Brian Clegg's Blog, page 33

The guilty shop

Like many others, I use Amazon, but feel a bit guilty about it.
I know I'm not alone in this, as I regularly get asked why my www.popularscience.co.uk popular science/science fiction book review site has links to buy books from Amazon.
The reason is simple - I get paid a small affiliate fee if someone uses one of the links at no cost to the purchaser, and it's the bookselling site with such an affiliate system that has the widest reach.
However, as some people really didn't seem to like me using Amazon, I thought I'd add a second option and now am providing a link to UK bookseller Foyles as well. And here's the thing. Quite a lot of people have clicked through to Foyles... but no one has bought a book from them.
The fact is that no one else offers the same combination of low prices and rapid delivery as does Amazon. So, while it gives you a nice warm glow to order from an independent bookshop (and I certainly try to buy from them whenever I'm in bricks-and-mortar shopping mode), it's hard to resist the practical benefits of visiting the Amazon site.
Quick example - up to now I've managed to resist reading Wolf Hall and its sequels, for reasons that will require another blog post. But I was so impressed with a review of the third book in the trilogy, that I thought I ought to give the books a try. I decided this at 10pm on Wednesday evening. By lunchtime on Thursday, Amazon had delivered my copy.
I'll probably continue to feel guilty... but it's not going to stop me using them.
I also get affiliate fees if you click through to Amazon simply by using these links to Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com . 

Review - The Starless Sea - Erin Morgenstern

Erin Morgenstern's first novel, The Night Circus is one of my favourite books, so I was awaiting the infamously difficult second novel with a mix of anticipation and concern. Now I've finished reading it, I think both emotions were appropriate.

Although still a fantasy with a partial real-world setting, The Starless Sea is a different kind of book to The Night Circus. As both have something of a period feel (despite The Starless Sea being set in the present day), I would say that the new book is like an Impressionist painting to the first novel's Pre-Raphaelite. In The Night Circus, the attraction of the book was crystal clear - here it's fuzzy and consists more of light than detail.

Overall, The Starless Sea is a very clever creation, intertwined in a complex fashion. Most of the narrative has interlaced fairy stories, which initially seem to be little elements on the side but gradually weave their way into the whole. It's a long book - perhaps a tad too long - but there's plenty going on... it's just not always obvious why, or where it's going. The protagonist, Zachary Ezra Rawlins, is a grad student who mostly studies computer games and quite often the experiences he goes through feel like taking part in a massive fantasy-based adventure puzzle game - for classic games lovers, The Seventh Guest or Myst on steroids.

A useful comparison is one of the greatest American fantasy writers, Gene Wolfe. In quite a few of Wolfe's books the reader has to suspend frustration as the author piles in confusing elements that only come together in the end to make a magnificent whole. This happens here as well, and often is done well - but some of the confusing elements come too near the end and never truly resolve.

I don't want to sound negative here. I very much enjoyed reading this book, and it was a daring move on the part of Morgenstern. But it didn't come together as brilliantly as I hoped or as cleverly as it promised.

Available from Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com

Review - The House of Silk - Anthony Horowitz

I was more than a little sceptical of the idea of someone other than Conan Doyle writing a Sherlock Holmes novel, especially one that would prove to be more than a pastiche, but Anthony Horowitz has managed to tread a remarkably fine line and produce an engaging Holmes novel that is very much true to the spirit of Conan Doyle, but has its own distinct nature.
While Horowitz makes use of all the dark settings of Victorian London, and language that we expect from the narrator, Dr Watson, he extends the characters of Holmes and Watson to add in significantly more humanity - these are less two-dimensional characters than those that Conan Doyle portrayed. (Don't get me wrong: I love the originals, but these versions have a little more to them.) Even the Baker Street Irregulars become people here, rather than devices to move the plot along.
Another advantage Horowitz has is being able to bring in a crime that it is unlikely Conan Doyle could ever have written about - which he does with striking effect.
The book wasn't perfect. We could have had a few more twists and turns - perhaps too many pages were given over to introspection - and I would have liked a bit more contribution from Holmes and particularly Mycroft, who seems bereft of his usual Olympian powers. But it remains a very enjoyable sidebar to the Holmes stories and I look forward to reading the second entry in the series.
Available from Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com

Review - Sleep No More - P. D. James

I like a good murder around Christmas, preferably with a Christmas theme. When I got these six murderous short stories by P. D. James, I was only expecting some good writing, but in practice a couple of them do have Christmas themes, notably the longest entry in the relatively slim volume, The Murder of Santa Claus, which also includes a traditional country house setting. It makes a fitting companion to the four stories in The Mistletoe Murder (though I do feel Faber were rather tight in splitting these into two - both books together would make a good length for a single volume).

