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

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

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

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)

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

Ye Tragedie of Ye Clambering Kittie

by Mary

Speaking of Macbeth, on being informed Birnam Wood was on the move he must have been horrified, recalling the prophecy he would not be vanquished until said wood arrived on his doorstep. We have some small idea of how he felt when he looked out on advancing greenery, though in our case as related in the August issue we've been dealing with the fall-out from a single downwardly mobile tree but thankfully without having to worry about a single man-at-arms as well.

So, picking up the saga at the point where we left it, an electrician and his apprentice arrived at the start of this month to attend to the remaining repair, i.e. replacing the electricity line running between the point where it reaches the house to where it enters the meter.

They soon discovered what we long since realised: when repairs are needed, there is almost certain to be difficulties carrying them out given how often in the course of the work bits and bobs will be encountered whose threads, size, location, or shape means getting them removed is not going to be easy. It's not surprising considering the age of the house but while new parts will fit, getting the old ones off takes more time than expected, involving a process resembling hand to hand combat. Further, on occasion it's been necessary for more than one craftsperson to take a trip back to base to check the company's collection of less modern tools or older parts in stock in order to complete the job. One example from a couple of months ago: an appropriate length of L-shaped siding needed to embrace a corner was located at the company after the newer piece brought to the job was too wide to fit the angle where the two walls met, underlining that useful advice to keep any usable or surplus nails, screws, fiddly widgets, etc, just in case. Most people have a collection of such kickshaws. Our accumulation includes the external encrustations from the recently-replaced pressure tank for our well and an ancient pair of coke-bottle spectacles. Laugh about those gig-lamps ye may, but what if one rainy Sunday afternoon we are suddenly seized with the idea of attempting to build a microscope or telescope? Well, then.

To make matters worse, in the course of their two-hour visit the gaffer described some of the original work here as having been done "old style" -- for example a plank the tree ripped off the house was held in place by headless nails. Thus, for one task he needed an old style tool. As it happened. they carry just such a gizmo around in their van so this cannot be the first house presenting such problems. The implement, which we think was a crimper and if so was used to connect the two lines at the point they meet by mangling them together. Though there've been two electricians in the immediate family I have not the technical knowledge to describe how that would work without destroying them. alas. But the tool was extremely heavy, ran on batteries, and due to the amount of work done with it had to be recharged twice.

The electrician had been wielding it while perched on a ten foot ladder, but as the job progressed he had to go higher so switched to a twelve footer. While he seemed unconcerned about the nose-bleeding height, he experienced some difficulty inasmuch as being right-handed he could not deal with the left hand part of the fitting on which he was working. Moving the ladder left -- there was just enough space to anchor it safely -- he was able to continue working right-handedly on the left side of the job. And just as well as if not it would have meant summoning a basket truck to assist. How he could even hold such a heavy tool (it looked as if it was made of iron) in one hand remains a matter of mystery and admiration.

Then a wee bit of drama unfolded.

A movement flickered in the corner of the eye. A glance over to the right and there it was! An enormous black spider had suddenly appeared on the siding next to the electrician. He immediately observed to his audience he does *not* like spiders. Without exaggeration, if you include the span of legs, these nasty arachnids are as wide as the palm of an adult's hand. A couple have been encountered inside the house, most recently a few weeks ago. Like previous intruders it met with a speedy end. Dealing with them at ground-level is awful enough but for the fellow perched twelve feet up it was much worse, since any movement to dislodge it would be dangerous for him. It appears something frightened the ghastly thing because to everyone's relief it paused its peregrinations for a few seconds and then scuttled off to skulk behind the weatherboard.

A few days later the work passed inspection, so all is well at Maywrite Towers once again and what turned into a three month saga is over. But at times glancing out and observing the ten foot or so high broken trunk still standing, glaring at us across next door's lawn, just for a few seconds it's, well, somewhat unnerving.

There is, however, a footnote to this story. We had replaced the line in question on the advice of the crew who came out to effect a temporary hookup the day after the storm. They told us that the insulation on the line to the meter showed some weathering.

Not long after this was accomplished we watched the 1946 noir classic The Postman Always Rings Twice. Lana Turner and John Garfield had almost been caught in an attempt to murder Lana's husband Nick, to be staged as a fatal accident in a locked bathroom. The plan was to leave the scene of the crime via its window, drop to the flat roof below, and then from there to the ground by means of a ladder already in place. The attempt was thwarted when a cat clambered up the ladder and, in the manner of its kind, became curious, its resulting electrocution causing a power outage and resulting loss of nerve so Nick was safe for a bit longer. A motorcycle policeman who arrived after the incident noticed poor kitty's corpse and asked what had happened. Garfield replied he'd noticed some insulation had worn off what he called the feed wire but he hadn't got around to fixing it.

