Martin Fone's Blog, page 25

Scarweather

A review of Scarweather by Anthony Rolls – 250117

Anthony Rolls is the nom de plume of Colwyn Vulliamy and the only other book of his that I Have read is Family Matters, also reissued as part of the British Library Crime Classics series. Scarweather is an oddity, a reverse of its subject matter, an old relic in a shiny new genre that was breaking new ground.

The principal problem is that the murder mystery element of the story is too obvious. It is too easy to work out what the side hustle of Professor Tolgen Reisby is, why he has so many odd visitors, why he has so many unaccountable mood swings, why the barque, Emil Gunterhausen, lurks off the isolated coastline near Scarweather where the professor lives, and why he often goes out on late night or early boat trips.

The game is given away early on in the book when the principal sleuth, Frederick Ellingham, described as a brilliant scientist with a faculty for acquiring knowledge with astonishing rapidity, and the narrator of the story, John Farringdale, see Reisby playing chess with a man in a run-down establishment. The man brought the chess set in but the professor took it away.

The principal “mystery” is the disappearance of Farringdale’s cousin, Eric Foster, presumed dead, who has developed an interest in archaeology and a friendship with the professor and an unwelcome interest in the professor’s much younger wife, Hilda. While out with the professor on a boat trip for a spot of swimming, he disappears and the body is not recovered. Ellingham has a theory about what happened to the unfortunate Foster but the First World War, in which both he and his faithful Watson-like companion, Farringdale, serve with distinction.

After the war Ellingham becomes an expert in archaeology and is both surprised and fascinated that Reisby is proposing to open up the Devil’s Hump, a Bronze Age burial mound, which he is convinced holds the key to the fate of Foster. A skeleton is uncovered which has some unusual features in that the bones are fresh, the teeth are shiny, and the skeleton bears the exact two physical defects that Foster had.

While the archaeological “experts” are content to hail it as an important find and a tableau of the burial chamber and the skeleton at rest is opened with due pomp and ceremony and takes pride of place at the Northport Museum, Ellingham has a different explanation of what it all means. Accompanied by Farringdale, he confronts Reisby with the truth, resulting in a dramatic and fatal boat chase.

The mystery was so simple that I was expecting a twist in the tail and in a way I got one, the decision to let sleeping dogs lie, and protect Reisby’s academic reputation and those of the other archaeological experts taken in. Even more astonishingly, Farringdale is content to allow his cousin’s body to remain on display in a grotesque misrepresentation of a Bronze Age burial, a sentiment seemingly shared by Foster’s erstwhile lover and ultimately Farringdale’s wife, Hilda Reisby. Bizarre.

The book, though, is a good read and in parts will challenge the range of the reader’s vocabulary. Farringdale, a little naïve to be convincing as a barrister and somewhat unimaginative, is a reliable narrator. I read the book as a satire on archaeology and its practitioners, which is done knowledgeably and well, and as much, if not more, an exploration of the consequences of crime than a conventional whodunit. Seen in that light, it makes up for the damp squib of a plot.

The Pet Massacre Of 1939 (2)

The voluntary cull of domestic pets at the outbreak of the Second World War was not universally supported. Despite having representatives on the National Air Raid Precautions Animal Committee (NARPAC) that gave the ill-fated advice, veterinarian groups such as the RSPCA and the PDSA were against the measures, Maria Dickin, the founder of the latter organization, commenting that “our technical officers called upon to perform this unhappy duty will never forget the tragedy of those days”.

The Army’s Veterinary Corps thought that many of the dogs slaughtered could have been co-opted into performing military functions, while Susan Day, writing in the Daily Mirror, advising her readers that “putting your pets to sleep is a very tragic decision. Do not take it before it is absolutely necessary”. Nevertheless, the massacre continued, the RSPCA’s magazine, Animal World commenting in October 1939 that “the work of destroying animals was continued, day and night, during the first week of the war.

Many owners were anxious to find an alternative home for their animals, and one source of refuge was the Battersea Dogs and Cats Home which during the war and despite having just four full-time members of staff, rescued and fed over 145,000 dogs during the course of the war. Other charities, such as the Wood Green animal centre, provided shelter and succour to many thousands of pets. The PDSA, distressed by the heaps of animal corpses outside veterinary practices as their incinerators ground to a halt from the sheer volume, donated a field in Ilford, now incorporated into the Ilford Pet Cemetery, where about half a million animals were buried, including many victims of the voluntary cull.

