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*Portrait of an Unknown Woman* by Ivan Kramskoi, 1883

Welcome to Five Books For, a newsletter for people who love great stories. I’m so happy you’re here.

I have a real soft spot for detective stories set in the past. Strip away all the things we take for granted, like modern forensics, instant communication and procedural safeguards, and what you’re left with is instinct, observation and courage. In the past, superstition often carries more weight than evidence, power is rarely neutral, and asking questions can be as dangerous as answering them. The stakes feel different - sharper and more precarious, because truth is never guaranteed a fair hearing.

This month’s recommendations roam widely across both time and terrain: from the rain-soaked frontiers of Roman Britain’s, via a 7th-century Northumbrian monastery gripped by plague, to the mud-choked docks of Georgian London, witch-haunted Bavaria, and even 1980s Hawkins in the uneasy aftermath of apocalypse. Our investigators themselves are just as varied - an army medic, a herb-wife, a river officer, a hangman’s daughter, a teenage journalist. None of them are establishment power; all of them are compelled to look closer. And that, perhaps, is the common thread: in every century, someone has to ask the difficult questions. As ever, I hope you find something new to read and enjoy here.

This month over at Global Comment, I got lost in Tudor intrigue with C.J. Sansom’s Dissolution for Great Adaptations, and wandered through 1940s cinemas for Late To The Movies, from the smouldering tension of Casablanca and Double Indemnity to the introspective charm of Brief Encounter.

Okay, onto this month’s recommendations!

“One moment the body was a person with a will and a future and a sense of humor and a liking for honeyed dates or goat cheese or other men’s wives. Then–and the change could take a second, or hours, or days, but the end was always the same–the body was just a mass of flesh which had to be disposed of before it stank.”

So what’s it about? The first mystery in a series set in Roman-occupied Britain in the second century, Medicus follows Gaius Petreius Ruso, an army doctor posted to a damp, distant frontier he suspects will offer equal measures of tedium and savagery. Recently divorced, professionally capable but personally unmoored, Ruso arrives expecting to treat routine ailments and keep his head down. Instead, he finds corruption within the ranks, uneasy alliances with the local Britons, and a series of suspicious deaths that refuse to behave like accidents.

When he impulsively purchases a slave girl named Tilla - who proves sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, and far more perceptive than he anticipates - Ruso acquires not just household help but an unexpected ally. As the two are drawn into a murder investigation that exposes the fault lines of the occupation, suspicion spreads through the fort and into the surrounding settlements. To uncover the truth, Ruso must rely not only on medical logic but on a partnership he never intended to form.

What’s great about it? Downie’s real skill lies in tonal control. The novel is deeply researched - the surgical procedures, the petty military politics, the omnipresent mud (some things clearly never change) - yet the detail never clogs the narrative. It feels inhabited rather than exhibited. The humour is dry and witty; Ruso is intelligent but irritable, competent but occasionally ridiculous. He’s no kind of a conquering hero, which makes him far more convincing.

Equally, Tilla prevents the story from becoming a Roman monologue, shifting the Roman occupation from background setting to lived reality. Their dynamic - wary, sparky, gradually respectful - gives the mystery emotional depth. The plot is cleverly constructed, but it’s the character work, especially the prickly, slow-burning dynamic between Ruso and Tilla, that gives the book (and indeed the series) real staying power.

Give it a try if: you love reluctant heroes; you love books which are wry and witty; you’re fascinated by the ancient world or the Roman empire; you love stories which bring their eras to life; you like books set in England.

“Fridgyth turned her face towards the ever-growing monastery, built high above the wild ocean, where sea eagles and gulls soared, set back a little way from the exposed clifftops. The fine carved pediment of the guest house and the wooden cross that crowned the church could both be seen above the strong, protective stockade that surrounded the monastery buildings. The ancient beacon of Brigs Headland towered higher than anything else, where long ago the Chieftain Streon had built his roundhouse. The site commanded such a fine view of land and sea, that it made the inhabitants feel that they need never fear sudden attack, either by an approaching army or a fleet of ships..”

