The Fabrics of My Life

by Eric

Earlier this year we retired my Race with Grace 10K T-shirt. Even by my lax sartorial standards (mismatched white socks) the poor old thing was unwearable -- faded, discolored, a hole or two. It was almost thirty years old, so it had a good innings for a T-shirt.

Digging through our clothing cache for a replacement, Mary came across a number of shirts I'd forgotten. Since leaving the corporate necktie world to work freelance my favored attire has been T-shirts and jeans. Which means I've rarely had to buy a shirt thanks to my collection of such shirts from road races and orienteering meets in which I participated.

Last week I sported a drawing of a tank from orienteering at West Point. The military academy owns thousands of acres of rugged land in New Jersey used for training and recreation and every year it hosted such an event to take advantage of its steep boulder-strewn terrain. I went out into the woods several times and avoided getting totally lost (orienteers are never lost, only "disoriented") and now it's fun to remember being up to the challenge, more or less. Strangely enough, my usually bad memory holds a thick album of snapshots showing the terrain I navigated in parks around the Northeast and even Canada.

I can remember details of road race courses too. Well, it isn't surprising that the leopard-decorated Jungle Jog shirt jogs my memory of running though a zoo. Even I couldn't forget that. My most memorable race T-shirt might be for the Green Mountain 10K Road Race sponsored by the Summit Ski Lodge. Running Times magazine (then the main competitor to Runner's World) paid me to travel to Killington, Vermont, to cover the race in part by running in it. The course was unforgettably hilly (not to say mountainous) but I did pretty well, probably because I didn't want to embarrass myself in front of all the competitors I'd interviewed for my article the night before. Oh, I said that "might" be my most memorable shirt because it seems to have been mislaid over the years. Maybe one day it will turn up.

There are some T-shirts for creative endeavors. One year I had an entry in the Annual Interactive Fiction Competition for computer games in the tradition of 1980s text-based games like Colossal Cave Adventure. In my game -- The HeBGB Horror! -- the player searches for a mystical lost chord in and around a (highly) fictionalized version of New York City's CBGB rock club. I finished in the middle of the competition, same as my road races. Not bad, considering I'd never even seen a computer program prior to my writing the game. The T-shirt lists all the entrants.

My Deadly Ink T-shirt was from the 2000 conference in Mount Arlington, NJ, where I appeared on a panel to promote our first Byzantine mystery novel One for Sorrow.

Mary also came across a T-shirt produced to raise funds for New York Post staffers who were fighting the newspaper's sale to a notorious NY slumlord. The shirt features a spiffy graphic of the paper's founder, Alexander Hamilton, with a single tear rolling down his cheek. The Post is best known as a tabloid with headlines like "Headless Body in Topless Bar".

The earliest surviving shirt dates back to my law school days. Our Entertainment Law professor gave the class "tour" T-shirts at the conclusion of the course. Professor Silfen knew what he was talking about since he represented many bands, including Aerosmith, REM, and Blondie. Debbie Harry and Chris Stein showed up one day to describe the evils of the music publishing industry to us.

I guess I could write an autobiography in T-shirts.

I hated having to discard my Race with Grace T-shirt. The race was named for George Grace, pastor at the Rochester First Bible Baptist Church, who organized the event and ran in it. The race took place on Thanksgiving Day and the T-shirt featured a pumpkin. One long sleeve displayed a Bible verse that runners, writers, or anyone else could take for their motto: "...let us run with patience the race that is set

She Sometimes Rings Three Times

by Mary

We're occasionally asked how we broke into publication. Our reply is we arrived there sideways by storming the castle around the back, taking advantage of an overlooked ladder to a window carelessly left open. We say this because Fortuna arrived at the postern of Maywrite Towers on three occasions, bringing unlikely and indeed almost unbelievable assistance on our journey to appearing in print .

It is the tragic fact acceptance of my first solo short mystery story was indirectly connected to terrible events on the world stage. When the hostage crisis in Iran began, a friend who accompanied her husband when he took a job there had to leave for Dubai with their children. Their relocation led to her meeting a BBC employee at a jamboree such as expats often organise and from her learning the BBC World Service short story programme accepted submissions from the public. On hearing this I asked myself why not have a bash at it? And thus it came about Aunt Ba's Story was accepted and duly transmitted. Since I cannot leave subscribers wondering what happened to the family mentioned, I'm happy to report they were reunited in Dubai in due course, followed shortly thereafter by their household effects, and returned safely to England.

Fortuna rang a second time some years later when Eric and I began writing short mystery stories together. Since then, if questioned on the matter he inevitably says he couldn't avoid getting involved since we were married. Several other short mystery stories appeared before John sprang in spritely fashion into the literary arena. His first appearance came about after an unexpected call from England It was from editor Mike Ashley to consult us about contributing a story to an anthology to be devoted to historical whodunnits. Naturally we grabbed his hand off. The problem was it had to be written to an extremely tight deadline. As it happened, Eric's interested in Byzantine history and had a number of books devoted to it sitting right there on our bookcase. Justinian and Theodora -- two powerful and colourful personages even if you don't believe half the scandal penned about them by Procopius -- were a natural choice as major characters so we were off to the Hippodrome races in short order. Using the resources mentioned and burning much midnight oil resulted in John's debut in A Byzantine Mystery in The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits. There is no doubt we couldn't have met our deadline without those books and now, when quizzed how the Lord Chamberlain short mystery stories came into existence, we smile and reply it's all Mike's fault.

Comes the day when, after the fashion of films in which youthful friends decide to put on a show in the family barn despite inexperience in musical matters, we began to consider writing a novel with John as protagonist. We already had a ready-made cast of supporting actors and at least part of their histories from several of these short stories relating John's investigations and possess imaginations we are not afraid to use.

But hold on! After One For Sorrow was completed a ghastly thought struck us. As mapless newcomers wandering at midnight in the dense forests of novel-length fiction, having no agent meant long odds against our finding a publisher.

Luckily for us Fortuna rang again. Poisoned Pen Press was a new publisher at the time. It had recently released AZ Murder Goes Classic, a collection of papers presented at a conference on the topic of what makes a mystery a classic. When it was nominated for an Edgar Award in the Best Critical or Biographical Work category we jotted the press a note of congratulations and in passing, somewhat cheekily in retrospect, asked if they would be publishing fiction. After all, the French have a saying Fortuna holds out her hand to the bold and as it turned out, editor Barbara Peters had only recently commented on the lack of Byzantine mysteries and was willing to consider ours. We confess it was a Herculean struggle to get the first chapter suitably situated but, as my mother used to say, patience is a virtue and One For Sorrow eventually launched John on his full length literary voyage as the first original mystery published by Poisoned Pen Press.

