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.

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)

Review: The Murders in Praed Street by John Rhode (1928)

by Mary

London's Praed Street is typical of thousands of unremarkable urban streets, narrow, not too attractive, and occupied by residents served by small shops a few steps away from their front doorsteps.

The case begins when James Tovey collapses outside local pub The Express Train at chucking-out time. He is the first to fall at the hands of a murderer using varied and occasionally exotic methods to kill. Investigation establishes the victims each received a numbered bone counter (token) before their deaths as if to inform them their numbers would soon be up. Tovey's death is swiftly followed by others, causing the case to resemble a deadly game of reverse Happy Families.

Differing methods of murder suggest more than one deadly hand is at work and include a couple of complicated affairs typical of the seemingly impossible murders often found in Golden Age of Detection fiction. If any connection between the dead men beyond their being neighbours could be established it would be of great assistance in narrowing the search for the culprit(s). Unfortunately a Bayswater resident subsequently falls dead in Praed Street, effectively destroying that theory. There's also a bearded sailor of notably savage visage apparently seen in the street the night of Tovey's murder. This sighting could be a fiction used to deflect accusation but even if the sailor was there, he's disappeared. Was he involved or is the perpetrator a resident of the street, and if so what could be behind the rash of murders?

Enter eccentric scientist Dr Priestley. He has previously assisted Inspector Hanslet, the officer now in charge of the stalled case, and does so again in the Praed Street puzzler. And a puzzler it is because, as the inspector observes, there's no rational motive for deaths of no possible benefit to the murderer.

My verdict: The Praed Street murders are based on what some may view as an understandable motive although no doubt arguments would break out about that over a pint at The Express Train. A couple of early hints may well alert readers to a possible culprit, while one or two of the murder methods are satisfyingly complex and yet workable with the right arrangements. I wavered on how to grade this novel and eventually settled on B+, always bearing in mind other readers' mileage will vary.

E-text: The Murders in Praed Street by John Rhode (1928)

Review: Murder At Ravensthorpe by J. J. Connington (1927)

by Mary

Chief Constable Sir Clinton Driffield is being shown around the extensive grounds of Ravensthorpe, home to Cecil Chasewater and his siblings Maurice and Joan and their mother. It is Joan's 21st birthday that very day and a celebratory costume ball is to be held the following night.

As the two men walk around, Cecil points out an example of the miniature Fairy Houses scattered throughout the estate. Apparently every Ravensthorpe will includes a clause providing for these small dwellings to be kept in good repair for otherwise a curse will fall on the family. Or so legend has it.

On a more down-to-earth note, Driffield points out given ball guests will be masked it's possible outsiders with criminal tendencies might mingle with them and carry off valuable objects from the Ravensthorpe private museum, which will be open as part of the celebrations.

Cecil confides in Driffield that he's unhappy their father left everything to the oldest son Maurice, trusting him to provide for Cecil, Joan, and their mother. Unfortunately this was not specifically laid down in the will and Maurice has indicated he does not intend to subsidise Cecil forever. Tension between the brothers is further exacerbated because both have fallen for Una Rainhill, who favours Cecil. As a result he expects to be thrown out of Ravensthorpe at any moment without a bean to his name.

Furthermore, to the horror of those who hear of it, Maurice intends to sell off the Ravensworth collection of objets d'art, the most valuable of which is a set of Medusa Medallions created by da Vinci. In fact, a Mr Foss is currently a house guest as agent for Mr Kessock, an American millionaire wishing to purchase the medallions.

Bright Young Things that they are, Cecil, Una, and their friend Foxcroft "Foxy" Polgate decide to stage a jolly jape during the ball just to annoy Maurice, to wit, a sham burglary. Their plot includes plunging the house into darkness to allow them to mount a smash and grab of the medallions but events do not go as planned. There is a shot just as Una turns off all the lights in the house. A body is found in the museum, all the medallions have gone, and the perpetrator gets away despite being pursued and cornered by a number of male guests. More mayhem is to come.

There's a positive plethora of possible perpetrators. Was the culprit a family member wishing to thwart the sale of the medallions or an outside party who took advantage of the masked ball as Driffield had feared? It is unthinkable of course but could the thief be one of the ball guests? Even friend Foxy comes under suspicion, having made gold electrotypes of the da Vinci medallions for Maurice for display with the originals until the latter are sold. Apparently Maurice thinks copies will look just as well as the real ones.

The investigation comes to include an impossible escape, a sighting of the family's ghost, and a Japanese sword said to be unlucky plus a lesson on safe-cracking with the aid of a Marconi otophone. The case also involves a pair of trousers with peculiar pockets and a revelation via a childhood nickname.

My verdict: Connington is a master of misdirection. He presents a particular incident in plain sight but when the reader knows what it means, the new information puts a completely different complexion on what happened and explains much. I also admired his revelation of how what seems to be an impossible escape was accomplished and therefore award Tragedy At Ravensthorpe this week's Obfuscation Award, along with an A for its enjoyably devious plot.

