Martin Fone's Blog, page 257
June 27, 2018
Book Corner – June 2018 (2)
The Long Arm of the Law – edited by Martin Edwards
Very few policemen make it into the golden pantheon of literary detection. Of the crème de la crème only Maigret, in my view, is comparable with Sherlock Holmes, Lord Peter Wimsey and Agatha Christie’s creations, Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot. Where the local plod appear in the pages of Conan Doyle, Christie, Chesterton, Sayers et al, they are pedestrian, slow-witted, literary devices to illustrate the brilliance of the grey cells contained within the cranium of the amateur sleuth.
Of course, if we are looking for the antecedents of literary detection, we cannot ignore Dickens’ Inspector Bucket (Bleak House, 1853) and Wilkie Collins’ Sergeant Cuff (The Moonstone, 1868) but they are both preceded by Edgar Allan Poe’s amateur, Auguste Dupin, whose mastery of ratiocination was amply exemplified in The Murders of the Rue Morgue (1841). In an attempt to rescue the much maligned officer of the constabulary, the indefatigable Martin Edwards has put together an interesting collection of fifteen short stories showing the professional policeman at his best.
Anthologies are patchy in quality at best and I sensed at times that Edwards was scraping the barrel to provide enough examples from a varied array of writers to make his point. The other problem is that often the resolution of the problem is not the result of structured, forensic enquiry and investigation which, I assume, is the staple fare of police work but the inspired deduction of one of the officers. In other words, there is little difference in the way the culprit is unmasked it just happens that the grey cells belong to a police officer, not a leisured amateur.
The book’s opening story, The Mystery of Chenholt by Alice and Claude Askew, sets the collection off on the wrong foot. The detective, in order to discover what was going on in the house, has to put his fiancée, albeit an officer in another force but not a detective, into the place as an undercover agent. Her evidence results in the unmasking of the villain. Reggie, the detective, pulls it all together but it is not a shining example of straightforward police brilliance.
That said, there are some gems to be found within. Laurence Meynell, a writer I had never come across although, according to Edwards’ insightful and punchy introductions to each story, he had been writing for sixty years across a number of genres, produced my favourite, the Cleverest Clue. The eponymous clue was staring all of us in the face but it took a stroke of genius for it to be spotted and its importance to be recognised. A great story.
After The Event, by Christianna Brand, was another of my favourites, not least because its format was so different and seeing two detectives competing and pitting their wits against each other was fun. Michael Gilbert’s Old Mr Martin has an unexpected twist at the end that I didn’t see coming – one that might offend the sticklers for the rules and conventions of detective fiction but provides a satisfying ending to the spookiest and most atmospheric of the tales.
Choosing a title is one of the hardest tasks facing a writer and my enjoyment of the entertaining romp that is Roy Vickers’ The Man Who Married Too Often was marred somewhat by the fact that the title pretty much gave the game away. None of the other stories reach the heights of these but that is one of the joys and risks of reading an anthology.
An interesting collection but I’m not sure that the case is made for a reconsideration of the merits of police officer-led detective fiction.
June 26, 2018
A La Mode – Part Four
The Peruke
One of the most notable fashion accessories of the 17th and 18th centuries was the peruke or powdered wig.
Long hair was a symbol of wealth and status. After all, if you were engaged in dirty, manual labour, the last thing you wanted was your flowing mane getting in the way. Loss of hair was a source of social embarrassment, as Samuel Pepys noted in his diary; “if [my brother] lives, he will not be able to show his head – which will be a very great shame to me.”
And why would the loss of hair be life-threatening and socially embarrassing? Because it was a sign of syphilis which by the 1580s had reached epidemic proportions in Europe with, according to William Clowes, an “infinite multitude” of syphilis patients clogging the hospitals of London. To hide the tell-tale stigma – although other giveaways were open sores, rashes, blindness and dementia – victims took to wearing wigs, simple affairs constructed from horse, goat or human hair. Some were scented with lavender or orange to mask any unseemly odours.
