The burning girls A novel

Review by Booklist Review

Fans of Gillian Flynn, Tana French, and Jess Lourey will leap at the chance to read Tudor's new psychological thriller. Reverend Jack Brooks and her teenage daughter, Flo, move from their big-city life in Nottingham to the remote hamlet of Chapel Croft, hoping for a new beginning and some down time. The more Jack and Flo get to know their new neighbors, however, the more they realize a peaceful life is far from their reality. Chapel Croft's mysterious history involving the sixteenth-century burning of Protestant martyrs is just a drop in the bucket of chaos that awaits. Burning apparitions, the disappearance of two teenage girls, and the cryptic arrival of the former vicar's exorcism kit force Jack right into the middle of Chapel Croft's horrific present. Tudor is undeniably talented at producing a slow burn, weaving each piece of the story together to form a creepy yet satisfying conclusion. Jack is a relatable protagonist, stepping away from the stereotypical personality of a vicar by projecting a raw, yet still empathetic, exterior. Gruesome and haunting, The Burning Girls is worth every page turn. Readers will surely be eager for more.

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Rarely have the secrets of an English village been used to greater effect than in this tautly suspenseful mystery from Thriller Award--winner Tudor (The Other People). When the Rev. Jack Brooks, a widow with a 14-year-old daughter, Flo, is ordered to fill a sudden vacancy in Chapel Croft, Jack learns that the Sussex village is famous for the burning of its martyrs in the reign of Mary I, two of the victims having been young girls. But it's not so clear what happened to two teenage girls who disappeared from Chapel Croft 30 years earlier, in 1990, never to be heard from again. Once Jack discovers that her predecessor killed himself, the menace stalking the village becomes a palpable threat. Shifting points of view bring into play a secret from Jack's past--and when that threat is added to the escalating dangers in Chapel Croft, the tension become nearly unbearable. Tudor expertly doles out the plot twists, some of them small, some sizable, and one so shocking that it turns the entire story inside out. Jack, Flo, and the other fully realized characters and their eventual fates won't be easily forgotten by any reader. Agent: Madeleine Milburn, Madeleine Milburn Literary (U.K.). (Feb.)

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

When he's reassigned to the tiny Sussex hamlet of Chapel Croft, Reverend Jack Brooks and his 14-year-old daughter Flo reluctantly leave bustling Nottingham. Chapel Croft is no haven for them; instead it's a town steeped in mystery, tragedy, and secrets. Eight Protestant martyrs, two of them young girls, were burned at the stake 500 years ago; 30 years ago, two teenage girls disappeared. The previous vicar hanged himself two months ago. Local lore says that if you see the ghosts of the two burning girls, something bad is going to happen. The burning girls show up and Jack and Flo have been warned. They're moving into their dilapidated cottage when a child, Poppy Harper, turns up mute and covered in blood. Her father, the biggest financial supporter of the chapel, arrives to explain it all away, but Jack is not convinced and will not let it go. Flo finds comfort in photographing her surroundings and meets Wriggly, a teen with dystonia who's bullied by the others. The two teens find comfort in each other, but even friends have secrets. VERDICT Tudor (The Other People) strikes again with another thriller filled with twists and turns right up to the mind-bending ending.--Susan Santa, North Merrick Lib., NY

