Martin Fone's Blog, page 132

Covid-19 Tales (26)

Health authorities are resorting to ever more ingenious ways to get their message across to encourage people to get vaccinated against Covid-19. In Germany they have turned to sheep and goats.

Around 700 of them were arranged into a shape roughly resembling a 330-foot syringe in a field in Schneverdingen, just south of Hamburg.

Herding sheep is not as difficult as cats but it took several days of practice before shepherdess Wiebke Schmidt-Kochan hit upon a solution to keep them in formation for long enough for the inevitable drone to take the footage. She laid out pieces of bread to represent the syringe and the sheep and goats were happy enough to gobble them when they were let into the field.

Whether it will encourage the metaphorical goats to become sheep, only time will tell.

Thirteen Of The Gang

Booze is a term we use to this day to describe alcoholic drink, especially, but not restricted to beer. Passing English of the Victorian Era, compiled by James Ware and published in 1909, suggested that it was a corruption of the English verb, to bouse, which had appeared in printed form since around 1567. However, in 1885, Mr O’Donovan, described as an Eastern traveller, claimed that it was Persian for beer, although the correspondent noted that the famed Orientalist was noted for his sense of humour.

Judges were as out of touch with ordinary life in Victorian times as they are claimed to be now. Ware records this exchange between some learned gentlemen during a hearing of the Southampton election petition, although sadly he does not date it. “A witness describing a procession of costermongers said, “I heard some men shout that they wanted some more booze”. Mr Justice Wright: What? Willis: Booze, my lord, drink. Mr Justice Wright: Ah!”

A booze-fencer or booze-pusher was a licensed victualler while a booze-shunter was a beer drinker. The latter phrase, Ware claims, came from the railways. Shunting was a term used to describe moving something from place to place and the beer drinker moved “the beer, or booze, from the pot into his visceral arrangements”. The term was started, he goes on, by porters and guards of the South-Western Railway who used “the larger public houses in the neighbourhood of the terminus in Waterloo Road”.  

A bottle o’ Spruce signified zero or nothing, as in “I care not a bottle o’ Spruce”. Spruce beer was a cheap beer which was made from the buds and needles of spruce trees. It was an unappealing dark brown-greenish concoction which had a piney turpene flavour, although some described it as having the smell of Vicks Vapo-rub and pine needles. It sold for tuppence a bottle, perhaps giving rise to the expression “I don’t give tuppence for it”. Clearly it was the 18th and 19th century equivalent of Marmite!

Death In The Tunnel

A review of Death in the Tunnel by Miles Burton

Cecil John Charles Street was a prolific writer, using several noms de plume including John Rhode, Cecil Waye, and Miles Burton. Death in the Tunnel, originally published in 1936 and reissued as part of the British Library Crime Classics series, is the thirteenth in his Desmond Merrion series. Merrion is an amateur sleuth, never afraid to think outside of the box and with a fertile and intuitive imagination, and a good friend of Inspector Arnold. The two collaborate to solve what is a tricky locked room mystery set in a railway carriage, first-class, of course, which slowed down when it was going through a tunnel.

My heart sank when I read the first paragraph, perhaps one of the least inviting openings to a novel in the 20th century. I feared I was going to be plunged headlong into an ersatz Wills Crofts saga signalling a tale where knowledge of the minutiae of train timetables was required, the story stopping to deal with interminable testing of alibis. Fortunately, Burton writes with a much lighter touch and while the story does lose its head of steam and careers worringly down branch lines from time to time, it arrives at its grand terminus with an elegant set of solutions to the problem at hand.

The train on which Saxonby, a successful and wealthy businessman, is travelling home on slows down when the driver spots a red signal in the tunnel. It turns green again and the train builds up pace, but during the time in the tunnel, Saxonby, who was alone in a locked compartment, was found dead, shot with a pistol which was lying nearby. It looked like a case of suicide, but there was no apparent reason why the businessman should have taken his own life.

