The Appetizer to the Yuletide Feast

by Eric

Thinking of Christmases past I can remember the merry jingle of sleigh bells. Not in the snow but the ones my grandparents hung on the living room door. There was also a tree ornament that dated to long before my time, a thin, severe looking Santa who hadn't yet put on weight and become jolly. If I were an elf I wouldn't apply for a job at his workshop.

Although I don't date back to the era of those artifacts, the holidays f my childhood were a lot different than today's. For starters you couldn't sit comfortably at home ordering online from Amazon. Indoor shopping malls had barely been invented. To buy presents you went downtown, exposed to the elements, seeing your frosty breath (in the Northeast at any rate) as you hiked along crowded sidewalks. It took some gumption to put a gift under the tree.

Speaking of Christmas trees, you didn't have a choice between a real tree and a tree that looked real. Artificial trees were made of shiny aluminum.

One thing I suppose hasn't changed -- kids couldn't wait to rip the wrappings off packages. I was cruelly forced to consume scrambled eggs and orange juice before I was released to tear into the living room and start tearing. As far as what youngsters today find once those boxes are open, that's a different story.

But let's start with Christmas stockings. They were the appetizer to the Yuletide feast. Are they still packed with a tangerine, some walnuts and that little mesh bag of chocolate coins covered in gold foil? One thing that won't be found are the white candy cigarettes with red tips. Conversely third graders wouldn't make clay ashtrays to take home to their parents.

When it comes to the main menu in 2025, electronics are doubtless a must. You probably know what I mean -- those devices kids all have that beep and light up and who knows what. Well, I had a Robert the Robot. He rolled around, made noise, and his eyes flashed. He was battery powered. Does that make him electronic? I also thought about my metal bulldozer that drove around spewing sparks from its smokestack. Then I remembered winding it up. No electronics there.

I'm not sure if books are a big item these days. They were for me. There were always several thick, liberally illustrated volumes about nature, astronomy, dinosaurs and the like. Most of what I read in them is obsolete now. There were thirty-one planetary satellites in the solar system, most of which I could name. Now close to nine hundred have been discovered. It impressed me that Jupiter had an astounding twelve moons, not just the four I could see through my telescope, another Christmas gift. Today Jupiter has ninety-five moons and Saturn two-hundred seventy-four. And Saturn isn't the only planet with rings, having been joined by Jupiter, Uranus and Neptune. There aren't even nine planets, Pluto having been demoted. On the other hand astronomers have identified dwarf planets and planets circling distant stars.

So even the science books I got for Christmas are as obsolete as Robert the Robot.

I also received fiction, usually the newest Tom Swift Junior books. Yes, even my Swifts are sadly dated. Oddly, those have aged better than the factual tomes. Diving Seacopters and Atomic Earth Blasters are as unreal today as they were back then.

Our imaginations and memories remain while the past slides away from us. I wonder what became of those sleigh bells my grandparents brought from the farm or the Santa ornament my great grandparents carried from Germany? Can Christmas survive in anything like its present form? Is it possible for children to believe in Santa in the Internet age? One can only hope.

Popping a Penny in Your Pudding

by Mary

We weathered another Attack of The Household Appliances in mid-November when the oven conked out for the third time so we were without its culinary assistance for a couple of weeks. Thus it was we discovered cooking using burners only was possible to the extent of creating a simulacrum of breakfast buns or a biscuit somewhat resembling a ginger snap by cooking them in a frying pan. Now repaired, the oven's been behaving itself so we are in fine shape for Yuletide cuisine.

So far.

Speaking of festive cookery, for me one of the most memorable passages in Dickens' Christmas Carol is his description of the Cratchit family's Christmas pudding as it was about to be brought to table:

Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastry cook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that! That was the pudding!

This homely scene is a favourite because the scullery of a childhood home was equipped with a copper of Victorian vintage such as Dickens mentions. A brick cube holding a tub for laundry with water heated via a small built-in fireplace, we didn't use it for its intended purpose nor yet to heat Christmas puddings so the black beetles had it to themselves. No, our puddings were boiled for hours in a basin wrapped in a tea towel so we were familiar with the steamy aroma Dickens so poignantly describes.

Naturally Christmas puddings prepared for high society were elaborate concoctions. Consider Mrs Beeton's "mode" for her Christmas Plum-Pudding, which she modestly describes as "Very Good". As well it should be, given it contained one and a half pounds of raisins, half a pound apiece of currants and mixed peel, three-quarters of a pound of bread crumbs and the same amount of suet, eight eggs, and a wine glass of brandy. The result was boiled for five or six hours and again for two hours the day it was served. Mrs Beeton considers this princely pudding sufficient for seven or eight persons.

