Martin Fone's Blog, page 21

Bloodshed In Bayswater

A review of Bloodshed in Bayswater by John Rowland – 250222

This is the debut novel of John Rowland, originally published in 1935 and reissued by Galileo Publishing, which introduces his readers to his series detective, Inspector Shelley. It is a novel that certainly starts off with a bang with three murders within the first fifty pages or so but the frenzy of activity also presents the author with a problem as the rest of the book cannot sustain the pace and seems to stall with much of what follows at best feeling like padding before the mystery is resolved.

Part of my problem with the plot is that while circumstantially there seems to be an obvious suspect, it is quite obvious fairly early on who is the real culprit, although the double identity is a neat twist. Having quite easily solved the puzzle the reader then has to wait for almost a hundred pages to have their suspicions confirmed, making the rest of the book a bit of a plod.

I also wonder whether the motive is strong enough to drive someone to commit four murders. It seems a lot of trouble and effort to get one’s hands on a key to a safe which contains the secrets of a new form of heavy petrol which is predicted to revolutionise the motor car industry, especially as they are only interested in the money. There must be easier picking elsewhere that could be obtained with just a fraction of the effort.

And then there is Margery Latimer. She is one of the most exasperating characters I have come across. She witnesses the aftermath of the first murder which happens within sight of her bedroom window, a handsome man who steps out of the car in which Sir Henry Henshaw, the famous racing motorist, has been stabbed to death. Margery provides some information to the investigating officer, Shelley, but when she takes a new and lucrative position at National Anti-Speed Association (NA-SA), a campaign group determined to slow the pace of life down, she fails to pass on the information that her new employer, John Cook, is the very man she saw leave the scene of the crime.

Instead she falls in love with him and withholds information from Shelley that would have helped to resolve the mystery. Surprisingly, Shelley, who comes across as an energetic but fair officer of the law, is sympathetic towards her rather than threatening to throw the book at her empty head. In her desperation to protect John Cook, who was in the vicinity of the next two murders, those of Lord Chaney the speedboat racer, and Victor Dunn, a motor manufacturer, both attracting the ire of NA-SA, Margery falls for every trick in the book. She even gets tied up and bound not once but twice.

Inevitably, in a breathless denouement Margery’s blundering stupidity puts her in a situation where her life is in peril and, of course, it is John Cook who steps in at the last minute to save her bacon as well as providing Shelley with the solution to the mystery. Cook is not quite who he seems to be and like Margery’s guardian, Bellingham, has a dual identity. The involvement of the George Washington Detective Agency seems just like padding, adding little to the plot and too lame to be considered a red herring.

There is a lot about this book which exasperated me but it was an easy read, laced with humour, whether intentional or otherwise. Having read Rowland’s later Calamity in Kent, I know he is capable of better and put this down to a debutant finding his feet.

Silver Screen

“None of our readers”, urged the Rhyl Record and Advertiser in its edition of Saturday, March 27, 1897, “should miss this repeat entertainment, which takes place at the Town Hall, on Tuesday next…there will be many fresh Living Pictures and these are now shown on a new silver screen which brings the pictures out almost as well as electric light”.

The showman bringing this new form of entertainment to the denizens of Rhyl was Arthur Cheetham, who, the report affirms, had already taken it to over 30 Welsh towns and knows what the public want. He had engaged, “at great expense”, the Welsh baritone, Mr T. Amos Jones to sing a couple of songs which, along with all the others sung during the evening by Mrs Cheetham, presumably secured at no expense, and others, were “illustrated with life modelled slides shown on the new screen.

To complete the evening, Madame Williamson will “give selections on the American concert bells. If this is not enough to fill the Town Hall to overflowing”, the report concluded without a trace of irony, “then nothing will”. What is fascinating about this insight into the social life of Rhyl is that it is one of the earliest references in print to the silver screen.

Cheetham had found a winning formula, and continued touring his show around Wales and even venturing further afield, the Isle of Wight Observer carrying an advertisement in 1900 for an exhibition featuring “the Latest Cinematograph (Living Pictures on the Silver Screen”, which sounds suspiciously like his template. He dubbed his new method of displaying moving pictures the “Silvograph” and by 1906 had amassed enough money to open Rhyl’s first permanent cinema, the Central Hall in Market Street.

