Martin Fone's Blog, page 150

The Devil’s Dictionary (13)

I like to think that I am rational, although having read Ambrose Bierce’s definition in his The Devil’s Dictionary, first published in book form in 1906, I may have to reconsider. He calls it “devoid of all delusions save those of observation, experience, and reflection”. To reason is “to weigh probabilities in the scales of desire” and as a noun reason is “the propensitate of prejudice”, while someone who is reasonable is “accessible to the infection of our own opinions”.

Here in Britain we have had some experience of the referendum. Perhaps we should have taken some notice of Bierce who defined one as “a law for submission of proposed legislation to a popular vote to learn the nonsensus of public opinion”. The outcome may cause a period of reflection, “an action of the mind whereby we obtain a clearer view of our relation to things of yesterday and are able to avoid the perils that we shall not again encounter”, and will provide a reporter, “a writer who guesses his way to the truth and dispels it with a torrent of words” much to chew over.

Religion may not offer salvation, “a daughter of Hope and Fear explaining to Ignorance the nature of the Unknowable”. There may not even be comfort to be had in a reliquary, “a receptacle for such sacred objects as pieces of the true cross, short ribs of the saints, the ears of Balaam’s ass, the lung of the cock that called Peter to repentance, and so forth. Reliquaries are commonly of metal, and provided with a lock to prevent the contents from coming out and performing miracles at unseasonable times”.

Perhaps all that is left is repentance, “the faithful follower and attendant of Punishment” or reparation, “satisfaction that is made for a wrong and deducted from the satisfaction felt in committing it”.

Monte Stambecco Amaro

I first came across Amaro after a particularly fine and delicious Italian meal. My host called for a bottle, informing me that it was perfect for aiding digestion. Amaro is Italian for bitter and that was my abiding memory of it, but it seemed to do the trick. Most commercially available Amaros trace their roots to recipes concocted in the 19th century in monasteries or pharmacies.

If you are looking for an Amaro that is out of the ordinary, then Monte Stambecco Amaro might just be the one. Taking its name from the Ibex or long horned mountain goats that gambol on the Alps near the Vergnano family distillery, Torino Distillati, in Piedmont, it is produced by the Master Distiller, Beppe Ronco. Its particular twist is to use a distillate of Marasca cherries from Pecetto, making it the first in the world to do so.

The starting point is a pure base spirit which is made from Italian wheat and has been distilled five times. The cherries are then soaked in alcohol, squeezed in a basket press and then distilled in a copper pot. Thirty botanicals are then distilled in a vacuum still, including sweet and bitter oranges, coriander seeds, marjoram, oregano, wormwood, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, gentian root, lemon peel, cinchona, rhubarb, yarrow, and saffron.

Sugar is then added for flavour and caramel for colour, before the spirit is chill filtrated to a temperature of minus five centigrade. The final stage before bottling is to blend it with pure mountain spring water, producing a liqueur with an ABV of 35%.  

The design of the bottle also reflects this attention to detail. Dumpy, with a cherry red stopper, and glass heavily embossed with bumps, its labelling is bold in a classic Italian style, white lettering on a blue background and an image of the ibex at the centre. It certainly stands out from the crowd on a shelf.

The spirit has a gorgeous chestnut brown colour with a hint of red. The aroma is unmistakably that of cherry with a hint of the spiciness of cinnamon and cardamom, and to the taste it is mildly sweet, although not excessively so, the bitterness of some of the other botanicals in the mix giving it balance to produce a wonderfully complex liqueur.

I drank it neat with a couple of ice cubes and it made for a distinctive and enjoyable drink. Alternatively, it can be drunk as an ice cold shot or in a cocktail, perhaps a twist on a Manhattan, a Stamhattan, you might say.

It is imported into the UK by the enterprising Biggar & Leith and while their claim that every home bar should have a bottle of Stambecco may be a bit presumptuous, it is certainly one to bring out for that special occasion. It is also the nearest I shall get to Italy for quite a while.

Until the next time, cheers!

Richardson’s First Case

A review of Richardson’s Last Case by Basil Thomson

I am enjoying discovering different writers from the so-called Golden Age of detective fiction and different approaches. If anyone should know everything there is to know about police procedures in the 1920s and 30s, then a former Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard. After his retirement from the force, Thomson, by then benighted, wrote seven crime novels in a period of six years, featuring his detective creation, Richardson. He is a jejune bobby when we first encounter him in this book but by the end he has become a fully-fledged member of the CID, destined for greatness because of his dedication and ability to spot clues and follow vital leads, all in the space of 200 pages.