Admittedly it could not provide as many helpings as Mrs Beeton's magnificent creation but the two-serving tinned Christmas pudding a British friend sent some years ago worked well for us. It may be those who look askance at tinned cranberry sauce as an acceptable side dish for holiday meals would not agree on aesthetic grounds, given these festive puddings traditionally should be shaped like cannonballs rather than cylinders. But it's the thought and the taste that matters, right?

There's a old custom my family and many others kept up albeit in a modified way. In the Victorian era silver charms said to foretell their finders' fortunes were included in the pudding and I gather it's possible to purchase similar festive folderols these days . However, when our pudding was served it was inevitably accompanied not only by piping hot custard but also a maternal warning to watch our teeth. This was necessary because a silver sixpenny bit would be lurking somewhere in the pudding although on one occasion a copper penny well wrapped in greaseproof paper was substituted. Whatever the denomination, whoever found the coin in their portion could expect good luck during the following year.

As to the Crachits' pudding, given their difficult financial circumstances, it seems unlikely they would be able to pop a penny in their pudding but there's still a pleasing Yuletide connection between their copper cookery and our cooked copper coin.

Minor Characters Have Lives Too

At Kevin Tipple's blog Mary discuses writing, characters, and how history relates to our characters. Check it out at: Minor Characters Have Lives Too .

Review: The Dream Detective by Sax Rohmer (1925)

by Mary

Moris Klaw is a colourful fellow who runs a ramshackle curio emporium (some would call it a junk shop) at East London's Wapping Old Stairs on the shore of the Thames. Assisted by his daughter Isis, his method of solving a case is to sleep at the scene of the crime on what he terms an odic pillow. Based on his theory thoughts are imprinted on the atmosphere, he has trained his sleeping mind to capture them as psychic photographs, developed in some unexplained way by his daughter Isis.

Note this collection is unusual in that the usual leading The...is not used in the titles.

Kicking off a mixed bag of investigations narrated (with one exception) by Klaw's biographer Mr Searles, the first begins when Martin Coram, curator of the Menzies Museum, asks Klaw to look into the CASE OF THE TRAGEDIES IN THE GREEK ROOM after the museum's night attendant is found murdered therein. All the public rooms of the museum were locked overnight and the keys used by the attendant on his nightly rounds were found on the floor of the Greek Room -- which was also locked.

The next episode is narrated by J. E. Wilson Clifford. He and his friend Mark Lesty occasionally call on Mr Halesowen, owner of a small collection of antiquities. During their latest visit he shows them the artifact central to the CASE OF THE POTSHERD OF ANUBIS. Halesowen tells them it is very valuable and he's already refused a generous offer for it. An uncanny event occurs about an hour after Clifford and Lesty return home.

Klaw's third investigation deals with what appears to be murder by supernatural means at Crespie Hall. The titular weapon in the CASE OF THE CRUSADER’S AX is so large and heavy that none but a man of Herculean strength could possibly wield it. Isaac Heidelberger, recent purchaser of the Hall, is found dead, his skull cleft almost to his backbone. The ax lies nearby. Part of the solution to the case may be deduced by a close read and the concluding proof of a suspect's innocence features a nice twist.

Sir Melville Fennel commissioned sculpture Roger Paxton to execute a statue depicting a reclining girl wearing genuine antique ornaments worth a small fortune. Searles and Coram are guests at a private viewing before the statue is displayed publicly. Later the same night, despite Paxton sleeping in his locked studio, the statue disappears, resulting in the CASE OF THE IVORY STATUE. I found this one of the collection's lesser entries, given about half way through the solution became obvious.

A committee of commercial magnates are about to take possession of the titular Indian diamond which, for once, has no curse attached. Their intention is to present it to the Crown on behalf of the City of London. To this end, a number of high officials gather in a locked room to conclude the deal but despite their presence the gem disappears. Klaw is called in to solve the CASE OF THE BLUE RAJAH. I managed to miss the vital clue despite its flashing lights and siren sounding!