What moved the wig from medical prosthetic to fashion accessory was the discovery by Louis XIV in 1655 that at the age of 17 he was getting thin on top. To hide his bald spots he hired 48 wig makers to design ever more extravagant structures. His sycophantic court followed suit and five years later Charles II, bedevilled with his own tonsorial issues, introduced the fashion to the English court.
Wigs escalated in price – an everyday peruke would set you back 25 shillings and the most elaborate could costs as much as £40 – and so were seen as a statement of wealth. They were also practical because in order to wear one you had to have your head shaved. That meant that the ubiquitous head lice had to decamp from your head, where delousing was time-consuming and painful, to your wig. To get rid of them, you sent your wig off to a wig maker who would boil it, thus removing the troublesome mites.
The finest wigs were white in colour but these were out of the reach of all but the wealthiest and so from around 1715 the practice was to dust them with powder made from starch or flour. It was a messy process, a special room being reserved for the purpose to contain the dust and special dressing gowns were worn to minimise the damage to clothing.
So common was the practice of powdering that not to do so was a social black mark, as Georgiana Cavendish revealed in her novel, The Sylph, published in 1778; “Monsieur bowed and shrugged..In a moment I was overwhelmed with a cloud of powder. What are you doing? I don’t mean to be powdered, I said. Not powdered, repeated Sir William, why you would not be so barbarous as to appear without – it is positively not decent.” In her journal for 1780 Mary Frampton noted, “at that time everybody wore powder and pomatum.”
There were perils to wearing a wig. Boys were employed to secrete themselves in dray wagons and snatch a wig from a passer-by. By the time they had realised that they were minus their peruke – often someone would detain them on the pretence of offering assistance – the thief would make good their escape.
What did for the peruke was the French Revolution – it wasn’t safe for aristos to draw attention to themselves by wearing a wig – and in 1795 William Pitt’s imposition of a tax on hair powder on this side of La Manche. Short hair became the fashion.
June 25, 2018
Coincidences Are Spiritual Puns – Part Six
The Tierneys and the Hoover Dam
One of the highlights for me of a trip to the Las Vegas area many moons ago was a visit to the Hoover Dam. It was at a time before 9/11 when you could go inside the dam itself and admire the massive turbines and walk along the sluice gates. What was astonishing to me was the sheer size of the structure and the fact that a major Highway, 93, ran across the top. The Hoover Dam bypass, opened in 2010, means this is no longer the case.
Situated some thirty miles south-east of Vegas, near Boulder City, a town that was originally built to house the construction workers, and on the border of Nevada and Arizona, it is 726 feet high and tapers from a 650 feet base at the bottom to a 45 feet top and 1,244 feet long. A particular feature of its design is that it curves upstream, forcing the majority of the water against the rocks of the canyon. The reservoir which the dam formed is known as Lake Mead and is the largest by volume in the States.
The Hoover dam construction project was part of Roosevelt’s New Deal of public-financed works and was finished two years ahead of schedule in 1936, the 10,000 or so workers taking just five years to complete it. Although the project was only approved by Congress in 1928, significant survey work had been undertaken from the early 1920s. The Boulder Dam – its name was changed to commemorate President Hoover in 1947 – was officially dedicated on 30th September 1935 by Roosevelt. At the time it was the world’s largest hydroelectric power station and the arch-gravity dam was the world’s largest concrete structure.
The power of the river and the inclement conditions, together with the rudimentary health and safety standards prevailing at the time and the exploitation of workers who were desperate for any kind of paid work, meant that it was a dangerous place to work. Officially, 96 workers will killed during the survey and construction phase of the project but many feel that this is somewhat of an understatement. Accidents went unreported and workers who were injured but died either in hospital or at home were not included in the death toll.
What is incontrovertible is that John Gregory Tierney was the first fatality. Of Irish descent Tierney was a hard-rock miner, working with a survey crew looking for a suitable spot to dam the Colorado. On 20th December 1921 John was caught by a flash flood which carried him downstream. Tierney’s body was never recovered and it took almost two weeks for news of the tragic accident to reach Las Vegas. According to the Clark County Review newspaper on 6th January 1922, a spokesperson commented on the accident in a rather matter-of-fact manner; “when Tierney lost his life it completely demoralised our forces. The rising Colorado river has made the work extremely hazardous and about 15 of our men quit immediately. However, they will be replaced and the work will go on.”
