Life And Death On Little Ross by David R Collin (Whittles Publishing, £18.99)

Built by the Stevenson family, Kirkcudbright’s Little Ross Lighthouse has been in continuous operation since 1843. David R Collin, who can see it from his window, is possibly the only person who could have written this exhaustively researched book on its history. He tells here the story of the only time the light was ever extinguished and his own part in the “violent and tragic happenings” that brought it about. But first he presents a detailed account of the campaign to get the lighthouse built, liberally quoting from sources which include Thomas (father of RLS) Stevenson’s geological report. The story of its construction is followed by what many readers will find the most engrossing section: a glimpse into the life of a lighthouse keeper through extracts from the journal of keeper George Mackie. Collin’s dedication is second to none, and the personal turn the book takes towards the end demonstrates why it’s been such a labour of love for him.

Madness Lies by Helen Forbes (ThunderPoint, £9.99)

It’s grim up north in the second of Helen Forbes’s Inverness-based crime novels, which follows on from the debut appearance of DS Joe Galbraith in Shadow Of The Hill. The Highland peace is shattered by the shooting of a councillor in broad daylight, and the chief suspect would appear to be 14-year-old Ryan MacRae, seen by Galbraith running in the opposite direction. After the murder of a young prostitute who was about to give the police vital information, Ryan looks guiltier still. But his mother’s boyfriend, the white knight who swept in to save her from addiction, is somehow involved, through his connection with the sinister incomer named Todd. Taking detours to London and Uist, Madness Lies is a murky tale, Forbes twisting her noose ever tighter around some sympathetic characters while workplace resentment towards “Golden Balls” Galbraith deals him a major setback. Gritty and ominous, Forbes’s brand of “Highland noir” is shaping up to be a good series.

The Hue And Cry At Our House by Benjamin Taylor (Penguin, £13.99)

Having written about Proust, Benjamin Taylor knows a thing or two about the power and persistence of memory, devoting this book to a single year of his life, when he was 11. It was the time of the Cuban Missile Crisis and a fire that killed four members of his extended family. But the singular event branding it in his memory is the assassination of JFK only hours after he had shaken the President’s hand. Given that he was Jewish, asthmatic, “going-to-be-homosexual” and showed signs of Asperger’s, Taylor lived the archetypal American boyhood, and writes mesmerisingly about it. This is more than a simple memoir, however. In late middle age, Taylor realises he’s spending less time in the present day than in a world that no longer exists, and for him immortalising these people in print is a way of rescuing them from oblivion. His fixation on the past is quite sad, but this well-written and evocative autobiography makes up for it.