At this point we turned to each other, exclaiming whoah! in unison because that was exactly the problem we had just dealt with. Yes, our lives are just like a noir mystery albeit without unfortunate felines.*

* See https://cinemacats.com/the-postman-always-rings-twice-1946/

No Ringie-Dingies For Us

by Mary

We spent the first week of August pacing up and down the battlements of Maywrite Towers, staring hopefully down the road and, it must be admitted, occasionally muttering what certain Golden Age of Mystery writers referred to as continental objurgations.

Severe storms lashed the area late last month, toppling a tree next door. It ended up spread-eagled over most of the neighbor's lawn, blocking our right-of-way, in the process smashing down on his car, damaging the corner of our house, tearing off our phone and power lines, and sandwiching them between his car roof and its leafy burden. Thankfully its upper limbs missed our buggy by a couple of feet, a close shave Sweeney Todd would most likely have awarded a B+.

We've related our brushes with assassin trees before * but seeing as we've never had a disrespectful word to say about Ents or left rubbish in bosky dells -- and indeed have planted trees in two countries -- it's more than a bit shabby one of them came a-calling, or should we say a-falling. This time Fortuna smiled benignly as our power stayed on, even with the line lying on wet ground.

Kind neighbours helped us organise necessary calls and the following morning saw assorted utility personnel arriving in convoy after the fashion of the traditional elephant parade down Main Street announcing the circus had come to town.

The power crew's gaffer took one look at the shambles and observed "That's bad!" in an ominous tone. It seemed at first glance for technical reasons a repair to the house was necessary before they could restring the power line. The repair was outside their bailiwick so we'd have to engage a carpenter to handle it. Once we'd snared one, we were to notify them of the date and a crew would arrive to turn off power so the repair could be effected, following which the power line would be immediately restrung.

Then the phone wallah could be sent for to restore service since the power line would be raised above his working space. Meantime he gave us a temporary hookup.

However, after a lively discussion, the crew decided it would be possible to restore power by attaching the doings a short distance over from their original location on the siding. Thus we had a front row seat as they cut the power, tossed a stout white rope over next door's car, attached rope to line, and pulled it up and over the tree cuddling the vehicle.

Another crew arrived next morning to begin the two-day task of removing the tree, in the process breaking our temporary phone hookup. The phone company informed us reconnection could not be made for almost a fortnight. Persistence obtained a promise the job would be expedited/red flagged, but no date could be given because scheduling was organised by its contractors. Who said we might be reconnected sooner if a service call was cancelled. Unlikely, we thought, but hope, that waking dream, springs eternal.

Hope withered on the vine as time passed. We had no ringie-dingies for thirteen days before service was back. Yet Fortuna continued to be gracious, since during the process of reconnection it was discovered the line was damaged so the whole run from house to pole was replaced on the spot. On the glorious day they galloped up the hill, the phone cavalry had just begun work when my keyboard began to conk out, so though phone service was restored I was not out of the woods yet. Trees again, you notice.

According to the Good Book, the wind may bloweth where it listeth. We just hope next time it gets that angry it'll listeth to bloweth elsewhere-eth.

* http://reedmayermysteries.000webhostapp.com/tos89.htm#trees

Plumbing the Depths

by Mary

We now return to our continuing series titled When Household Machinery Goes Rogue.

In Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Lord Byron refers to the hell of waters when they howl and hiss. I am here to tell subscribers it's not much fun either when your water supply goes missing on a Sunday night.

Last week we found ourselves in that interesting situation. The first company we contacted could not send someone immediately but we managed to find a plumber able to come out. She (yes, a lady plumber) arrived at Casa Maywrite accompanied by two young fellows who looked to be in their late teens and whom we deduced were her sons. We came to this conclusion because they called her mom. Let me pause here to point out that was yet another demonstration of our advanced deductive powers. We believe they were apprentices -- theirs was a family business -- because she explained everything to them in detail and answered questions as she went along. Not to mention they knew exactly what to bring her when she asked them to get some plumbing fiddly widget or other from their van.

By the end of their visit the drainage tap, gauge, and pressure switch had been replaced on the well's pressure tank situated behind the fridge under the stairs, there being nowhere else for either to be placed. This is, as I occasionally remark, an eccentric house.

A few hours after they left there was no water in the loo tank.