Not being among those who, as they say in the old country, consider themselves all that and a bag of crisps, we acknowledge we were lucky to be standing at the right literary crossroads at the right times. Our theory is it's as well to be ready to leap into action should Fortuna comes a-calling with an unexpected opportunity. Unlike the postman, she sometimes rings more than twice. Still it's best not to complain about the racket but to answer her summons immediately, because being a flighty sort of gal if you don't she'll doubtless cross the street and ring someone else's door

Review: Death At Swaythling Court by J. J. Connington (1926)

by Mary

Colonel Sanderstead of the Manor awaits the arrival of his young friend Jimmy Leigh to play golf on the Manor's private course. Jimmy is a talented young mechanic and inventor with a lab in his home and recently constructed what is claimed to be a lethal ray capable of killing without leaving any mark.

The cast includes the colonel's nephew Cyril Norton, who is to marry Jimmy's sister Stella when her divorce is finalised a few weeks hence. Then there's William Hubbard. a wholesaler dealer in artificial perfume, suspected war profiteer, and ardent butterfly collector. He is also a bad 'un disliked by more than one local resident, having been overly familiar with local girls and unkind to intelligently challenged villager "Sappy" Morton.

Events begin to unfold when Jimmy dines with the colonel, who senses something is wrong, and then leaves for an appointment with Hubbard. Next morning the village is agog on hearing Hubbard stands accused of blackmail but it is too late to arrest him. He has been murdered. The plot unspools to include a burning candle in a room with its light still on, a profane parrot, an allegedly haunted shop, a rifled safe, a damaged tyre, and an item that should be there but isn't. Not to mention the involvement of the Green Devil, which local legend has it foretells someone will die.

This novel features what at first glance appears to be a simpler plot than other of Connington's works but what seems obvious at the beginning is soon turned on its head. As Colonel Standerstead remark; the dead man was not one of them but was that any reason to do away with him? Well, as it turns out a number of people had strong grievances against the dead man that in the right circumstances could lead to violence. A particularly clever twist clears a character I had ignored as a suspect so I award this debut novel a B+.

E-text: Death At Swaythling Court

Nemesis at Raynham Parva (aka Grim Vengeance) by J. J. Conningham (1929)

by Mary

Late at night Sir Clinton Driffield is on his way to visit his sister Mrs Anne Thornaby of Fern Lodge near the titular village. His headlights suddenly pick out a car with two men engaged in a vicious fight beside it. A woman with a suitcase stands nearby. The donnybrook ends when he stops and the victor drives off. So does the trounced man after the woman refuses his command to get into his car. She will not accept a lift or any sort of help from Sir Clinton and waits at the roadside until he departs.

Shocking news awaits him at Fern Lodge. Despite general expectations his niece Elsie would marry Rex Brandon she's gone off and married Argentinian Vicente Francia without telling anyone. Needless to say her mother is terribly upset but even so the couple are staying at Fern Lodge until they depart for his home country. Three friends of Elsie's who will be traveling with them are also in residence. There's Estelle Scotswood, one of her oldest friends, who will accompany the couple so Elsie will have an English companion while settling into her new home, and sisters Noreen and Linda Anstruther, a musical duo who'll stay with the newly-weds before taking up appearances arranged by Francia.

Next morning more startling news arrives. During the night a local constable had come across the wreck of one of the cars involved in the incident Sir Clinton witnessed, the driver's body lying not far off. Local farmer's son Teddy Barford stands beside it, covered in blood. Quick-tempered Teddy had threatened the dead man, who'd offered to take Teddy's sweetheart to London on the grounds she could do better for herself there, the absolute cad. Not to mention Teddy told the constable he'd settled the score he had against the dead man and had been arrested on the spot.

The narrative steadily darkens, ultimately forming a tangle including more than one person with a motive for murder. Both genders smoke a great deal -- note gentlemen always asked permission to light up! -- and a box of matches forms a pivotal turning point in an increasingly complex plot More deaths, the white slave trade, an undercover agent with the League of Nations, a seemingly unsolvable moral and ethical dilemma, a quest for revenge, and the architecture of Fern Lodge all play their parts in the mystery. I did not guess whodunnit and was amazed when the culprit was revealed. I acknowledge this fact by awarding Nemesis at Raynham Parva an A.

E-text: Nemesis at Raynham Parva

Review: Maigret at the Coroner's

by Eric

After an evening of drinking, five young servicemen and a girl drive out of town and into the countryside. Members of the party leave and return to the car, or fail to return, in various combinations. After a night of drunken comings and goings, which none of those involved agree upon when questioned, the girl is found dead on railroad tracks near the highway, having been struck by a train.

Who is responsible for the death? If anyone. Was it an accident or murder?

Georges Simenon is one of my favorite authors and over the years I've read a lot of his Inspector Maigret mysteries, dipping into them at random. Recently I've embarked on a project -- a snail-paced one -- to read all 75 Maigret novels in chronological order. I just finished the 32nd book, Maigret at the Coroner's. It's a very unusual entry in the series.

For one thing the setting isn't Paris or its environs. The countryside where the mysterious death takes place isn’t even that of France but rather the desert outside Tuscon, Arizona. Simenon wrote the book in 1949 while living in Tuscon during a ten year stay in North American which saw him moving all over the continent accompanied by a bewildering assortment of wives and mistresses.

A further peculiarity is that Maigret takes no part in unraveling the case. In an earlier book, The Madman of Bergerac, Maigret is confined to bed after being shot and depends largely on Madam Maigret to conduct interviews and search for clues but he does direct the investigation. That isn’t true here. The French detective, touring America to observe policing methods, is merely an observer during an inquest lasting several days. Rather than exploring feotid alleyways and seedy bars in the less savory neighborhoods of Paris he's stuck in a stifling Arizona courtroom.

He is not, however, a passive observer. He analyzes the conflicting testimony, observes the demeanor of witnesses and is silently frustrated when the prosecution fails to ask questions that seem obvious to him.

When court isn't in session, Maigret talks to several people connected to the girl's death. He does so informally, for his own edification, out of intellectual curiosity. Eventually he reaches what appears to be the correct conclusion in the case (is that really a spoiler?) -- the same conclusion reached by local law enforcement without any input from their foreign visitor.

So Maigret at the Coroner's is a detective novel without much detecting but for me it was just as compelling as any of the more typical books in the series. It still contains all the elements that I enjoy in a Maigret.