Police procedural stories can be a tad wearisome, more concerned with impressing their audience with their in-depth knowledge of, or at least their perception of, how police departments operate. Think Line of Duty. There are acronyms peppered in the text but with Richardson finding his way in the police force, he asks for explanation of the more obscure ones. Unlike their modern incarnations, police interviews actually generate some real information rather than just being a tedious series of “No comment” answers.

What is clear from this book, originally published in 1933 and reissued for a modern readership by Dean Street Press, is that Thomson is an impressive, no-nonsense storyteller. The book moves along at a fair pace, no words are wasted, the characters are believable and delineated sufficiently for the book’s purposes, and the plot is well-worked, although the identity of the culprit is a tad bit obvious. The principal problem for the police is proof robust enough to satisfy the high standards demanded by the DPP (Department of Public Prosecutions) and this is where Richardson comes up trumps.

The complexity of the case revolves around the precise timing of two deaths, that of John Catchpool who is knocked down by a vehicle in front of Richardson who is on traffic duty, and of his estranged wife who is found murdered the following day in Catchpool’s shop but who had clearly met her maker the day before. If Mrs Catchpool died after her husband, she would have inherited his estate and that would then pass to her nephew, Lieutenant Sharp, who was in London at the time of the deaths but has to be recalled from his ship in Gibraltar to assist with enquiries. If Mrs Catchpool predeceased her husband, the estate would pass to Herbert Reece, John’s nephew, who seems rather too eager to get his hands on the money.    

Would establishing the precise chronology of events help to unmask Mrs Catchpool’s murderer? Both nephews have motive enough. And then there is Arthur Harris, who owed Catchpool a considerable sum of money – £20 equates to around £1,400 at today’s value – and denied recognising the moneylender when Richardson took him to the mortuary. And then there is the drunken artist, Cronin, who was in Catchpool’s shop at the time that Mrs Catchpool was killed and was anxious to retrieve a valuable painting he had pawned and, later, seems to have come into funds.

A single key, brown paper, an umbrella, and a false beard all play their part in revealing whodunit.      

The book shows how the police went about discovering the identity of an unknown victim (Catchpool) and how one discovery can lead to another, creating a complex puzzle which only patient and methodical groundwork can resolve. Thomson’s gift is to raise what could have been a rather tedious tale of detectives following up on leads and testing alibis into an enthralling and enjoyable tale.

I shall be meeting up with Richardson again, I’m sure.

Music Tells All

A review of Music Tells All by E R Punshon

I was wondering what music I should have played on my speakers as I was reading Punshon’s twenty-fourth novel in his Bobby Owen series, originally published in 1948 and now reissued by Dean Street Press. Perhaps a bit of Stockhausen or some Captain Beefheart at his most obtuse. If his previous book, Helen Passes By, was about the power of a woman’s beauty to turn a man weak at the knees, Punshon’s Music Tells All is about the power of music to worm its way into our subconscious and be suggestive and even to make us give way to our innermost desires and fears.

The leitmotif of this book is Miss Bellamy’s piano playing. She pounds away at her music at all hours of the day and night, her repertoire consisting of ideas and feelings delivered ad lib and in a profoundly disturbing impromptu style. Listeners feels compelled to stand and listen as the themes and notes get to work in their minds, provoking strange responses which are out of character.

Punshon’s novels are notable for their set pieces – there is a great section where Bobby Owen chases in his car a suspect on a motor bike – for his realism – it is post Second World War but there is still much about the difficulties imposed by rationing, food as well as petrol – and for his insights into Owen’s home life – his relationship with his wife is supportive, loving, occasionally tetchy and, occasionally, she despairs of him. All are to be found here in spades and the character of Owen is more grounded for that.

Indeed, it his wife, Olive, who sets the action in motion with her search for new accommodation following Owen’s elevation to a currently nebulous role at Scotland Yard and his relocation from Wychshire. She answers an advertisement in a newspaper and to their surprise they are selected and offered a very suitable cottage in the countryside not too far from London at an attractive rent. Owen, cynic as he is, cannot help thinking that there is something fishy about the way that they were selected when so many applied and the post war housing crisis is so acute. Olive is less concerned.

The neighbours seem friendly enough, albeit somewhat eccentric, not least the fiendish pianist that is Miss Bellamy. Soon, though, matters take a more sinister turn. Part of Owen’s new responsibilities is to run training courses and he is organising a dummy run to test the speed at which the police respond to a theft. Plans are spoiled when there is a real smash and grab raid and Owen pursues the suspect, who he is convinced looks like his landlord’s and neighbour’s chauffeur back near to his new home when the suspect vanishes mysteriously. Then two bodies are found, the victims of murder, at the remains of an air raid shelter, one of whom has been trying to sell dodgy jewellery, although the vicar finds one of the gems, a valuable opal ring, on a driveway.