There were no planned works in the tunnel and there were signal boxes at both ends of the tunnel from which there was a perfect view of who went into and out of the tunnel. And why was Saxonby’s railway ticket missing from his wallet? Arnold and Merrion suspect foul play but are perplexed as to how a murder could have taken place, let alone why or by whom, especially as Saxonby taken particular care to ensure that his closest relatives were out of the country at the time and that his confidential secretary was on a business trip to Manchester.

The resolution of how the murder was committed is ingenious, although I am sure I have come across it before in a short story. It leads Merrion to conclude that there were two people involved, A and B, and the rest of the book is taken up with identifying who they are and why they committed murder.

Arnold and Merrion uncover a plot to fleece a business rival and settle old scores, forgery, a duped former employee, the use of an actor to impersonate key characters, and duplicitous assistants. A seemingly cast-iron alibi is proven to be false when Merrion realises that a new-fangled form of transport had been used, an interesting insight into how that form of travel was developing but was not so common as to be considered as an obvious way to get somewhere in a hurry.

The narrative could have got bogged down with the minutiae of the investigations with its many dead ends, but Burton is judicious in his choice of leads to concentrate on. These lead to some engaging and entertaining scenes and encounters, while he disposes of the more mundane lines of enquiry with surprising rapidity. He provides enough information for the reader to deduce by whom and why the murder was committed. This coupled with a narrative laced with more than a touch of humour makes for an entertaining read.

Death Of A Beauty Queen

A review of Death of a Beauty Queen by E R Punshon

Beauty contests are a thing of the past, no bad thing either, but for Caroline Mears, “a veritable goddess of old Grecian dreams” success at the contest held at the Brush Hill Central Cinema was to be her passport to a glittering career in Hollywood. Instead of access to untold riches her career ended abruptly when she was found fatally wounded in her dressing room and died on arrival at the hospital, dreams turned to ashes.

This is the central premise of an intriguing murder mystery which provides the reader with not one but two locked room murders and an improbable escape, an insight into the mind of a religious fanatic and the chance to observe the developing relationship between the rising star that is Bobby Owen and Superintendent Mitchell. Published in 1935 and reissued by Dean Street Press, this is the fifth in Punshon’s Bobby Owen series.

One of the fascinating features of the book for me is the interrelationship between Owen and Mitchell. Although the series charts the rise and successes of a policeman whom we first met as a bobby on the beat, Punshon is content to show him learning the job. Owen makes mistakes, is allocated the more mundane tasks and Mitchell makes most of the running in the investigation, but Owen has that happy knack of either being at the right place at the right time or understanding the importance of a remark, a slip, or a clue.

It is these characteristics that Mitchell notes and is keen to foster, allowing the whippersnapper his head, under careful supervision. Owen, too, is diligent, eager to please and has no inflated opinion of himself, happy to learn the ropes, perfect his craft, certain in the knowledge that one day he will lead investigations.

Punshon uses the character of Paul Irwin as a study of a religious fanatic. He preaches sermons of fire and brimstone, is a leading opponent of entertainment establishments like the cinema, especially when they hold beauty contests on a Sunday, and has a fractured relationship with his son, Leslie, one of the main suspects in the murder of Mears.

Leslie is one of Caroline Mears’ beaux and wants to marry her much against his father’s wishes. Fanaticism in all its forms is unhealthy, a thought that Punshon’s contemporary readership may have begun to grasp when they surveyed the events that were unfolding before their eyes. Political undertones are never far away from Punshon’s narrative.

The story line reveals love rivals, the disappearance of a handbag, the sudden appearance of Caroline’s ne’er do well father, and a surfeit of suspects, perhaps too many. The plot takes a sudden turn when one of the suspects escapes from a house supposedly well guarded by the police, clad only in pyjamas and barefoot, a story which grabs the attention of newspapers both at home and abroad. The Nazis, Punshon observes, thought that the Jews were behind it all.

A second locked room, or more accurately house, murder where the only other occupant was an improbable killer leads to a dramatic resolution of the mystery. Pedants will, rightly, claim that Punshon does not quite play fair with the reader to bring the story to an end and that he “borrows” an idea from a Conan Doyle story, but it is a smart ending to an entertaining and enthralling tale. As usual Punshon’s style is engaging, laced with wit and for those who choose to look there are more layers to his stories than meet the eye.

