The Travelling Philanthropist

A Time-slip Novel – historical fiction with a difference

Would-be journalist Anna Stratton is estranged from her adoptive parents and living with her boyfriend but something is missing.
Anna’s world fractures when she’s catapulted back in time. Here, in the eighteenth century, she meets philanthropist Janus Gregory and together they embark on a quest for a lost foundling.
Anna soon discovers life in Georgian London is fraught with danger and not everyone has her best interests at heart.
Meanwhile in the contemporary world, Anna’s parallel existence unravels. Will Anna locate the missing child? Can she find herself in time?
Readers of Stacey Halls, Kate Morton and Diane Chamberlain will love this book. Sliding Doors meets The House on the Strand.

The Travelling Philanthropist is available now. 

The Kindle version is available  for £2.99

The paperback version is available for £8.99. 

If you would like a signed paperback version for the same price including p&p (UK delivery only) please email me at and I will provide payment details.

“The river glideth at his own sweet will.” I’d featured the poem in an article in the magazine, Walking Tours around London, one of few pieces Gary let me put together myself. I’d hoped Debbie might read it.

Shoving my mobile into my shoulder bag, I stroll across the bridge as commuters rush for their last train. A woman, standing alone by the balustrade is joined by a man. They link arms and head towards the city. I amble on. I wonder if the girl who jumped stopped to read the Wordsworth poem. Did she think the houses looked all asleep? Was there nobody she could call? I note the barriers erected across sections of the bridge. They won’t stop people jumping. You could hide behind them and drop unnoticed into the churning waters below…

My thoughts are broken when someone yanks my shoulder strap, pulling me backwards.

I turn my head to a man in a hoodie tugging at my bag. 

‘Let go, bitch,’ he hisses.

My brain seems to freeze. Instinctively, I clutch my bag tightly to my chest. I stare at him. ‘No.’

His eyes glint.

‘Help,’ I yell, but there’s no-one nearby.

Without warning his fist shoots out. The blow grazes my chin, forcing me to lose my grasp. The mugger tears the bag from my shoulder and runs off, south of the river.

I’m gulping for air. My breath is a shudder, my limbs shaking. Big Ben strikes midnight.

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