Martin Fone's Blog, page 143

Information Received

A review of Information Received by E R Punshon

Being somewhat anally obsessive, these days I tend to read detective series in chronological order. It allows me to get an insight into how the author develops their style and their principal character. However, with E R Punshon I dived in halfway through his Bobby Owen series with The Dark Garden from 1941 and worked my way through to the 1948 novel, The House of Godwinsson. Now was the time, I thought, to go to the start of the series, Information Received, published originally in 1933 and reissued for a modern readership by Dean Street Press.

The first thing that struck me was the similarity with Basil Thomson’s Richardson’s First Case, both of which feature a rookie copper setting out on their path to greatness, and both, curiously, published in 1933. I wonder which one got there first. While Thomson’s approach is more procedure based, Punshon takes a more literary approach to introducing his protagonist who will see him through 35 books over twenty-three years and makes for a more satisfying read.

Like Richardson, Owen is simply a bobby on the beat, rather bored with his lot. He does have that happy knack, though, of being in the right place at the right time, being on the scene when the body of Sir Christopher Clarke is discovered, and the initiative to follow leads with or without official sanction. Owen, too, sufficiently impresses his superiors to achieve a transfer to CID.

One of the delights of the book is the developing relationship between Owen and Superintendent Mitchell, sufficiently long in the tooth to recognise that there is a spark worth developing in the youngster. Beneath his gruff exterior and teasing demeanour – he delights in playing a practical joke on his junior and is not loathe to put him in his place – there is a friendly, father figure. I shall be interested to see how that plays out as the series progresses. It will bear some looking into, as the Superintendent might say.

The plot is quite complicated as there are two separate crimes for the police to solve, although at the outset that is not immediately evident. For an ardent reader of detective fiction, the identity of the murderer of the financier, Sir Christopher Clarke, is not too difficult to spot. There is a tell-tale trope which seems to establish an alibi but doesn’t when investigated. Continuous noise emanating from a room always puts me on the alert. Curiously, this as the basis for an alibi is not challenged and the resolution of the murder of Clarke is reliant upon a long, written confession. There is a danger of viewing these plot devices with jaundiced modern eyes when, in fact, they were fresh and novel when used.

The other part of the puzzle, the almost simultaneous robbery of Clarke’s safe which leads to discoveries of financial malpractice and leading to murder, an attempt to frame an innocent, speedy and clandestine marriages and a dramatic trap with fatal consequences, receives the lion’s share of the attention. It offered more possibilities for red herrings and dramatic tension, but leaves the book feeling somewhat unbalanced, as though Punshon realised that the plot had become too unwieldy for the size of book he had in mind and that the Marsden/Carsley part of the story offered more dramatic possibilities and opportunities for red herrings.

The story starts with two theatre tickets from which Clarke recoils. They hold the key to his murder as they are for Shakespeare’s Hamlet. In fact, his murder is Hamlet in reverse, a clever device on Punshon’s part, although he doesn’t make as much of it as he might have done. One note that surprises this reader was that Shakespeare was not very popular in the early 1930s, perhaps a result of having been force fed to unwilling pupils at school.

I enjoyed the book, as I always do with Punshon, and I’m sure that if I had not already done so, it would have tempted me to explore the series.

Whitley Neill Connoisseur’s Cut Gin

Whitley Neill have been around since 1762 and Johnny Neill is the eight generation of the family involved in distilling spirits. Since launching their gin range in 2005 with a gin featuring baobab fruit and Cape gooseberries, they have seen a meteoric rise in their fortunes, producing the number one selling premium gin. Over time they have produced a variety of gins to pander to the demand created by the ginaissance, including Rhubarb and Ginger, Blood Orange, Raspberry, Parma Violet, Quince, Lemongrass and Ginger, Protea and Hibiscus, and more. Given my preference for juniper-led London Dry gins, very few of their gins have ever interested me enough to buy one. Clearly, they do not need my custom.

However, browsing the gin shelves of my local Waitrose store, I did come across one that looked intriguing, Whitley Neill Connoisseur’s Cut Gin, aimed, the publicity said, at the true gin connoisseur. It is an interesting collaboration with the City of London Distillery in Bride Lane, the first distillery to operate in the City of London for two hundred years and still the only one, so far as I can tell. As I am a fan of the City of London gins a bottle went into my grocery basket.