Punshon is a sadly underrated writer in this genre and all credit to Dean Street Press for raising his profile. Any fan of Golden Age detective fiction should devour his books.

Mrs Tim Carries On

A review of Mrs Tim Carries On by D E Stevenson

Scottish-born novelist Dorothy Stevenson is a bit of a find for me, because every now and again I like to retreat into a cosy, almost twee, slightly undemanding novel and she seems to fit the bill perfectly. She wrote forty novels and was successful in her day, but they fell out of favour. Dean Street Press, through its imprint, Furrowed Middlebrow, is doing a sterling job in bringing Stevenson back to the notice of the modern reader.

Although Stevenson published her first book in 1923, it was not until the publication of Mrs Tim of the Regiment in 1932 that she started writing in earnest. Mrs Tim Carries on, originally published in 1941, is the sequel – there were later to be a further two in the series – but I found that it stood on its own two feet.

Mrs Tim is Hester Christie, wife of Major Tim Christie, who is left in the Scottish town of Donford, where the regiment is based, with her son, Bryan, and daughter, Betty, while her husband is away on active service. The book takes the form of a diary which Hester keeps for the period between February and December 1940, and in some ways is semi-autobiographical as Stevenson kept a diary of her wartime experiences and was a military wife.

In some ways this book can be read as a piece of propaganda, aimed at putting a bit of backbone into the womenfolk while their men are fighting for King and country. The title echoes that famous slogan that adorns many a mug, coaster, and poster these days – Keep calm and carry on – although, despite being commissioned by the Ministry of Information in 1939 and 2.45million posters were printed, it was never issued, and the posters were pulped and recycled the following year to help with the paper shortage. Still, keeping calm and carrying on is what Hester does, immersing herself in the minutiae of her day-to-day life, involving herself in supplying “Comforts” to the troops, dealing with guests and their emotional turmoils, and rising above the petty squabbles and grievances of the other army women.

The war does obtrude into the narrative – Major Tim makes a remarkable escape from France post Dunkirk, an enemy plane comes down near Donford and Hester is there as two Germans are captured, and there are reports of the occasional bomb falling – but it is a distant rumble, an irritating form of static to the largely untroubled lives of the womenfolk. The dangers of the war become starker when Hester visits London to spend a couple of days with her brother, Richard, before he goes off to fight. The worries about being caught in a bombing raid are real and beautifully portrayed.

Death makes a somewhat inconvenient entry into the journal. Hester volunteers to break the news of the death of one of the regiment members to his wife, but, oddly, that appointment and its aftermath are not commented on. Death is just part of life, something one must live with. Morale must be maintained, and it is the womenfolk’s duty to ensure it is.

Stevenson’s style is warm, amusing, comforting, with an almost narcotic feel about it. It is a perfect antidote to what must have been the very real stresses and strains of eking out an existence under the shadow of war. There is a sense that it is all a tiresome inconvenience which, thanks to the British spirit, will soon pass and life will return to normal again. Of course, the reality was harsher than that, but it is nice to find a delightful haven to retreat to for a few hours. Although our troubles are very different, perhaps this is why Stevenson’s time may have come again.

The Last London Frost Fair

Although they did not know it at the time, the last Thames Frost Fair, of the six documented from 1608, took place during the first five days of February 1814. Traders set up stalls to make a temporary thoroughfare, signposted as and named City Road, selling trinkets, souvenirs, and the inevitable memento tickets, by now no longer personalised. Swings were set up to amuse the children. The crowds flocked to the fair, paying a fee both to get on and then off the ice. This was not the only way they were fleeced, the crowds presenting too much of a temptation for any self-respecting pickpocket to ignore.

There was food and drink aplenty. Oxen were roasted on the ice, mutton was served in slices or in mince pies, women wandered through the crowds selling gingerbread or hot apples from baskets they carried on their heads, covered by a cloth to keep the food warm. Tea, coffee, and hot chocolate was served.