So what’s it about? Set in the aftermath of the Great Synod of Whitby in 664 AD, A Swarming of Bees centres on Fridgyth, a herb-wife in the coastal monastery of Streonshalh (modern Whitby). Trusted by the powerful Abbess Hild, she tends the sick and seeks medicinal remedies as a devastating plague sweeps through the abbey and the surrounding lands. But when deaths begin to outstrip what even pestilence can explain, Fridgyth suspects that illness may not be the only killer at work.

While historical figures such as Hild and the poet Caedmon appear in the background (a real joy for anyone with even a passing interest in the period), it’s Fridgyth herself who must become both healer and detective, using her instinct and local knowledge to investigate the unexplained deaths and the hidden motives of those arriving under the monastery’s hospitality. As social, religious and political tensions simmer around them, her pursuit of the truth leads into dangerous territory where fear, faith and folklore intersect.

What’s great about it? There are obvious echoes of Cadfael here; like Ellis, Tomlinson creates an atmosphere that feels intimate but situated within a wider context. The monastery isn’t a cloistered retreat but rather a hard-working community balancing spirituality, survival and scholarship. The setting feels lived-in – the clifftops, the plague-ridden huts, the crowded refectory – and the period detail enriches rather than overwhelms.

Fridgyth, as narrator and sleuth, is distinctive precisely because she isn’t a stereotypical heroine. A herb-wife with a foot in both the pagan and Christian worlds, she stands slightly outside every hierarchy, which makes her insights both grounded and surprising. The mystery unfolds patiently, with character and context given as much weight as plot twists, resulting in a story that feels both thoughtful and satisfying.

Give it a try if: you love female detectives, especially in settings where women had little power; you love mysteries set in small communities; you’re intrigued by early Christian history; you love stories featuring real historical characters; you love books which have a strong sense of place.

“Tom rolled onto his side. He understood the culture of silence, the wall of obduracy that met any question delving into the affairs of others. It was nothing personal: he was a stranger to the area, an outsider. He squinted out through the mud-spattered window. The light drizzle had turned to a steady downpour, creating a gurgling stream that was carrying away the detritus which had gathered in the alley since it last rained. A few hazy outlines scurried past, looking for cover. Suddenly, he remembered the ship he’d left the previous day.”

So what’s it about? Set in late eighteenth-century London, at the height of Georgian England’s commercial power, The Watermen is the first book in a series following former Royal Navy officer Tom Pascoe, newly appointed River Surveyor for the fledgling Marine Police. In theory, his task is simple: police the Thames and protect the vast flow of goods that keeps Britain solvent during its war with Revolutionary France. In practice, the river is a lawless artery where theft is endemic and loyalties are fluid. When a prostitute is brutally attacked and government revenues begin to dip alarmingly, Pascoe suspects organised corruption at the highest levels of the docks.

At the centre of that corruption stands crime lord Joseph Boylin, who rules the waterfront through intimidation and influence. As Pascoe pursues leads along the riverbanks and into taverns thick with smoke and suspicion, he forms an uneasy alliance with Sam Hart, a Jewish immigrant with his own stake in the outcome. What begins as an investigation into missing cargo evolves into something far more personal, drawing Pascoe into a rivalry with Boylin that tests both his professional resolve and his moral compass.

What’s great about it? For me, this book’s greatest strength is its sense of place and period. Easter conjures up the slimy, crowded streets of Wapping and the chaotic docks of the Thames with visceral detail – the cloying smells, the rotting timbers, the clatter of commerce and crime side by side – so that London itself becomes almost a character in the story. The historical detail does real narrative work: the fragility of Britain’s wartime finances and the infancy of organised policing raise the stakes beyond a single crime.

Pascoe makes for a satisfying protagonist partly because he’s not entirely at ease in his new role. Shaped by naval hierarchy, he is now navigating civilian corruption where rules are more malleable. His rivalry with Boylin gives the novel propulsion, while Sam Hart widens the social lens, revealing a London layered with prejudice, opportunity and survivalism. The result is a crime story with heft - brisk in pace but grounded in a convincingly rendered world.

Give it a try if: you love books set in London; you like books which explore the criminal underworld; you’re curious about the history of policing; you like books which give a perspective on the social issues of their setting.

“I’ll skip straight to the ending. Because that’s my secret. If you know your ending, then everything that happens along the way just becomes … stuff that happens. It’s so much less important and so much less terrifying than we give it credit for. If you live like your future is certain, then it will be.”

