Jonathan Barnes’ debut novel, The Somnambulist, fails to qualify as Victoriana by the skin of its teeth – set in 1901, a few weeks after the death of Her Britannic Majesty, the book is nevertheless infused with the spirit of the nineteenth century. Set in the London of Sherlock Holmes and Dr Jekyll, it follows the experiences of Edward Moon, a stage illusionist who has enjoyed a career as an investigator of rather more unusual criminal cases in the city. Now apparently in the twilight of both careers, his stage show playing to ever decreasing houses, and his investigative career under a cloud following an unexplained failure in Clapham, Moon cuts a sorry figure at the beginning of the book.

Moon’s companion is the Somnambulist – a seven-foot tall mute, and a deeply mysterious figure, he communicates only by means of a blackboard and chalk (complete with shocking spelling), drinks only milk and rather usefully for both the stageshow and the sideline in criminal investigations, is apparently invulnerable to physical harm.

The case that Moon and his assistant are drawn in to involves enough strange and wonderful elements to ensure that this book should be classed as fantasy: a time traveller, a bearded woman, psychics, sideshow freaks, and a dastardly plot to destroy London. In uneasy alliance with Moon are the Directorate, a shadowy government intelligence agency most of whose operatives appear to be dressed as unconvincing Chinese stereotypes despite having been to Eton and Oxford, and, indirectly, the Prefects, a pair of hired killers who dress and act like quintessential public schoolboys, but are as deadly as it’s possible to imagine.

The Somnambulist has echoes of many of my favourite books and authors, though it establishes its own niche: it’s not as laugh-out-loud funny as Robert Rankin’s Book of Ultimate Truths; it’s not as dark or surreal as Nail Gaiman, though there are echoes of Neverwhere; it has a hint of Terry Pratchett; and it has numerous antecedents for its evocations of the grime and menace of London’s seamier side – the comparison that sticks in my mind is with Philip Pullman’s excellent Sally Lockhart series for young adults.

It manages to be both witty and atmospheric and transcend its influences – but it’s not a perfect book. I think that the tone sits uneasily in places between horror and humour, and Edward Moon does not seem quite as charismatic or as confident as I had thought he would turn out to be – more Watson than Holmes at times. Nevertheless, there are plenty of teasers as the plot progresses, yet we still get a surreal set-piece ending that’s far from predictable, and a set-up for the further adventures of Edward Moon. All in all, I think that The Somnambulist represents a very promising debut indeed, and I look forward to the sequel.

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