Those seeking stronger stuff could visit the impromptu pubs that were set up, such as the City of Moscow, or the “fuddling tents” made from oil skins draped over oars set into the ice, so called because of the strength of the liquors they sold. Such delights as gin, purl, a heady mix of gin and wormwood wine, or Mum, beer infused with spices, were available, along with rum and grog. Where there was drinking, more riotous forms of entertainment were sure to be found.   

The Gentleman’s Magazine gave its readers a vivid account of proceedings: “at every glance, there was a novelty of some kind or other. Gaming was carried on in all its branches…and some of their customers left the lures without a penny to pay the passage over a plank to the shore. Skittles were played by several parties, and the drinking tents were filled by females and their companions, dancing reels to the sound of fiddles”.

Heavy printing presses were hauled on to the ice to produce souvenir poems commemorating the freeze. George Davis went one better, using his press on the ice to compose and print his history of the London Frost Fairs, a 124-page book entitled Frostiana. A curiosity in his account of the 1814 fair is the sight of an elephant being led across the frozen river near Blackfriars Bridge, a story corroborated by several other contemporary eyewitnesses.

The quality of the ice was variable, The Times, on February 2nd, noting that many who ventured too far towards Blackfriars-bridge were partially immersed in the water by the ice giving way”. By the fifth day, though, the temperature began to rise, snow gave way to rain, the direction of the wind changed, and the ominous sound of cracking ice persuaded traders and revellers alike to abandon the fair. For some it was too late. A plumber fell into the water when the ice broke while carrying a load of lead piping across the river, “to rise no more”, while near Westminster Bridge two “genteel-looking young men..,fell victim to their temerity” and drowned.

The Thames has never since frozen to the extent that it could support a thriving Frost Fair, a result of rising temperatures, a new London Bridge and modifications to the river’s flow resulting from the construction of the Embarkment, leaving these impromptu festivals to become a curious footnote in the capital’s history.    

Digit Of The Week

Police in Italy are trying to reunite two phalanges of the right ring finger with its owner. There is an element of jeopardy for anyone who claims their finger back as it was severed while its owner got entangled in some barbed wire as they were disturbed in an attempt to rob a Milan recycling plant.

The following day someone associated with the failed attempt was spotted by a security guard rummaging through fallen leaves. When questioned about what he was up to, he said he was looking for a finger with a ring on it. Subsequently, police found the finger, but it was minus the wedding ring.

Armed with a fingerprint from the digit and DNA, the police are on the hunt for the robber. It should not be too difficult for them to fit him up!

Sporting Event Of The Week (28)

There is success and there is success as the saga of the Dorset Knob throwing contest shows. Cancelled in 2020 and 2021 because of Covid restrictions, organisers were hoping to hold this popular event, alongside the Frome Valley Food Fest, in Cattistock on May 1st.

For the uninitiated, a Dorset Knob is a hard biscuit, made originally, around the 1860s by the Moores family, from the leftover dough and hand rolled into button shapes – they take their name from the hand-sewn Dorset Knob buttons – before being baked in the dying heat of the bread oven and left to dry out like rusks.

Their hardness and size make them ideal for competitive throwing and the competition has run since 2008. Contestants are restricted to three biscuits, which they must throw underarm, with one foot firmly planted on the ground at all times, inside a designated throwing zone, measuring 5 metres wide by 32 metres long. Where the biscuit finally comes to rest is the point at which the length of the throw is measured. If the biscuit breaks on landing, the judges decide which spot to measure. The record throw of 29.4 metres was set in 2012.   

Sadly, though, aspiring Knob throwers have turned to crumbs as the event has had to be cancelled yet again, a victim of its own success. With over 8,000 people attending the last event in 2019, organisers have concluded that it has become too big for a part-time committee to organise.

A bitter biscuit to swallow, for sure.

Twelve Of The Gang

Having been released by my body-snatcher I settled down in a Bohemian bungery and proceeded to get drunk as a boiled owl. And very pleasant it was too. Perhaps I should explain the purport of a sentence which, otherwise, due to the high content of Victorian slang might seem incomprehensible.

