Martin Fone's Blog, page 107

Toilet Of The Week (34)

The Zen Buddhist Tofukoji Temple in Kyoto is home to Japan’s oldest toilet, its tosu restroom containing a row of twenty circular holes cut into a stone, built during the Muromachi period about 500 years ago by trainee monks. Still in use as recently as a hundred years ago, it is now beyond the pale even for the most ascetic of monks and is under the tender care of the Kyoto Heritage Preservation Association.     

One of the Association’s employees, a 30-year-old man who has not been named, parked his vehicle in front of the toilet’s 2-metre-tall double door. After going about his business, the man jumped back into the car and drove off, forgetting that he had left it in reverse. Photographs show the car inside the toilet area surrounded by what was left of the doors and some of the building’s interior pillars.

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Realising that the proverbial was about to hit the fan, the man rang the police and reported the incident. Fortunately, the toilets themselves were not damaged and no one was hurt, but it will take some time to repair the door and pillars.

With friends like that, who needs enemies?

The Perfect Alibi

A review of The Perfect Alibi by Christopher St John Sprigg

Published in 1934 and now reissued by Moonstone Press, The Perfect Alibi is the third of seven crime novels that Christopher St John Sprigg wrote before his tragically early death, fighting in the Spanish Civil War. If you like your crime novels laced with humour, then this is a must read.

Set in a sleepy English village and featuring a locked room murder, it has all the hallmarks of an all too familiar crime novel at the start. The victim is quickly identified as a wealthy arms manufacturer, Anthony Mullins, whose body was burned to death in the garage close to his house. However, the autopsy on the charred remains reveals that the victim also suffered a fatal bullet wound to the head. The body was found inside the garage which was locked. No key was found nor a gun. Was it an elaborate suicide or was it murder most foul?

As is the way with these things, Mullins was a despicable man with no shortage of people with reason enough to kill him, not least his wife, Patricia, who had been cut out of the latest will in favour of a scientific institute run by a man called Constant. Patricia Mullins seems to have had a string of admirers, including an artist, Filson, a local worthy, Eyton, whose gun, it turns out, was used to commit the murder, and an employee of Mullins who, conveniently, was out of the country at the time of his boss’s death.

Much of the police investigations led by Trenton and Laurence Sadler, a junior officer and nephew of the Chief Constable and whose preferment raises hackles, a la Bobby Owen. Two points flummox the police: was it murder or suicide and, if the former, how was it pulled off and by whom, when all the possible suspects have cast iron alibis?

Despite Sadler’s best efforts the police efforts come to naught, leaving room for well-meaning amateurs to enter the fray. Leading the charge are Sandra Delfinage, a wonderfully comic character, the archetypal horsey countrywoman, aided and abetted by Filson. She is fixated by a beard she believes to be false and there is a glorious scene where she grasps hold of the facial hair and tries to yank it off.

Another sleuth wafts in and out of the story, Venables, an accomplished amateur with an impressive track record and friend of Sadler’s to boot. He gives gnomic advice early on and then it is his flash of inspiration, while holidaying in Eastern Europe, that leads to the resolution of the mystery. In order to bring the culprit to book, Sadler, at his own expense, flies to and across France and then on to Spain, thanks to a lucky encounter with a dare-devil aeronaut. The ending relies a little too much on luck and dei ex machina for my liking, Sadler arriving just in the nick of time to save a damsel in distress and unmask the culprit.      

Along the way there is much to admire, Sprigg constructing a busy plot with some colourful characters, not least the boxing fanatic, Mrs Murples, and the eccentric aristo in Lord Overture. There are some episodes which seem to be developed for their comedic value than moving the plot on, such as the assault on Sadler by the Battling Bantam and the pot shot taken at him by Lord Overture.

Sprigg writes with such verve and humour with a strong sense of character that the reader can forgive him a plot that creaks at the seams, relying on a character with a double identity and a desire to conclude the story with the fortunes of the main protagonists happily resolved, even if the romantic elements seem both a bit rushed and, frankly, slightly implausible. It is a joy to read and a reminder of what a talent the world of Golden Age detective fiction lost with Sprigg’s untimely death.