The opening night, in late May, promised “the Silvograph animated pictures” and to entice the crowd “150 presents were to be given away to the first persons purchasing tickets on the opening day”. Tickets cost a shilling for front seats, sixpence for second seats, and three pence for the back and gallery. A few days later an advertisement promised “the steadiest pictures in the world”. The content was described as amusing, entertaining, educational, and refined and there were two houses nightly, at 7 and 8.30 pm, with a complete change of programme at each house. There was also a show at 3pm on bank Holidays and “wet days”. Cheetham also went on to open cinemas Aberystwyth, Colwyn Bay, Manchester, and Eccles.

Camera technology was continually evolving. By 1897 a rotating camera had been developed which allowed shots to be taken panning across the scenery and by the early 1900s minor special effects, successive action shots and even close ups were introduced. These enabled nascent film studios to produce “chase films” where the villain was chased by the hero for much of the film, a genre that became wildly popular. By 1910 actors were beginning to be credited in the films.

An inhibitor to these technological advances was the quality of the image displayed to the paying public. Adele De Berri, a cookware demonstrator from Chicago, was fascinated by the reflective qualities of silver paint and recognised its potential for producing a better projection surface. After months of experimentation, she found the right mix that worked on canvas, patented her discovery, founded a company, Da-Lite in 1909, and sold her invention to the vaudevilles and picture houses in Illinois and across the United States.

An early adopter of De Berri’s silver screen was the Lyric Theatre in Perth Amboy which the local evening newspaper reported on September 4, 1909 had “been equipped with a new patent silver-coated screen upon which the pictures will be shown”. The following year the Gem Theatre in North Dakota had a new screen “coated with aluminum or silver paint” which made “each stand out a great deal more distinctly than on the old screen.” The crisper images were a hit with audiences.

However, while De Barri scooped the plaudits, it is clear that early projectionists, Cheetham amongst them, had discovered is that by coating a screen made of silk or another fabric with silver dust, the quality of the image was greatly enhanced at least a decade before. There were drawbacks, however, with silver screens.

Their inability to completely disperse light meant that they provided narrower vertical and horizontal viewing angles than their later counterparts and with a single projection source the centre of the projection screen tended to be over-saturated with light, leaving the peripheries darker, a phenomenon known as hot-spotting. Although silver screens were eventually phased out, the term morphed into a metonym to describe movies and the film industry in general.

The Case Of The Extra Man

A review of The Case of the Extra Man by Christopher Bush – 250219

There are some common themes running through Christopher Bush’s oeuvre such as resentment at the high level of British taxation, a fixation with women’s hair colouring, and the use of actors to establish a seemingly water-tight alibi, to name just a few. Added to the list is his dislike of crooners, first manifesting itself in The Case of the Housekeeper’s Hair and given full voice in this, the forty-eighth novel in his Ludovic Travers series, originally published in 1956 and reissued by Dean Street Press.

The husband of Travers’ client, Doris Bosford, made a living as a crooner until a throat problem forced him to look elsewhere for a source of income. This premature end to a show-biz career prompts Travers to remark, “it seemed to me that to qualify as a crooner one’s throat had to be in pretty bad shape from the outset”. Ouch.

Travers is still riding two horses, as Chairman and owner of the Broad Street Detective Agency and occasional consultant to the Yard, brought in to deal with the occasional ticklish case by his old sparring partner, George Wharton. These roles mean that occasionally Travers has to walk a fine line between preserving his own client’s confidentiality, the bedrock upon which his agency is founded, and being open and above board in his dealings with and his investigations on behalf of the police.

The potential for conflict in these two roles becomes clear as the Case of the Extra Man reaches its denouement and Travers, while knowing the truth about the demise of restaurateur, Dupont, written off by the police as a suicide, decides to keep quiet to protect a family member of his second client. With Travers as the narrator these conflicts of conscience and ethics come into sharper focus. Whether he made the right choice, though, is debatable.

The hallmark of a Christopher Bush is his ability to weave disparate strands into a satisfying whole. We have the disappearance of a husband, who seems to have found a lucrative source of income in the smuggling of goods, the discovery of a body washed up on the shore, a box under Doris Bosford’s bed which contains a lot of money, the rather over hasty identification of a corpse of which there is barely anything recognizable and the appearance of a mystery woman at the subsequent inquest.