These mostly aren't murder mysteries in the traditional sense, in that they tend to be seen from the viewpoint of protagonists rather than detectives, but each story features a killing (probably - one is not entirely honest with us), and each is both a beautiful piece of writing and takes us into the working of a dark mind. My favourite was the most gut-wrenchingly powerful, The Girl Who Loved Graveyards, which starts as a story of a poor orphaned girl, but turns out to be something very different... but each is in its own way a little gem.

Many other writers have tried their hand at short story murder mysteries with mixed success, but I don't think anyone else did it as well as P. D. James. These are miniature masterpieces, and though they don't really fulfil my urge to find the perfect Christmas murder mystery, they are certainly excellent pieces of work that reminded me that I ought to read more P. D. James than I have to date.

Available from Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.

Review - A Christmas Railway Mystery

Each year I attempt to find at least one Christmas murder mystery - after all, what would Christmas be without a good murder?

I thought I had hit the jackpot with A Christmas Railway Mystery - not only a Victorian Christmas setting, but the location of the murder was the Great Western Railway village in my home town of Swindon. And there is no doubt that the book had its enjoyable elements, but it also had some severe limitations.

Perhaps the best bit was the evocation of the Railway Village, built by the GWR adjacent to the railway works where it built its rolling stock, reflecting the mix of benevolence and patronising control that seemed to accompany some of the better Victorian employers. Edward Marston evokes the detail of the village and its life well, apart from the oddity of describing the (still existing) buildings as red brick - they aren’t.

Marston also gives a satisfying mix of strands, with the main murder investigation in Swindon set alongside developments in the detective Inspector Colbeck’s home life and a parallel investigation into the disappearance of Colbeck’s grumpy boss, Superintendent Tallis in Canterbury, poorly investigated by Colbeck’s scheming rival, Inspector Grosvenor. And it all trundles along quite well. But the characters are rather wooden, the dialogue isn’t great and there is little heed paid to ‘show, don’t tell.’ This extends to some magnificent overkill description. For example, when we first come across the railway village church, a relatively minor setting, we are told: ‘constructed of limestone, it was roofed in tile and lead and surmounted by a crocketted spire... The church had a capacious  interior, comprising a five-bay nave with a clerestory, a north aisle and a south aisle with a three-bay chapel and a three-bay chancel.’ Pevsner would have been proud - but it hardly moves the action forward in a murder mystery.

Colbeck is apparently an excellent detective, though he seems to work entirely on collecting circumstantial evidence, then pretty much randomly accusing possible suspects from those who the evidence fits.
It’s a pleasant enough read, but don’t expect either the period ingenuity of a Sherlock Holmes tale or the depth of a modern murder mystery. With that proviso it’s an acceptable addition to the Christmas murder collection, but I don’t think I will be revisiting the railway detective series.

Available from Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com 

The electric car elephant in the room

The 'affordable' ZoeThere was a discussion on today's Today programme about the pros and cons of introducing green numberplates for electric cars, enabling their owners to use bus lanes, park for free and such, to encourage us all to buy electric cars. There was rightly some doubt expressed that this would do the trick. But I was amazed there was not a single mention of the electric car elephant in the room - pricing.

I want an electric car - I really do. I would have one tomorrow. But I simply can't afford one. I can get a new petrol car at prices starting around £7,000. The cheapest mainstream electric car, the Renault Zoe, would cost me £21,000 - three times the amount. And that's for a silly short range. If I want an electric car with a range that is suitable for journeys other than commuting (which I do) there's nothing under around £35,000. But the cheapo petrol car can manage that range and more.