Authors like Agatha Christie and John Dickson Carr present complex puzzles like locked rooms and exotic poisons. Simenon's puzzles are the most complicated and baffling puzzles of all -- human beings.

Maigret believes that when he comes to understand the people connected to the victim, their relationships and motivations and their environment the identity of the murderer will become clear. So instead of searching for clues in the usual sense he immerses himself in the victim's world. Simenon's descriptions of human nature and the strange and desperate predicaments it can lead people into interests me most. In this novel it is fascinating to watch Maigret piece together the various characters' stories, even though he is doing so for his own amusement. Maybe he should have a go at the mystery of the princes in the tower!

Another enticing feature of Maigret books is Simenon's brilliant but concise and never flowery descriptions of settings. Bleak, deserted streets and quays drenched in cold rain, dim lights shining from the grimy windows of dives long after midnight are themselves familiar characters. And far removed from hot, dry, mid-summer Arizona. Yet seen through the somewhat bewildered eyes of a middle aged French policeman these surroundings look as exotic as the noir byways of Paris.

I will also note that a stuffy courtroom might seem to be an uninspiring place to set a large part of a book but Simenon populates the room with interesting characters: a baliff who resembles an old testament prophet, a nursing mother, a black juror who appears more astute than the prosecutors.

Then there is the character of Maigret himself, not just his problem solving thought processes, but his human side. He is perplexed by America, chagrined that his FBI escort insists on calling him Jules, annoyed that the magistrate presides over the inquest in short sleeves rather than robes, amazed that everyone in America seems to own a car, and ashamed to admit he never learned to drive.

I wouldn't recommend reading Maigret at the Coroner's as an introduction to the series because it is unusual, but if you're a fan of Maigret put it on your list.

Remembrance of Finnegan's Past

By Eric

Amateur sleuths are a staple of mystery fiction. From little old ladies with a talent for sleuthing, to bored aristocrats looking for recreation, to today's entrepreneurial types who somehow make a living selling chocolate muffins and still have time for investigations. Quite a few authors have decided that if fictional amateurs are good, amateur detectives who are historical figures are better. Machiavelli, Groucho Marx, Jane Austen, Teddy Roosevelt for instance. it might be easier to think of someone who hasn't been conscripted into the fictional gumshoe brigade. I admit this trend irritates me even more than the proliferation of cats in mysteries. The occasional feline or famous person is fine, but isn't enough enough?

The trend might have gotten out of hand in my opinion, but it isn't new. In the 1938 The Gracie Allen Murder Case S.S. Van Dine had George Burns' wacky sidekick help out detective Philo Vance. The very first mystery to feature a real historical person is arguably Mademoiselle de Scuderi: A Tale from the Times of Louis XIV by E.T.A. Hoffmann, published in 1820. The German author imagined the titular 17th century French poet trying to uncover a band of murderous thieves plaguing Paris.

As with Gracie Allen, Mademoiselle de Scuderi merely assisted the actual detectives. More recently we've seen a spate of mysteries in which usually highly unlikely personages team up to solve murders. I mean, the Bronte sisters? Really? Arthur Conan Doyle, perhaps, but with Oscar Wilde? It seems authors are currently competing to come up with the most freakish, outlandish, and implausible teams of historical figures as detectives.

With that in mind, I offer the following suggestions:

Murder on the Pequod
(A Captain Ahab Mystery)

Queequeg is found pinned to the main mast with his own harpoon. Is the culprit the quarrelsome young chief mate Starbuck, fellow harpooner Tashtego, or the sailor who wants to be called Ishmael (but may be someone else entirely)? It could be anyone on the ship. It's up to Captain Ahab (and the ship's cat) to find the murderer before he can strike again. Before time runs out, Ahab is forced to team up with his adversary the Great White Whale himself, Moby Dick.

Tricky Dick and the Pelvis Investigate
(A White House Mystery)

Elvis visits the White House to receive an honorary FBI badge but soon becomes a real investigator as he and President Richard Nixon (and the White House cat) race against time to find out who did in the First Lady, in the Oval Office, with the tape recorder. Their efforts put the sleuths in perilous situations. Will Elvis-the-Pelvis be able to avert a nuclear holocaust when the red telephone in the Oval Office rings? Can Tricky Dick cover for the KIng's absence from a D.C. stadium concert by performing Hound Dog? The fate of world may depend on it!

A Rat to Remember
(A Titanic Mystery)

Is the Titanic's collision with an iceberg a clever pretext to disguise the killing of someone aboard? Famous mystery writer Jaques Futrelle teams up with two rats -- a roguish ship's rat and an aristocratic little girl's demure pet -- to bring the murderer to justice. Rather than fleeing the sinking ship, the trio race against time to bring the murderer to justice. A thrilling tale told from the point of view of Mollie Brown's cat.

Remembrance of Finnegan's Past
{A Famous Authors Mystery)

Who killed Finnegan? And how was it done? Faced with a case no one can understand, The Royal Irish Constabulary call in those bloodhounds of bafflement, James Joyce and Marcel Proust. Could it have been something as simple as a poisoned madeleine? Probably not. Assisted by several of T.S. Elliot's Jellicle cats, the perplexing private eyes wander through an incomprehensible wasteland of clues and suspects, taking their time in twelve thrilling volumes.

And that's not even mentioning Mickey Spillane and Bennett Cerf (My Pun is Quick) or Arthur Conan Doyle, assisted by a band of fairies, the supernatural equivalent of the Baker Street Irregulars. Which I can't believe hasn't already been done but I don't have the heart to look it up.

Even Royalty Sometimes Do Their Own Laundry

By Mary

Since we last showed up, we've managed to finally tame our front-loader washer, an advanced appliance which weighs the contents of its drum and then supplies the amount of water it reckons should be used for the load . One disgruntled owner declared online his opinion was that front-loaders just dampened clothes and chucked them around a bit and at times we were tempted to agree with him.

Laundering has certainly trundled many miles down the pike since a time.when the traditional Monday wash day involved wash tubs and poss sticks, stiff-bristled scrubbing brushes, yellow laundry soap, and a mangle aka known as the poor man's piano. Drawing a bow at a venture, I suggest this is because fingers of necessity get close to the rollers -- and hopefully no further.

Mr Maywrite remembers how as a child he watched his elderly aunt assist his grandmother to make laundry soap. Its ingredients included lye and fat and the process involved boiling them together. When the witchy mixture cooled into solid form, it was cut into chunks and stored in a bucket in his grandparents' cellar until wash day rolled around again. Buying a jug of detergent these days is so much easier. .