The next investigation begins when Searles introduces Klaw to Shan Haufmann, an American friend in England with his daughters to recuperate from a wound sustained in the course of his duties. He's leased The Grove, the house central to the CASE OF THE WHISPERING POPLARS. It's said to be haunted after three strange deaths there over the years. After Haufmann reveals he's heard his name called among the poplars' whispering a nocturnal vigil is kept. A well-done creepy atmosphere invades the later part of this entry.

The following episode finds Klaw investigating the locked studio death of portrait painter Pyke Webley. Another artist leases Webley's house and studio and Searles, Klaw, and Isis attend his house-warming party. Fellow guest Russian pianist Serg Skobolov agrees to play, enabling Klaw to solve the CASE OF THE CHORD IN G. Those musically inclined may well solve the case.

The house of archaeologist Mark Pettigrew is burgled but nothing is stolen. The intruder, however, decapitated a valuable mummy in his collection, leaving its head behind and launching the CASE OF THE HEADLESS MUMMIES. The same outrage follows at Sotheby's auction rooms and Klaw's home. His investigation leads to an overnight vigil at the Menzies Museum's Egyptian Room and a culprit with a motive that may well be unique in novels of detection.

Klaw and Searles are dinner guests of Sir James Leyland, who invites Klaw to investigate the family ghost. As related in the CASE OF THE HAUNTING OF GRANGE, its latest manifestations have taken a nasty turn, including disturbing Sir James' sleep by what he describes as a filthy mumbling of obscene suggestions. The reader will Likely guess the solution but I'll give a hint: what is often found in historic stately homes?

Egyptologist Otter Brearley has completed his translation of a papyrus detailing the ceremony by which the priest Khamus was initiated into the cult of Isis. Searles, Klaw, and Dr Ralph Fairbank are asked to witness Brearley's attempt to recreate the ritual. The CASE OF THE VEIL OF ISIS also involves Brearley's sister Ailsa, who is to play an important part in this plan, by which he hopes to substantiate Khamus' claim that the goddess appeared to him. This final story strongly hints at the supernatural.

My verdict: Moris Klaw is one of the most eccentric characters I've come across in detective fiction and in some ways this overpowers the plots. Even so, the cases are interesting though I felt of uneven quality. Still, the collection kept me reading along and overall I enjoyed trying to solve the adventures of this "humble explorer of the etheric borderland" so I'll give this collection a B. YMMV.

E-text: The Dream Detective by Sax Rohmer (1925)

The Fate of Doctor Foster

by Mary

Before Mr Maywrite and I took to tramping down the dark and dangerous alleys and hidden courtyards of fiction featuring murder, mayhem, and malfeasance we both wrote non-fiction. His field was legal articles while mine were often devoted to such off-beat topics as Doctor Merryweather's leech-powered Tempest Prognosticator, swan upping, cheese-rolling, weather forecasting goats, and the disappearance of Doctor Foster.

Years later and with more experience in unravelling mystery plots I've decided to revisit the case of Doctor Foster to speculate further on what happened that rainy day in Gloucestershire. Let us examine the information we have as preserved in the nursery rhyme:

Doctor Foster went to Gloucester
In a shower of rain
He stepped in a puddle
Right up to his middle
And never came home again

I put it to the jury that, as I shall demonstrate, Doctor Foster was not on his way to attend to a patient in crisis even though he was out walking in what was obviously a downpour.

This demonstrates he did not have a wealthy practice, indicating he resided in the country. To argue the point we must consider if he possessed a carriage. Given he did and he was not riding in it the day he disappeared strongly indicates it must have been at the blacksmith's smithy for repairs to a broken spring or axle. Further, the presence and depth of the puddle clearly demonstrates the local council was not doing much of a job keeping roads in good repair and safe for the passage of carriages, carts, and other conveyances lends weight to his walking to Gloucester. It also supports his being a rural practitioner on the grounds if he lived in town there'd be transportation methods other than shank's pony available to him.

Why didn't he see the fatal puddle? Was his eyesight not all it should be? Doubtful, considering his profession. However, given the puddle was half his height, flooding from the downpour must have been high enough to conceal a pothole deep enough to engulf him to the waist, another indication of the parlous state of the thoroughfare he was travelling.

The cautious investigator should not rule out the role his umbrella played in the tragedy. What do we do with our gamp when it's stotting down? We position it to keep rain off our head and shoulders. Was his umbrella tilted at such an angle as to obscure his view of the tell-tale indication of a pothole by a dip in the flow of the current?