The aim was to create a classic London Dry style gin which was rich in juniper and refreshing citrus. The list of botanicals used in creating the spirit are the classics you would associate with that style of gin – juniper, coriander seed, angelica root, and the peels of oranges, lemons, and grapefruits – a combination that certainly seems to meet the brief.

The bottle is in the distinctive Whitley Neill using a vibrant dark blue glass for its cylindrical bottle with a narrow shoulder, embossed with “Whitley Neill” and a short neck. The stopper is wooden with an artificial cork. There are some subtle changes to the standard Whitley Neill to show the association with City of London Distillery, the coat of rms of the Corporation of London displayed on top of the stopper and in the centre of the front of the bottle. The riband towards the bottom of the bottle, just above the embossed “distilling for generations”, also has the coat of arms around which some wording tells us that it is distilled at the City of London Distillery. It is clearly trying to set itself apart from the normal Whitley Neill fare, whilst retaining the characteristics of the brand.

On opening the stopper, the initial sensation is satisfying and reassuring, an enormous hit of peppery juniper assails the nostrils, softened by the citric notes. In the glass it is a perfectly clear spirit, and it does not disappoint. There is no mistaking that it is juniper-led, the peppery notes are bold and brash, before the subtler hints of lemon, grapefruit, orange, and liquorice start to make their presence felt. The aftertaste is long, warm, and peppery, the lemon and pine making a pleasant and lingering sensation in the throat. At an ABV of 47% it is not for the faint-hearted, but it is a well-balanced and impressive gin.   

It shows what a gin can be without the distractions of exotic or eccentric flavourings and has gone a long way to restoring Whitley Neill’s reputation in my eyes.

Until the next time, cheers!

The Fledgeling

A review of The Fledgeling by Frances Faviell

One of the undoubted highlights of my 2021 is finding Frances Faviell, an author whom I would probably not have read in ordinary circumstances, even if her books had been readily available. She, sadly, went out of print but thanks to the heroic efforts of Dean Street Press under its Furrowed Middlebrow imprint, her works are now available for the curious modern reader to discover.

Although not a patch on her standout A Chelsea Concerto, The Fledgling, her last of her three novels, originally published in 1958, a year before her death and while she had been diagnosed with cancer, certainly has its moments. Perhaps one can detect Faviell’s sense that her time was drawing to an end in the book, as there is very much a sense of wanting to put things right and creating order of chaos in her developing portrayal of Mrs Collins, the bedridden and terminally ill grandmother.  

The story is compressed into a long day and most of the action takes place in Mrs Collins’ pokey flat and, in particular, her bedroom which she rarely leaves and then with great difficulty and supreme physical effort. Her life is tedious, lying in bed, looking out of the window trying to catch a glimpse of a sparrow or a cat, brightened only by the appearance of a young girl, Linda, who has taken to visiting her and playing games. Mrs Collins is looked after by Nonie, her granddaughter, who is married to Charlie, and receives a weekly visit from a sort of social worker, Miss Rhodes, a well-meaning but unwelcome intrusion into her routine.

This rather uneventful existence is about to change in a dramatic, if not melodramatic, way.

From January 1949 the UK had a system of National Service when all physically fit young men aged between 17 and 21 were called up for service. By 1957 the scheme was restricted to those born on or after October 1, 1939, were exempted and the last call ups were made in November 1960 and the last conscripts discharged in May 1963. For many national service was character forming, like Mrs Collins’ eldest grandson, Len, who was killed in action in Cyprus and was awarded a Military Medal, but for some, like Nona’s twin brother, Neil, it was a nightmare. He had already deserted twice before the story starts.

Having been systematically bullied by Mike Andersen, Neil is persuaded to desert for a third time, this time to enable Mike to abscond as well. Neil’s arrival at his grandmother’s flat triggers a day where Mrs Collins’ routine is disrupted by a procession of visitors, mostly unwelcome, and the moral dilemma as to whether to assist Neil in his plans. The arrival of Mike adds a darker dimension to the tale, especially when he attacks Miss Rhodes and threatens the bedridden old lady. In a dramatic finale, which is out of character with the rest of the book, Mrs Collins’ intervention allows Neil to free himself from his tormentor, to find his self-esteem and resolve his future.