We have yet to see The Odyssey but I for one am interested to see how it handles the sequence where, following a dream, the soon to be wed princess Nausicaa of Phæacia and her attendants hie themselves off to washing cisterns near the mouth of a river. It transpires the royal personage has brought along not only her own clothing but also that of her family members. Well, after placing their laundry in the cisterns the assembled company -- including Nausicaa herself commence trampling on the wet garments to cleanse them, a homely touch in a narrative devoted to high adventure, extensive travel, a touch of magic, and an absence from home for twenty years.

As we all know, moggies may look at monarchs but this scene clearly demonstrates, despite assumptions to the contrary, even royalty sometimes do their own laundry. Sadly, when we recently viewed the mid-fifties cinematic presentation of Ulysses starring Kirk Douglas and Anthony Quinn the laundering sequence was not included. Instead, it depicts the immediately following scene where Nausicaa meets shipwrecked Ulysses nearby.

It is therefore only right that the princess stands on one side of the coat of arms of the Worshipful Company of Launderers.* To my delight, the heraldic device depicts a mangle as well as three flat irons and a laundress with a dolly, an advanced form of our old poss stick**. I particularly enjoyed the inclusion of a cat, that well-known cleaner of self.

Subscribers may recall an essay relating how we toiled mightily to remove an old top-loading washer from Maywrite Towers. While it was an epic struggle between us and the Harvest Gold appliance, we were sorry to see its departure For one thing it was happy to employ any old detergent you cared to put into it whereas the instructions for our current appliance, a front-loader controlled by mini-computer, sniffily declares the machine was specifically designed to use High Efficiency detergent and only that type. Using the wrong sort might, among other horrors, lead to malfunctioning components, cycles taking longer, and over-sudsing. Home-made detergents are included in the warning and we have to wonder what Grandmama Mayer would have to say about that.

Mind you, our opinionated appliance provides an unexpected bonus. Watching clothing circling and twirling in a fantastic fandango past the washer door's window allows thoughts to wander hither and yon, occasionally leading to inspiration for newsletter essays.

As you see.

* Figure 15 depicts the coat of arms of the Worshipful Company of Launderers

https://www.theheraldrysociety.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/10/Goddard-Coat-of-Arms-2018-1.pdf

** Dolly on the left, poss stick on the far right. Our long since retired poss stick had a shorter handle.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Posser#/media/File:PuckMuseum24.JPG

The Crime at the Noah's Ark (1931) by Molly Thynne

by Mary

This Golden Age of Detection novel is set during Christmas week at the Noah's Ark, a former coaching inn currently chockablock with stranded travellers after a blizzard makes travel on overwhelmed rural roads impossible.

The large number of unexpected arrivals at Mr Girling's hostelry present a mixture of social and professional classes. Angus Stuart is independently wealthy due to the sales of his second novel, while Felix Melnotte is a professional dancer sensitive about his working class roots. Genial commercial traveller Captain Soames is a chess enthusiast, delighted at the prospect of games after well-known player and, as it turns out, amateur sleuth Dr Luke Constantine seeks shelter at the Noah's Ark while on his way to a tournament.

Also under the ancient roof we find Trevor -- readers never learn his surname -- a young, shy, and shabby chartered accountant's clerk, and Lord Romsey and his children Geoffrey. Angela. and Victoria. as well as wealthy widow Mrs van Dolen and her secretary Miss Hamilton. Mrs van Dolen is famous for her emerald girdle which in this instance means an item of dress known as a stomacher.

There's also Major Carew, a cad who drinks and attempts to force his attentions on young women, twittery elderly sisters Amy and Connie Adderley, and rich and attractive Mrs Orkney Cloude, something of a mystery though it is evident she knows at least one other guest at the inn and is not happy about it.

Right from the start the mystery rattles along at full tilt after Stuart is woken up the first night by the younger Miss Adderley, who is terrified after seeing a man in a mask lurking in the passage. They set off to investigate and suddenly the passage light is turned off. Subsequent incidents include rooms ransacked by unknown hands, an accidental fire revealing a secret, romances blooming, and the return of the masked man, who apparently possesses the ability to melt into thin air. The architecture of the ancient inn, a rambling structure containing more staircases, dark corners, landings, and floors than 2 legal, plays an important part in a plot involving hidden identities, robbery, and murder.

With much toing and froing inside and around the inn, The Crime At The Noah's Ark features a revolving cast of serial suspects and watchful alliances seasoned with a fair bit of excellent misdrection until its startling and somewhat complicated but fairly clued conclusion. Pencil and paper will aid readers to keep track of the large cast of characters and drawing a map of the establishment would be particularly helpful in keeping track of where characters are at various times, given a number of them are active during the night hours. For those who enjoy mayhem under the mistletoe, I should mention Christmas Day itself plays a small part in the narration but even so I award this novel an A.

E-text:The Crime at the Noah's Ark by Molly Thynne

The Tell-Tale Trunk

by Mary

According to a song popular with children, Nellie the elephant packed her trunk before running off to join a circus, a very poor career decision if I may say so. By contrast, when the time arrived to pack my scarlet trunk for carriage to these shores, difficult decisions had to be made. Ultimately rather than practical items such as clothing, which could be purchased on arrival if necessary, its eclectic contents meant I had managed to squeeze part of my old home into its confines. Take that, Dr Who!

On reflection, just as bookcase shelves demonstrate their owner's interests, the tell-tale trunk clearly indicated what was important to me.

For example, among the number of items packed into a space seemingly too small to contain them, consider the brown pottery vase with a slight list and the silhouette of a cat applied to its front. Made by my younger sister, it became known as the Jean-Paul Memorial Vase. Jean-Paul was a half Siamese tabby supposed to accompany me to these shores but sadly due to a careless driver he departed permanently a week or two before I set off for the New World. *

There was also a large green jug painted with orange flowers pretending to be chrysanthemums, paired with two similarly decorated flat back wall vases so popular at one time. Apparently the jug held pride of place on the hall windowsill of the cottage to which my family was evacuated during the war but where the vases were hung remains a mystery. My trunk also held examples of cabbageware comprised of two bowls masquerading as half-cabbages and a snack or relish server formed of three cabbage leaves meeting in a wishbone shape with a tomato knob at its centre. If such a category exists I would nominate these items as prime examples of the jolie laide school of china.