The next question is why was he going to Gloucester in the first place? It is large enough to be the home of numerous doctors so his travel there in such foul weather is intriguing. But consider: Gloucestershire is known for its cheeses. I posit he'd developed a fancy for toasted cheese sandwiches after a discussion at his local hostelry the previous evening concerning the annual cheese-rolling race held each spring at Cooper's Hill, about five miles from Gloucester.

Alas, both his larder and the village grocer were bereft of this particular dairy product so, next morning, Doctor Foster, a true turophile, braved the weather and started off to town to purchase the necessary amount of Double Gloucester cheese with which to cook this excellent snack. It may not have been raining when he got up but his tempest prognosticator indicated an imminent storm so he naturally took his umbrella.

Mystery readers would be inclined to deduce from these points that the good doctor met his end by foul play. Given known weather conditions, it's unlikely there'd be anyone out and about to give him a lift or help him out of the pothole. But somebody reported his dilemma as otherwise it would not be documented in the nursery rhyme. Could it be the road was in such bad condition that Doctor Foster was rescued from one pothole only to step into another just as deep after his good Samaritan left the scene? Was there a gentleman of the road, one of evil intent, passing along the road to Gloucester that fateful day? Sadly, history has shown there are those who would drown a trapped man for the sake of a pocket watch and an umbrella.

We now have motive, method, and opportunity. Based on this conclusion, Mr Maywrite is of the opinion the authorities should have been on the lookout for a tramp with a gamp, to which I add one in possession of a pawnbroker's ticket for a handsome timepiece.

Since the record does not show any arrests related to this case, the jury would be justified in bringing in a verdict of murder by a person or persons unknown.

That Time Batman Danced in a Disco

by Eric

Have you been appreciating bats the past couple of weeks? If not there's still plenty of time. October is Bat Appreciation Month according to Bat Conservation International, which urges us to celebrate the importance to our ecosystems of those furry flying mice.

To me bats are a mixed bag. On the plus side they eat flying insects and I don't like flying insects. They are scarier than bats. On the other side of the ledger Dracula flies around as a bat and they get in your hair. The bat, that is, not Dracula. He just raises your hair.

This might be a good time to watch some old Christopher Lee movies. He is to Dracula what Basil Rathbone is to Sherlock Holmes. Mystery readers might want to read The Bat by Mary Roberts Rinehart and Avery Hopwood, the novelization of the stage play which was based loosely on Rinehart's novel The Circular Staircase, or watch one of the three movies adapted from the stage play. It's all very complicated.

I hate it when people pose as experts by spouting Wikipedia so I will admit that along with the information above it was from Wikipedia I learned that comic-book creator Bob Kane stated that the villain of The Bat Whispers (the 1930 film adaptation of The Bat) was an inspiration for his character Batman.

Now there is something I can celebrate. Batman was my favorite superhero back when comic books were badly printed and cost a dime. Unlike most superheroes he didn't possess magical powers. He depended on technological gadgetry and athletic prowess. Being more human, he was more interesting.

That Batman wasn't as grim as the modern version. He was a lighter shade of noir but still darker than other costumed crime fighters of the era. I liked the idea of a spookily attired avenger prowling dark alleys at night. I guess it appealed to something dark inside me, just as the novels of writers like Jim Thompson, David Goodis, and James M. Cain do.

Imagine my horror when I tuned in to the first episode of the Batman television series and found him portrayed as a campy buffoon! Never mind the black little corner of my personality that enjoys murder mysteries and the like, when I saw Batman busting a few awkward dance moves in a disco * I felt like I had a Thompsonesque Killer Inside Me ready to burst out!

I suppose at the time mature minds were thinking you couldn't actually depict a cartoon character seriously. Movie makers since than have proved them wrong.

Although bats are associated artistically with darkness and fear I don't find them frightening in real life. They are too much like mice with wings. At least the sort we have in the northeastern United States.

At the end of the street where Mary and I once lived there was a barn. In the evening bats would pour out into the twilight like spilled ink. On summer nights, living at the family cottage, I'd stand in the yard, in the middle of a maelstrom of swooping, diving, tumbling bats and chiropteran chirping. Hey, if I run across a new word I have to use it. They flew so close I could almost feel the draft from their wings but they never blundered into me. I found the creatures fascinating rather than frightening.

The mother of a friend of mine was terrified of bats. She didn't trust their "radar" or their intentions. Forget about the importance of bats to ecosystems, to her bats existed for no reason except to fly into her hair. Which was unfortunate since the family house had a huge attic filled with bats and they often found their way downstairs.