And on it went.
The last recorded death occurred exactly 14 years to the day of John’s death. An electrician’s helper fell some 320 feet from one of the two intake towers on the Arizona side of the dam and was swept away, his body eventually being recovered on the upstream side near where Lake Mead was filling up.
His name?
Patrick William Tierney, John’s only son, the two deaths book-marking the construction of the dam, a remarkable coincidence that the Las Vegas Evening Review was the first to spot in its report the following day.
June 24, 2018
Island Of The Week
In my experience Scotland is a land for the brave. Although the scenery is stunning, the weather is certainly on the temperamental side and the midges seem to make a beeline for the blood of any Sassenach foolhardy enough to present any skin to their gaze.
So a naturist club on the beautiful island of Inchmurrin in Loch Lomond is not for the faint-hearted.
But the Scottish Outdoor Club, as part of its 80th anniversary celebrations, has been accepted to participate in the nationwide Doors Open Day organised by the Scottish Civic Trust later this year. Textiles and non-textiles, as I think the terminology amongst the naturist fraternity is, are welcome and Teena Gould, social convener of the club, is hoping that they will even recruit some more members, so to speak.
She applied on spec, having read the criteria for acceptance, and hey presto, the club got the go ahead. It makes a welcome change from the usual collection of cathedrals, historic buildings and public buildings that usually make up the list. I will refrain from making any reference to old ruins.
Just hope the midges stay away.
June 23, 2018
Bender Of The Week (7)
Many of us have been there before. You’ve had a sherbet or two more than is good for you. You see a large tubular object and wonder whether your head would fit into it. Some of us stop there, content to speculate with what few grey cells are still functioning the relative volumes of our head and the tube. But not Kaitlyn Strom.
At the Winstock Music Festival in Minnesota she saw a vehicle with a very large exhaust pipe. The temptation was too much for Kaitlyn and she stuck her head in it. Alas, she couldn’t get it out again and the good offices of the local fire brigade had to be called upon. After 45 minutes of activity with an electric saw the pole sliders finally released Kaitlyn relatively unscathed.
Her ordeal did not end there. She was reprimanded by the McLoed County Sheriff’s Department for under-age drinking and had to apologise to the truck owner. He didn’t seem too bothered. Perhaps he has had other inebriates stick their heads up his vehicle’s fundament.
Meanwhile, the exhaust pipe has become a bit of a star in its own right. If you want to see it, it is on display at The Darwin Tavern in Minnesota, doubtless as a testament to the fact that evolution isn’t always progressive.
June 22, 2018
What Is The Origin Of (185)?…
Apricate
Now it is summer, at least it is in the northern hemisphere, there is the faint chance that we may be able to indulge in a spot of aprication. For those of us who are blessed with a knowledge of Latin, the root and meaning of the word is fairly obvious. It comes from apricari which means to bask in the sun or to sun oneself. The adjective apricus means of a sunny place but doesn’t have anything to do with the origin of the name of my least favourite fruit, the apricot. The only fruit that the ardent applicator may resemble is a brown berry.
Some words come and go out of fashion while others have really struggled to get into the limelight. Apricate is firmly in the latter camp, a shame because I think it has a nice resonance to it and, perhaps, with a bit of prompting it will come to enjoy its day in the sun.
It first appeared in the 1690s, when the author of Brief Lives and noted antiquarian, John Aubrey, described the habits of one Sir John Danvers thus; “his lordship was wont to recreate himself in this place, to apricate and contemplate, with his little dog with him.” A charming vignette, for sure, but one which earned Aubrey a sharp rebuke from his rather sniffy editor, John Ray. Ray wrote back in September 1691 with a critique of the manuscript and included a list of “some words I have noted, that do not sound well to my ears.” One such word that offended the sensibilities of the diligent Ray was apricate which he regarded as a new-coined word to be avoided. Like many a writer, Aubrey ignored the sage advices of his editor and when the book went to print in 1697, apricate was included.