A body-snatcher was a term used between the 1840s and 1860s in London to describe a cab driver. Their practice was to snatch a fare into their cab to prevent the unwitting client from falling into the hands of their rivals. It owed its origin to the practice of the resurrection men who lifted newly buried corpses from their graves to feed the unsatiable demand of medics for fresh bodies to extend their knowledge of the human anatomy. The most famous practitioners of this shady crime were Burke and Hare.

A Bohemian bungery was a pub, particularly one frequented by struggling authors, especially apt in my case. Bohemian was a term introduced by Henri Murger in his Scenes of Bohemian Life, published in 1851, to describe artists, authors, and musicians who lived an unconventional life and struggled to make a living. Bungery was a term used by abolitionists to describe a public house, a word derived from the bung which was used to stop the contents of a barrel from spilling out.

Boiled owl was yet another euphemism for being drunk. Its derivation is not clear, but one suggestion is that it is a corruption of being as drunk as Abel Doyle which, if so, suggests Irish roots. One correspondent in December 1892 took grave offence to this calumny on the drinking habits of an owl. He wrote “it is a well-known fact in natural history that a parrot is the only bird that can sing after partaking of wine, spirits, or beer; for it is now universally agreed by all scientific men who have investigated the subject that the expression “Drunk as a boiled owl” is a gross libel upon a highly respectable teetotal bird which, even in its unboiled state, drinks nothing stronger than rainwater”.

Be that as it may, it is a lovely phrase. Cheers!

Wessex Wyvern’s Classic Gin

Pick up the right bottle of gin and you can learn a thing or two. A wyvern is a legendary winged dragon, commonly found in insignia and as a heraldic symbol. Unlike its fire-breathing four-legged compadre, the wyvern is bipedal and usually comes complete with a tail which either has a diamond- or arrow-shaped tip. It appears in the heraldic symbol for Wessex and its name is thought to derive from the French word guivre meaning viper or snake. Based in Godalming on the eastern side of the old kingdom of Wessex, the distillery is aligning the name and geographic location of this gin to a tee.

I have tried Wessex’s Alfred the Great Gin before – I am on my second bottle – and I have been impressed by the quality of the product, following on from Jonathan Clark’s sterling work at the City of London Distillery. He certainly knows a thing about making gin and after moving out of the metropolis he commenced operations at Wessex Distillery in 2017. As a distillery they seem adept at marketing and if you keep your eyes open or join their mailing list, they promote some mouth-watering offers from time to time.

Wessex Wyvern’s Classic Gin is not one for the faint-hearted but is aimed firmly and squarely at the drinker who loves a juniper-heavy, juniper-led spirit in the classic London Dry Gin style. And this does not disappoint. With an ABV of 47% it is not about to take any prisoners and from the outset when you remove the enormous cork stopper from the neck, you are overwhelmed by the delightful aroma of juniper in its full glory, tempered with hints of liquorice and pepper and, just discernible, some sweeter notes provided by lemon and honey. In the glass, the crystal-clear spirit is a delight to behold and smell and, in the mouth, it has a kick to it, full-bodied and powerful, and yet allowing the other elements some elbow room. It is a wonderfully well-balanced drink with a prolonged spicy and peppery aftertaste. Perhaps the heralders got it wrong and the wyvern did breathe fire after all.  

Aesthetically, the bottle stands out from the crowd, squat, broad shouldered, rather like an apothecary’s bottle or a decanter, a short neck and an enormously broad cork stopper. The Wyvern gin comes in a dark bottle, compared to the turquoise of the Dry gin, and the label has the same design, the wyvern looking to the right, and Wessex embossed in the glass on the shoulder. The wyvern emblem is also stamped on the cork stopper. Where space is at a premium on a shelf groaning with the fruits of the ginaissance, its size may a problem, but it is a beautiful shape and bottle.

A nice touch is that hanging around the neck of the bottle on a string is what looks like a small silver token. It was only on later inspection, usually the first time I handle a bottle I am more interested in the contents than the external décor, that I realised that is an exact replica of a silver penny coin from the reign of Alfred the Great, the erstwhile and most famous king of Wessex, who ruled around 871 CE.

That sums the gin up. Attention to detail, providing a first-class and thoroughly enjoyable drink.

Until the next time, cheers!