To detail even minor aspects of the plot twists in Jane Harris's "Gillespie and I" would necessitate an additional crime: You'd want to kill me. So delectably well has Harris constructed this psychological thriller that even the slightest hint of what's to come would spoil things.
I will say only this: The year is 1888, and Harriet Baxter, a solitary woman with a comfortable inherited income, decides to leave her London home to attend the International Exhibition in Glasgow, Scotland. There she becomes friendly with Ned Gillespie, a young Scottish artist, and his lively family. Harriet narrates the story, and we come to admire her good intentions, her selfless devotion to the needy clan. Soon, however, a horrendous tragedy occurs, forcing the reader to consider some unsavory possibilities.
Harris masterfully retrieves the world of late 19th-century Glasgow — the fog-swaddled streets, the narrow staircases in crowded apartment houses that are "redolent of many gravies." The novel is long, but never feels that way; each scene is like a landing on one of those steep, endless staircases. While you climb, you may cringe and shudder — but you do not, you cannot, stop climbing.
These novels are eloquent, engaging reminders of the power of fiction, of how it both sustains and entertains.
"He rattled through the darkness, reading": That is Lively's description of Anton, so eager to learn English that he opens a book every chance he gets, including his daily commute on the London subway.
And so it is with many of us. The world is strange and confusing and mysterious and often disappointing — and we rattle through the darkness, reading.
JULIA KELLER is the Chicago Tribune's cultural critic. She won the 2005 Pulitzer Prize for feature writing.