As none of this happens on Owen’s patch, the local police are called into investigate. The lead investigator is one of Owen’s old muckers, Inspector Bell, who seconds Owen to assist in solving the case. Despite the odd red herring, they eventually get to the heart of matters, a plot to gain revenge for two of the main characters’ father being made to carry the can for an earlier embezzlement.

The truth is revealed in another of Punshon’s set pieces, the aftermath of a dinner party where what we know as poule-au-pot Henri IV is served. Olive may be scrimping and scraping to make her food rations stretch but Miss Bellamy seems to have an inexhaustible supply of wholesome ingredients. Food envy had reared its head when the distinctive smell of cooked rabbit gives Owen some food for thought about the reliability of a suspect’s alibi.

There is always something to enjoy in a Punshon novel and, although the pace slowed down in the middle sections as Owen and Bell got to grips with the intricacies of the case, the reader is rewarded with a neatly resolved plot. Owen’s hunches prove well-founded and his cynicism about the ease with which he found new accommodation is justified.

Back to Trout Mask Replica.

Aeneas Coffey (1780 – 1852)

Effective as the pot still was, whisky production required two or more distillations, making it inefficient and laborious. The distiller had either to have several stills available, an expensive proposition, or, after each cycle, empty out the contents and wash the chamber thoroughly before starting on the next stage. Attempts to improve the speed and efficiency of the distilling process began in earnest in the 19th century and this is where Dublin-born Aeneas Coffey enters our story.

For twenty-four years he had worked in the Customs and Excise in Dublin, retiring in 1824, and was responsible for collecting the excise from distillers and curtailing the activities of illicit stills. It could be dangerous work. Caught up in the “poitin wars” in November 1810, Coffey was set upon by a mob of around 50 men near Culdaff in Donegal, bayoneted and left for dead. A reward of £200 was offered for information leading to his attackers’ arrest and he was left with wounds from which he never recovered.

In a case of gamekeeper turned poacher, Coffey put the knowledge he had accumulated about the industry into practice, buying into Dublin’s Dodder Bank distillery and, from 1828, managing the South King Street distillery. Determined to improve the efficiency of the distilling process, he had, by 1830, developed a new still, consisting of two tall, interlinked copper and stainless-steel columns, known as the analyser and the rectifier, which sat side-by-side.

The analyser circulated steam and alcohol-laden wash through several tiers, as if several pot stills were stacked on top of each other. The wash transferred to the rectifier where it was condensed to a set strength, early versions producing solutions of 60% alcohol, more concentrated than those produced in pot stills. A considerable improvement on an earlier two-columned still developed by Robert Stein in 1826, it allowed for continuous production without the need to stop and start between batches.      

Armed with a patent in 1831, Coffey found that the Irish distillers were fiercely loyal to their pot stills, deeming the spirit produced by his “continuous still” blander and smoother than the more robust spirits they were accustomed to. There was an odd metallic taste, too, probably from the iron piping the earlier stills used. Ironically, Coffey’s part in enforcing the liquor taxes had eliminated Ireland’s small-scale distillers, the natural market for his still.

Scotland, though, was a different story. The first distillery to install a Coffey still was Grange in Fife in 1834 and soon Inverkeithing and Bonnington (1835), and Cambus (1836) followed suit. Recognising the sales potential to rectifiers and gin distillers on mainland Britain, Coffey transferred his business, Aeneas Coffey & Sons, to Bow in London’s East End.

His son, Aeneas, tried his hand at distilling, establishing London’s first patent distillery, in Lewisham, but disaster struck. The Company Secretary presented the board with a large cheque to sign, ostensibly to pay the excise on a large batch of spirits. They duly obliged but with no payee on the cheque, he simply disappeared, never to be seen again, and the company went into bankruptcy.

The Coffeys went back to the business they knew well. Further modifications to the design followed, using copper piping and trays perforated with bubble caps. During the 1840s several Lowland distilleries adopted the Coffey still.

The “continuous still” was now producing spirit with proof of between 85 to 95% in considerably larger volumes than a medium sized pot still and with lower malting, heating and maintenance costs, the cost of producing grain spirit was less than half that of pot-stilled malt whisky. By the mid-19th century, traders began blending the products of several distilleries, typically mixing malt and grain spirits to create a lighter, less smoky spirit sold under their own labels. A cheaper product with a smoother, blander taste made it popular with markets that traditionally did not imbibe a dram.

