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

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)

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