Curiously, all this happened at a time when British propaganda was highlighting the difference between the British and Nazi treatment of animals. A chow, Barchen, became a cause celebre, abandoned by the German ambassador, Ribbentrop, when their London embassy was evacuated. In an article anthropomorphizing the animal, published on September 7th, the Daily Mirror had it criticizing its master, citing it as saying “his was a smell of hatred and cruelty. It sent to my mind something that made e cringe”. A leader in the paper pointed out that “that’s what Britain is fighting – the inherent brutality of Nazi-ism that has no justice or human feeling – even for its pets”.

Compare and contrast the care and concern for Hippy, a Dachsbrake, brought home by Sir Nevile Henderson, the British ambassador to Germany, when the Berlin embassy was evacuated. What the press did not reveal is that Hippy barely survived its enforced six month quarantine. While the contrasting fates of Barchen and Hippy were being used to highlight the differences between the warring nations, the Times was reporting that animal shelters were overflowing with pets that were brought in to be euthanized in accordance with the recommendations of a government committee.

Next time we will look at the reasons behind the cull and the aftermath.

The Case Of The Amateur Actor

A review of The Case of the Amateur Actor by Christopher Bush – 250115

The forty-seventh novel in Bush’s long-running Ludovic Travers series, originally published in 1955 and reissued by Dean Street Press, sees a welcome return to form. Of course it would not be a Bush novel without the familiar structure, not just two but three seemingly unrelated murders that intertwine into an ultimately satisfying case and, inevitably, as foreshadowed by the book’s title, another case where an actor is used to throw the sleuth’s off the scent.

The first strand is the murder of George Posfort, a literary agent, lured to a hotel on the pretence of meeting a well-known actor. He is shot brutally and callously several times in the stomach at close range. The case sees the welcome return of the familiar duo of George Wharton of the Yard and Travers, reprising his role as a consultant as they sift through the evidence. The behaviour of Posfort, it emerges, was a key factor in the suicide of his former secretary, Caroline Halsing, who was left pregnant, and while several of her extended family appear to have good motives for killing him, they have apparently solid and unshakeable alibis. The case seems to just fizzle out.

The second murder is treated almost inconsequentially. On the same night as Posfort was killed, Rickson is beaten to death on his way home from the station and his attache case is taken. Curiously, the murder took place in Marland where one of the Haze brothers, Roland, lives and he was one of the principal suspects in the Posfort case.

The third strand is the disappearance and, ultimately, murder of Richard Alton, a schoolmaster and keen amateur actor with aspirations to make a go of it professionally. He is suddenly lured away without warning and because he had socialist sympathies and following his disappearance sent a letter from the British occupied section of Berlin, the initial theory is that he was a Red who had been “called behind the Iron Curtain”. These fanciful theories are soon put to rest as Alton’s body is found in a ditch by the side of the road.

Travers initially is involved in the Alton case in his own right, employed as a private investigator by Joan Crewe, a friend of Alton’s and to whom he wrote a letter immediately prior to his disappearance. In it he claims that one of his sketches had been well received by a literary agent but Travers’ investigations fail to corroborate the story. The discovery of Alton’s body brings Wharton back on the scene and the duo resume their partnership.

Both Travers and Crewe are keen crossword fans and the thought strikes them that Alton may have left a clue in the letter that would seem to be innocuous to the lay reader but would ring bells with a seasoned cruciverbalist. Careful reading of the text reveals two strings of words, the first letter of each making up an acronym.

Armed with this information Travers is able to discover how Alton was lured to London, a magazine competition tellingly inviting entrants to send photographs in which they appear to have the physical characteristics of a famous person, the role he was invited to play that helped establish an alibi, and why he, and then Rickson, had to be murdered. As Wharton and Travers had long suspected, the murder of Posfort was a case of revenge.

Despite there being only two obvious suspects, Bush maintains the tension and mystery with great aplomb with seemingly promising leads going nowhere, a false confession and a twist in the tail. Even when the culprit is unmasked, they are seemingly at ease, almost as if they are happy to accept their fate, a peace of mind, though, brought on by a lethal dose of Cenophine, the drug also used to kill Alton.

