The story hinges around the discovery of one young boy's body, surgically drained of blood, entrance wounds dated to imply multiple blood lettings. The milieu, London, the Age of Enlightenment (ironically, under clouds of coal smoke.) All the characters (and there are many) cough, choke, wheeze, spit, and etc., in varying degrees.

The boy is found, exsanguinated, (good word, that,) and enter the great scientists of the Royal Society, their assistants and mentees, authorities of London, and even the King Himself. Many more bodies are found, and the crimes are blamed on the Whore of Babylon - if not the Pope. Is it Catholic mischief, or science run amuck? More will be revealed.

All in all the book is a fascinated look at the period following England's civil war (Cromwell, et al,) and a (dare I say it?) illuminating view of the political and scientific establishments.

The fly in the ointment is the author's fondness for lists that supply little texture, and slow the reading - but, you can skip - especially after the second rendering. Harry Hunt, (ach, the aptronym) research assistant to Robert Hook, and jack of all trades, is the prime mover of the investigation, and finds himself in quite a few life threatening scrapes. He's slight, and as it's winter, encumbered with a hand-me-down full length leather coat that somehow doesn't hinder his working through the stunt-man's fx book. i.e., he leaps, spins, and whirls with the greatest of ease, and when that doesn't work MacGyver's his way out of danger. Strains belief, but...

Three stars (bordering on four) because I liked it, and might even read the sequel if it ever gets back into print.