There it is, quite simply. Fiddling around with green numberplates just makes life better for those who can afford to spend a lot on a car. The majority of people can't. Long term, it shouldn't be a problem - the more electric cars they sell, the cheaper they are likely to become. But we don't have the kind of subsidies in place to make current electric cars affordable now. If the government really wants us to go electric soon, it's not a sales barrier they have to overcome, it's pure affordability.

This has been a  green heretic  production.

Quantum Heresies - Mary Peelen - review

There's quite an industry these days in art/science crossovers, which can often be seen from one of two directions - as trying to make science more accessible or trying to make art more relevant in a scientific world. Mary Peelen's collection of poetry is not really trying to do either of these things - and as a result does a much better job than any of the other, often over-earnest, attempts I've seen.

The title might suggest that quantum physics is a linking theme, but though physics is perhaps involved more than the other sciences, even within physics Peelen brings in a wide range from thermodynamics to string theory, while her poems often also are entangled with mathematics (who can resist a poem titled dx?), chemistry and medicine.

Most of the poems are spare, frequently only taking up a single page and consisting of ten non-rhyming couplets. I liked the approach - it felt like it was giving me thinking space to absorb the words.

Despite titles such as Supernova, Chaos Theory, Redshift and Properties of Light, the poems don't attempt to explore the science per se, but rather make use of aspects and metaphors of science and maths as a way to help the reader relate better to the world around them and the human condition. It's hard to write that without making the whole exercise sound pretentious - but it really isn't, and it works wonderfully.

The only thing that would make it better for me would be to add a page of brief exploration of the science being used in this way after each poem, as I think it would help the non-scientific reader better understand why Peelen is using this particular science or maths concept - and perhaps genuinely add a touch of science accessibility.

If I'm honest, I've never been a great fan of reading poetry, other than the simply entertaining kind. But I think that Peelen has achieved something I've never seen before - poetry that makes you think both about being human and about science, and poetry where having an understanding of science actually adds to the enjoyment of reading the poems. Infamously, Keats in Lamia moaned that 'charms fly / at the mere touch of cold philosophy' and effectively told Newton off for 'unweaving the rainbow'. But in Quantum Heresies the natural philosophy adds charms.

This is a book of poems I will come back to again and again.

Quantum Heresies is available from the publisher Glass Lyre Press, or from Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.

Dodgy Statistics at the Labour Conference

This week’s Labour Party conference has put forward a proposal to radically restrict private schools. In essence, the policy seems to have three strands - remove the beneficial tax arrangements, restrict the entry to universities from private schools to 7% of the entry and, at the most extreme, to get rid of the private schools entirely, taking over their assets.

The first of these seems eminently doable. Most commentary seems to suggest the last is just rhetoric and is unlikely to happen. But what interests me with a statistical hat on is that 7%.  Because it makes no sense at all.

While it is true that only 7% of children attend private schools, this isn’t a sensible number to apply here. If you want a flat attendee number, then what’s important is the number of students taking A-levels, where the percentage is more like 15%. But even this figure is misleading.

The problem is that far more private schools are selective than are state schools. It would be ridiculous to expect the same percentage to get into universities from a non-selective and a selective school. So if Labour want to apply a percentage it would have to be weighted to account for this.

I have no axe to grind for private schools - I don’t particularly like them. The school I attended is now a private school, but was a grammar school when I attended it. My children went to the local comprehensive. But to misuse statistics in this way is just as insidious as the infamous Brexit bus. When are politicians going to stop misusing statistics to try to mislead the public?

Clegg Hall

This article first appeared on the Popular Science website, but was lost when the site was moved. I'm now reinstating it in a more suitable location.

My maternal grandmother, Annie Clegg (nee Pickersgill) was an enthusiastic story-teller, and I don't doubt the tales she spun for me inspired me to start writing myself. She was greatly influenced herself by the vicar from her childhood, the Reverend G. R. Oakley - and was responsible for my reading his melodramatic account of the ghost of Clegg Hall, and for a fascination with the Hall that has stuck with me over the years.