This is a welcome return to form and Bush has created an entertaining and enthralling mystery. After all, what makes a good architect is not the building blocks they use but what they do with them.

Dew Ponds

Pingo ponds are natural but dew ponds are man-made, usually found in areas where natural water sources are scarce, often in upland areas and even on tops of hills. It has been suggested that it was a dew pond that Jack and Jill were visiting before their mishap.

Also known as cloud or mist ponds, the term dew pond was first used in print in 1865 in the Journal of the Royal Agricultural Society, reflecting a popular view that, given their position, their primary source of water came from dew or mist. There was some empirical evidence to suggest that, Gilbert White noting in 1788 that during prolonged summer droughts, the artificial ponds on the downs above Selborne retained their water while larger ponds in the valley below dried up.

A greater understanding of how dew was formed and the realization that as water’s heat-retaining capacity is far greater than that of earth, the summer air above a pond was unlikely to attract condensation put paid to that romantic notion. Instead it was all down to the distinctive shape of the pond, shallow, saucer-shaped, and with a wide brim which made it easier to capture and retain rainfall and run-off than other types of pond.

Constructing a dew pond was a skill that was passed down the generations as a Sussex farmer recalled in The Field (December 14, 1907). After the pool had been excavated, layers of chalk were laid down and then crushed to a powder by a team of oxen harnessed to a heavy broad-wheeled cart. Keeping the powder moist, after nearly a day the resultant puddle chalk was reduced to the consistency of a thick cream. It was then smoothed with the back of a shovel until it gleamed like glass and, after a few days, it would set as hard as cement and be impermeable to water. Often a layer of straw would be placed between the earth and the puddle clay.

“This old method of making dew ponds”, he lamented, “seems to have died out when the oxen disappeared from the Sussex hills, but it is evident that the older ponds, many of which have stood for scores of years practically without repair, are still more watertight than most modern ones in which Portland cement has been employed.“ Once a new pond had been prepared, it was usually not filled until winter, using snow which was left to melt.

When dew ponds were first constructed is another controversial topic. Rudyard Kipling in Puck of Pook’s Hill (1906) believed the craft went back to Neolithic times, attributing the Dewpond near Chanctonbury Ring to “the Flint Men”. A land deed dating from 825 AD, which references Oxenmere at Milk Hill in Wiltshire, suggests that they were in use during Saxon times, although more substantive evidence of their construction can be found in mediaeval times.

Dew ponds really became prevalent during the 18th and 19th centuries. The boom in the wool industry led to an increase in the number of sheep that were kept, many of which grazed in areas that had previously not supported livestock and where there was little in the way of natural water sources. The construction of dew ponds was an obvious solution as it was to counter the impact of the Enclosure Act (1773) which gave landowners the right to close off common land, often containing the only viable water source. Improvements in agricultural techniques and the development of an extensive and reliable water supply in the countryside during the 20th century led to many dew ponds being abandoned, falling into disrepair, and eventually being filled in. Nevertheless, some have survived, particularly in areas such as the South Downs, the Peak District, Wiltshire, and Hampshire.

Murder As A Fine Art

A review of Murder as a Fine Art by Carol Carnac – 250113

The reissue of another book by the vastly underrated Edith Caroline Rivett, this time under the pen name of Carol Carnac, is always a moment to be savoured I find and Murder as a Fine Art, the ninth in her Inspector Julian Rivers series, originally published in 1953 and now part of the British Library Crime Classics series, does not disappoint. It is a tale that graphically illustrates that you should be careful what you wish for.  

Rivett was a gifted artist, according to Martin Edwards’ informative introduction, and this novel provides her with the opportunity to share her thoughts on the art world and, in particular, modern art. The setting is the Ministry of Fine Art, established to buy and establish an art collection for the nation which could then be sent on loan to art galleries around the country. The first minister, Joyce-Lawrence, pursued his mission with some gusto, helped by a little knowledge as was believed to have been an art student in Paris “when the first Surrealist Manifesto succeeded Da-Daism”.