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

A fresh start for a vicar and her daughter proves to be anything but. When vicar Jack Brooks' boss asks her to leave St. Anne's in Nottingham for a more rural placement in the small Sussex village of Chapel Croft, it's more an order than a favor. She'll serve as interim vicar until a suitable replacement for the former vicar can be found. Jack's 15-year-old daughter, Flo, isn't thrilled to leave the city, but she knows that her mother could use some distance from a horrific tragedy at St. Anne's that Jack feels largely responsible for. Soon after they arrive at Chapel Croft, however, they learn that their new village has more than its share of weirdness and tragedy. The vicar that preceded Jack allegedly hung himself in the chapel; Merry and Joy, two teen girls, disappeared without a trace 30 years ago; and the village is known for the Burning Girls, aka the Sussex Martyrs, who were burned at the stake in the 16th century. Additionally, Jack keeps finding strange twig dolls on the church grounds and disturbing accounts of exorcisms in her cottage's cellar. Meanwhile, Flo glimpses strange figures in the graveyard and befriends Lucas Wrigley, a troubled boy with a shady past. Then there are the bodies that keep turning up while dark secrets emerge about a local (and very powerful) family. The author steadily cranks up the scares and the suspense while smoothly toggling between multiple narratives, including one that indicates Jack's past may be about to catch up with her. Jack is immensely appealing: She curses and smokes, and her faith, which she explores throughout, is complicated. Luckily, Jack and Flo share a strong bond, one they'll need in order to face what's coming, and readers will savor the final, breathless twists. Top-notch and deliciously creepy storytelling. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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One "It's an unfortunate situation." Bishop John Durkin smiles, benevolently. I'm pretty sure that Bishop John Durkin does everything benevolently, even taking a shit. The youngest bishop to preside over the North Notts diocese, he's a skilled orator, author of several acclaimed theological papers and, if he hadn't at least tried to walk on water, I'd be amazed. He's also a wanker. I know it. His colleagues know it. His staff know it. Secretly, I think, even he knows it. Unfortunately, no one is going to call him on it. Certainly not me. Not today. Not while he holds my job, my home and my future in his smooth, manicured hands. "Something like this can shake the faith of the community," he continues. "They're not shaken. They're angry and sad. But I won't let this ruin everything we've achieved. I won't leave people now when they need me the most." "But do they? Attendance is down. Classes canceled. I heard that the children's groups may move to another church." "Crime scene tape and police officers will do that. This is not a community that has any love for the police." "I understand that--" No, he doesn't. The closest Durkin gets to the inner city is when his driver takes a wrong turn on the way to his private gym. "I'm confident it's only temporary. I can rebuild their trust." I don't add that I need to. I made a mistake and I need to make amends. "So now you can perform miracles?" Before I can answer or argue, Durkin continues smoothly. "Look, Jack, I know you did what you thought was best, but you got too close." I sit back stiffly in my seat, fighting the urge to fold my arms like a sulky teenager. "I thought that was our job. To build close ties with the community." "It is our job to uphold the reputation of the Church. These are testing times. Everywhere, churches are failing. Fewer and fewer people are attending. We have an uphill battle even without this negative publicity." And that is what Durkin really cares about. The newspapers. PR. The Church doesn't get good press at the best of times and I've really screwed things up. By trying to save a little girl and, instead, condemning her. "So, what? You want me to resign?" "Not at all. It would be a shame for someone of your caliber to leave." He steeples his hands together. He really does that. "And it would look bad. An admission of guilt. We have to give careful consideration to what we do next." I'm sure. Especially considering my appointment here was his idea. I'm his prize show-dog. And I had been performing well, turning the once-derelict inner-city church back into a hub of the community. Until Ruby. "So, what do you suggest?" "A transfer. Somewhere less high profile for a while. A small church in Sussex has suddenly found itself without a priest. Chapel Croft. While they nominate a replacement, they need an interim vicar." I stare at him, feeling the earth shift beneath my feet. "I'm sorry, but that's not possible. My daughter is taking her GCSEs next year. I can't just move her to the other end of the country." "I've already agreed to the transfer