As soon as a winged intruder got loose in the house, my friend's mother would put her hands on top of her head and run screaming from room to room, much to the amusement of my friend and I. (Let's face it, kids find the spectacle of adults acting like children hilarious.) Not being, as we put it, "scaredy cats", let alone "yellow bellied sap suckers", we rushed to the rescue. Our method? We chased the bat with a vacuum sweeper until we were able suck it up. It might sound cruel but when we took the vacuum outside and opened it up the bat invariably flew off, apparently unscathed, and no doubt ready to return to the attic.

So there is my Bat Appreciation Month tribute to bats (without even mentioning that I liked the Bat Masterson television show). Not that I can tell you what gives Bat Conservation International the right to declare such a month. I suppose anyone can declare a month or a week or a day or anything they like. I could call today International Orphan Scrivener Day or how about Name Your Own Day Day?

Batman dancing the Batusi

Review: The Dangerfield Talisman by J. J. Connington (1927)

by Mary

The Dangerfield family is an ancient one, having resided in their mansion Friocksheim since before the Norman Conquest. Their titular Talisman is a gold armlet studded with diamonds. Valued at £50,000, according to family legend it is the Luck of Friockshelm and will continue to be so as long as it remains there.

The majority of the large cast of characters are introduced playing bridge at a house-party at Friockshelm. Host Rollo Dangerfield's guests are by and large financially comfortable. Conway Westenhanger's wealth derives from his mechanical invention patents, Douglas Fairmile possesses a large private income, and Mrs Caistor Scorton inherited her deceased husband's war-generated fortune. Then there's Mrs Brent, wealthy enough from unnamed sources to own a steam yacht. Cynthia Pennard's financial circumstances are not revealed but Eileen Cressage is anxious about money, having run through most of her quarterly allowance with bills still to pay.

Also present at the house party: American collector Mr Wraxall, who wishes to acquire the Talisman, an unpleasant fellow named Morchard whom Westenhanger considers has more money than is good for him, and Freddie Stickney, who economises by sponging on others and invited himself to the gathering.

As a result of losses at bridge Eileen Cressage has run up a debt she knows she cannot pay, foolishly giving Mrs Caistor Scorton a cheque that cannot be honoured. A scandal must be avoided at all costs and Morchand offers to cover it but it is obvious he expects something in return, the brute. Meantime Westenhanger leaves for a couple of days to deal with a patent infringement. While he is away Rollo Dangerfield shows his guests the Talisman, displayed in a room featuring a floor chessboard on which games are played with iron chessmen over a foot high. A quarrel in that very room led to the dueling death of Mr Dangerfield's rakehell grandfather, who left behind an unfinished game with its giant pieces still in place along with a manuscript depicting their positions and featuring a couple of Biblical verses as well as a toy for his young son. What the manuscript means remains a conundrum still unsolved. Also in the mix is the Dangerfield Secret, revealed only to the male heir and the daughter of the house when she is 25.

That very night the Talisman is stolen but Mr Dangerfield brushes the incident off. The Talisman, he says, always comes home within seven days so the family does not bother to insure it and the police are never called in. They do have a burglar alarm since his wife is nervous but it was not triggered. Since he declares the servants above suspicion it follows a guest must be the culprit. Freddie Stickner pours petrol on the flames by insisting on a gathering where all the guests are expected to explain their movements the previous night. Talk about bad manners!

As a result, Eileen Cressage is prime suspect, having been seen in a corridor after everyone retired. But as it turns out, she was not the only person moving about the house during that fateful night.

Other suspects? Did Mr Wraxall, whose more than generous offer for the Talisman was rebuffed, resort to stealing it? Did Westenhanger secretly return to nab it for unfathomable reasons? What about the odious Morchard or the ghastly Freddie?

My verdict: There's plenty to mull over while seeking to deduce the guilty party. How do a missing silver mirror and gold wristwatch cast light on the matter? Might the Dangerfield Secret have any bearing on the theft? How do guests' favoured hands provide a pointer to the culprit? Why did Mrs Brent go off in her yacht and what is the reason Eileen Cressage is keeping a vigil for her return? These and other conundrums are cleared up in due course, the Talisman's theft is solved, the Dangerfield Secret revealed, and the meaning of the items left by Mr Dangerfield's grandfather clarified. With a doff of my chapeau at the ingenuity displayed in its clueing, I award The Dangerfield Talisman an A.

E-text: The Dangerfield Talisman by J. J. Connington (1927)