The phylloxera bug, a parasitic insect, also played its part, destroying many a French vineyard. The shortage of wine, brandy, and cognac by the 1880s led to a boom in whisky sales, with forty new distilleries opening in Scotland over the next decade to meet demand.

Coffey’s only memorials are the impressive copper columns to be found in many a distillery around the world today. Even his business was sold shortly after his death in 1852, to John Dore & Co of Bow.

Next time you take a wee dram, raise a toast to the Irishman who transformed the Scotch whisky industry, Aeneas Coffey.

Sign Of The Week (12)

During the recent heatwave, where did you stow your money? Skimpy clothing means fewer pockets. Some women, it seems, have taken to stuffing their notes and cards down their bras.

Enterprising as it may be the practice is causing some consternation amongst retailers. The staff of Mattress Mick in Dublin have taken matters into their own hands by purring a notice in the store’s window warning “No Bra Money” with the rider that “due to increasing temperatures, and for our own personal safety, we will NOT be accepting any bra money. Sorry for any inconvenience”.

It is not clear how rife the practice is, and I cannot help thinking that it is all an amusing and effective publicity stunt. On the other hand, if you are looking for a mattress to stuff your money under, you may just as well pay for it with money plucked from your underwear.    

Rat Of The Week

We may be used to seeing rats in our Houses of Parliament, but they seem to be a rarity in the more tranquil setting of the Andalusian parliament in Seville.

Members were considering the appointment of Susana Diaz, the previous regional president, as senator of the region. Midway through her speech, Marta Bosquet, reacted in horror as she noticed a large rat wander through the chamber. Pandemonium broke out as the parliamentarians broke into two factions, those who sought to escape from the creature and those who wanted to capture it, the doves and the hawks, you might say.

Eventually, order was restored, and Ms Diaz was duly appointed. What happened to the rat has not been reported.

There is no truth in the rumour that an invitation to a party of British MPs has been withdrawn.

The Devil’s Dictionary (12)

I have always tended towards pessimism on the basis that I will never be disappointed. Ambrose Bierce in his The Devil’s Dictionary, first published in book form in 1906, defined pessimism as “a philosophy forced upon the convictions of the observer by the disheartening prevalence of the optimist with his scarecrow hope and his unsightly smile”, part of a philosophy, which is “a route of many roads leading from nowhere to nothing”.

A physician may be someone “upon whom we set our hopes when ill and our dogs when well”, but Bierce reserves his characteristic scorn and scepticism for those practicing on the edge of scientific acceptability. Phrenology he defines as “the science of picking the pocket through the scalp, It consists in locating and exploiting the organ that one is a dupe with”. Physiognomy, meanwhile, is“the art of determining the character of another by the resemblances and differences between his face and our own, which is the standard of excellence”.

From this distance it is always interesting to see how cutting-edge technology then was viewed. Bierce, of course, is willing to oblige. A photograph is “a picture painted by the sun without instruction in art” while a phonograph is “an irritating toy that restores life to dead noises”. I’m sure they will never catch on!

Still, the latter may be better than a piano. Bierce defines one as “a parlour utensil for subduing the impenitent visitor. It is operated by depressing the keys of the machine and the spirits of the audience”. Quite!

Shanky’s Whip

Veering somewhat off course, this week I am featuring an impressive Irish whiskey liqueur, Shanky’s Whip, from Shanky and Shireman’s and imported into this country by Biggar and Leith. Just from looking at the bottle you can tell that it is the result of the application of care, skill, and innovation.

The bottle is dumpy in shape and made from clear glass, with the word “Ireland” embossed on its shoulder. The artwork is terrific and designed to make it stand out from the field. It looks like the front of a vintage matchbox with banners in a bold red with white lettering and an illustration on a yellowy gold background. Look more carefully and the illustration is of the fantastical Irish jockey, Shanky, the wild boy of racing. Having been thrown from his horse, he picks himself up, attaches an ostrich to a cart and, whip in hand, completes the course.   

You could call it a whiskey liqueur for those who are not too keen on whiskey, blended and distilled to eliminate the burn that you associate with a drop of the hard stuff. A combination of Irish spirits and aged pot still whiskey, blended with the natural flavour of vanilla and infused with caramel and with an ABV of 33%, it is distilled in County Cavan and bottled by Shanky and Shireman under bond in Ireland. It is designed to stand out from the field.