58 And Co

Style mixed with sustainability are the hallmarks of the impressive offerings from a small, ambitious distillery based in Haggerton in East London, 58 and Co. Under the direction of their founder, Carmen O’Neal, they are positioning themselves as an “eco-conscious, sustainably-focused distillery” committed to growing “the craft spirit movement in a sustainable and positive way”. As proof of their commitment to the cause they have recently revamped the distillery to ensure greater sustainability on-site, provide customers who buy at the site spirits in eco-pouches to further reduce carbon footprint, and source the sort of misshapen fruits that supermarkets have hitherto eschewed.

Coming out of 58 Gin, named after 58, Colebrook Row – a long story – 58 & Co has revamped its look and product range. If looks denote the quality of the product, then they are on the money. The bottle is stunning, rather like Plymouth Gin in shape and size, although the sides are indented with embossed glass bearing the legend “58 Distillery London”. The neck is relatively short, leading to a copper-coloured cap with a synthetic stopper.    

The logo is elegant in a contemporary style, a hand-drawn juniper leaf dipped in copper, an image drawing its inspiration from the copper sun-powered alembic still used in the production process. The typography gives a contemporary feel to the labelling, which uses a different background colour for each of the products in their range. It informs me that that they are “elevated spirits” and “ethically made”. To the left of the image of the juniper leaf, intersecting it like a Venn diagram, is a circle bearing the words “collaboration, connection, community”.

The first of their gins to come under the spotlight is 58 and Co Apple and Hibiscus Gin. Normally, I am not a fan of flavoured gins, mainly because they often lose sight of the primary taste element of a gin, juniper. Using the aforementioned “wonky” apples and hibiscus flowers which are vapour distilled, the spirit is a delicate pink in colour, not unlike the colouration of a pink gin, and on the nose, it smells of fresh apples. Any concerns I might have had that the juniper would be lost along the way were put to rest once I had tasted it. There is the sweetness of the apple, to be sure, but it is held in place by the spiciness of the juniper and some citric notes, producing a smooth, complex drink which, with an ABV of 40%, is surprisingly delicious even to a naysayer like myself.

Even more down my alley is 58 and Co London Dry Gin which, using a single shot distillation process and a 100% British wheat spirit as its base, features nine botanicals – juniper, coriander, lemon, pink grapefruit, vanilla, orris, cubeb pepper, bergamot, and angelica. On the nose there is the reassuring presence of juniper mixed with zesty citric notes and hint of woodier elements. In the glass it is bright and creamy, spicy with enormous hits of citrus from the grapefruit, lemon, and bergamot, before leaving a long, lingering citrus aftertaste. With an ABV of 43% it makes for an elegant, smooth, complex drink that works well with a premium tonic or in a cocktail.

If you want to push the boat out, then 58 and Co Navy Strength Gin with an ABV of 58% is not to be missed. Working with the same nine botanicals as feature in the London Dry, it presents a surprisingly different flavour profile, the reduction in the watering down process in the distillation giving the flavours more room to work in. On the nose it is a heady mix of juniper and citrus with a hint of the peppery oiliness to come from the cubeb. In the glass it is clear but when mixed with a premium tonic, it louches into a distinctly cloudy, oily concoction. In the mouth its subtlety and complexity really comes to the fore, a marvellous melange of fresh juniper, soft spices, and subtle citric notes before leaving an extended, dry, smooth, and surprisingly floral aftertaste. Stunning.

Until the next time, cheers!

The Case Of The Leaning Man

A review of The Case of the Leaning Man by Christopher Bush

Christopher Bush has produced a workmanlike murder mystery in this, the nineteenth in his Ludovic Travers series, originally published in 1938 and reissued by Dean Street Press. It is a curious affair, one in which Travers seems unable to put his finger on precisely what has gone on until a flash of inspiration in the final chapter and the previously ascetic amateur sleuth with the ear of Commissioner of Police seems to have found love.

