Tag Archives: Hugo Marston

Fiction, Reviews

‘The Blood Promise,’ by Mark Pryor

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I was very much impressed with the Mark Pryor’s first Hugo Marston novel, The Bookseller. I liked the second one, The Crypt Thief, with certain reservations. Number three, The Blood Promise, lost me completely. I say it with regret.

In a rural house in France, an old woman is murdered by a burglar, who makes off with an antique sailor’s chest. Not long after, Hugo Marston, head of security at the US Embassy in Paris, is assigned to “babysit” a visiting US senator scheduled to negotiate a minor dispute with the French government at a palatial country chateau. Hugo isn’t enthusiastic about chaperoning Senator Charles Lake, an unvarnished character who may have been intended to suggest Donald Trump. But a minor crisis arises when the senator insists that someone has entered his room in the night, and insists that the invasion of privacy be investigated. Their noble French host, insulted, refuses more than the minimum cooperation, and the talks break down.

But to everyone’s surprise, one fingerprint found in the room turns out to match one left behind at the earlier murder scene. Soon Hugo, along with his CIA friend Tom, his policeman friend Garcia, and his journalist girlfriend Claudia, are on the hunt for a ruthless killer who will blow their lives apart.

I liked the characters in this series, and the writing wasn’t bad (except for Americanisms in the use of the word “like” that don’t really work well in a French setting). But there were also elements I liked less. One was certain suggestions of progressive political leanings – which up to now were not made explicit. This time out, in a plot choice that will shock readers, author Pryor removes one beloved character and replaces them with a new character who has an Agenda – one which a fair amount of word count is spent explaining. This is an Agenda I don’t really care to spend time with, and that means I’m dropping the series on grounds of a fun deficit.

But a second problem is non-ideological. I noticed it before, in The Crypt Thief – the villain’s motivations make no sense to me. The plot involves a blackmail threat over a secret that I can’t see as scandalous in the least, and I don’t think anyone would care much about it in the real world.

So I’m done with this series, which started out with a lot of promise.

Fiction, Reviews

‘The Crypt Thief,’ by Mark Pryor

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The second offering in Mark Pryor’s Hugo Marston series, about a US embassy security head in Paris, is The Crypt Thief. I liked it, but not as much as the first book.

On summer night in the famous Pére Lachaise cemetery, near the grave of Jim Morrison, a young couple is shot to death. One of them is an American man from a prominent family; the woman is a dancer who turns out to have connections to a suspected terrorist. It is also discovered that a grave has been robbed – part of the skeleton of a famous Paris dancer has been taken. Where others see a terrorist act, Hugo Marston, whose background is in criminal profiling, sees the grave desecration as the central point. He suspects – and fears – that this may be the beginning of a string of serial killings. Since he’s the hero, we know he’s going to be right.

Once again Hugo is joined by his CIA friend Tom (who is showing troubling signs of a serious drinking problem) and his girlfriend Claudia, a plucky reporter with (as is common in fictional females) no rational sense of danger whatever.

This story didn’t work for me as well as The Bookseller. I thought it fell into a lot of common thriller tropes. The serial killer was certainly an original type, but extreme; I had trouble believing in him. And I’m a little weary of stories where the hero is sure he has to rush into danger personally, because the police don’t understand the truth the way he does.

But it wasn’t bad. I’ll still continue reading the series. Cautions for very disturbing subject matter.

Fiction, Reviews

‘The Bookseller,’ by Mark Pryor

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Outside the car’s window Paris flashed by, the sluggish river Seine appearing and disappearing beside them, seeming to slow their progress with her magnetic pull, a seductress winking through the plane trees, teasing them with glimpses of her silvery skirts, and with the threat of more death, more bodies hidden within their deadly folds.

Along the river Seine in Paris, there is a class of booksellers known as bouquinistes, occupants of much-coveted stalls. Hugo Marston, head of security for the US embassy, is fond of browsing their offerings, and has made particular friends with an old man named Max. As The Bookseller opens, Hugo asks Max for something special, out of his private stock – a conciliatory gift for his girlfriend, who recently abandoned him and returned to the US. Max offers two rare books – an Agatha Christie first edition, and a rare copy of the poet Rimbaud. Before he leaves, Hugo witnesses Max being bullied by a thug, who forces him down to the river bank. Max is shoved onto a boat, and Hugo is unable to do anything to prevent it. When he reports the abduction to the police, they seem uninterested – and quickly drop the investigation.

Meanwhile, Hugo discovers that the Rimbaud book is an extremely rare signed copy, worth hundreds of thousands of euros. Why did he sell it to Hugo for less than a thousand? Was he trying to send a message, leave some kind of clue behind? When Hugo learns that Max was once a Nazi hunter, and when other bouquinistes start turning up dead in the river, Hugo begins his own independent investigation. His friend Tom, a CIA operative, comes along to watch his back and help out with the rough stuff. And Hugo meets a charming female journalist with a shocking secret.

The Bookseller was a first novel for author Mark Pryor, and for my money it was a home run. (Our commenter Paul alerted me to it.) The writing was superior, and I liked the characters very much. Hugo and Tom have great rapport, and they’re fun to watch in action. I look forward to reading the next books in the series.

The usual cautions for language are in order. Some time is spent on Hugo’s agnosticism, but he himself is forced to admit occasionally that it’s inconsistent with his actual life experience.