However, the reader is left with the sense that the way events turn out are as much a means for Mrs Collins to find peace and to settle her family’s affairs as best she can as they are for freeing Neil from his tormentor.       

Faviell’s last novel was entertaining enough, beautifully written, with sharp characterisations and a profound sense of place, but for me it failed to hit the heights of her earlier works.

Murder Underground

A review of Murder Underground by Mavis Doriel Hay

Mavis Doriel Hay is a new writer to me. She only wrote three crime fiction novels and this was her first, published originally in 1934 and now reissued as part of the excellent British Library Crime Classics series.

As someone who has used London’s tube system for more years than I care to remember, I have often speculated as to the suitability of a station for committing a murder. They are generally crowded offering a degree of anonymity, a well-judged nudge of a shoulder on a crowded platform could cause enough of a domino effect to topple the victim into the path of an oncoming train or there are those vast areas of winding stair columns that commuters rarely travel along, opting for the speed, efficiency and comfort of an escalator or lift instead. Fortunately, these thoughts are just passing fancies, usually brought on by frustration as a service delay is announced, and anyway the prevalence of CCTV cameras these days mean that the likelihood of escaping detection are remote.   

Hay’s crime takes place on the normally deserted stairwell of Belsize Park tube station. The victim is a wealthy but bad-tempered spinster, Euphemia Pongleton, long-term resident of the Frampton Private Hotel and she is strangled to death with her dog’s lead. The stairs are rarely used but three individuals with associations or connections with the lady used the stairs that day. There was also, rather conveniently, a footprint of a small, narrow shoe left in the vicinity.   

Miss Pongleton was clearly not a well-liked character but her fellow residents are intrigued by her demise, especially as the maid’s beau, Bob Thurlow, has been arrested. He worked at the station and a brooch in an envelope with his name on was found on the dead woman. Bob had been implicated in a burglary and she may have had a hold on him. Motive enough for murder? Her nephew, Basil, a bit of an ass in a mild Woosterish sort of way, whom she was forever disinheriting, was short of cash, and had a weak alibi which got weaker every time he tried to explain his actions away.

Fortunately, the women in the story, principally Basil’s girlfriend, Betty, and a resident at the hotel, Mrs Daymer, are made of sterner stuff and through their independent actions, together with the help of a scrapbook, get to the bottom of the mystery and unmask the culprit. The moral of the story is never repeat the way you commit a crime.

The book is unusual in that the police barely make an appearance and when they do, not least Inspector Caird, they follow the wrong leads. Hay tells her story from the point of view of several of the characters rather than the police, some of whom are under suspicion and some of whom, in their own ways, either have something to hide or anxious to absolve from blame someone they are attached to. Police interviews are conducted behind closed doors with Hay concentrating on the characters’ anticipations and reactions to their grillings.

That said, the narrative is fairly clued and, as I did, you can easily get a sense of the identity of the culprit. That did not spoil my enjoyment of what is a light, humorous murder mystery. It carries you along, even allowing for the absurdities of the plot and characters, and Hay takes great delight in satirising the stereotypes that you found in residential hotels at the time and the manoeuvres of the press to winkle out the truth.

I found it thoroughly enjoyable and would read the other two of her books without hesitation.

A Walk Through The Graveyard

When I was working, I walked with my eyes fixed straight ahead of me, paying little attention to my surroundings. Now I am retired, rich in time and a spendthrift with it, I amble as much interested in what is around me as where I am going. On my regular walks into Frimley, I go through the churchyard of our local church, St Peter’s. I look at the inscriptions on the stones and on those occasions that my interest has been piqued, I will try and find out more about the people buried there.

Given the area’s proximity to Sandhurst and Aldershot, I am not sure that it is such a surprise as it may seem at first blush, but there are monuments to three of the 1,355 recipients of the Victoria Cross in the churchyard, those of Kenneth Muir, Charles Melliss, and William Cubitt. Awarded for acts of bravery in the face of the enemy, it is an urban myth to assume that all recipients died in combat. Far from it, and Frimley and neighbouring Camberley had its fair share of military veterans who retired in the area.