As is Bush’s way, the story starts off with three seemingly unconnected incidents. The eponymous leaning man is found worse for wear near a London theatre. When Travers finds him, a leading actor, Sir Jerome Haire, is also on the scene. The man dies, having been poisoned. Meanwhile, in an exclusive London hotel which specialises in providing luxury accommodation for visitors from abroad whose skin pigmentation is not at one with the English – there is, to modern eyes, a sadly mild racist overtone to the narrative which may be off-putting for those of a more sensitive disposition – a Maharajah by the name of Amli has been found murdered.

Amli had two mysterious visitors, one of whom wore a beard and turban, and there were signs of a struggle. The Maharajah’s murder has potential diplomatic ramifications and George “The General” of the Yard is anxious to accelerate investigations before the chaps from the diplomatic corps muddy the waters.

The third strand is a spat between Haire’s two daughters, Bernice, a classical dancer, and Joy, a diseuse, a female entertainer who deploys monologues. Their spat threatens to derail a lucrative American tour and has driven their impresario to his wit’s end. He visits Travers to see whether he can use his persuasive charms to patch it up. Travers, of course, knows both girls.

Naturally, these three strands come together, the leaning man being an actor, down on his luck, who helped Sir Jerome on his climb up the greasy pole. In his possession is a distinctive wallet which belonged to Amli. Travers spots Joy Haire wearing an expensive emerald ring, which she claims is made of paste, but our sleuth knows better and surmises that cherchez le homme may resolve the dispute between the girls.

In all of this is Amli’s secretary who, despite being dismissed by the Maharajah, came back to the suite after the murder on the look out for some papers. The net tightens as Travers discovers that Amli and Travers had travelled back on the same ship from India to Blighty, but there is a significant fly in the ointment – Travers is beginning to fall in love with Bernice and is reluctant, even if his well-honed detective skills tell him otherwise, to believe that she is implicated in this complicated plot. As the investigations move to some sort of conclusion, Travers, convinced that he knows what has happened but unwilling to confront the truth, goes away on holiday.

However, he has some nagging thoughts, especially when he recalls some off-the-cuff remarks made by Haire’s neighbours. In his mind Travers is now able to absolve Bernice of any blame and confronts the culprit who does the decent thing. At the end there are signs that Bernice is falling in love with the sleuth.

What started out at a cracking pace with three intriguing but disparate strands got rather bogged down with investigations seemingly leading nowhere and Travers having a crisis of conscience as he fears that his inamorata is heavily implicated in the plot that leads to two deaths. As a result his withdrawal from the scene and then his understanding of what went on seem all a bit rushed and sudden.

It is not one of Bush’s stories but even a mediocre Travers tale is well worth reading.

Murderer’s Mistake

A review of Murderer’s Mistake by E C R Lorac

Originally published in 1946 in the UK with the title of The Theft of the Iron Pigs, this edition, available on Amazon, sports its American title. A word of warning. The Kindle version is shocking, full of typos, misprints, punctuation mistakes and, in passages, ompletely devoid of any punctuation. It makes reading the book hard going and such is Lorac’s growing new found popularity that she deserves her books to be presented better than this.

It is the 28th in her Robert Macdonald and the Scottish-born Scotland Yard detective is back in one of his favourite spots in the country, the valley of Lune in north Lancashire. He is on the tracks of a racketeer, Gordon Ginner, who is working a swindle involving clothing coupons when he receives a letter from a farmer in Lunesdale, Giles Hoggett, about some odd goings-on in his neck of the woods. Hoggett had visited a neglected old cottage that he owns and noticed something odd with the woodpile, it had been disturbed. On closer investigation he notices several items of apparently little consequence have disappeared including a pair of iron dogs that were in the hearth.

Such a trivial case would not normally interest a high flyer but coming from one of his favourite spots and with an acute nose for something odd, Macdonald decides to head up to Lunesdale, initially in his free time on a weekend but, as his enquiries seem to be uncovering a deeper and more sinister mystery, he stays on in an official capacity, entertained lavishly by the Hoggetts.

Close by Hoggett’s rarely used cottage is a pool in which Macdonald takes a bracing dip, only to find a dead body weighted down by the missing pig irons. It will come as no surprise that the victim is identified as Ginner, but what was he doing in the countryside and who killed him?