I must not overlook mention of a charming china toast rack with floral decorations, equally useful as a letter rack, and the elegant cake trowel with its pattern of blue flowers. The small scarlet non-stick saucepan still in service at Maywrite Towers is not only practical but also a reminder of day trips to London to visit friends. It was purchased in the Tottenham Court Road, still a prime location to find beautiful and stylish home wares.

At the other end of the colour palette, Dad constructed piggy banks in the shape of benches painted beige for me and my sister. These money boxes accepted coins through a slot in their seats and the official method of retrieving our cash involved undoing the screws holding their bases in place. We found it easier to get our pennies back by holding a bank upside down and wiggling a thin-bladed knife in its slot to coax our pennies out into the open, thus demonstrating children are ever inventive.

Speaking of inventive, along with family letters and photos, some of my early scribbles found their way into the trunk as did the novels devoted to the lives of the March family. They were a gift when I was eleven and I still re-read these popular stories every couple of years. Jo was my favourite character and I've noticed a number of writers have made the same declaration.

I should also mention my collection of penguins, including a heavy blue glass example in modernistic style (an excellent paperweight) and an egg timer guarded by a penguin, which I felt was unkind. Two plastic Christmas ornaments from long before I was born also made the trip -- a dark red star and a leaping blue deer sporting antlers, reminding me of the running deer mentioned in the Christmas carol. They accompanied a fairy doll tree-topper. She had suffered somewhat over the years, poor thing, having lost one of her red high-heeled shoes and most of the gold glitter from her tulle dress and magic wand. Despite the damage to her wardrobe she still majestically ruled the Christmas tree every year.

When I went to Port Canaveral to retrieve my trunk the official who examined its contents asked more than once if there was anything else to declare. Perhaps he noticed its glaring lack of apparel but all the garments I possessed arrived in two suitcases already dealt with when I passed through the customs hall at Miami Airport. The inspector involved was a charming fellow who asked me out to dinner that evening so I have no doubt more than one marriage has resulted from a meeting over someone's rummaged luggage!

* See Jean-Paul's Memorial Tombola at https://reed-mayer-mysteries.blogspot.com/p/our-essays.html#jean

The Scent of Earl Grey Tea

by Eric

This time of year I always think about long ago school vacations when my family moved to a cottage at the lakeside picnic grove they operated during the summer months. Just about everyone remembers how the last school bell of the year heralded what might as well have been an eternity of freedom even though it was less than three months. And though that was an illusion, in retrospect it sometimes seems like those summers, filled with new experiences, did last longer than entire decades later on.

Life at the lake was different than life in the suburbs. To begin with, there was the tiny cottage with electric lights but no indoor plumbing. A hand pump in the yard supplied water that was ice cold and pure, without the chemical taste of the town water to which I was accustomed. There was an outhouse a short walk from the cottage. It reeked sharply of the pink disinfectant cakes sitting here and there. A small ragged hole at the base of one wall showed where a porcupine had gnawed to get at the salt in the wood.

Yes, even going to the bathroom could be an adventure, especially at night, following the flashlight beam along the flagstone walk, alert for prowling porcupines.

The frogs in the creek were exciting too. The creek ran behind a bed of bergamot which filled the air with the aroma of Earl Grey Tea. Hummingbees (as we called them -- actually sphinx moths) hovered around the red flowers looking so much like hummingbirds they didn't trigger my usual aversion to large buzzing insects. I'd make my way through the flowers and hunker down on the bank learning to spot the twin bumps of amphibious eyes poking out of the water like periscopes. I mastered my frog catching technique, positioning my open hand so that I could close my fingers around the frogs' extended legs when they sprang towards safety.

Not that they had anything to fear from me. No frogs were harmed in the making of this memory. I always released them.

The stream was a whole world of wonders. Crayfish rocketed backwards in clouds of mud when I lifted the rocks they hid beneath. Numberless minnows glittered in the shallows and in the slow moving water near the lake floated black clouds of baby catfish. Sticklebacks built pebble nests while water striders skittered across the stream's sun flashing skin and dragonflies darted through the air.

There was plenty of non-aquatic life. A chipmunk made a habit of rambling around under the family picnic table looking for crumbs while we ate. At night bats squeaked and swooped so close you could feel the rush of air as they flew by your face but never colliding with you, and never eating the lightning bugs that twinkled around the edges of the yard like an out-of-season Christmas display. The bats knew the bugs were toxic.

Four-leaf clovers for luck were to be found in the lawn but I found more honey bees with my bare feet, which was not lucky at all. Worse yet were the blood sucking leeches in the lake, undulating alien horrors resembling elongated bits of raw liver. (I found liver almost as horrible as leeches.)

The natural world didn't have a monopoly on amazing new experiences. I hunted along the roadside and amid the tables in the grove for empty soda bottles discarded by careless picnickers. They were returnable and the few cents I redeemed each for added up to more than my allowance every week. The general store where I took the bottles featured a remarkable display of dead and dying flies stuck to coils of flypaper that hung from the ceiling, twisting slowly in the breeze from several large fans.

One summer, the Purple People Eater was another unforgettable novelty. My parents were under strict orders to call me whenever that Sheb Wooley number popped up on the radio and I'd come running even if I was catching frogs by the creek. I'm not sure any other song has affected me as deeply.

Nor have I ever experienced a quest as exciting as my successful effort to collect every Davy Crockett trading card, the card completing my set being, memorably, "A Bullet Finds Its Mark."

And that barely touches on the fascinating new world those ancient summers offered to a grade schooler. I didn't mention Fudgsicles, Fourth of July sparklers, thunderstorms, tadpoles, grilling

No wonder summers seemed so long.

Review: The Eye in the Museum by J. J. Connington

by Mary

As this novel opens, Leslie Seaforth and his fiancee Joyce Hazlemere are visiting the Struan Museum. Its eccentric collection includes examples of the taxidermist's art in the forms of a stuffed five-legged calf and a crocodile, jars of water from great rivers, somewhat suspect pottery, and the titular glass eye which replaced one Mr Struan lost in a childhood accident. In fact, the museum possesses two ocular items, the other being its camera obscura.

Under the terms of Joyce's father's will, she must live with her aunt Mrs Evelyn Fenton at The Cedars until she is 25, otherwise her inheritance will go to her aunt. It is a strained relationship to say the least since Mrs Fenton is vindictive and spiteful towards her niece, going so far as to blame her for her heart troubles, perhaps hoping to drive Joyce out of the house and so receive her inheritance. It would be welcome indeed given Mrs Fenton is addicted to betting. Dr Simon Hyndford, an intimate friend who often visits her, also likes to bet but neither is very successful at it. However, Simon shares a house with his brother Richard, who after years spent in Japan returned a rich man and is generous with loans to him.