In an echo of modern times, after the death of Joyce-Lawrence the winds of austerity then blew through the department and Alfred Higginson was appointed, an administrator who neither liked nor understood modern art and had a Goveian distrust of experts. The current minister, Humphry David, was a bitter opponent of the establishment of the ministry and now he is in situ believes that there is something odd about a number of the paintings, a suspicion heightened by the disappearance of some correspondence.

Rivett’s thesis, if that is not too grand a term, is that modern art is so perplexing that not only can very few people understand it but that it is difficult to sort the wheat out from the chaff. Of course, what has been happening at the Ministry is that it has been the vehicle for the passing off of originals as copies and vice versa, an opportunity to make money for one or more of its employees.

As someone who relishes unusual deaths, as long as it is not mine, I could not fail to be delighted by the fate that befell the permanent secretary, Edwin Pomfret, crushed by an enormous statue of Earl Manderby, the centrepiece of the magnificent stairway, and a piece of art that Pomfret hated and often mused about toppling over. He is conceited and unwilling to admit that he is wrong, but also shares the Minister’s unease that not all is well in the state of Denmark, characteristics that seal his fate.    

Tasked with discovering the who, why, and how of the case is Julian Rivers, aided by Lancing. Rivers is a diligent, thorough, and amiable detective, a pleasant companion with whom to spend a few hours. As the investigation gets going, Rivett intersperses the endeavours of the detectives with chapters highlighting the activities of some of the principal suspects, not least those of Michael Danvers whose behaviour is calculated to invite suspicion, and the musings of some of the staff. It is a structure that works, breaking up the monotony of a full-on police procedural.

In truth, the story is a little one-paced, the highlight for me being Rivers’ through search for a vital pair of galoshes in the cellars and attic spaces thoughtfully provided by the architect, Decimus Burton, to facilitate the maintenance of the building’s Promethean furnace and roof spaces, only to realise that the obvious hiding place is underneath a hatch on the roof. There is some misdirection but the reader cannot but help believe that this is an inside job.

The story is fairly clued and the reader who pays close attention can work out the how and the why and even, possibly, the who. It was nice to see the tampering with a clock resurfacing as well as a catastrophic plane crash, and while Rivers resolves the case, Humphry David sees his wish fulfilled.

It was an engaging read and while it does not reach the heights of some of Rivett’s other works, it is a worthwhile addition to her corpus that is easily accessible. Of course, when it is all boiled down, critics only pass opinions!

Discovery Of The Week (12)

While he was looking around his back garden in suburban Sydney, David Stein’s attention was caught by six snakes moving around in a pile of mulch. Establishing that they were the highly venomous red-bellied black snakes, he called in snake catcher, Dylan Cooper.

What made the discovery more amazing was that the adults were about to give birth and in all five adults and 97 babies were removed, two of the adults giving birth to 29 babies in the bag while the clear up operation was under way. Red-bellied black snakes give birth to their young rather than laying eggs and can have a litter between four and 35 babies. They often pile on top of one another prior to giving birth.

One expert thinks that they grouped together for safety or because of a lack of suitable habitat in which to give birth. The snakes were removed to an undisclosed national park and released.

Valentine Day Massacre

How was your Valentine’s Day? According to a survey conducted for 77 Diamonds, purveyors of handcrafted rings and jewellery, of 1,015 Brits, it seems that we have fallen out of love with the hoo-hah surrounding the day. Just 25% of those in a couple make an effort to do something special to mark Valentine’s Day, meaning that three quarters choose to give it a miss.

In fact, when asked what they think about Valentine’s Day, 69% believe it to be overrated (43%), a cliché (13%), or outdated (13%). Unsurprisingly, therefore, 90% of respondents felt there is too much pressure to adhere to Valentine’s Day traditions, with 90% also believing that it has become too commercialised and, as a result, too expensive.

On the other hand, of those who are single, Valentine’s Day was voted to be one of the most difficult times of year to be without a partner (17%), second only to the Christmas period (59%).

Bad news, perhaps, for the hospitality and card and gift sectors.

Valentine’s Day remains a popular day for marriage proposals, with one in five couples choosing to get engaged on February 14th. However, 72% of the respondents to the 77 Diamond’s survey thought that a Valentine’s Day proposal was a bit of a cliché and only 21% deeming it to be romantic.

As for women having to wait until February 29th to pop the question, 87% of the respondents thought that women should feel comfortable proposing all year round.