Next day brought a second plumber who was here about three and a half hours, during which he fixed the loo's lack of water (diagnosed as sand from the well choking its water inlet tube). Since he was here anyhow we asked him to change all the taps in the bathroom as well as replace the shower head, thus ticking off a couple of tasks on our jobs to get done list.

A few hours later we discovered there was no water in the loo tank or any of the taps. A second visit got water flowing, Alas, it was black and gritty, not a good sign. Even after running all the taps the problem kept coming back. And there still no water in the tank. However, hot water stayed clean, because the gritty sand had settled to the base of the water heater and we were getting hot water from the top. Just to keep things exciting, the heater began kettling. Lord Byron spoke true.

It was obvious the problem involved the well itself, meaning it would have to be pulled for examination. A couple of possibilities mooted in our discussions were shortening the water line in the well so as to keep the pump above the clart at its base or in the worst case scenario replacing the pump. We decided to do the latter as it was over a decade old and approaching the average time when it would become likely to give up the ghost. While at it we ordered a new pressure tank as well, given it was at least twenty years old and if it conked out another visit would be necessary.

The final act of the saga was the glorious day when two plumbers were here six hours on the Friday of the week in question. It was quite a sight to observe plumbing the well's depths involved laying over 120 feet of water line and accompanying wiring straight across our lawn, over the one next door, and a little way down the road. As it turned out, the pump had fallen into the mire on the well floor and had in technical plumbing jargon "gone bad". Mud had also choked the water lines. The pump was a sorry sight, moving one plumber to observe he had never seen anything like it.

After they left, we may not have had a chicken in a pot but we had water in every place it should be, not to mention the water heater had been drained and refilled, thus correcting the kettling. We are again considering taking wagers as to which piece of household machinery will be next to go rogue.

I would observe last week was very draining on us but then boots would be thrown. But as events unfolded I thought more than once of The Gas Man Cometh. A favourite Flanders and Swann song*, it relates a series of repairs required to correct the previous day's repair. As the duo so rightly remark, those repairs all made work for the working man to do.

* Audio at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v1dvAxA9ib0&ab_channel=NancyDeHaven

Be Careful Where You Step

by Mary

As with all readers, bookcases have been a constant presence in my living spaces.

The first graced a Victorian terraced house, the attic of which became the bedroom I shared with my sister. Its furnishings included a tall, white-painted bookcase which for unfathomable reasons had at some point been sawn in half vertically and was therefore held together by its shelves. Its idiosyncratic construction went well with the attic's working gas light and the previous tenants' tartan wallpaper clashing in eye-watering fashion with a contemporary sofa covered in fabric patterned with angular yellow and orange shapes that would have gladdened the hearts of cubist painters.

Since the bookcase had no back, we could see its lower part blocked a small door in the wall. Naturally we opened it and found it disclosed a clear view of a concealed narrow space running down the street between our neighbours' attic walls and their eaves overhangs. What purpose it could have served remains a mystery to this day. Assuming neighbouring attics had similar little doors, the arrangement would certainly have been useful for leaving the premises unnoticed and in haste when an urgent need for departure presented itself, such as when the rent man came to call or a polite policeman appeared at the front door.

Such secret places and especially hidden rooms have long fascinated me, so I particularly enjoyed reading Allan Fea's Secret Chambers and Hiding Places last month. https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/13918 Published in the early 1900s, it describes a number of concealed hiding places utilised by, for example, priests during religious persecutions and fleeing royal personages and their supporters at times of civil unrest. Most of these concealed chambers, often situated behind fireplaces or wainscoting, were in great country houses and displayed impressive ingenuity in their construction. Lots of ideas here for authors who need a secret room for plot purposes!

As Mr Fea's book relates, the entrances to these secret rooms were to be found in a variety of locations, including under window-seats, behind cupboards (one mentioned swung backwards, shelves included, to reveal the hidden space), or concealed behind paintings or sliding panels. My favourite in the latter category formed the back of a -- you have guessed it! -- bookcase seemingly fixed to the wall. Disguised trap doors are also touched upon. Fine workmanship was displayed by a particularly ingenious mechanism, whereby a hidden space could only be opened by pulling up the head of what appeared to be a nail in the floor, thereby releasing a spring opening the trapdoor. I was particularly struck by a correspondent quoted in the book who revealed touching an unspecified part of the family shield displayed in the state-room of his castle caused said decoration to revolve and reveal a hidden staircase. Its oddly numbered steps were solid but, he reveals, treading on any of the others started concealed machinery that collapsed the staircase, precipitating unwary pursuers into a vault seventy feet or so below. A devilish device worthy of the lairs in which Fu Manchu lurked!