Other instances of its use in print are few and far between but it did cross the pond and make an appearance in the Atlantic Monthly in February 1863 in what was ostensibly meant to be a satirical attack on Yankee pedantry, penned by James Russell Lowell. The text includes the following; “the infirm state of my bodily health would be sufficient apology for not taking up the pen at this time, wholesome as I deem it for the mind to apricate in the shelter of epistolary confidence…”Of interest, as well as the fact that it is an example of American usage, is that it is being used figuratively, rather than in the straightforwardly literal sense that Aubrey used it.
Although apricate normally takes the grammatical form of an intransitive verb, it started to be used as a transitive verb in the 1850s with the sense of exposing something to the sun. For those budding authors whose taste is to write something saucy, apricate may offer an interesting variant to the tried and tested clichés as this relatively modern usage from Andre Aciman’s novel, Call Me By Your Name published in 2007, shows; “I was also biting into that part of his body that must have been fairer than the rest because it never apricated.”
But perhaps Ray and James Halliwell-Phillipps were right, the latter condemning the word to obscurity in his Dictionary of Archaic and Provincial Words in 1847. It never recovered. A shame really. Surely some enterprising purveyor of sun tan lotions could launch a brand called Aprication, the application of which would provide all your sun protection needs. Perhaps I should just apricate in the glory of bringing the word to your attention.
June 21, 2018
Gin O’Clock – Part Forty
Fusion is a style which has gained a foothold in the culinary world and it is beginning to carve out a niche in the ginaissance as distillers jostle to find an edge in an ever-growing marketplace.
Take our featured gin, Jinzu Gin. At first glance you may be forgiven for thinking that it is a Japanese gin but you would be wrong. True it draws its inspiration and some of its botanical from the Land of the Rising Sun but it is distilled in Scotland and is the brainchild of English bartender, Dee Davies. The name Jinzu comes the river that wends its way through the prefecture of Toyama, on the coast of the Sea of Japan on central Honshu, about 300km north-west of Tokyo.
A feature of the river is the profusion of cherry blossom that lines its banks. It would not surprise you, then, to find that cherry blossom is a key botanical in the gin that bears its name. The other botanical giving the spirit an Oriental flavour is yuzu, which, to the uninitiated, is a citrus fruit whose flavour is a mix of lemon and grapefruit. It is used by the Japanese to make jams, marmalades, and ponzu sauce and by the Koreans with honey as ersatz tea.
The principal constituents of Jinzu are juniper, coriander and angelica which are added to a neutral grain spirit and allowed to macerate before the Japanese elements, the cherry blossom and yuzu, are added. It is when the gin taken off the still with a proof of 82%, then something controversial, at least from the point of view of the gin purist, happens. It is blended with Jemnai sake, also distilled on site, and then watered down with Scottish mineral-free water until its fighting weight of 41.3% is achieved. For some the presence of another spirit puts it beyond the pale.
I think you can get a bit too petty about these things and for me what really matters is what the drink tastes like.
To the nose it has a fairly citrusy smell, although there is a hint of sweetness which I assume comes from the sake. In the mouth it is wonderfully clear, smooth, and creamy, again courtesy of the sake, but the solid gin base of the juniper comes through as do the floral hints of the cherry blossom and the citrus of the yuzu. It is unlike any other gin I have tasted and it seems to have been designed to appeal both to the gin drinkers who like a juniper-led hooch and those who prefer a more contemporary style. It runs the danger of falling between the two stools but avoids failure with some panache.
The bottle is clear and slightly dumpier than a wine bottle, with a wooden top with a bird holding an umbrella on it. The stopper to the top is a cork. The front of the bottle again features the brolly carrying bird together with a branch of cherry blossom and an opened bird cage. It is a delicate design in a Japanese style. The label claims that it is distinctively crafted, whatever that means.
If you want to go slightly off-piste, you could do worse than try this outlier of the gin world. My bottle was picked up in CostCo at a price at least a tenner below the RRP.