So what’s it about? I bought this book on a whim when it was on special offer, with no idea whether it would be any good, but I’m so glad I did. Set in the Stranger Things universe in the narrative gap between Season 4 and Season 5 (no spoilers in the comments please, I still haven’t watched Season 5), One Way or Another follows Nancy Wheeler as Hawkins, Indiana, reels from the devastation of Vecna’s earthquake. Nancy has spent the months since the disaster obsessively chasing clues about Vecna’s whereabouts, even as she faces the unsettling question of whether she can actually leave for Emerson College in the autumn if Hawkins remains under the shadow of the Upside Down. While her role at The Hawkins Post gives her purpose, her determination to uncover the truth often borders on obsession.

When a classmate, Joey Taft, behaves strangely at graduation, Nancy’s instincts flare. Convinced that something more than nerves is at play, she begins digging. Joined by Robin Buckley, she uncovers unexplained illnesses, a shadowy man who seems to be tracking her movements, and unsettling links to powerful local figures. What starts as routine sleuthing escalates into a conspiracy that suggests the danger facing Hawkins is not yet finished - and that Nancy’s future may be more tightly bound to her hometown than she would like.

What’s great about it? This is a very fun read whether you have seen Stranger Things or not. What stands out is how confidently the novel translates Nancy from screen to page. Freed from ensemble pacing and visual spectacle, her investigative instincts can take centre stage. She is methodical, stubborn, and driven by a fierce sense of responsibility - qualities that sometimes sit quietly in the series but flourish here. Robin’s sceptical intelligence provides a sharp counterpoint, and together they feel less like supporting players and more like a formidable investigative duo.

The book also makes a smart choice in grounding its tension in aftermath rather than apocalypse. Instead of rushing back into full-scale supernatural chaos, it lingers in the emotional debris: trauma, uncertainty, the pull between escape and duty. Hawkins feels bruised but breathing. The mystery leans into a nostalgic small-town thriller mode - part Nancy Drew, part 1980s conspiracy drama - while remaining faithful to the show’s mythology. The result is character-led, tense, and surprisingly substantial for tie-in fiction.

Give it a try if: you love books set in the1980s; you love stories with ‘difficult’ female leads; you love Stranger Things; you’ve never seen Stranger Things but love detective stories; you liked Nancy Drew when you were younger.

“…a rumour is like smoke. It will spread, it will seep through closed doors and latched shutters, and in the end the whole town will smell of it.”

So what’s it about? Set in 1600s Bavaria, The Hangman's Daughter follows Magdalena Kuisl, the intelligent and fiercely observant daughter of the town executioner, and Simon Fronwieser, the physician’s son with aspirations beyond his provincial post. When a local midwife is accused of witchcraft after several children die under suspicious circumstances, the town turns quickly and viciously against her. Torture is authorised, and a confession seems inevitable.

Magdalena and Simon, however, are unconvinced. As hysteria tightens its grip and the machinery of accusation begins to grind forward, they start to investigate, uncovering financial corruption, personal vendettas and long-buried resentments. Their search for truth places them in direct opposition to both superstition and authority, revealing how easily fear can be shaped into a weapon - and how fragile justice becomes when reason is sidelined.

What’s great about it? Pötzsch has a personal connection to the material - he is descended from Bavarian executioners - but what really matters is the care of the research and the solidity of the world he builds. Early modern Bavaria feels harsh, hierarchical and intensely watchful. The social position of the hangman’s family is particularly compelling: indispensable to the town’s legal order yet permanently ostracised by it. That moral contradiction gives the story its emotional backbone.

The pacing is brisk without feeling modernised, and the period detail has grit rather than gloss. The novel examines witch-trial paranoia without turning the era into caricature; instead, it shows how economic pressure, religious anxiety and personal ambition can intertwine to devastating effect. It is both a tense historical thriller and a reminder that scapegoating thrives wherever fear outruns fairnessI. It’s a great first entry in a series worth reading.

Give it a try if: you love books set in Germany; you love detective stories where there’s a duo working together; you like stories where people on the outside get to lead the show.

I hope you found something good to read here. As ever, I’d love to hear if you’ve read and loved (or even hated) any of the books here, and which ones you’d add to the list. You can reply directly to this email or leave a comment by clicking the button below.

Five Historical Mysteries Worth Solving

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