Mrs Fenton is found dead in her home and the jury returns a verdict of wilful murder by a person or persons unknown.

Enter Superintendent Ross with a mixed bag of suspects. Was the culprit Mrs Fenton's husband John, who left her and the town after they separated? He wishes to marry his mistress but his wife refuses to divorce him. Now the couple are free to marry and since the Fentons are childless the money he settled on his departed wife when they wed will be returned to him. Furthermore, he was seen back in town not long before Mrs Fenton was murdered.

Then there's Joyce. Her aunt's death frees her from domestic tyranny and she will be able to claim her inheritance. She tells her fiance Leslie Mrs Fenton's treatment has brought her to the end of her tether so might the young couple have collaborated in a deadly plot? What about Mr Wachet, who manages properties Mrs Fenton owned? She intends to consult her solicitor unless he immediately pays her the rents collected on her behalf. If the culprit was Mr Wachet, Mrs Fenton's death would certainly be convenient.

My verdict: Superintendent Ross untangles a case that comes to include graphology, the puzzle of The Cedars' locked French window, IOUs worth thousands of pounds, a tumbler of a certain design, missing betting books, financial shenanigans, an overheard conversation suggesting plans for murder, and the dynamics of the Hyndford family. His summing up of evidence for the prosecution, including providing the names of those who will be able to confirm his reasoning, is a welcome feature in explaining a complicated case.

My verdict: Readers may deduce at least part of the solution but the full explanation of the affair is shocking and completely blindsided me. I award it an A, with a rueful smile at missing what was so obvious in hindsight.

E-text: The Eye in the Museum by J. J. Connington

Obelists Ahoy!

by Eric

Years ago I purchased a Dover trade paperback edition of C. Daly King's 1935 novel Obelists Fly High. Dover's catalog featured a few old and obscure -- to me -- authors and titles like The Thinking Machine by Jacques Futrelle and The Old Man in the Corner by Baroness Orczy. The sort of thing you can find easily online today at sites like Project Gutenberg but which were harder to come by years ago.

C. Daly King and his mysteriously named novel (what the heck is an obelist anyway?) were unknown to me. However, I was fascinated by the murder mystery set on a passenger plane making a cross country flight during the 1930s. Unfortunately there were no more King books to be found, at least by a non-collector like myself. The author and his work, although highly rated by critics, had dropped out of sight. Even during the 1930s his six novels had struggled to find American publishers which, perhaps, is why he virtually abandoned detective fiction after 1940 and returned to writing psychology books.

So I was delighted when I ran across The Complete Curious Mr Tarrant, a collection of a dozen stories, mostly published during the 1930s. Ed Hoch ranks the original edition of this book as one of the three greatest locked room mystery collections along with Carter Dickson’s The Department of Queer Complaints and G. K. Chesterton’s The Incredulity of Father Brown. I'd disagree. The locked room collections I've read by Mr Hoch himself struck me as clearly superior. But anyone who's ever met Ed Hoch would know he'd never blow his own trumpet.

Not to say I disliked C. Daly King's short stories. They were intriguing and entertaining in their own eccentric way. Like many amateur sleuths of the period, Trevis Tarrant is a gentleman of independent means with apparently unlimited time for investigations. Unlike most he is assisted by a valet, Katoh, who is a Japanese doctor and in his spare time, a spy. Tarrant is particularly interested in bizarre cases, which usually means cases that appear to involve the supernatural. In fact one case does turn out to be supernatural, a nice touch. I'm reminded of William Hope Hodgson's Carnacki the Ghost Finder stories in which Carnacki sometimes fails to find mundane explanations for strange events.

Tarrant encounters a house that is purportedly haunted and a highway where headless corpses keep showing up. An Irish harp, an ancient codex, and a famous actress are all seemingly spirited out of locked rooms. Maybe best of all is the motor boat which causes its occupants to jump overboard and drown themselves.

As you can imagine, the weird and puzzling events make for fun reading. My problem was with the solutions. The first story, in particular, featured an explanation so obvious, even to me, that I'd have to call it the worst locked room story I've ever read. There's at least one other solution which seemed unsurprising and another whose mechanics didn't appear to be very workable but then I'm not very mechanically inclined.

Although the stories are certainly worth reading, I'd caution you to enjoy the rides but be prepared for some disappointing denouements.

Did I mention C. Daly King is an eccentric writer? Consider that word obelist, used in titles for three of his books. Way back when I read Obelists Fly High I looked the word up in the dictionary. No luck. Over the years I never did find a dictionary definition or anyone who knew what it meant. Not until the all-knowing internet came along did I discover that obelist was an authorism, that is to say a word coined by an author. In this case, King invented obelist to mean one who harbors suspicion, for example an amateur sleuth.

With the renewed popularity of Golden Age of Detection fiction C. Daly King may be emerging from undeserved obscurity but I doubt his authorism (another new word to me!) is going to enter common use.

A Week in the Life of Dracula

by Mary

When I was in my mid-teens my favourite teacher was the fellow who taught the English class.

Given our age group, my classmates naturally considered it the height of wit to refer to him as Bugsy, due to rumours he had several children. Since he may well still be alive, I shall therefore cover his possible blushes by referring to him as Mr H. He didn't present the traditional portrait of a teacher, often visualized as garbed in trousers slightly baggy at the knees and a chalk-dusted tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows. He was slight and otherwise average in appearance but he was certainly brilliant in his way of engaging the attention and interest of his class. His teaching was more in the mould of Mr Thackeray (the educator known as Sir in the Sidney Poitier film, not the author of Vanity Fair, whose pseudonyms included George Savage Fitz-Boodle)

At the start of our first class he told us he was a strict marker and rarely awarded, if memory serves, more than a middling grade. But if perchance he did, he went on, we should go home and lie down. The phrase will be familiar to long-time readers of various of my compositions because I pinched it, adding "with a damp cloth on your forehead" to round it out a bit.

When the topic was Shakespeare. members of the class took roles in the play under discussion and though remaining at their desks presented the chosen extract as a read-through. Of these miniature theatricals, one springing immediately to mind was from The History of The Life and Death of King John, which the toilers in the Maywrite Research Bureau inform me is one of the least performed of the Bard's creations.