Constructing such concealed spaces was necessarily done in great secrecy but time marches on and nowadays there are Youtube tutorials on how to build them. However, the nearest I've been to a hidden space, or knowingly at least, was when I lived in a flat in Florida. It was a couple of weeks before I realised the shelved wall in a cupboard next to the front door could be moved. The space thus revealed held part of the air conditioning equipment and was just big enough to admit someone to work on it without ending up with bruised elbows. On the other hand, a couple I know once lived in an old house converted into flats. On my first visit, they pointed out the sash window of a room they noticed had no visible door inside the house. Even more peculiar, the top half of the window was slightly down. It may be they were pulling my leg, but recollecting that white bookcase makes me wonder...

Hiding places for people or objects swarm in fiction. Stolen gems, wills, and compromising correspondence are commonly hidden in them. Sometimes concealment is temporary but on occasion the person involved remains entombed by accident or design until death releases them from durance vile. Apart from the fictional examples mentioned, my meanderings through literary gardens have led me to drawers hidden *within* hidden drawers and objects concealed in locations as diverse as a sundial, wells, a watch or pudding, between paving stones, in the handle of a tennis racquet, and down a rabbit hole.

A reader may well find concealed rooms in works other than mysteries. The Sanctuary by E. F. Benson I consider among the more disturbing of hidden room tales. Though I knew the plot, it still gave me a touch of creeping heebie-jeebies when I reread it recently. Edward Bulwer-Litton offered his readers a trapdoor leading to a hidden room in a house with an evil reputation in The Haunted and the Haunters. Were a vote taken it's possible the most widely read locked room story would be Oscar Wilde's The Canterville Ghost, where the hidden room is used to punish.

While writing An Empire For Ravens, we donned hard hats and big boots to construct an underground cistern, one column of which we fitted with a secret door turning on a pivot. This arrangement permitted our protagonist John and other characters access to a catacomb in Rome. Sounds somewhat unlikely, but oh, brabjous day! In passing Mr Fea mentions sections of massive stone columns in some ecclesiastical buildings and castles were capable of being rotated to reveal hidden spaces, thus showing our architectural invention was not as unlikely as it seems.

Lumpy Milk for the Cornflakes

by Mary

Dining by candlelight sounds romantic but not when there's been no power for almost a week.

Such was the case when the 1978 Good Friday Ice Storm descended upon central Illinois, bringing with it a meteorological smorgasbord of deep and drifting snow, high winds, and freezing rain that morphed into a couple of inches of ice. Flashes from exploding transformers and downed electric lines lit the night sky, suggesting Mother Nature was playing carelessly with fireworks. The governor declared a state of emergency covering two dozen counties, thus demonstrating it is indeed an IL wind that blows nobody any good.

There wasn't much in the fridge when the power went out that Easter. However, necessity being the mother of improvisation, the jug of milk, stored between the back and screen doors, did not sour. It did however freeze a little so it was a case of lumpy milk for the cornflakes. On the other hand, my pound of frozen bread dough started to thaw so I used it to bake a large cinnamon ring which became my contribution to a communal Easter Sunday meal of home-fried chicken organised by the family across the street. Children enjoyed sledging down the gentle slope in a hollow behind that house, reminding me of when my younger self attempted to slide down our house stairs on a tea tray. Need I mention this occurred when our parents were not at home?

But I digress. In some ways life reverted to earlier times, which is to say so quiet it was hardly worth winding the clocks. Had a lanky man wearing a stovepipe hat returned to walk the streets of Springfield as Vachel Lindsay imagined, the former president would surely be reminded of his time, for it was time to retire to bed when darkness overpowered the ability to write letters, read, or play board games by torch or candlelight. Radio and TV broadcasts disappeared. So had the nocturnal light glare above the city but between its lack and frigid temperatures, there an uncommonly fine display of stars each night. Layered clothing and blankets proved sufficient to keep relatively warm during the daytime at least, provided outer doors were not opened too often. People seemed drawn to talk to neighbours, checking on each other and sharing supplies. Perhaps it was due to the natural instinct to cluster together to face and cope with very difficult conditions. Only one family was forced to leave: a young couple with a new baby who departed, along with their freezer, to stay with friends who still had power.

Sunlight glinted on two or more inches of ice, painting everything such an innocent silver that was but a lie and a trap for the unwary, beyond the dangers of attempts to drive or walk in those conditions. Icicles several inches long and ice that had formed on canopies, gutters, and store facades developed the nasty habit of falling without warning -- in Chicago ice lumps weighing over twenty pounds were reported as dropping off the Sears Tower.