June 20, 2018
Quacks Pretend To Cure Other Men’s Disorders But Rarely Find A Cure For Their Own – Part Sixty Eight
Leo Minges and the Cartilage Company
I’m reasonably tall and as a consequence have not been prey to the inferiority complex and insecurities that are supposed to afflict our shorter brethren. Even if I was, I think I would resign myself to the height that nature bestowed upon me. But their shortness is such a psychological handicap for some that they would stop at nothing to gain those extra inches. And where there is a need, there is fertile ground for the purveyor of the art of quackery to exploit. One such was K Leo Minges.
A spate of adverts at the turn of the 20th century asked the pertinent if politically incorrect question; “Why remain short and stunted when you may learn free how to grow tall?” Reassuringly, the banner headlines went on to say, “No matter how short you are or what your age, you can increase your height.” Men and women under the age of fifty could expect to grow between two and five inches and those who had passed the magic age of half a century could still expect to increase their “height perceptibly” following Minges’ methodology.
The successful quack is never one to hide their light under a bushel and Minges was no exception to this adage. The advertising copy claimed that “Mr Minges is to short men and women what the great wizard, Edison, is to electricity,” no mean boast. Encouragingly, he “had gathered more information relative to bone, muscle and sinew than anyone else in existence.” Some people may do a spot of gardening for a hobby but for Minges this was all a bit too mundane. “Making people grow tall has been a hobby with Mr Minges for years,” the ad proclaims. One wonders how he got started. “The results he has accomplished,” it goes on, “are startling to a high degree” – well, a low degree would be no use, would it?
The advert then went out of its way to soothe any concerns. “There is no inconvenience, no drugs or medicines, no operation. Merely the application of a scientific principle in a perfectly hygienic and harmless way. Your most intimate friends need not know what your doing”, although they would, presumably, notice your increased stature. Sending your name and address to the Cartilage Company in Rochester, New York would secure you a copy of the instructional book, How to Grow Tall, a tall story if there ever was one.
If you were convinced by Minges’ expertise, track record and the words of wisdom to be found in the pages of his book, you could then buy his apparatus. It had the appearance of something from a medieval torturer’s tool kit or from the darker recesses of the world of sado-masochism. The user placed their feet in stirrups affixed to the floor and placed a harness on their head. A rope was then run via the harness to a pulley on the ceiling. Quite how you hid all this from your most intimate friends, God only knows.
Anyway, the user was invited to pull on the rope which would stretch their body. Quite how effective it was is anyone’s guess. Given the horrific dislocations regularly meted out by the torture rack, it is easy to imagine that over-enthusiastic use could lead to unforeseen injury.
It would be better to accept your height for what it is.
June 19, 2018
An Eye For An Eye Will Only Make The Whole World Blind – Part Four
The Toledo War, 1835
A combination of inaccurate cartography and shoddy legislative drafting can cause no end of problems as the border dispute between neighbouring states, Michigan and Ohio, over a slither of land in which the city of Toledo is situated shows.
It all started with the Northwest Ordinance, drafted by Congress in 1787, which decreed that the expanse of land around the Great Lakes was to be carved up to form a number of new states and that the border between Ohio and Michigan was to run on “an east west line drawn through the southerly bend or extreme of Lake Michigan.” Unfortunately, the best available map was inaccurate, putting the southern tip somewhat north of its true position and leaving the mouth of the Maumee River and what would become Toledo in Ohio rather than Michigan.
Matters were compounded when in 1803 Ohio was admitted to the Union, the crafty Ohioans inserting a clause in their constitution to the effect that the land around the Maumee River was theirs, come what may. No one seems to have paid much attention to this at the time but as the Michigan Territory became more organised, the representatives from Michigan argued that more accurate maps showed that the 468 mile slice of land known as the Toledo Strip was theirs.
It was not just an academic dispute because by 1825 the Erie Canal had been finished, linking the Great Lakes with the east coast of America and Toledo was poised to become a thriving commercial centre. The Michiganders took the initiative, settling the region, building roads, holding elections and collecting taxes. The Ohioans, on the other hand, protested to Washington and even blocked a Michigan petition for statehood in the early 1830s.