Then we have the theft of some jewelry which Travers investigates on behalf of an insurance company, which brings Edward Cortin, his wife and Henry Calvert, Cortin’s brother-in-law, into the story followed by Cortin’s employment of Travers because of his concerns that his wife is being blackmailed. Of course, as the story progresses we see that these elements all knit together.

It is a tale of smuggling, double crossing and double identities, involving a very distinctive tattoo, which is over-inked to confuse identity – no laser surgery in those days – greed, and bigamy which leads to an attempt to cash in on that knowledge. There is more than a little coincidence and it was surely a mistake on the part of one of the culprits to reconstruct the very distinctive frontage of a restaurant in Dijon in an up-and-coming night spot in London, the Restaurant Club Antoine Dupont in Osbert Street, just off Jermyn Street. Naturally, Travers had been to the original in 1938 and a trip to Dijon, at the taxpayers’ expense, leads him to piecing together the identities of those involved and the identity of the extra man in the case.

Wharton and Travers seem to co-exist much better in what I found to be an enjoyable and entertaining story with Bush on top form.  

April Fool’s Day

Does it owe its origins to the Roman festival of Hilaria, celebrated on March 25th in honour of the goddess Cybele, during which all kinds of games and amusements, including masquerades, were allowed? Participants were given licence to imitate whoever they chose, including those in authority. Or was it linked to the pagan belief that following the vernal equinox which heralds in spring Mother Nature plays tricks by bringing changeable and unpredictable weather?

Or were its roots a hangover of the introduction of Gregorian calendar in France in1582, in line with the decision of the Council of Trent of 1563? The new calendar moved the start of the year from April 1st to the beginning of January, but not everyone caught on to or accepted the seismic change at first. Those who persisted with the old ways were the butt of jokes and pranks around April 1st. One particular trick was to pin a paper fish on people’s backs and calling them poison d’avril. The term is still used in France to denote a gullible person who has fallen for an April fool’s joke.

Whatever its origins by the 18th century the British were enthusiastic participants in the pranks and japes surrounding April Fool’s Day, none more so than the Scottish who extended the fun over two days. The first was known as Huntigowk Day or in Gaelioc La na Gocaireachd, a gowk being a cuckoo, a synonym for a foolish person.

The most common prank was to ask the victim to deliver a sealed letter to someone supposedly asking for the recipient’s help. However, the message inside actually read, “Dinna laugh, dinna smile, hunt the gowk another mile”. The recipient, though, would only help if the victim secured the assistance of another person and they were sent off with another sealed letter carrying the self-same message. The fun would continue until the victim realised that they had been taken for a ride, sometimes even literally.

The second day was known as Tallie Day. Here the pranks were less convoluted, often simply consisting of pinning fake tails on backs or signs inviting passers-by to kick the posterior of the victims, not unlike the French custom of poisson d’avril.

By the early 20th century there was a very clear structure imposed on the playing of April Fool jokes in Britain. The golden rule was that the trick had to be played by midday on April 1st otherwise the trick would rebound on the would-be prankster and they would be declared the April Fool.         

Forewarned is forearmed!

Red Faces Of The Week (12)

Alfred Nobel read his own obituary while still alive, which described him as a “merchant of death”, prompting him to establish the Nobel Prizes. At least some good came out of the mistake but it must have been a nasty surprise to find out what people really thought of you. So much for nil nisi bonum de mortuis.

Arda Kardzhali, based in the south of Bulgaria, play in the country’s top division. Before their recent home fixture against Levski Sofia, both teams lined up in the centre of the pitch to pay their respects to a former player of theirs, Petko Ganchev. The occasion was dutifully respected and the teams battled out a 1-1 draw.

As for the 75-year-old Petko, he was driving home when the tribute was broadcast and his phone immediately lit up with messages from concerned friends and well-wishers. Arriving home ten minutes into the game, he found his wife in tears, saying “Petko, Petko, they’ve announced on TV that you have passed away!”