O tempora, o mores.

The Third Encounter

A review of The Third Encounter by Sara Woods – 250111

Any sense of slight disappointment I might have had with Malice Domestic is more than compensated for by Sara Woods’ The Third Encounter, originally published in 1963 and reissued by the re-energised Dean Street Press. It also goes by the alternative title of The Taste of Fears. While it does not entirely leave the court room, although Sir Nicholas’ forensic skills are exhibited in an inquest rather than in a murder trial, it is as much a spy thriller as a murder mystery. It goes a long way to explaining Antony Maitland’s wartime experiences and the damaged shoulder he picked up as well as a tragedy that befell his wife, Jenny.

The scene is set by a short but dramatic prologue which finds Antony Maitland on a secret mission, posing as a French-speaking German and broadcasting the news, including coded messages, to the Resistance and British intelligence. Suddenly, in walks a German Commandant, Ohlendorff, whom Antony had met before the war, and his disguise is rumbled. Antony manages to escape eventually but is left with physical and mental scars of this second encounter.

We now move to the late 1950s and Antony receives a phone call at Chambers from Dr Henry Martin, a co-ordinator of British espionage operations, but when the call is put through, there is no one on the other end of the line. It emerges that around at around the time of the call, Martin was strangled and the obvious suspect is his cousin and heir, Gerry Martin. Antony and, by extension, his uncle, the formidable Sir Nicholas, are called in to defend him, believing that he is innocent. Meanwhile, Antony’s paranoia is increasing as he is convinced that he is being watched by someone from his past whom he vaguely recognizes. He is convinced that it is Ohlendorff.

Of course, the plotting requires a couple of remarkable coincidences: that Henry Martin is acting as a locum for a doctor who is acting as a liaison for the rump of the Nazis after the war and that of the four patients he saw that afternoon, two of whom were male, he would recognize one as a collaborator, Teddy Owen, who betrayed a cell of the French resistance simply to have an easier life. To prevent his and Ohlendorff’s identities being discovered, desperate measures had to be taken.

There are too few suspects to make this a complex murder mystery but the principal interest in the book is the tragic story of the betrayal of a cell of the French resistance and Antony wrestling with his demons by going back to France to track down the only survivor of the unit, Madelaine Bonnard. She was rescued by Owen and, in an unexpected twist, became mistress to Ohlendorff.

Maitland’s third encounter with Ohlendorff puts the would-be barrister in a difficult position with the police before turning deadly while Sir Nicholas’ masterly, audacious, and highly risky court room strategy unmasks the real Owen.

I found the book a page turner from start to finish, well-paced, intriguing, well written and I was engaged by Antony’s battle, both physical and mental, with his arch enemy. It was gripping stuff and is highly recommended.

The Pet Massacre Of 1939

Britain can fairly claim to be a nation of pet lovers. In 2024 60% of the UK’s households are home to around 36 million non-aquatic pets, of which some 13.5 million are dogs and 12.5 million cats. Over the last four years, 38% of households have welcomed a new pet, with 2.6 million acquiring kittens and 3.7 million puppies. This obvious love for our furry, feathery, and scaly friends makes the events of September 1939 even more inexplicable to modern eyes.

By the summer of 1939 the dark clouds of war were gathering over Europe and in Britain several defence committees were established to establish plans for the protection of the nation against the threat of air raids and possible invasion. One such was the National Air Raid Precautions Animal Committee (NARPAC). Chaired by Howard Dale and run and organized through the Home Office Air Raid Precautions Department, the committee drew its membership from interested parties including some of the leading animal welfare charities, such as the People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals (PDSA) and the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (RSPCA).

Estimating that the cat and dog population was around six to seven million at the time and anticipating that the outbreak of war would mean not only the threat of air raids but also food shortages and rationing, the committee was concerned that valuable and scarce food resources would be diverted to feeding pets. Their response was to publish a pamphlet entitled Advice to Animal Owners.

In it the worthies on the NARPAC committee declared that “to have a pet while the nation goes to war is an unaffordable luxury”. It went on to advise, “if at all possible, send or take your household animals into the country in advance of an emergency”, concluding that “if you cannot place them in the care of neighbours, it really is kindest to have them destroyed.” Rather insensitively, on the inside front cover of the pamphlet was a full page advert for the Cash Captive Bolt Pistol, described as “the standard instrument for the humane destruction of domestic animals.”