The graves of those fallen in combat are tended by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, but there are around seven hundred VC recipients buried in churchyards throughout the Commonwealth. On a walk through St Peter’s Churchyard in early August, I noticed a small group earnestly inspecting the grave of William Cubitt. I assumed that they were military or local historians or genealogists, and passed them by. It was only later that I discovered that they were volunteers from a remarkable charity, The Victoria Trust Cross.

Founded in 2014, the charity’s mission is to clean and restore the graves of those VC recipients not buried in Commonwealth War Graves and to keep their stories alive. The Frimley graves formed part of their summer schedule of work, which aims to spruce up the graves of twenty-four of the recipients.

Keen to find out more, I spoke to one of the Trustees, Frances Adams, who told me that it costs around £800 per grave, excluding expenses, to restore each grave, as they use specialist cleaning materials and equipment, appropriate to the materials used on the headstone and surrounds. While at a graveyard, the volunteers, all ex-military or with military connections, also tend the graves of other fallen soldiers.    

As well as restoring the monuments to their former glory, the Trust’s activities give the veterans a sense of purpose and an opportunity to contribute to the preservation of the memory and stories of those who received the military’s highest honour.

Judging by the results at St Peter’s, they do a fine job. More power to their elbows!

To find out more about the Trust and its activities, follow the link below:

https://victoriacrosstrust.org/

Picture Of The Week (3)

Modern art can be bewildering at times and sometimes you wonder whether the artist is taking the piss.

Kunsten Museum of Modern Art in Aalborg in Denmark commissioned Danish artist, Jens Haaning, to recreate his 2010 paintings, “An Average Danish Annual Income” and “An Average Austrian Annual Income”. These two pieces of work each featured cash to the value of the then average incomes in the two countries. The museum gave him $84,000 to use in the works and undertook to provide an extra $6,000 if required.

The canvases were duly delivered by the artist to the Museum. When the staff unpacked the canvases, they had a bit of a surprise. Both were blank and were entitled “Take the Money and Run”.

Although the curator laughed at first, he now fails to see the funny side and is demanding that Haaning either fulfils his side of the bargain or pays the money back. Haaning responded by saying “The artwork is essentially about the working conditions of artists. It is a statement saying that we also have the responsibility of questioning the structures that we are part of. And if these structures are completely unreasonable, we must break with them. It can be your marriage, your work – it can be any type of societal structure”.

It will end in tears, methinks.

Search Of The Week

So often you hear of searches carried out by the authorities and volunteers that either end in failure or make a gruesome discovery. At least a search for Beyhan Mutlu, who lives in the Inegől district of Turkey’s north-western province of Bursa ended happily, if a tad embarrassingly.

Beyhan had been out drinking with some friends and, as you do, wandered off into a forest. As he did not return home, his wife alerted the local authorities who sent out a search party.

Showing considerable public spirit, Beyhan came across the search party and decided to join them. It was only when some of the searchers started to call out his name that he realised that it was him that they were looking for. Sheepishly, he replied, “I am here”.

He was taken aside by one of the rescuers to make a statement before being driven home. All’s well that ends well, as the Bard once wrote.

The Invisible Host

A review of The Invisible Host by Gwen Bristow and Bruce Manning

This was the first collaboration between American husband-and-wife duo, Bruce Manning and Gwen Bristow, and was originally published in 1930. They collaborated on two further novels. It has now been reissued by Dean Street Press and they were kind enough to send me a review copy. Many thanks. It spawned, pre-publication, a play on Broadway called The Ninth Guest by Owen Davis, which ran between August and October 1930, and a film of the same name which was released by Columbia in 1934.

It is more of a psychological thriller than a straightforward murder mystery, although there is an element of whodunit about it, and it is heavy on atmosphere. Eight individuals, in their own ways pillars of New Orleans society, receive a telegram inviting them to a surprise party in their honour at the Bienville penthouse. To ensure their attendance the telegram promises them the most original party ever staged in New Orleans. To add to the intrigue, the sender just signs themselves as Your Host.

The recipients, in alphabetical order, are Henry Abbott, a professor, Margaret Chisholm, a socialite, Peter Daly, a playwright, Sylvia Inglesby, a lawyer, Jason Osgood, a businessman, Dr Murray Chmabers Reid, a university professor, Tim Slamon, a politician, and Jean Trent, an actress. All think so much of themselves that they take the bait and each is surprised to find the other invitees at the party which they thought was in their honour. As the guest wonder who their host is, it emerges that that the guests have been carefully chosen so that there is at least one other person in the room whom they dislike. This ramps up the dramatic tension.