During the course of the match, Arda rushed out a post on Facebook informing their followers and anyone else who drifted by that they had made a dreadful mistake. Rather than being six feet under Ganchev was alive and well. Trying to make the best of a bad job, they went on to wish him many more years of health so that he could enjoy the continued successes of Arda.

A bit of an own goal, for sure.

The Banquet Ceases

A review of The Banquet Ceases by Mary Fitt – 250217

Mary Fitt is the nom de plume of Classics lecturer Kathleen Freeman and The Banquet Ceases, originally published in 1949 and reissued by Moonstone Press, is the thirteenth novel in her Superintendent Mallett series, I am always unsure about a story that gives two resolutions, one that is sufficient to satisfy the police precipitated by a convenient suicide, albeit in custody, and an alternative given by way of a death bed confession in an epilogue. The latter, which means that there are two murderers, seems the more convincing.

That said, it is a fascinating read, a story that centres on two men who are almost polar opposites. Bernard Smith-Wilson is a successful businessman but he is dogged by ill-health, the party he throws at Fairfield Manor intended to celebrate his recovery from his latest illness. However, he knows that he will never recover his former health and vigour and the banquet is his way of reconciling himself to that fate, the books title drawing on a mournful phrase from an elegy written by the 18th century poet, William Shenstone.

On the other hand, Rupert Lavering is everything a man could aspire to be, dashing, with an exemplary war record, winning the Victoria Cross, with a pretty bride and a business as a stockbroker. What is interesting in Fitt’s treatment of him is an appreciation of the difficulties facing a man of action settling back down to civilian life with friends and acquaintances having to make allowances for any lapses in his behaviour.

Initially, the focus on the two initially generates a wave of sympathy in the reader for Bernard but we soon learn that there is a much darker side to him. He is obsessed with Rupert’s wife, Louise, a childhood friend and uses the aftermath of the party to separate her from her husband and to declare his true feelings for her. Meanwhile he is also planning to ruin Rupert’s stockbroking business by an egregious attempt to manipulate the price of shares in West United in which Rupert, at his prompting, has told his clients, some of whom are also at the party, to invest heavily.

We also learn that Rupert had invented a new form of carburettor before the War which Bernard’s engineering firm had put into production but that there was only a gentleman’s agreement between the two about remuneration for the idea. While ostensibly Bernard is seen to be supportive of and generous towards Rupert, there is a much more Machiavellian side to his character, one determined to do his friend down and steal his bride.

When Bernard is found dead, having been poisoned with atropine, the initial finger of suspicion points towards Rupert, who by then had begun to see the extent of the plot against him. However, the use of poison does not really fit well with his persona of a successful warrior. As the story unfolds we see that there are others at the party who also have grievances against him an all had access to the poison which, conveniently, Bernard is particularly vulnerable to and is to be found in his mother’s eye drops and linament.

Two of the other characters, Olivia Bannamore and Bernard’s secretary, Rupert Holmes -Fitt’s use of that surname so resonant in the history of detective fiction as a potential rogue made me smile – work hard to frustrate Bernard’s share price manipulation scheme. Holmes, in particular, is an interesting creation, an Anticrat, a radical determined to overthrow the new world order.

Mallett tries to make sense of what is going on but the detective element of the story is at best half-hearted and he is only too eager to jump at a theory presented to him on a silver platter by Olivia. However, eccentric as he might be he is an unlikely suspect and the truth lies somewhere between a woman scorned and an overly protective mother. The odd secret passage also helps. Mallett’s medical companion, Fitzbrown makes an occasional appearance while Jones only appears at the end when Fitzbrown discusses the resolution with him.

Despite being only moderately successful as a murder mystery, the strength of the book lies in Fitt’s characterization and her exploration of the interrelationships and the psychology of her cast. This is what makes the book a fascinating read and a worthy addition to her canon of reissued works.

Haysmith’s Seville Orange and Persian Lime Gin

It is easy to be sniffy about the exclusive range of gins offered by discount supermarkets like Aldi. For sure there are some God awful creations and it sticks in the craw that many are blatantly ersatz versions of more premium products that distillers have spent time, money and not an inconsiderable amount of ingenuity in creating. But lurking within the shelves are some gems. One such is Haysmith’s Seville Orange and Persian Lime Gin.