In the feature below you can find out more about:
Clegg Hall's history Clegg Hall today Visiting Clegg Hall The Reverend Oakley The Legend of Clegg Hall (an extract from In Olden Days) The history  The 'Clegg' in the name of the current hall refers to the location (Little Clegg or Great Clegg) rather than the family - the house was built by a Theophilus Ashton in the early 17th century, and I've never seen anything that suggests that it has ever been lived in by a Clegg. It appears to be on the site of an earlier Clegg Hall(s??) whose occupants were Cleggs.

 I have seen it said somewhere that the first known Cleggs, Bernulf (and his wife Quernilda) de Clegg were in the Domesday book, though they are more commonly said to date to King Stephen’s reign (1135-1154). That would seem sensible dating from the names, as they are all Anglo Saxon apart from the 'de' which is a Norman bolt-on, typical of the period before Norman Christian names became common.

 The Clegg Hall boggart (as the ghost is better known) is usually placed in the 13th century. The longest version I've seen was a very romanticised version in a book called In Olden Days written by a local vicar (Revd. Oakley) in the early years of this century. (The full story is below.) It reckoned that the master of the house went off to France to fight with Henry. While the father was away the wicked uncle killed both his nephews, throwing them over the battlements into the moat of what was presumably a fortified house. Eventually the father returned. His brother crept through a secret passage from a nearby hall, ready to do away with the distraught father, when one of the children's voice was heard calling out "Father beware!" (or words to that effect) and the father awoke, sending his evil brother running terrified to plunge to his death. Ever since, allegedly, the phantom boy has been heard issuing warnings.

 The current building was described in a 1626 survey of Rochdale as "a faire capital messuage built with free stone with all new fair houses of office there-unto belonging with gardens, fishponds and divers closes of land." It also refers to "barns, stables, courts, orchards, gardens, folds and pigeon houses."

 I have two books which refer to the ghost and later uses of the current building. One is Harland and Wilkinson's Lancashire Legends, published in 1873. This says 'After many changes of occupants it is now in part used as a country alehouse; other portions of it are inhabited by the labouring classes, who find employment in that populous manufacturing district. It is the property of the Fentons, by purchase from the late John Entwisle Esq of Foxholes.'

The other, Lancashire Legends by Katherine Eyre (1972) says that from 1818 to 1869 it was a public house called the Horse and Hounds, but generally known as the Black Sloven, the name of a favourite hunting mare of legendary speed which belonged to the former owner, Mr Charles Turner. He died in 1733. It says that 'The Boggart Chamber' became a place to be avoided (though it's not clear if this was in the pre-1620s house or not). It also says that 'during the Commonwealth era, there were hints of counterfeiting activities in the vaults and cellars of Clegg Hall.' That's quite interesting, as it was common for smugglers and counterfeiters to use tales of ghosts to scare off locals from seeing what was going on.

Clegg Hall now  Some time in the early 1900s there was a fire at Clegg Hall and it remained damaged for the rest of the century. We know it was in one piece in 1910, as the picture from Oakley's In Olden Days above dated 1910 shows it as a complete building. However the text (of a 1920s edition) describes it as "a ruined hall", so we can reasonably assume that the damage was done some time in that period. It has been a ruin ever since. I recently (2004) had an email from Keith Pate who remembers playing there in the 1950s, when the upper floors were still there, but a farmer used to house his cows on the ground floor.

 Since then its condition has deteriorated more and more, left as a shell. Some time between my earlier black and white set of photographs, taken in the 1970s, and the ones taken in 1999, the most impressive external feature - the portico from the front door - has been removed.

 In late 2003 I was contacted by a TV company hoping to make a programme about Clegg Hall as part of a series on ruined buildings in Lancashire. We were all set to do some filming at the Hall, when the owners withdrew permission because they ‘thought it might be bad publicity’ – the only reason I can see this was the case is if they intended to pull the building down, which would be a great shame. At one point there was a suggestion that Clegg Hall which is very near the Rochdale Canal could be turned into a national canal museum, but this proved too expensive. In 2008/9 Clegg Hall had a massive change of fate. Quite remarkably, it was restored. Thanks to Nick Pickvance for the photographs of the hall nearing completion. It certainly makes an impressive sight - though sadly my two favourite features, that front portico and the delightful carving on the rear entrance (seen in the photo in the 'Visiting Clegg Hall' section below) have both been taken before the restoration, so the finished building lacks something of the élan of the original.