Closer to home, crews put in long hours to remove downed trees and broken branches from blocked roads, smashed vehicles, damaged roofs, and public spaces, erecting shoulder high wooden walls along miles of city streets. The sight of those tangled piles, branches clasped in a final embrace, remains a sad memory. My impression on moving to the city was how green and leafy it was, with great numbers of old trees lining its thoroughfares and gracing its parks. Thousands of snapped utility poles were replaced and power lines restrung, as the intermittent roar of chain saws competed with the metallic scraping of excavator buckets and snow ploughs' blades as they cleared thoroughfares and dug out parking lots.

Eventually, with main roads passable, I went to see friends in a nearby town. Returning home as darkness fell I observed a familiar glow on the horizon. Power had returned to the city.

To Sleep, Perchance to Scream

by Mary

Years ago, a friend who lived in the Middle East at the time mentioned she had met another expat who worked for the BBC. who observed they were not getting as many submissions as they would like for the Short Story spot on the World Service.

Well, of course I had to have a go at it! Thus was born Aunt Ba's Story, partly inspired by a dream and Arthur Hughes' painting Home From Sea. It was my first sale.

Lately we have been watching supernatural films created in the spirit of the season (no pun intended) and reckon the actor who provides that shadowy outline so often seen crossing quickly just in front of the camera and not noticed by anyone else must make a goodly salary, given all the work he has done. In passing, let me mention I have noticed so far at least the silhouette has always been male. Perhaps it is him or his brother I seem to see occasionally when waking up from dreaming, convinced a dark silhouette is standing nearby. It feels real at the time, even though I gather experts say the phenomenon is caused by the mind trying to make sense of shadows.

But what sense can be made of a serial nightmare that has been a night-time visitor to me over many months?

It began when an already deceased family member was murdered and buried in a cupboard in a house in which the family once lived in the old country. Unlikely though it sounds, every now and then I dream a bit more of the unfolding story, including a pursuit closing in on the culprit. In the last episode dreamt the story had reached the point where a detective looking around a well-lit room opened the door to the adjoining room, revealed to be the one with the fateful cupboard. Looking over his shoulder, I could see the other room was dark but there was enough light spilling in to show it was littered with broken toys and other rubbish. So I am supposing the unmasking of the culprit is doubtless not far off, at which time the blue-clad long arm of the law will be reach out to grab them.

Unlike the detective, I already know the identify of the dream murderer. It was me.

In Praise of Tubbies

by Mary

When I mentioned my intent was to talk about "tubbies" this time round, Mr Maywrite asked me if the word was a Britishism or a Maryism. I cannot say either way, but will confirm right off the bat that the following is not about the colourful Teletubbies inhabiting the world of the popular British TV show for young children.

No, this essay is devoted to coffee containers and came about because only a couple of types of plastic bottles and jars are accepted locally for recycling. This means items without the appropriate magic numbers on their bases branding them as unwanted types of plastic must perforce be disposed of in the weekly bag of rubbish. However, not all of our numerical undesirables disappear that way, because we have amassed a collection of various sizes of coffee tubbies. Not surprising really, since being devotees of Satan's brew we generally get through even the largest sized container in about six weeks.

A quick survey of Casa Maywrite reveals several tubbies currently in use. A medium sized example in this very room holds spare light bulbs, an excellent way to store fragile items of that kind. Why light bulbs are sold in flimsy cardboard packaging when it takes a hacksaw to get into certain plastic-wrapped items is a mystery for the ages.

More of these lagniappe storage units lurk in three rooms and a porch. The tubby in the latter location houses sundry small garden tools as well as drop cloths and paintbrushes. Another office example holds small odds and ends of the type that tend to be found lurking in desk drawers. Unfortunately neither of our desks include that most useful feature, so items such as envelopes, stamps, spare pens, and scissors are kept in their own tubby. There is the disadvantage that tubbies do not seem to spontaneously generate rubber bands and paper clips as desk drawers do.

There's another tubby in the bathroom housing the loo brush, and assorted hoover attachments lurk in the pantry tubby. Last summer one of the bigger containers proved really handy when carrying out a controlled pouring forth of wood stain, rather than attempting to wrassle with large tins reminiscent of British petroleum containment units, as Mr Maywrite put it. Which, he observed, in this country are still known as gas cans despite being made of plastic.

One of a procession of plumbers whose retirement accounts we have enlarged significantly the last couple of years asked if he could have one of our smaller tubbies, and we were glad to oblige. My guess is it will serve as a mini bucket in tighter plumbing spots. We have used one as a temporary bucket when the kitchen sink sprang a leak and of course they are also useful when dealing with other tasks involving water.