NOTE: Alternate title is Tragedy at Ravensthorpe

E-text: Murder At Ravensthorpe by J. J. Connington

Review: The Case With Nine Solutions by J. J. Connington (1928)

by Mary

Dr Ringwood, serving as locum tenens for an old friend recovering from appendicitis, returns to his lodgings in a pea-souper so thick he can't even see the pavement. He is looking forward to a cosy evening by the fire with a cigar and the latest issue of the British Medical Journal but alas, it is not to be. Dr Trevor Markfield, a friend who lives locally, drops in for a chat and engages in a bit of gossip, hinting the marriage of Dr Silverdale, under whom he works at the Croft-Thornton Research Institute, is not all it should be. It seems Dr Silverdale's French wife Yvonne has taken up with Ronald Hassendean, an idler who works as little as possible at the Institute and is widely known as her permanent dancing-partner. Naturally there is scuttlebutt. At this point, Ringwood receives a call from a maid anxious about her fellow servant's worsening illness, given the family employing them is out for the evening. Markfield identifies the address she gives as Silverdale's house and guides Ringwood there through worsening fog before leaving for home. Ringwood discovers the house silent, lights on, and the front door unlocked. Venturing inside, he finds a young man shot twice bleeding to death. Then he realises he is in the wrong house. Silverdale's home is next door. The police are summoned and Chief Constable Sir Clinton Driffield arrives with Inspector Flamborough to investigate the matter. The deceased is identified as Ronald Hassendean, his dancing days done. Then the Hassendean's maid is found strangled and the other maid can't be interviewed as she is delirious with a bad attack of scarlatina.

Where to begin? Well, next morning Driffield receives a telegram advising him to visit the bungalow used as a summer residence by the Hassendean family. And what do they find there but Mrs Silverdale, lying dead in an armchair.

In talking to Flamborough about the case, Driffield notes three possibilities to explain these events: accident, suicide, or murder, various permutations of which total eight.

A rich stew of suspects forms. What about motives? Has Silverdale grown tired of his wife's open flirtation with young Hassendean? We might also note Silverdale beat Markfield for the post of head of department. Two other workers at the Institute also come under suspicion: Miss Hailsham, Hassendean's bitter and vindictive ex-fiancee, and Miss Deepcar, due to hints of mutual attraction between her and Silverdale

Then there's Mrs Silverdale's brother Mr Menard, who's attempting to get her to change her will to what he views as a fairer distribution of her recent inheritance. Meaning more should be left to him. But what if she becomes angry at his pressing her on the matter and leaves him nothing under a new will? After all, a small bequest is better than none. Nor should we overlook Spratton, a money lender holding an insurance policy on Hassendean's life as security for his loans to the dead man. Murder rather than suicide or accident would net Spratton a substantial amount.

Investigations are aided by subsequent tips received from the sender of the telegram -- but only if Driffield and Flamborough are able to decipher their informant's coded advertisements in the local papers.

My verdict: I raced through and enjoyed this novel. At times it assumes the polite air of a restrained police procedural during an investigation also featuring forgery, possible blackmail, burglary, impersonation, and a method of murder I believe most readers will find unique. Connington's title states the case has nine solutions and when the ninth is revealed it features a clever double twist. All in all, then, I award The Case With Nine Solutions an A.

E-text: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/72816

The Cat Who Saved a Lord Chamberlain's Life

by Eric

I'm reading a book by Georges Simenon, author of the Inspector Maigret mysteries. The Cat, however, isn't a mystery. It's one of Simenon's psychological novels. I'm pretty sure Maigret never had a cat (unlike so many modern detectives) although he might have seen a feral feline or two slinking through the alleys in the dark underbelly of Paris. He encountered stray dogs certainly, as evidenced by his novel Maigret and the Yellow Dog.

Our own detective, John the Lord Chamberlain, didn't own a cat either but our two cats, Rachel and Sabrina, made cameo appearances in our Byzantine mysteries. Both are gone now, having lived to ripe old cat ages.

I took Rachel in when he came to my door one bitterly cold November day. Yes -- Rachel was a he. My two children named him. I could never be sure of his age but he was a glutton until the end, thanks to his having nearly starved out in the wild. How could I forget the time he stole a pork chop off the kitchen counter? (In One for Sorrow "Rachel's" tendency to pounce frantically on food saves John's life...you'll have to read the book...)

Sabrina, our final cat, lived to be twenty-two. (Final because at some point you don't want to take responsibility for pets who might outlive you.) There's no doubt about her age. I rescued her as a kitten from a neighbor's garage during my first marriage and she stayed with me after the divorce. She bridged two very different phases of my life. A new marriage, new work, a move to another state. During twenty years of change, Sabrina was the only connecting thread so it was particularly upsetting when she died.

Unlike "final girls" in movies, our final cat didn't spend her life battling homicidal maniacs. Quite the contrary. She was a coddled house-cat. During her last few years she stuck to me like a barnacle. Well, a warm, furry barnacle. I suppose I was the only constant thing in her life and she became more clinging as she aged. She wouldn't let me out of her sight. She insisted on curling up on my lap when I sat at the computer. Which was a real show of loyalty since skinny as I am I offer very little in the way of a lap. I altered my way of sitting to accommodate her. When I got up to go downstairs for a cup of coffee she'd wait for me at the top of the stairs.

Eventually it got to the point that she couldn't make the leap from floor to lap and would sit by my chair and meow piteously until I lifted her up. Weirdly, this attachment was solely to me, and not to Mary although Sabrina had lived with her for nearly twenty years. "Sabrina's a one person cat," Mary said. "If I passed out and was lying on the floor she'd walk over me to get to you."

As the end approached, Sabrina found it difficult to walk so before going to bed we'd put her in the little nest we'd made from a fuzzy toilet seat cover placed on the bottom shelf of a bookcase. We daily expected she'd be gone overnight but instead one morning we found her sprawled part way out of it on the floor. I carried her the rest of the way to my chair and put her on my lap. It wasn't long before she gave a quiet sigh and died there.

It seems as if she managed to get through the night so she could die where she wanted to be. I can't say I am deserving of that kind of devotion.