Given the huge cost of restoration, it's slightly surprising that the weavers' cottages to the right of the building appear to be still there in the new picture of the facade. It's not entirely obvious from the photo, as the hall is set back, but they really are very close.

Another interesting feature of the restoration is the tower on the back - I presume because of the lack of the little pointed roof, this wasn't really apparent back in the 1970s when the building was still a ruin.

Visiting Clegg Hall   Now that the hall is being restored, I don't know how much the new owners appreciate visitors, but the front of the hall faces straight onto a narrow lane leading past the associated factory and row of Victorian weavers' cottages which are built in startling proximity with the hall building. The front view above is from the lane.

Here's one route to get to the hall. From the Halifax Road (A58) between Rochdale and Littleborough (heading towards Littleborough) take the right turn at the traffic lights into Smithy Bridge Road (first right after the left turn to Birch Hill Hospital - Birch Road) and the BP garage. Follow Smithy Bridge Road down the hill and up the other side, crossing the railway line. Shortly after, turn right into the small Little Clegg Road (opposite a builders suppliers). Park in the road.

Continue on foot down Little Clegg Road. At the end it appears to enter a farmyard. Continue, and the road (still tarmac, but potholed) bends left then right and heads off over the hill. Follow it through fields and then through a cobbled section with a disused factory on either side. Immediately after, Clegg Hall is on the left. The walk takes 10 minutes.

Reverend Oakley  The best account of the Clegg Hall boggart appears in a work by the vicar of nearby Dearnley, the Reverend G. R. Oakley. Oakley was, according to my grandmother, a charismatic man who was an excellent storyteller. One, rather unusual, aspect of his work comes out in the photograph alongside. It was from a pageant Oakley organised around 1917 (the absence of young men reflects the period in the first world war). My grandmother is the figure reclining at the front.

Oakley wrote several books of rather tedious religious instruction, but also In Olden Days, a collection of local legends and tales. The style of the book is rather laboured and decidedly old-fashioned, but Oakley clearly was very enthusiastic that these local legends, still preserved orally at the time, should be written down.

The Legend of Clegg Hall - from In Olden Days  The scent of bluebells was in the air, and the song of birds was joyous when, on one fair morning in the year of our Lord, 1241, the drawbridge was lowered at the fortress of the De Cleggs, and its chief rode forth in his shining mail, surrounded by his retainers and with his standard waving in the breeze. Henry, the king, in spite of the advice of his counsellors, had determined to wrest again from the French the fair province of Poitou, and had summoned to his aid all those knights and nobles of England on whose loyalty he could rely. And so it came to pass on this bright morning the Baron de Clegg was about to say what perchance might be a long fare-well to home and dear ones.

Without the moat he reigned in his steed, and addressed a knight - whose likeness to himself proclaimed a near relationship - in tones shaken by feeling true and deep.

"To thee, my brother," said the Baron, "do I leave a precious charge - that of my sons - Bertrand and Randulph - the pledges twain left to me of my lady's love when God took her soul away five years agone. It may be that I shall ne'er return. But an it be so, thou, Richard, wilt guard and tend them - wilt thou not? - and see that in due time they take their place here or abroad - as God and the King shall determine - fair knights of truth and honour."

"Brother and Lord," replied Richard de Clegg, "thou could'st leave them in no safer hands. By my soul I swear to guard them as the apple of mine eye. God send thee a safe and speedy return and crown the arms of England with victory."

The brothers embraced after the fashion of the day, and as the Baron and his retinue turned their steeds towards the town of Rachedall, Richard retired within the castle and the drawbridge was raised and the portcullis lowered without the gate.

***
Scarce had the white sails of Henry's ships faded from the site of those who watched them leave the English shore when Richard de Clegg - traitor and villain - began to seek how he could best break his oath and knightly word and remove from his own path the two young lives which barred his way to great inheritance.