Leading subscribers further around a grand tour of the premises, observe the fine example of the largest type of tubby residing on the kitchen counter. We pressed it into service some time since to store wet rubbish such as coffee grounds, fruit peelings, and eggshells. Its capacity is large and keeping it tightly lidded until it the time came to dispose of its contents has proved particularly useful during east coast heat waves.

Another attraction of these handy items: stores expect you to pay for specialised containers for various sorts of clutter, but tubbies are free. Which reminds me there's one containing loose change in the kitchen but their use extends further: they serve as the subject for an essay when the idea fairy goes missing.

That Time We Constructed A Whale

by Mary

We are not two to boast, but a few years ago we outdid Herman Melville in that Three For A Letter features not one but two whales, both of which play major roles in the narrative.

The real whale was mentioned by Procopius in passing in his History of the Wars, wherein is recorded it was a terror to shipping for years, whereas our great grey whale was based upon information gathered from that most engaging work, Hero of Alexandria's Pneumatics.

In the opening chapter of Three For A Letter, a banquet held in honour of Empress Theodora features a presentation of the story of Jonah. To the wonderment of all, our mechanical sea beast appears from behind a curtain painted with a seascape, rolls forward without any visible method of propulsion, halts at the edge of the stage, spouts, and then rolls backwards to disappear behind the curtain.

That sounds somewhat unlikely, someone in the back row has doubtless remarked. But while we have not actually built a working model, our fictional whale's remarkable performance was based upon, and extrapolated from, the aforementioned Pneumatics. Details of its construction we borrowed from Hero includes a method of moving a cart back and forth without being pushed (accomplished by ropes around axles hidden under the whale and two bags of sand) and how to produce a jet of water by the use of mechanically compressed air. We also equipped our whale with a skin of painted canvas stretched over wooden ribbing, glass eyes, and, when the leviathan opens its mighty jaws, the action reveals a stuffed red linen tongue and huge metal teeth illuminated by lamps.

We also featured further artifacts whose inner operations are described in Hero's work, including an automatically opening villa door that terrified John's servant Peter (the original instructions applied to a temple door), a mechanical satyr dispensing an unending stream of wine, and an automaton archer who shoots his arrow at a dragon.

While doubts have been expressed concerning whether any such wonders would actually work, either way Hero's instructions are good enough for us. Dammit, Jim, we are authors, not engineers.

In all fairness, we should mention now and then startling events in our fiction are actually based on real life incidents. How else could John have flown in Four For A Boy? Admittedly his flight lasted only a few seconds and ended with a crash landing but it was based on an account of a failed Victorian era suicide. Fortunately John survived -- and a good job he did too, since otherwise the series would also have come to an abrupt end.

Soot and Cinders

by Mary

I must be one of only a handful of mystery writers who've been aboard a steam train held up by a gang of desperadoes on horseback. I must confess however it was a put-up job during a special Age of Steam excursion. The bad guys strutted the length of the train after swinging aboard, glaring at all and sundry over red kerchiefs hiding their lower faces, much to our delight, only to be arrested by a brave sheriff and locked in the caboose for the return journey to the home station. There the entire gang were incarcerated in a small cell where small fry jeered at them while adults congratulated the law man on his sterling work keeping the railway safe from marauders. As that nice Mr Google informed me, the very day I began this essay was Paddington Bear's 50th birthday, reminding me a while long ago I stumbled over a reproduction of William Powell Frith's The Railway Station (1862), depicting a train getting ready to leave Paddington Station. See above.

There's a mystery connection. In the far right of the painting wo well-known Scotland Yard detectives, who have been identified as Detective-Sergeants Michael Haydon (with the handcuffs) and James Brett (who's just laid his hand on a man's shoulder) are arresting a wanted fugitive, close enough to escaping the long arm of the law to have his foot on the step up into the carriage.

The trips I took on the steam trains in my youth were much more orderly -- well, apart from a drunken Irishman who insisted on entering a ladies only compartment at the start of one journey and a couple of men fighting at Newcastle's Central Station at the end of another.

The engine is hardly visible in Frith's painting, but it brought to mind when the train to Newcastle passed through Darlington's Bank Top Station, up to the mid l970s passengers could see a very similar engine, sitting on one of the platforms

Photo by Chris55 CC BY-SA 3.0

Locomotion Number 1 is now displayed in the city's Head of Steam Museum in honour of its having pulled the first steam passenger train on the Stockton and Darlington Railway in the autumn of 1825. Apparently many who had turned out to see this amazing event confidently expected the strange and frightening new machine to explode, steam engines being basically boilers on wheels. It could not have been too comfortable a trip since the majority of the passengers travelled in open wagons formerly used for hauling coal, although dignitaries as usual got a better deal and were trundled along in a shed-like structure.