with Bishop Gordon at the Weldon diocese." "You've what? How? Has the post been advertised? Surely there must be a more suitable local candidate--" He waves a hand dismissively. "We were chatting. Your name came up. He mentioned the vacancy. Serendipity." And Durkin can pull more strings than frigging Geppetto. "Try and look on the bright side," he says. "It's a beautiful part of the country. Fresh air, fields. A small, safe community. It could be good for you and Flo." "I think I know what's best for me and my daughter. The answer is no." "Then let me be blunt, Jack." His eyes meet mine. "This is not a f***ing request." There's a reason why Durkin is the youngest bishop to preside over the diocese and it has nothing to do with his benevolence. I clench my fists in my lap. "Understood." "Excellent. You start next week. Pack your wellies." Two "Christ!" "Blaspheming again." "I know, but--" Flo shakes her head. "What a shithole." She's not wrong. I pull the car to a halt and stare up at our new home. Well, our spiritual home. Our actual home is next door: a small cottage that would be quite pretty if not for its alarming off-kilter bearing, which makes it look like it's trying to slope away, quietly, brick by brick. The chapel itself is small, square and a dirty off-white. It doesn't look much like a place of worship. There's no high-pitched roof, cross or stained glass. Four plain windows face the front: two up, two down. Between the two upper windows is a clock. Florid writing around it proclaims: "Redeem the Time, for the Days are Evil." Nice. Unfortunately, the "e" has worn off the end of "time," so it actually reads, "Redeem the Tim," whoever he is. I climb out of the car. The muggy air immediately shrink-wraps my clothes to my skin. All around us, there's nothing but fields. The village itself consists of about two dozen houses, a pub, general shop and village hall. The only sounds are birdsong and the occasional buzzing bee. It sets me on edge. "Okay," I say, trying to sound positive, and not full of dread, like I feel. "Let's go and take a look inside." "Aren't we going to look at where we're going to live?" Flo asks. "First the house of God. Then the house of his children." She rolls her eyes. Communicating that I'm impossibly stupid and tiresome. Teenagers can communicate a lot with eye rolls. Which is just as well, seeing as oral communication hits something of a brick wall once they turn fifteen. "Besides," I say, "our furniture is still stuck in traffic on the M25. At least the chapel has pews." She slams the car door and slouches along grumpily behind me. I glance at her: dark hair, cropped into a ragged bob, nose ring (hard fought for and taken out for school), and a hefty Nikon camera slung almost permanently around her neck. I often think my daughter would be a dead ringer for Winona Ryder's role in a remake of Beetlejuice. A long path leads up to the chapel from the road. A battered metal mailbox stands just outside the gate. I've been told, if no one is here when we arrive, that this is where I will find the keys. I flip up the lid, stick my hand inside, and . . . bingo. I pull out two worn silver keys, which must be for the cottage, and a heavy iron thing that looks like it should open something from a Tolkien fantasy. I presume this is the key to the chapel. "Well, at least we can get in," I say. "Yay," Flo deadpans. I ignore her and push open the gate. The path is steep and uneven. Either side, tilting headstones rise up from the overgrown grass. A taller monument stands to the left. A bleak grey obelisk. What look like bunches of dead flowers have been left at its base. On closer inspection, they're not dead flowers. They're tiny twig dolls. "What are those?" Flo asks, peering at them and reaching for her camera. Automatically, I reply, "Burning Girls." She crouches down to snap some shots with her Nikon. "They're something of a village tradition," I say. "I read about it online. People make them to commemorate the Sussex Martyrs." "The who?" "Villagers who were burned to death during Queen Mary's purge of the Protestants. Two young girls were killed outside this chapel." She stands, pulling a face. "And people make creepy twig dolls to remember them?" "And on the anniversary of the purge, they burn them." "That is way too Blair Witch." "That's the countryside for you." I give the twig dolls a final contemptuous glance as I walk past. "Full of 'quaint' traditions." Flo pulls out her phone and takes a couple more pictures, presumably to share with her friends back in Nottingham--Look at what the crazy yokels do--and then follows me. We reach the chapel door and I stick the iron key into the lock. It's a bit stiff and I have to push down hard to get it to turn. The door creaks open. Properly creaks, like a sound effect in a horror movie. I shove it open wider. Excerpted from The Burning Girls: A Novel by C. J. Tudor All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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