For in those days the family of the De Cleggs was rich and prosperous - many and far-reaching were their domains and a bright future indeed seemed to lie before the fourteen-year-old heir Bertrand and his brother Randulph - younger by a year.

Cheerful, frank, generous and true were both the lads, and all who knew their happy faces and lithesome forms loved them and wished them well - all save that uncle whose stern soldierly face drew the boyish reverence and admiration of Bertrand, but whom Randulph - keener in perception of his character - distrusted with a great distrust.

And so it came to pass that, whilst Richard de Clegg brooded and thought of the means by which he could attain his end, Randulph watched and wondered and watched again.

One moonlight night Bertrand wandered - as boys of all times will - some distance from his home, and it was late when he returned. The sentry at the entrance admitted his young master and, noting not that Bertrand turned towards the battlements of the fortress - for a fortress great and strong was in those days the home of the De Cleggs; its walls were high and thick, and a moat both wide and deep surrounded them - returned to rest himself in unsoldierly neglect of duty.

Had he but watched young Bertrand for a moment he would have seen a tall, dark form steal softly through the shadows following the boy. And had he watched still longer he might have seen also the small lithe shape of a second boy, following with equal care the tall, dark shadow as it moved.

For at last, thought Richard de Clegg, one of those who stood between him and his brother's lands was delivered into his hands. None but the sentry knew that Bertrand had returned, and could he but hurl the boy, dead, into the moat below, a heavy bribe would win the sentry's silence - for he knew the man - and men would think that accident or a stranger hand without the castle had cast him there. 

Now just beyond the shadow of a turret Bertrand paused in the bright moonlight and gazed upon the wooded hills around in quiet enjoyment of the beauteous night, and, but a few yards away, his uncle crouched like some beast of pray about to spring.

"Brother, beware!"

The words rang out, clear and crisp, upon the night and, with the quickness of the soldier born, the young heir flashed his dagger from its sheath and stood upon his guard.

But quicker even than he was Richard de Clegg - trained in many a fight in other lands - and, turning, with a single bound, he gained the place whence Randulph's voice had come and seized the younger lad in a grip of steel. His strong hand closed upon the fair young throat, and then, as Bertrand darted forward to see what happened in the mysterious shadow, he saw his uncle swing one moment a light form over his head, and then hurl it out over the castle walls to fall far down into the moat below.

One bitter cry of anguished love and Bertrand leaped upon the foul assassin with his dagger raised - aye, and struck well, too, for blood gushed forth and stained his uncle's tunic. But what availed one young lad's arm against a warrior strong and trained in war. A brief, fierce, silent struggle and then another dreadful pause ere through the night brave Bertrand's body followed that of his loyal brother to the waters of the moat as they lay gleaming in the light of the moon.

*** 
In shameful flight had Henry's army fled before the French at Taillebourg even unto Saintes, and, saddened and humbled, returned the Baron de Clegg to his home. Not that he had aught for which himself to blush, save that he lived and had seen fair England's shame. All that mortal man could do had the baron done to stem the tide of France's victory, and not until he lay unconscious beneath a heap of slain had his strong right hand ceased to strike for king and country. But it was not God's will that he should die, and so once more he reigned in his horse before the gateway of his ancestral home. Hard throbbed his heart within his bosom. The fortune of war had indeed been cruel, but he himself had earned the praise alike of friend and foe, and needed not to hang his head before the sons he longed to see.

His esquire blew a blast upon the bugle. Anon the drawbridge was lowered and the portcullis raised. Then the gates flew open, and Richard de Clegg rode forth to meet his brother. The false knight's face was sombre and yet calm as that of one who had a sad but truthful tale to tell. And, sooth to say, events had fallen out well for Richard. None had suspected that the lads whose bodies had been found floating in the moat (after the country had been scoured in search of them) had died otherwise than by accident or some foul play on the part of strangers - alas! too common in those days. The sentry had fallen victim to Richard's bribes and sworn that Randulph had gone forth to meet his brother and neither had e'er returned.