Those who remember travelling by steam usually wax nostalgic at the jerky drop of an up signal, recalling stray wisps of steam curling out from under enormous driving wheels while the great iron beast, resplendent in gleaming paint and well polished brass, sits poised to go after the fellow with the long-spouted oil can and peaked visor cap set at a rakish angle has swung down from the driver's cab and carried out his mysterious business. The smells of steam travel, coal smoke, steam, and hot oil, permeate memories of journeys begun after the heavy slamming of thick wooden doors by a waistcoated guard walking the platform along the length of the train, followed by shrill blasts on his whistle to announce an imminent departure and the distinctive chuffing as the train drew away. What a struggle it was to manage the wide leather strap lowering and raising door windows, the better to get cinders and soot on your person and allow steam and smoke to billow into the carriage when passing through tunnels! Carriage seating was upholstered in stiff, dusty moquette reminiscent of nothing so much as inexpensive carpeting, the walls above the seats adorned with advertising prints featuring maps and beautifully painted views of locations throughout the country encouraging travel and thus, in a promotional masterstroke, more business for British Rail. And can anyone who saw them forget those stern printed notices above the alarm chains in each carriage warning the penalty for misuse was five pounds?

It's a fair bet some of the most vivid steam age memories centre around the powerfully beautiful engines, the drivers' cabs displaying a multitude of tubing, gauges, levers, and stopcocks. Dame Rumour had it bacon and eggs were cooked on stokers' cleaned-off shovels, introduced into the firebox near the end of overnight runs. Lest passengers grew faint from hunger buffet cars provided more varied sustenance. Similar to that offered in railway refreshment rooms, it was solid, if often derided, fare featuring such staples as ham sandwiches with an occasional suspicion of a curl to their bread, stick to the ribs jam roly poly, pork pies, Scotch eggs, and slices of darkly mysterious Dundee cake, washed down with strong tea in thick-lipped cups. There were also fancier restaurant cars featuring the elegance of linen tablecloths and menus but alas for the profit columns in British Rail's ledgers, I rarely patronised either carriage for the trusty Reed thermos flask, a bag of crisps, and a couple of rolls of Rowntrees fruit gums saw me through the longest journey.

Fruit Gums vs. Wrapping Paper

by Mary

There were no Christmas railways for us, I fear, although we sometimes saw engines chugging along the lining running behind the Vickers-Armstrong works across the Scotswood Road during the holidays, just as they did year round. But as with most families, our Christmas Day had its own order, a traditional progression of events unwinding from our first forays into lumpy Christmas stockings at the foot of our bunk bed in the grey light before dawn to getting up to the steamy, fruity smell of the Christmas pudding boiling merrily in the kitchen to the last goodnight before the light was put out and Boxing Day crept towards us on the twirling sails of the windmill clock hanging on our attic bedroom wall.

As a child, early Christmas evening was my favourite time of the day. By then we had presented our gifts -- usually home-made calendars liberally sprinkled with glitter after secret assembly up in the attic or perhaps boxes of matching handkerchiefs, or a diary, or a huge bottle of lavender perfume from the local Woolworths, things small in themselves but for which we had saved our pocket money for some time, sacrificing even that extra tube of fruit gums in order to get a few pennies more towards the cost of the fancier wrapping paper. And of course we had ourselves long since unwrapped our own new treasures -- always a book, usually a selection box containing six or eight different sorts of chocolate bars, and two or three other small parcels that had been stuffed into our Christmas stockings (being a pair of my father's much darned wool socks) along with the customary silver foil wrapped tangerine plus a handful of walnuts in the shell and a few toffees tucked into their toes.

After the Queen's speech broadcast at 3 pm and having toasted her health with a glass of sherry or a cup of tea as appropriate to age, about an hour later it was time to sit down for our tea. We kids would gleefully pull red and green Christmas crackers, reading their mottoes and silly jokes aloud for everyone's delight. We'd put on the silly hats and divvy up the geegaw trinkets from the crackers and then pass around slices of the rich, solid dark cake my mother had made weeks before. The British Christmas cake is basically all sorts of dried fruit held together with spices, eggs, flour, butter and a dash of something that in our day might have been rum though we never dared ask, the whole being covered in marzipan and tooth-cracking Royal icing on which, at our house at least, was displayed a small, much battered miniature sled that so far as we could tell was made of painted chalk.