Clearly “modelled” on Tanqueray’s Sevilla Orange Gin but selling at almost half the price, it is rather moreish with zesty, bright citrus notes accompanied by the more subdued tones of juniper and liquorice with a nice warming saffron-like finish. It has wowed the critics, winning the “Best in Country” accolade at the World Gin Awards in 2024 and I can see why, although with an ABV of just 37.5% it is a little underpowered for my taste.

The bottle is the familiar Haysmith design with clear glass embossed on the side with the encouraging message that it has been expertly crafted, and an orange theme to the labelling to distinguish it from the other gins in their range.

There is not much more to be said. There is clearly a place in the market for budget-priced gins and provided that they are of a reasonable quality, that has got to be good news for the gin drinker in these straitened times.

Tyres And Restaurants

The Michelin brothers, Édouard and André, showed no little ingenuity in promoting their range of tyres, first by creating Bibendum, the Michelin Man, voted in 2000 by the Financial Times as the best logo in the world and, according to a survey, recognised by 90% of the world’s population. Then in 1900 they produced Guide Michelin, which provided motorists with essential information for planning their journeys, including maps,not only of regions but detailed city and town plans, information on how to change and repair tyres, lists of car mechanics, hotels, and petrol stations throughout the France.

The first print run was around 35,000, enormously ambitious considering at the time there were fewer than 3,000 cars in France, but their objective was to provide an aspiring motorist with the confidence that they had everything they needed at their fingertips to make a journey. It was the Michelin brothers’ fervent belief that the guide, distributed free of charge, would boost the demand for cars and, by extension, tyres.

A guide was then published for Belgium in 1904, for Algeria and Tunisia in 1907, for the Alps and the Rhine region in 1908, for Germany, Spain, and Portugal in 1910 and, eventually, for the British Isles in 1911. Publication was suspended during the First World War but once peace returned, the guide made a reappearance, although some significant changes were afoot.

André, the story goes, was so horrified to find a pile of guides holding up the workbench of a tyre merchant that he decided that it should no longer be provided gratis. From 1922 they introduced a charge of 7.50 francs and expanded its contents by listing restaurants by specific categories and adding details of hotels, initially in Paris only, and dispensing with advertisements. Such was the éclat of the guide, especially its restaurant section, that the introduction of a charge did not affect its popularity.

To give the restaurant section extra bite, the brothers recruited a team of inspectors, paid for by Michelin, who would visit restaurants unannounced and incognito and submit reviews. The aim was to give prospective diners the confidence that their choice of restaurant was being guided by unbiased reviews. In 1926 the guide began to award stars to restaurants, a single one indicating that it was worth a stop. By 1931, though, a scale of zero, one, two, and three stars had been established.

In 1936 this was scaled down and for the first time the criteria for awarding a star were published. A single star meant that the establishment was very good in its category, two that there was excellent cooking worthy of a detour, while three meant that there was exceptional cuisine well worth making a special journey for. The system is still in place and has been expanded to other countries, the receipt of one can be the pinnacle of a chef’s career, a validation of their skill and expertise. At the time of writing, there are nine restaurants in Great Britain and Ireland that hold Michelin three star rating.

Over time new awards and categories have been introduced to reflect changing tastes and outlooks, including Green Stars, introduced in 2020 to symbolise excellence in sustainable gastronomy, the Bib Gourmand, from 1997 awarded to restaurants offering exceptionally good food at moderate prices, and from 2016 the Plate, recognising restaurants that simply serve good food. In 2024 a key rating system was introduced for hotels.

In 2021 in a nod to modernity, annual published editions, other than for France, Itay, Japan, and Spain, were replaced by a digital publication and an app which allowed for instant updates and expanded the reach of the guide. The Michelin Guide has come a long way from being a vehicle to promote the sale of tyres.

British TV Soaps

With the increasingly widespread ownership of television sets in the 1950s, soap operas began to find their way on to their schedules. The first to air in Britain was a children’s programme, The Appleyards, featuring a family including four children living in the Home Counties. It ran for eleven series from October 1952 to April 1957 and was transmitted fortnightly. Curiously, the children never grew, the actors being replaced to give the sense that time had stood still.