The host communicates with them via a wireless set – we later find out that it was transmitting messages pre-recorded on a series of records – and tells them that they are to participate in a game of wits with their host, the forfeit for failure being their own death. There are eight empty coffins outside on the patio to reinforce the message. There is no means of escape as the door has an electric current running through it.

One by one, starting with the one who most deserves to die, they meet their death and the tension and feeling of foreboding increases. The murderer makes a fatal error which leads to their undoing when just three of the guests remain. I will not spoil your enjoyment by revealing their identity or motivation, the former the attentive reader of the book will spot although the motivation is only revealed at the end. That is a structural problem with a story that relies on the masking of the identity of the culprit and with so many possible suspects.    

The plot may sound familiar, and it is, used by Agatha Christie in her 1939 classic, Ten Little Indians aka Then There Were None. While it is lauded as one of Christie’s best, it is so similar to The Invisible Host as to invite allegations of plagiarism, conscious or otherwise. In truth, Christie takes the idea to a higher level. The characterisation of the guests in The Invisible Host is much weaker, less time is taken to introduce them to the reader and their foibles, which are key to their demise, only emerge during the denouement.

For all that, it is a thoroughly enjoyable journey into the depths of the human psyche and an exploration of how the victim’s narcissism can play into the hands of someone fuelled by a sense of injustice and a determination to wreak vengeance. It is dark and disturbing at the same time as being entertaining, a neat trick to pull off. Dean Street Press are to be congratulated for rescuing this minor classic from the vaults of obscurity. It might even prompt a reassessment of Agatha Christie. Now would that not be a fine achievement, to knock her off her perch!

Portobello Road Savoury Gin

The ginaissance has spawned so many gins that it is inevitable that there will be some form of retrenchment. After all, what is gin? The market is awash with so-called flavoured gins, usually incredibly sweet and where the juniper has gone AWOL. Are these really gins or are they fruit flavoured liquors made in a gin style? If it sells, it may seem to be a tad pedantic to hold this view, but the purist in me thinks it is and that gin should be gin and be unmistakably and unashamedly juniper led.

I am pleased to see that I am not the only one who, Canute-like, is trying to stem the tide of sickly, flavoured gins. Although my gin cabinet, a grandiose term for the top of a cupboard, is stocked with a wide selection of gins, I have some ever faithfuls, a number that I go back to time and again. Portobello Road No 171 is one of my all-time favourites and when I saw that my local Waitrose had just started stocking Portobello Road Savoury Gin, I had to pick up a bottle.

Who knew that in the 1860s King Theodore of Corsica was London slang for a cheap penny-a-glass gin sold in the area? I didn’t, but it seems that the king, although crowned on the island in 1736, met his death languishing in a debtors’ prison in Soho in 1749. His grave is in the walls of the area’s St Anne’s Church. His inglorious demise made him a cult hero among the working classes, and they used his name to denote one of their favourite tipples.

Based on London’s Old Kent Road, the chaps at Portobello were intrigued` enough by the story to concoct a gin fit for the King of Corsica, using botanicals from the Mediterranean. It was also to be sugar-free, a move seen as a deliberate statement to remind gin drinkers that the spirit did not need to be sweet and fruity and hide behind a wall of herbs and fruits. What’s not to like?

The bottle uses the distinctive Portobello wine bottle shape, but instead of being clear it is white and opaque. I shall probably have a rude shock one day when I find that I have emptied it as the level cannot be detected from the outside. The label uses a bold splash of blue for the lettering and green for the surrounding wreath of botanicals while their hallmark lion is in red. The stopper is an artificial cork and the label at the rear gives some details of the origin of the gin. Embossed in the glass above the rear label is “Made in England” and at the bottom “Proud purveyors of London’s Spirit”.

The base for the gin is made from the nine botanicals used for the no 171 gin, juniper, lemon peel, bitter orange peel, coriander seeds, orris root, angelica root, cassia bark, liquorice, and nutmeg. To this is added the Mediterranean style botanicals of bergamot, rosemary, basil, and green olive. To round things off, a tiny pinch of seas alt is added after distillation to give a slight hint of the sea air.