There are a number of suspects, including a poultry farmer cum artist who is down on his luck and who both knew Ginner and gave him accommodation in the area. Also high on the suspect list are a couple of potters, the Golds. They are not practitioners in the art of ceramics. Rather, potter is a northern term for a tinker, an itinerant traveller. There is also a bumptious landlord who for all his abruptness and business acumen seems remarkably tolerant of a tenant who is so behind in his rent.

The case is really one of the distinctions between country folk and townies and how country ways are difficult, if not well nigh impossible for townies to replicate convincingly. Macdonald, ably assisted by Hoggett and latterly Reeves from the Yard, work out that the culprit is someone who knew the area and was able to move around without rousing too much in the way of enquiry and yet who would make an error of small detail that would show they were not really from the area.

At best there is only one suspect who fits the bill, at a stretch two, and as the story unfolds it is fairly easy to see who the culprit is. As well as black market racketeering it is a tale of bigamous marriages and blackmail. Ginner is one of those characters for whom not much sympathy is shown and the culprit, in a dramatic finale, could easily have added to their body count but for Macdonald’s timely intervention and does the right thing, sparing the hangman some unnecessary trouble.

Lorac has a fine sense of time and place, her descriptions of the countryside and her careful explanation of country ways adds authentic colour to a mystery which might have started off slightly implausibly but is enthralling and wonderfully told. It is just a shame about the quality of the edition.

The Sycamore

Every autumn the garden comes under attack from hundreds of winged seeds, some resting at a jaunty angle in the soft soil of the lawn and borders, others lying forlornly on the patio. The source of the fusillade is not difficult to discern, a sycamore across the road whose tall structure and broad, rounded crown gives some welcome relief to what is otherwise a non-descript suburban setting.

The sycamore or Acer pseudoplatanus, a species of the maple genus, is not indigenous to these islands. Opinion is divided, though, as to whether it should be categorised as a neophyte, a plant that has been naturalised through human intervention on or after the sixteenth century, or an archaeophyte, one introduced earlier. The dearth of traditional names suggests a later introduction, but there is evidence that it was known in Scottish Gaelic from around the late 6th century as “fior chrann”, roughly translated as “true tree”.

Whenever and however it first appeared, the consensus is that it was not until the sixteenth century that the sycamore, a native of Central Europe and Western Asia, began to make its presence felt on the British landscape, valued for its generous shade, as Boyet noted in Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour’s Lost (Act 5, scene 2); “under the cool shade of a Sycamore/ I thought to close my eyes some half an hour”.

There is even controversy over its name. According to Gertrude Nuttall in Trees and How They Grow (1913), the true sycamore is the Middle Eastern and African Ficus sycamorus, known in Greek as συκόμορος, fig-mulberry, its fruit resembling a fig and its leaves those of a mulberry. It was this tree, according to Christian tradition, that Zacchaeus climbed to see Jesus pass by. When mediaeval mystery plays depicted the scene, as the fig-mulberry was unknown in Western Europe, the name of sycamore was attributed to the indigenous Acer pseudoplatanus, and it stuck.

Not everyone was enamoured with the sycamore. John Evelyn, writing in Sylva (1664), lamented that its “honey-dew leaves, which fall early (like those of the ash) turn to mucilage and noxious insects and putrefy with the first moisture of the season, so as they contaminate and mar our walks; and are therefore, by my consent, to be banished from all curious gardens and avenues”. Evelyn’s antipathy to this invasive tree persists to this day. In the 1980s volunteers of the London Wildlife Trust organised “syccie bashing” expeditions to eradicate it using brute force.

However, the sycamore is made of sterner stuff and, according to Stace and Crawley’s Alien Plants (2015), is present in 89.7% of Britain’s hectads, more than any other native tree species. Key to its success is the way it propagates itself and this is down to its seeds or samaras.