In the glass it is black in colour rather like a stout. It is remarkably smooth in the mouth, rather like a cream liqueur but without the texture you associate with cream, and rich, mixing wonderful notes of caramel and vanilla with the spiciness of but not the astringency of Irish whiskey. If you could put the best bits of Irish stout, Irish cream, and Irish whiskey into one glass, the result would be Shanky’s Whip.    

The presentation bottle had a very distinctive racing theme, another clever piece of marketing. The suggested servings came in the form of a race card, giving the odds and run down of the runners and riders. I always think that you should taste a drink for the first time neat and so I went for On The Rocks, running in plain yellow colours with a starting price of 2-1. A big measure of the spirit and a couple of ice cubes provided for an enticing introduction to the subtlety and deliciousness of the spirit.

Next up was The Long and Short of It, red with a yellow sash and with odds of 5-2. The serving was one part Shanky’s Whip, four parts Coca Cola Spicy Notes, featuring lime, ginger, rosemary, jasmine, and jalapeno, served over ice in a long glass. This made for a refreshing and moreish drink, the liqueur showing that it was more than capable of working in conjunction with other flavours without losing its distinctive edge.

For those of you who like to take your spirits in the form of shots, Short and Stout, yellow with spots with a starting price of 6-1, encourages you to drop a shot of Shanky’s into an ice-cold pint of stout. It worked well, but for the purist there is nothing better than The Whip, yellow with red band, 100-1 outsider, a chilled shot of Shanky’s Whip. Perfection.

This is a very versatile drink which shows its colours either on its own or as part of a cocktail. It quickly made its way into my winners’ enclosure.

Until the next time, cheers!

Murder In The Maze

A review of Murder in the Maze by J J Connington

There is something profoundly unsettling about entering a maze. With its high hedges and labyrinth of paths, the object of the exercise is to find your way to the centre and then out again. It may take you five minutes or, if you are unfortunate in your choices, it could take a while. So bewildering can the choice of paths be and so disorientating the experience, particularly if the hedges are of a height that obscures local landmarks and the position of the sun, that you worry how you would summon help if you got lost or met with an accident.

For the crime writer a maze offers the opportunity for both an unusual venue for a crime and to increase the psychological tension for those in the maze at the time of the murder, providing the culprit can work out how to get out after committing their dastardly deed. Unsurprisingly, given its title Connington’s Murder in the Maze exploits both to their maximum in what is a superb and gripping read. Published in 1927 and reissued by The Murder Room, it is chemistry professor Alfred Stewart’s first novel to feature his detective creation, Sir Clinton Driffield, and his sidekick, Wendover.

The opening of the book is beautifully written, so enthralling and taut with psychological tension that the reader devours the pages. The denouement does not disappoint either and it is easy to see why the novel is widely regards as Connington’s finest.

We are introduced to twins, Roger and Neville Shandon. Roger has a history of shady deals while Neville, a KC, is preparing for an important trial. Both are looking for a quiet space to review some papers and go off to the maze which, conveniently, has two centres. Two guests at Whistlefields, Vera Forrest and Howard Torrance, also decide to try out the maze, but go their separate ways. Once in the maze they hear an air rifle, a cry, and the sound of someone running. Both get to their respective centres and find that the twins have both been murdered, shot by poison tipped darts.

Driffield is the local Chief Constable – in those days Chiefs were not afraid to get their hands dirty – and quickly gets to work with the faithful Wendover as his assistant. Wendover’s role is more developed than that of Watson. Of course, he is there to act as a sounding board, to ask the questions that the reader might want answered, but he also makes some important contributions to the resolution of the case.

Driffield soon established that the darts were tipped with a South American poison, curare. There is a pot of it in Roger’s collection of artefacts. Given that the twins were similar in appearance, was one murdered in mistake? Was it a professional hit? If so, how was the assassin able to navigate around the maze with such ease and get their hands on the rare poison? Driffield concludes that it is an inside job.

The third brother, who represents himself as a lazy, rather stupid, indolent sort of fellow, is also assaulted in the maze, although he escapes the fate of his brothers and as the investigations continue, the niece is shot with a dart at a bridge party that in a sting that a seemingly negligent Driffield has set up. Suspects come under the spotlight only to be dismissed and there are enough red herrings to maintain the tension and pace of the narrative.                  

Eventually Driffield pieces the clues together, as does the attentive reader as Connington is scrupulously fair, and all that is left is to smoke them out. The justice meted out at the end is natural rather than judicial, although I would have thought that the slaying of members of a noted family is not something that could have been swept under the carpet, even then.

I really enjoyed the book, did not want it to end and left thinking that Connington was sadly underrated.