alone, the pallor of death aside, Lennie could easily have been mistaken for a man at the peak of his powers. It was below the head where things got messy. His suit, courtesy of H. Huntsman & Sons, was made from the highest quality cotton twill,