The national newspapers and the BBC carried the committee’s recommendations. Unsurprisingly, when Neville Chamberlain declared at 11.15am on Sunday, September 3, 1939, that “this country is at war with Germany”, many took it as a cue to take their pets to the nearest veterinary surgeons or animal shelter to have their pets euthanised. There were reports of queues half a mile long and soon there was a shortage of chloroform, the agent of choice for putting an animal to sleep.

Within the first four days of the outbreak of war, over 400,000 dogs and cats were killed. To put the figure into some kind of context, it represented around 26% of London’s pet population at the time and was six times greater than the total number of civilian deaths in the UK from air raids during the entire duration of the war.

There was a second wave of voluntary pet euthanasia when bombs actually started raining down on Britain’s cities and ports, almost doubling the number. Next time, we will look at the reasons behind and the aftermath of this cull of British pets.

Death-Watch

A review of Death-Watch by John Dickson Carr – 250109

Originally published in 1935 and the fifth in Carr’s Dr Gideon Fell series, Death-Watch is unusual in that it does not feature a locked room nor an impossible crime and it presents the reader with a plausible solution only for Fell to come up with a left field solution. The only real action in the book is to be found at the beginning and the end of the book, the rest of the story comprising of evidence gathering, theorizing and a set piece mock trial in which Chief Inspector Inspector David Hadley sets out the case for the prosecution of Eleanor Carver and Fell the defence. With seemingly little evidence Fell stands the investigation on its head by using subterfuge in the form of a madman acting as a madman to unravel the truth.

Fell and Professor Melson are drawn one evening to the house of Johannus Carver, a clockmaker, by a scream. What they see when they get there is a tramp, who turns out to be a detective, George Ames, incognito, dead at the top of the stairs, surrounded by three people, Eleanor Carver, Calvin Boscombe, who is holding a gun, and a former police Chief Inspector, Peter Stanley. However, Ames has been stabbed in the neck with the minute hand of a large clock that Johannus had made.

The way that Ames is murdered is one that Ngaio Marsh would have been proud of but Carr gilds the lily by leading the reader into an increasingly surreal world. Boscombe claims that he, along with Stanley, really intended to kill Ames in a bizarre experiment to see how someone would react when they knew that their end had come, Don Hastings, Eleanor’s lover, was up on the roof in readiness for a regular tryst with his amour, was able to see snatches of what happened but in climbing down, fell and was knocked unconscious, while another resident of the house, Christopher Paull, recovering from a heavy session, claimed that he was disturbed during the night and found a blood-stained glove in the hall near the landing.

The glove belonged to Eleanor and inside was the key to the roof-top trap door she would have used to meet her lover. Two other residents, a solicitor, Lucia Handreth, and the housekeeper, Mrs Steffins, point the finger at Eleanor, whose situation becomes bleak as it turns out that Ames was investigating the murder of a store detective, another surreptitious stabbing, and was following up information that the murderer was to be found in the Carver household. Just for good measure, and to add a further twist to an already bizarre and perplexing plot, Stanley had shot and killed Hastings’ father, although, subsequently, not much is made of what in the hands of another author would be the ultimate plot twist.

While Hadley is certain that Eleanor is responsible for both murders, Fell thinks she is the victim of an attempt to frame her. While not entirely demolishing Hadley’s case, he introduces  sufficient doubt to make the detective pause and allow him enough time to pull a sizeable rabbit out of his shovel-hat. The final solution, labelled The Truth, is an elaborately staged tableau involving a screen, a large chair and just sufficient moonlight from the trapdoor for silhouettes to be scene which allows one attempted murder to mask another. The ingenuity is somewhat compromised by the necessary reliance upon a secret passage.

This is a thoroughly engaging story with a wide range of eccentrically drawn, enjoyable characters. There is no little humour laced with absurdist surrealism, a rollercoaster of twists and turns, theories and countertheories, all designed to disorientate the reader. While they might have a suspicion about whodunit, there are several important clues hidden the welter of distracting persiflage, but the how would baffle even the most seasoned armchair sleuth.

Somewhat atypical of the Carr novels I have tried, it is worth a read.