Truly simple seemed the story dread which the treacherous murderer had to tell his brother, and he told it with the smooth false tongue he knew so well how to use.

"By my soul," quoth he, as he finished his lying tale, "an' I find by whose hand they have fallen - an' it be by will and not by hap - never more will I rest until I have exacted direst vengeance."

The baron sat as turned to stone - his horse in sympathy, as immovable as its rider. What was this which had come upon his house? Returning from a shameful and accursed war, he found those gone from him forever whom he had left - His wrath blazed forth, terrible to see, and Richard quailed before it.

"Whether thy story be true I wist not. One think I know - I left to thee and to thy oath my sons in charge, and by neglect most shameful at the very least they now are dead. Why didst thou suffer them to wander far afield in these dangerous days? Go from my sight, and God forbid that thou should'st ever darken the doors of Clegg again!"

Then, with his head bowed down upon his breast, the baron rode into his house forlorn, the while his brother, with dark and lowering countenance, spurred his steed in wrath away.

But not far did Richard ride, but turned his course to Stubbeley, for there he knew that he could find one who would help him in his villainy. The Lord of Stubbeley of those days was stained with crime - had justice had its due his head had long paid the forfeit. To such a one turned Richard in his strait. The murderer had hoped to live within the walls of Clegg until death of some kind removed his elder brother from his path - but now he could not wait. Long course of sin had rendered friends and money scarce. Something he must do, and do at once, and Hubert de Stubbeley, he knew, would help him if he made it worth his while.

"If thou wilt aid me in this venture," said Richard to De Stubbeley, as together they quaffed their goblets of rich wine, "then I will pass to thee those lands of Clegg which thou dost covet on the nearer side to this, and will add to them a thousand marks of gold. For, an' I succeed - as succeed I will - both lands and money will be mine."

De Stubbeley hearkened and consented to the crime, and late that night led Richard to the cellars of the house, each with a lantern in his hand.

Now in the early days of William the Conqueror, when the old Saxons were not yet wholly repulsed and beaten down, a passage had been dug beneath the earth from Stubbeley unto Clegg (although in those days both bore different names) in order that if pressed by enemies the Norman inhabitants of the one might fly in secret to their cousins at the other. The secret of the entrances to this places was known to the heads of each house alone, having been handed down from those soldiers of the Conqueror who - although they employed many men to make the passage - took care that few should know the closure of it at either end. This secret now would de Stubbeley sell to Richard de Clegg for prospective land and gold.

He touched a stone so like the others in the wall that none save he could know the difference, and, as a hidden door revolved, the lantern which de Stubbeley carried cast a light upon a narrow passage damp and dark, from which rushed forth an odour rank and vile.

"Nay, falter not," said de Stubbeley, with grim smile, as de Clegg shrank back before the gloom and stench. "Some human bones most truly lie upon the way, and reptiles strange which find there home in darkness such as this. Yet naught will harm thee, and the air is good enough, for to that the builders saw. At the farther end ascends a flight of steps. Within the thick walls of Clegg are they built. When thou reachest the topmost thou wilt see a while spot upon the wall. That press and thou wilt find thyself within thy brother's bedchamber, behind the tapestry which hangs around. Strike surely and return the way thou camest, and then away ere break of day and none will ever know the deed was done by thee."

Richard drew his dagger from the sheath and, with the lantern in his other hand, he stepped into the mysterious gloom, whilst de Stubbeley stood to wait, lest by chance any other should come nigh.

*** 
Bowed down with sorrow, the Baron de Clegg retired to rest that night, caring not whether he ever saw another dawn. Restlessly he tossed upon his bed, until at last, worn out by sadness and fatigue, he slept - slept while the murderer stole along his way.

Stay, what was that? "Father, beware!"

At the words the soldier baron leaped up from his couch and gazed in wonder and half-awakened awe on what his eyes beheld. There, where the moonlight fell upon the tapestry, stood a form both young and fair - the figure of his younger son, his well-beloved Randulph. His hand was raised and pointed towards another corner of the chamber, and thither, as compelled, the baron turned his eyes and as he did so, lo, the tapestry slid back, and there before him, a dagger in his hand, stood his recreant brother Richard.