There would be hot mince pies (muffin sized in England) and perhaps a sandwich, all downed with big china cups of strong, black, heavily sugared tea. Afterwards we'd linger at the kitchen table to demolish some of the aforementioned nuts and citrus fruit as well as passing around a once a year purchase -- a frilly-edged box of sticky, dark dates that came with a little plastic fork for fishing out its contents and brought forth stern maternal warnings to mind out for the stones or we would break our teeth. The 1944 film This Happy Breed, which tells the story of a set of working class neighbours over a span of twenty years, has an essentially similar scene (much to my delight the first time I saw it) although under blackout wartime conditions and presumably without dates or tangerines, which would have cost a fortune even if any could have been found on sale.

But when the washing-up was done, the tea towel hung up to dry in the scullery and a fresh scuttle of coal brought up from the back yard, then came the best part of all. As darkness pressed against steamed-up windows behind cosily drawn curtains and adults listened to the radio while consuming yet more cups of tea, we kids lay on the hearth rug in front of the popping, glowing fire, eating chocolate and reading our new books. Could childhood memories be any better?

It all sounds very simple and ordinary and somewhat quaint, I suppose, but it was our Christmas and so remains close to our hearts -- and especially now that we are all scattered to the winds. So wherever you are and however you celebrate the many festivals falling at this time, may they give you an equal stock of happy memories -- and may the new year bring you all you wish yourselves.

And a Penguin in a Fir Tree

by Mary

This is the time of year when those who celebrate Christmas will be setting up and decorating their festive tree. Many of our ornaments are, well, not your usual manufactured baubles, although we do have some plain glass globes now elderly enough to be losing their colour. But as in many families there are particular favourites and these are a few of mine.

Two of these ornaments travelled with me to America. Made of plastic resin of some sort, they arrived in the family well before I did. One's a flat silhouette of a blue antlered deer and the other a three-dimensional decoration created by slotting two red star-shaped pieces at right angles to each other. It always reminds me of the star on the iconic label of Newcastle's famous brown ale. There's another and much larger star -- or more precisely an attempt at one which came out more resembling an amoeba -- crayoned on a piece of paper by a young relative thirty years or so ago.

Then there's a small v-shaped basket made from two pieces of paper. Decorated with depictions of sprigs of berried holly, this basket was made by folding the pieces, cutting parallel lines into them, and interweaving the results. This somewhat arcane skill was one I learned as a youngster, along with making little handbags or tanks from dad's empty cigarette packets. Happy days!

I must not overlook a couple of shells picked up from the Florida beach opposite the building where I lived my first year in this country. They hang up on thread passed through holes made by the sea, but the hook for a penguin ornament is a bent paper clip. Creating it was one of my more ambitious craft projects. Imagine a red and white striped ball with lengths of silver cord attached to it supporting a small gondola represented by a basket originally holding dishwasher detergent. The 'guin in the gondola is about an inch high and stands daringly loose in his aerial transport, so he has been known to occasionally fall out.

Then there's a couple of green felt ornaments stuffed with cotton wool and decorated with sequins. They date from the same period as the ballooning penguin, as do several painted balsa wood ornaments. Yes, I was a fiend with a glue gun in those days! Notable examples of the wooden ornaments include flat children riding three dimensional sleds and a Santa whose hands emerge at right angles from his sleeves as if in surprise or horror at realising he was about to be run over by the aforementioned sleigh. After all, when we get down to it do we really know what happens on Christmas trees when everyone is abed and darkness shrouds the house? Our cats always got the blame if ornaments tumbled off the tree overnight but what if they were not the culprits?

Ralph Waldo Emerson once talked about night hovering all day in fir tree boughs, and this was certainly the case in the Reed household. We did not have tree lights as long as we lived at home. Instead when the big marmalade tin holding decorations came out of the sideboard small candle holders were clipped onto the tree's branches. Made of tin, they had scalloped edges and they held tiny twisted candles little bigger than the sort decorating birthday cakes, but much to our childish disappointment were never lit for safety reasons.

There's also a small fairy doll who may not have been among Shakespeare's moonshine revellers but is certainly one of his orphan heirs of fixed destiny, given she's topped Reed trees in one house or another for decades. Despite losing one tiny red shoe at some point over the years and being forced to wear a greying tattered net skirt decorated with gold paint being as it's glued to her, as is her small wand topped with a battered gold star losing its glitter, a few glorious days are still hers each year.