The first soap aimed at an adult audience was The Grove Family, aired on the BBC from June 2, 1954 and ran for 148 episodes until June 28, 1957. Following the lives of a lower middle-class family, the Groves who took their name from the Lime Grove studios, its showed the father, Bob, a builder no less, and his attempts to better himself.  

The 1960s could be regarded as the golden age of soaps with commercial TV exploiting the opportunities to garner large audiences and increase advertising revenue by launching the blockbuster and longest running TV soap Coronation Street and, four years later, Crossroads, which had a quirky charm of its own.

In comparison, the BBC’s response to the new challenge was lame. Compact, launched in 1964 and set in the world of fashion publishing, lasted just a year and The Coopers, the tale of a London family who had moved out to a small satellite town, Angleton, while lasting four years, hardly set the world alight.

It was not until the BBC hit on EastEnders that they had a credible rival to Coronation Street or The Archers, although it was initially the home for the long running Welsh language soap, Pobol y Cwym, which has been running for 47 years, starting life on BBC Wales and before transferring, in 1982, to SC4.

What is clear is that soaps are a story that will run and run.

The Ten Teacups

A review of The Ten Teacups by Carter Dickson – 250214

Carter Dickson was a nom de plume used by John Dickson Carr for his Sir Henry Merrivale of which The Ten Teacups, which also goes by the title of The Peacock Feather Murders, was the sixth. Originally published in 1937, it has now been reissued as part of the British Library Crime Classics series and a great read it is too.

The story starts off, foreshadowing Agatha Christie’s much later A Murder is Announced with Chief Inspector Masters receiving an anonymous note stating that “there will be ten teacups at Number 4 Berwick Terrace…at 5pm precisely”. Recognising that this follows a similar template that led up two years earlier to the murder of William Dartley, Masters takes no risks but despite a police presence Vance Keating is found dead in a room containing ten teacups, two of which had been damaged in his fall. Two shots, one muffled, were heard and it is clear that the victim was shot at close quarters. However, no one was seen entering or leaving the room. A classic Carr/Carter setup.   

The solution to locked room murder mysteries, I find, are either pretty straightforward involving some manipulation of the circumstances or evidence in a way that is blindingly obvious once it is revealed or involves a degree of ingenuity that defies belief. The solution to The Ten Teacups falls squarely into the latter category. Even for a first-class sportsman who is adept at throwing accurately, to throw a gun in the dark the length of a cricket pitch through a window and to get it to land so that its highly sprung mechanism operates to give the desired effect takes some doing. To repeat the trick, this time with a knife, stretches credulity to breaking point.

It helps that Keating seems to be extremely naïve, falling hook, line, and sinker for a plan designed to lead to his murder, including buying a house at incredibly short notice and standing in precisely the right place at the right time, as per instructions, so that the murderer can achieve their goal with the minimum of fuss. Nevertheless, he does gain some sort of revenge by sabotaging a revision to his will by a clandestine action that wrong foots the conspirators.

The subsequent murder of the butler, Bartlett, is a case of a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. An ill-fitting hat worn by a man who is punctilious about his dress, what really went on at a dress rehearsal for a game of Murder, a popular parlour game in the 1930s and one which in detective fiction often leads to a real killing, and why Keating missed the party go a long way to solving the mystery and narrowing down the suspects to only one. At its heart it is a story of greed and the attractions of a femme fatale.

Much of the rest of the story, including the earlier murder of Dartley, a crime committed by someone else, and the mystique of the cult of the ten teacups are enormous red herrings, designed to divert the reader’s attention elsewhere. Despite the bulk of the book being the investigation, the red herrings and the interplay between the eccentric Sir Henry Merrivale, who is very much of the inactive, cogitating school of amateur sleuths, and his more active and less gifted professional police colleagues and no little humour make it an enjoyable read.

I particularly enjoyed Soar’s trick near the end of hiding Bartlett’s body in plain sight and frustrating the frantic efforts of the police to find the third man whom they knew had entered but not left the house.  

The story is well and fairly clued and the final chapter which contains Merrivale’s reconstruction has helpful references to each clue that he uses so that the reader can go back and see what they might have missed. While it might frustrate the purists, I find that with some writers, Carr and Mitchell in particular, the suspension of belief is a prerequisite when opening the front cover.