One moment Richard glanced towards the empty bed, and then turned to search the chamber. Oh, what a cry was that, as maddened with terror at the sight - the sight of him whom he himself had slain - he turned to flee into the secret passage. But such flight could not be. The door had closed and none might find the spring. Scream upon scream sent forth the recreant knight, and, then tearing open the ordinary chamber door he fled down flights of stairs, along corridors, until the open air beat upon his brow. The castle was alarmed, and servants rushed from chambers, gathering in haste their arms. Awhile in the confusion they knew not what had happened. Then on the battlements they espied the tall, dark form of Richard - one moment towering upon the topmost wall outlined against the sky - the next, with one more hideous cry, leaping blindly forth to his doom in the moat below.

Unconscious in his chamber they found the baron, and long was it ere again he gained his health. But many years of loneliness he lived and ever danger was averted from him by his younger son - on battlefield or in council chamber he was safe, for ere a false step could be taken he heard the warning cry of "Father beware!" and hearing was saved.

*** 
The wheels of time have rolled along their way, and a ruined hall, built in the seventeenth century, alone now marks the spot where the moat-bound fortress of the de Cleggs stood seven centuries ago. Many are they who bear the name of the same great family and their blood is found in merchant mansion and cottage home, but still the memory of Randulph clings around the spot where he watched over the brave young Bertrand, and still will those who love such tales tell how the "Clegg Hall Boggart" is none other than the warning ghost of him who died for love of a brother dear. That brother, they say, died as a soldier dies, and so passed hence, but Randulph is forever blessed as the guardian spirit fo the Cleggs - the gentle youth whom none but the evil need fear and all who are good may love.

The Six Secrets of Intelligence - book review

This is an odd one. Scientists are used to giving the Ancient Greek philosopher Aristotle a hard time - almost all of his science was wrong, and in some cases, his ideas misdirected scientific thinking for nearly a couple of thousand years. Worse was his apparent ability to ignore easily obtained evidence when it contradicted his ideas - infamously, he proclaimed that women have fewer teeth than men. Yet Craig Adams is clearly a huge fan of Aristotle and makes a reasonable case for the importance of his contribution to some of the more useful aspects of philosophy.

We're not talking navel-gazing here, but rather practical thinking on how to reason and understand better. The 'six secrets' that Adams mentions are deduction, induction, analogy, reality, evidence and meaning. While scientists will be familiar with many of these, they may not be totally clear on how they are used in practice (rather as many English speakers don't have technical knowledge of English grammar) - and for many without a scientific training, even as basic a concept as induction may be something of a mystery. (It's notable that many assume Sherlock Holmes used deduction, where he almost always relied on induction.) There are also some good examples of why correlation is not causality and we get a good feel for the way that this knowledge is particularly useful in spotting and dismissing illogical statements.

So, there is definitely some interesting and good material here. But, for me, the book didn't work awfully well. The presentation is wooly, lacking the clarity you would hope for in the presentation of such concepts to the general reader. It would also have been good to have had some of the modern tools of symbolic logic mentioned. There isn't enough narrative content and use of examples - rather the main points are repeated and become laboured. Things get worse in the second half of the book, where Adams makes a case for an alternative approach to education, based on giving students good thinking tools, combining Aristotelean thinking with what Adams calls 'the modern school of thought', typified by the work of Daniel Kahneman. There isn't anything wrong with these components, though I think that there is a far broader input required - but the way Adams' approach is presented is very unclear. This re-thinking of the curriculum has already been done far better in the RSA's Opening Minds project.

A few specific moans. Adams spends quite a while on deduction, yet doesn't really make it clear how infrequently it is useful in the real world where we rarely have universal/absolute truths available. And when talking about induction, Adams notes ‘induction is the process of creating universal rules from particular examples of signs’ - yet if there’s one thing science makes clear it’s that we can only have best guesses of universal rules. All current theories may well eventually be modified or disproved.

If you haven't been exposed to Aristotle's philosophy on thinking, the book is well worth exploring, but I wish it had been a little more clearly written.

The Six Secrets of Intelligence is available from Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com