Removing the cork releases a heady aroma of juniper, citrus, and some herbal notes, particularly of rosemary. In the glass it is crystal clear and well-balanced, the juniper and citric elements working well together before giving way to the heat of nutmeg, the dryness of the olives, and lingering dry aftertaste. The slightly saline texture that it leaves on the lips invites you to take a second glass and a fighting weight of 42% ABV it would be churlish to refuse.

I am not sure it will supplant no 171 in my affections, but it is an excellent gin and one worthy of exploring. If it arrests the trend towards sweet and flavoured gins, all power to their elbow.  

Until the next time, cheers!  

Mystery At Lynden Sands

A review of Mystery at Lynden Sands by J J Connington

This, the fourth in Connington’s Sir Clinton Driffield series and originally published in 1928, sees the Chief Constable on holiday with his faithful sidekick, “Squire” Wendover. It does not turn out to be the relaxing break of golf, sun, and fine dining that he had anticipated, as he is drawn into assisting in the investigation of a murder and what develops into one of Connington’s fiendishly complex and engaging mysteries. You might say it was a busman’s holiday. Although the phrase was current at the time the book was published https://windowthroughtime.wordpress.com/2017/06/09/what-is-the-origin-of-131/) the lengthy gloss deployed when it is introduced suggests that it was not on the tip of most of the contemporary readers’ tongues.

Surprisingly, both because Driffield is a Chief Constable and because their relationship in The Case with Nine Solutions was a bit tetchy, Inspector Armadale invites him to assist. One of the delights of the book is the interplay between Driffield, Armadale, and Wendover, with the latter two vying with each other to come up with the most appropriate theory that accommodates the clues that emerge. Driffield often chooses to keep his own counsel, dropping hints here and there and offering friendly advice whilst striving to keep the peace between his colleagues, a tactic that often infuriates the others.

Inevitably, for a book of this genre and time, Wendover takes a shine to one of the principal suspects and this colours his views on the case and prejudices his relationship with Armadale who takes a diametrically opposite stance. These underlying tensions add an additional layer of complexity to what is a tangled web to unravel.    

What turns out to be a highly entertaining and clever book, starts off rather turgidly with a detailed and complicated resume of the Fordingbridge family and its line of succession. The owner, Derek, Paul and Jay’s nephew, is presumed dead, missing after the First World War. Paul has been looking after the estate’s affairs, badly as it turns out, and Jay who dabbles in the occult (cue the anticipated groans and shaking of heads from the ownership) is not only convinced that he is alive but that she has seen and spoken to him at Lynden Sands, although his face is horribly disfigured, and he has lost two fingers. His reappearance on the scene would put a significant spoke in Paul’s plans.  

The action begins with the discovery of the body of the Fordingbridge’s faithful servant, Peter Hay, a close adherent of Derek’s. Who would kill such an innocent man and why? Some relatively valueless silver is found in Wray’s house, but no one can believe such a loyal servant would have been salting away the family’s silver. One curiosity that immediately strikes the modern reader is the conclusion that as he had opened the door to his killer wearing a jacket, he was not only expecting his visitor but also the visitor was from a superior class.

Investigations at Foxhills, the family seat, reveal that Derek’s diary has been stolen. More murders follow and it becomes evident that the clue to the carnage lies in the question of Derek’s rights to inherit the estate. Is Paul engaged in a killing spree to protect his reputation and cover his defalcations? Is the man with the disfigured face who appears at Lynden Sands really Derek? Or is there a gang of imposters trying to pass someone off as Derek and eliminating anyone and everyone who might put a spoke in their plans by recognising the imposter for what he really is?

Along the way, we have blackmail, unintentional bigamy, a lesson in the way sand preserves and diminishes footprints, a poisoning involving amyl nitrate which smells like pear drops – Connington, Alfred Stewart, a distinguished chemistry professor in real life, cannot resist the opportunity to impart his knowledge – a damsel in distress, death by quicksand, a gang who will stop at nothing, an intriguing French woman, and a culprit whose resistance is broken by becoming trapped in a cave with the tide coming in. It has almost everything you could wish for.

I would not go so far as concurring with H C Harwood that it “may just fall short of being the detective story of the century”, the turgid first chapter sees to that, but it is an impressive piece of work for all that.