On thus particular occasion, Mr H selected a conversation in which Philip Faulconbridge, a pivotal character in the play, takes part. Commonly known as Philip the Bastard, he claimed to be an illegitimate son of Richard the Lionheart, John's predecessor on the throne. As mentioned, the class was composed of teenagers, regarded by some who should know better as young savages whose language would shock a fish wife. However, the young lady chosen to take part in this excerpt refused to use Faulconbridge's nickname. Even tearaways have good hearts and her classmates did the right thing, nobly sparing her embarrassment by not sniggering whenever other characters used That Word.

Mr H usually presented us with a choice of homework essay topics. He possessed a robust sense of humour as demonstrated by the memorable afternoon when A Week In The Life of Dracula was on the list. I can only surmise he'd overheard a friend and I talking about how much we liked Hammer Films' presentations of such sanguinary tales of teeth and terror because I doubt he knew we'd stolen out of the building the previous Friday afternoon to catch a matinee screening of one such extravaganza at the local cinema, It was the only time we braved our formidable principal's wrath by decamping early but really teenagers must rebel at times, is it not so?

In any event, my colourful account of seven days in Transylvania received the best mark of any essay I wrote for Mr H. For reasons now forgotten I was unable to skive off and go home early in search of a cloth to dampen and apply to my forehead. Just as well perhaps, for as Demosthenes (the orator, not the actor) cautioned unexpected success often leads to extravagant acts, or as we would have said then "Don't push your luck, mate."

When my first short mystery story was accepted -- it was Aunt Ba's Story, broadcast on the BBC World Service -- I was so thrilled I wrote to Mr H at the school address to tell him and received a really nice congratulatory letter back. It meant a lot to me and still does. So Mr H. if you should happen to stumble over these reminiscences, a doff of the chapeau to you for your kindness in encouraging an apprentice writer and an all-round good egg to boot.

And that's no yolk!

Review: The Twenty-One Clues by J. J. Connington

by Mary

Much of the plot of The Twenty-One Clues revolves around members of the dwindling congregation of the Church of Awakened Israel, among them wealthy Mrs Victoria Alvington. She's made a will favouring her son Arthur and niece Helen, having disinherited her other son Edward and barred him from her house because he had the nerve to get a divorce. His divorce also cost him his deaconship in the church, largely due to the hue and cry raised by its minister, John Barrett. Mrs Alvington has been generous to the church, which Arthur and Helen don't like since it means less for them when the time comes. What's worse, Barratt is a frequent visitor to the Alvington home and has a fair bit of influence over Mrs Alvington's decisions.

Helen, the minister's wife, isn't much interested in church matters, regarding the congregation as of a lower class than herself. Nor does she care Mrs Esther Callis, wife of the church treasurer, seems rather keen on Barratt. Helen's not the only person who's noticed and others have been kind enough to mention it to her. Then there's Stephen Kerrison, possessor of a vicious tongue and successfully sued for slander twice. He's also narrow-minded, kills stray cats, and strongly disapproves of local couples dallying on a bracken-covered slope overlooked by the house he shares with his mother. Then there's Miss Maldon, a confirmed snooper according to local reporter Peter Diamond, and one not adverse to tattling about other people's business.

Adding to the undercurrents swirling about the congregation: a poisoned pen writer's scribbles are accusing members of impropriety.

Scandal erupts after a couple connected to the church are found dead among the aforementioned bracken, both shot in the head and a pistol and two suitcases lying nearby. A receipt showing the suitcases were deposited in the left luggage office at the local main line station the day before and two rail tickets to London are found in the dead man's jacket pocket. Torn love letters are strewn around the pair. The circumstances strongly suggest well-laid plans to elope so what caused this last-minute suicide pact? Or was it murder -- or possibly even a murder-suicide? Other possibilities exist...

During his investigation Chief Constable Sir Clinton Driffield quotes a rhyme neatly summarising the information needed to solve a crime:

What was the crime? Who did it?
When was it done? And where?
How done? And with what motive?
Who in the deed did share?

Some answers to these questions are immediately obvious but others are much more difficult to establish as Driffield and Inspector Rufford unravel a case becoming more complicated the longer it remains unsolved. Readers will learn contemporary details about notepaper manufacture, fire-arm forensics, Victorian double-florins, and fingerprint analysis -- I particularly enjoyed the fascinating methods used by the postal authorities to catch poisoned pen letter writers. Missing common household items, a disappearing car, and the fate of the most recent collection at the Church of Awakened Israel all play their parts in advancing to the solution to the case, one of the most complicated I've read in recent months.

My Verdict: The Twenty-One Clues relates a case where readers might wish to have pencil and paper on hand to aid them untangling the plot. And yes, there are indeed twenty-one clues, as I ascertained when I went back and counted 'em after missing several on my first read-through. I particularly enjoyed the scene where Driffield, his old friend Wendover, and Diamond play "choose your clue" for its clever way of reminding readers what information the investigators possessed at that point and award The Twenty-One Clues an A.

E-text: The Twenty-One Clues

Sludge or Slum-Gullian?

by Mary

I collect unusual words and recently learned a new one: slum-gullian, courtesy of a gent we know in Virginia who also provided a photo of a large pot of same simmering on his wood stove. The ingredients: hamburger, tomato paste, and several vegetables. It immediately struck me as essentially the same recipe as that for a dish we call sludge, made from cooked mince stirred into spaghetti.

Investigation of slum-gullian uncovered more than one theory as to how it got its name. The most common explanation of this prime example of a portmanteau word is that it's composed of slum, in the sense of an area with poor housing conditions, and gullian, said to be English dialect for cesspool or mud. Not exactly the most enticing dish to appear on a menu but its culinary cousin sludge provides equally hearty vittles in the sort of weather Mr Maywrite writes about.

According to those who know about these things, the first literary reference to "slumgullion" occurs in Mark Twain's Roughing It, published in 1872 *, The dish shows up when the proprietor of a stagecoach stop serves it to the latest batch of travelers passing through, Twain among them. Though it bears the name, it's been argued it's not the genuine article since Twain refers to it as a beverage pretending to be tea "but there was too much dish-rag, and sand, and old bacon-rind in it to deceive the intelligent traveler."

Admittedly naming our culinary invention sludge hints at nosh almost as awful as that served to Twain but in its defence it is both warming and filling while also attractive to us for another reason.

Why? Because sludge requires only three items: a tin of mince, spaghetti sauce, and a packet of pasta, meaning its ingredients don't take up much storage space, This is important for us because we don't have much room to spare after stocking up the pantry in late autumn against those days or weeks when due to local geography and stretches of brutal winter weather our buggy cannot roll to town. Thus we purchase enough comestibles we calculate as sufficient to provide sustenance for 77 days, the longest period -- so far at least -- when grocery shopping was just not possible. The most difficult time we've had in that regard was several years ago when we almost ran out of coffee. The horror! The horror!