Sporting Event Of The Week (32)

It was in 2019 BC (before Covid), sitting in a bar in the airport in Vancouver, BC (British Columbia) that I first became aware of timbersports. For some reason, the TV monitors were showing big, beefy men, mostly bearded, chopping and sawing their way through big blocks of wood as if their lives depended upon it. There seemed to be several categories where competitors were able to showcase a range of skills and while it had an oddly hypnotic and compelling effect, to the uninitiated it just seemed to be a load of chaps chopping wood. They were lumberjacks and definitely OK.

Timbersports, it appears, is a growing sport, branching out across the globe. Taking a leaf from other sports it is making a splash on social media. There is a British championship, held this year in June at the Royal Three Counties Showground in Malvern, featuring, for the first time, a women’s title.

Siblings, Glen and Zoe Penlington, won their respective titles, clearing their way to a place in the Stihl Timbersports World Championship which is held in the Partille Arena in Gothenburg on October 28th and 29th. Organisers expect more than 100 competitors from over 20 countries to compete for the title of team world champions while the elite twelve from the sport will battle it out for the title of individual world champion.

This is a sport that that is certainly creating a buzz.

Porridge Of The Week (3)

Twenty-six competitors battled it out for the prestigious Golden Spurtle in the World Porridge Making Championships last Saturday at Carrbridge in Perthshire.

The winner came from south of the border, Lisa Williams, who runs the Stennetts Community Café in Trimley St Mary in Suffolk, regaining the title she first won in 2019. Her porridge, made from just three ingredients – oatmeal, water, and salt – was described by one judge as “really well made, rich, flavourful, well-seasoned, and the perfect consistency”.  

The Specialty Porridge Championship, where contestants can combine oatmeal with any other ingredients of their choosing to make a sweet or savoury dish, drew an eclectic range of entries, including curry porridge with naan and chicken on it, a coconut, chia seed and turmeric porridge, and oats mixed with edible insects. However, the winner was Chris Young, owner of the street food and events caterer, The Rolling Stove, based in Crieff. He carried off the crown with his porridge noodles served in two ways, with hand-dived seared scallops and caramelised flags.  

Proving that porridge need not be bland, the 30th championship is already being planned for next year.

The Mardi Gras Murders

A review of The Mardi Gras Murders by Gwen Bristow and Bruce Manning

Originally published in November 1932 and now reissued by Dean Street Press, The Mardi Gras Murders is the fourth and last crime novel that the journalist pairing of Gwen Bristow and Bruce Manning produced. For the taxonomically inclined, it can be viewed as the second of their New Orleans stories, following on from The Gutenberg Murders (1931) as it features the same host of investigators, although there is a switch of focus.

District Attorney Farrell and the rumbustious cop, Murphy, adopt a slightly lower profile while much of the investigative work and sleuthing work is done by Wade and Wiggins, reporter and photographer respectively of the Morning Creole, ably assisted by Cynthia Fontenay’s maid, Lucy Lake, to whom Wiggins takes a shine.

Mardi Gras is an important festival in New Orleans, taking place on Shrove Tuesday. The streets are congested with floats, parades, and swarm of revellers, ideal conditions for murder most foul. Although not part of the official festivities, some of the leading lights of the city have their own Mardi Gras festivities under the auspices of a secret and slightly sinister society called Dis after the Greek god of Inferno. They meet on Collop Monday, for the uninitiated the day before Shrove Tuesday, at Cynthia Fontenay’s house for a ball and initiation ceremony.

So closely guarded is the membership of Dis that no one knows who their fellow members are and to ensure secrecy they are all masked and wear robes of black and scarlet, distinguishable only by a number on their costume. Some of the proceedings are conducted in the dark, ideal conditions for a murder. It comes as no surprise, then, when Lucy Lake finds one of the revellers dead, murdered in what we later learn to be a rather ingenious and Heath Robinsonish fashion. Cynthia Fontenay takes control of the situation, anxious that the rituals of the Dis society not be disturbed, and the initial investigations take place without the other guests’ knowledge and with the party still in full swing.