Whatever way you spell it slum-gullian is a word to gladden wordsmiths' hearts, just crying out to be used in a limerick. Here's my attempt at

Boarding house owner Miss Mulligan
Claimed to serve genuine slum-gallian
Her paying guests cried
You stand there and lie!
Where's its bacon-rind scraps, you rapscallion?

Perhaps Miss Mulligan would have been better served by providing her boarders with a hearty helping of the stew whose name she shared.

* Twain describes this entertaining travelogue as a record of several years of variegated vagabondizing. It's available on Gutenberg at: https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/3177/pg3177.txt

The Cruellest Month

by Eric

“April is the cruellest month….” wrote T.S. Elliot in The Wasteland. Which just goes to show he should've got out more. Specifically he should've got out today, when the wind is gusting, there's a foot of snow on the ground, and temperatures are plunging towards zero. If he were sitting on the porch roof outside our office window right now (and what an image that is) I'll bet he'd admit that the cruellest month is February when we've already suffered through more winter than we can endure and there's no relief in sight.

As for Mr Elliot mixing up his cruel months, I can hear him taking the Star Trek defense through chattering teeth. "Dammit Jim. I'm a poet, not a weatherman."

To which I can only reply, "Off to the Heaviside Layer, sir! And take those frozen cats with you!"

Outdoors everything is white and silent and stiff with cold as if the landscape has died and rigor mortis set in. Or maybe that's just the way I'm feeling. But when the sun struggles up from behind the mountains its thin icy light reveals new tracks in the snow where the local wildlife has been quietly going about its business all night long. The backyard is crisscrossed with dainty lines of deer tracks and twisty little ruts where smaller creatures -- rabbits, squirrels, mice -- have plowed through the drifts. There are also footprints leading to the propane tank after my Arctic expedition there to check the gauge a couple of days ago.

It could be worse. I've known worse. While living in different places I've experienced snow storms that buried the world in nearly three feet of the white horror and bouts of freezing rain that brought trees crashing down, limbs glistening with an inch and more of ice.

I'm discounting the monster snowfalls I remember from my childhood because everything looks bigger when one is smaller. Besides, heavy snow meant a day off school. I was never a big fan of cold but bundled up sufficiently I still enjoyed sledding and building snowmen and, of course, simply not having to go to school. I understand that today, thanks to the Internet, schools call for virtual days when the weather is bad, forcing students to work from home via computer. How unutterably cruel is that?

As I write this I'm chugging down pots of coffee, which is what I do in cold weather. I've always drunk coffee but the colder it gets the more I drink it. Lately that's a lot since temperatures haven't gotten up to freezing in weeks with the thermometer falling into the single digits nearly every night. For half my life I drank tea. As a teenager I lived on hot dogs and tea with sugar and lemon. How I don't know. I doubt there's enough nourishment in a hot dog to support a sparrow, which might be why sparrows don't eat hot dogs. Anyway, count on teens to choose the most unhealthy diet possible. I switched my allegiance to coffee after Mary and I got married. Since she was from England she should have been the tea drinker, shouldn't she? Life is strange. I actually don't care what I drink so long as it's hot and loaded with caffeine.

Sometimes I can warm up by writing. Rubbing words together to make a fire.

The wind's begun to howl.

I haven't seen two riders approaching...yet.

Review: The Master Detective: Being Some Further Investigations of Christopher Quarles by Percy James Brebner

by Mary

Detective Murray Wigan relates a number of cases solved with the assistance of Charles Quarles, professor of philosophy.

A ghastly discovery opens The Strange Case of Sir Grenville Rusholm: the coffin with the titular character's remains has been replaced with one containing lead. Who did it and why? And where is the baronet's body?

A ransom note is received following The Kidnapping of Eva Wilkinson, who has become involved with a suitor of whom her guardian strongly disapproves. A connection between these events seems strongly indicated.

Wigan takes up an old case dubbed The Delverton Affair, in which a banker was found dead in his office. He had been poisoned but there were no traces of any in the tumbler beside him.

A man is strangled in a locked room in The Mysterious House in Manleigh Road. Involvement of the supernatural is hinted when Wigan sees a re-enactment of the death in the room's mirror.

Murder strikes a troupe of seaside pierrots **and Wigan must solve The Difficulty of Brother Pythagoras, the victim. Members of the company claim they liked him but their expressions say otherwise.

A Member of Parliament suspected of treason is murdered after dining at home with an Italian and a German. A mysterious woman calls about her forgotten bag as Wigan investigates The Tragedy In Duke's Mansions.

A man working on a top secret project does not wish to miss a dance his beloved will attend and so leaves what becomes The Stolen Aeroplane Model at home. Only a handful know of the model's existence, so the field of suspects is narrow.

As usual a servant is the first to be suspected of theft in The Affair of the Contessa's Pearls. She denies all knowledge of the missing jewelry but could her brother be the culprit?

The arts, in this case a painting and two sculptures, play an important part in solving The Disappearance of Madame Vatrotski, current toast of the theatrical world.

Wigan visits a casual acquaintance the very night the latter is murdered. Solving The Mystery of The Man at Warburton's includes establishing why two letters sent to the murdered man a couple of years before were never opened.

A servant confesses to shooting his master as they return home aboard a ship bound for Liverpool. However, the dead man died from a knife wound, one of the oddest features in The Strange Case of Daniel Hardiman.

The Crime In The Yellow Taxi is the murder of Lady Tavener on a foggy London night. Investigation reveals neither she nor her husband were where they were supposed to be that night, nor were they together.

The blasphemous theft from a church of the gift of an elderly woman kicks off The Affair of the Jeweled Chalice. In the course of their investigation Quarles and Wigan visit a boys' club and follow a likely suspect.

Echoes of the chalice case continue in The Adventure of the Forty-Ton Yawl, which opens with Wigan taking a holiday in Folkestone after a breakdown. He goes sailing with a fellow guest and finds all is not as it seems.

A spate of burglaries has broken out. A local householder shoots and kills an apparent burglar in the early hours of the morning. The Solution of The Grange Park Mystery is not as simple as it seems. For a start, who is the dead man?

My verdict: I fear I must mark this collection with a B, as some stories are not quite fair to the reader. But still worth a glance if you have half an hour to spare for the clever explanations of how Quarles reasoned his way to a solution.

Etext: The Master Detective: Being Some Further Investigations of Christopher Quarles