The following day, the body count increases by a further two. Cynthia Fontenay leans on the balcony rail to receive her parade crown and plunges to her death. Someone had carefully filed through the railings. One of the floats carries a giant goldfish bowl with one of the Dis members, Oliver, taking the part of the goldfish. He is found dead in the bowl, shot, although no bullet had penetrated the bowl, a variation of the locked room mystery and the resolution of how the murder was carried out is a masterpiece of ingenuity. Had they written more novels, Manning and Bristow would have rivalled Ngaio Marsh for the crown for producing the most extraordinary ways to kill someone.

With so many investigators and a bewildering array of suspects who are quickly whittled down it can be a rollercoaster of a ride keeping up with the story and sorting out in your mind who the culprit is. In a piece of masterful misdirection one of the prime suspects turns out to be a Treasury official pursuing his own investigations in what turns out, ultimately, to be a tale of greed and deception. The book reaches a dramatic finale as Wiggins is clubbed over the head as he is viewing some movie footage which sheds some light on what happened when Fontenay and Oliver were killed.

Stylistically, the narrative is pacy and as an episodic almost filmic feel about it as many chapters end on a cliff hanger. Manning and Bristow might not have produced classic murder mystery stories, but this one holds enough interest to warrant a read.

Navy Strength And English Proof

One of the gin styles that I have not written about before is Navy Strength and there is a fascinating story behind this type of gin. One of the few perquisites of sailing the high seas in the British Navy was the daily tot of rum ladled out to the sailors. From the 18th century, in recognition of the gin boom, gin was added to the list, especially as it was found to be useful in combatting disease. However, until the early 19th century there was no formal system for assessing the strength of a spirit, leaving a golden opportunity for unscrupulous suppliers to supply watered down liquor.

To ensure that the ratings received a tot of the requisite potency, pursers devised a rough and ready test, putting a few grains of gunpowder into a glass of rum and then heating it by directing the rays of the sun through a magnifying glass. The acid test was how the spirit reacted to the heat. If it failed to catch light, it was too weak. If it caught alight, it was of the requisite proof and if it exploded, it was overproof.

The pursers’ simple test was conducted not only to ensure that the Navy was not short-changed but also to ensure that the vital store of gunpowder on board a fighting ship remained in tip-top condition. Barrels of rum and gunpowder were often stored next to each other and spillage because of an accident, a storm, or enemy action, could lead to cross-contamination. Having a spirit that was strong enough to leave the gunpowder fit for purpose if the two mixed maintained the fighting capability of the ship.

Bartholomew Sikes, an officer in the HM Excise, now enters the story. He was determined to add some scientific rigour to the determination of the strength of alcoholic spirits and in the early 19th century refined the use of a hydrometer to automatically determine the alcoholic content of a liquid. On his scale 100 proof equated to 57.142% ABV or 4/7 the purity of alcohol by volume. The Sikes Hydrometer Act of 1816 enshrined this in legislation, a standard that remained the legal definition of 100% proof until 1980.

The Navy, however, were having nothing to do with this new measure. They collected a hundred samples of rum diluted to proof using the old gunpowder method and then tested the liquid using Sikes’ hydrometer. They found that the average recorded 95.5 on Sikes’ scale, the equivalent of 54.5% ABV, which they adopted as standard Navy Strength.

Sikes’ definition of 100% proof remained the legal benchmark in the UK until it adopted, on January 1, 1980, the EU approach of measuring alcohol strength as a percentage of alcohol by volume at a temperature of 20 degrees centigrade. What it all means is that spirits that are true Navy Strength have an ABV of 54.5% while spirits with an ABV of 57.142% or above, whilst they may be labelled Navy Strength, are English Proof. Oh, and by the way, the term “navy strength gin” was only coined in the 1990s as a marketing term to sell high-strength gins.

Whatever a gin with an ABV in excess of 57.1% ABV is labelled as it has a high alcoholic content and is not to be messed with. All gins are diluted with water to reach the desired ABV and aficionados of strong gins will point out that more of the original taste of the botanicals is retained because of the lower rate of dilution. However, if you use the same cocktail of botanicals in a lower and higher strength gin, the alcohol will influence the taste and so the flavour profile will not necessarily be the same. All clear?

Until the next time, cheers!