Matters escalated out of control with the election in 1834 of 23-year old Steven T Mason as the Michigan governor. He immediately asserted his territory’s rights to the land, stating “we are the weaker party, it is true, but we are on the side of justice…we cannot fail to maintain our rights against the encroachments of a powerful neighbouring state”. Just for good measure he passed, in February 1835, the Pains and Penalties Act which levied harsh fines and prison sentences on a Ohioan caught exercising jurisdiction in the disputed area. The Ohio governor, Robert Lucas, retaliated by getting a team of surveyors to remark the border and both sides raised militias.
There were skirmishes. On 9th April 1835 several Ohioan officials were arrested in Toledo and the Ohio flag was torn down, dragged through the streets and then burned. A few days later a militia of 60 Michiganders intercepted a border survey team and on 26th April shots were fired over the heads of a survey team in what was known as the Battle of Phillips Corner. Remarkably, the only casualty in the dispute was Michigan sheriff, Joseph Wood, who was stabbed by a penknife an Ohio partisan named Two Stickney.
In September the Ohio governor announced plans to hold a court session in Toledo to establish his state’s rights to the land. In retaliation, Mason raised a force of 1,200 to prevent the meeting taking place but the crafty Ohioans had pre-empted them, holding a midnight session and then fleeing the scene.
Eventually, tempers cooled and Congress agreed to re-examine the matter. On 14th December 1836, in return for admission to the Union, Michigan ceded their claim to the land. One Toledo resident, at least, was pleased, commenting that she couldn’t stand the Michigan weather.
As a consolation prize Michigan was granted 9,000 square miles of land on the Upper Peninsula between Lakes Michigan and Superior, described at the time as a barren wasteland of “perpetual snows.”
It was found to contain valuable copper and iron ore deposits!
June 18, 2018
The Streets Of London – Part Seventy Four
Wardrobe Place, EC4
Walk westwards from St Paul’s along Carter Lane and halfway down on your left, just after Addle Hill, you will come across an archway in the buildings which, if you turn into it, will take you to a small, cobbled courtyard known as Wardrobe Place.
It owes its name to the fact that from 1359 until its abolition in 1782, when its powers were assumed by the Treasury, the King’s (and the occasional Queen’s) Wardrobe was sited here. Originally based in the Tower of London the Wardrobe was where the royal vestments and armaments were housed. But it also was the centre of the monarch’s economic power, where their personal fortunes were stored and where Royal Household accounts were maintained and taxes raised. It soon outgrew its rather cramped quarters in the Tower and following a relatively temporary relocation to Lombard Street between 1311 and 1359, Edward III made the decision to relocate once again.
The royal eyes fixed on the mansion of Sir John Beauchampe who had rather conveniently just died. As John Stow recorded in his Survey of London, published in 1598, “then is the kings greate Wardrobe, Sir John Beauchampe, knight of the Garter, Constable of Dover, Warden of the Sinke Portes builded this house, was lodged there, deceased in the yeare 1359. His Executors sold the house to King Edware the third.” Having relocated there, the Wardrobe appears to have been a hotbed of intrigue, Stow noting that “The secret letters and writings touching the estate of the Realme, were wont to be enroled in the Kings Wardrobe, and not in the Chauncery, as appeareth by the records”.
There was a change of usage after Charles the First lost its head, the Wardrobe being converted into an orphanage. The restoration of the monarchy and the appointment of the Earl of Sandwich as Master of the Royal Wardrobe saw the eviction of the orphans, although they did not go without a fight. Samuel Pepys, a frequent visitor to the Wardrobe, reported that the orphans sang to the Earl in a last desperate attempt to remain but the crusty fellow was unmoved and showed them the door. Six years later the building was consumed by the flames of the Great Fire.
One of the iconic images of wartime London is St Paul’s cathedral during the blitz. Miraculously, the area to the west of the cathedral, including Wardrobe Place, escaped relatively unscathed and the buildings on the western side of the square are fine examples of town houses dating from the post-conflagration rebuild of the city. No2, Wardrobe Place dates to around 1680 and is a Grade II listed building, retaining “its late-C17 domestic plan and stair, panelling and other original or early features. The two overmantel paintings have outstanding interest as early examples of a once-widespread artisan tradition, and are now of great rarity.” These wall paintings were rediscovered in the 1970s following some rebuilding work.
By 1720 John Strype, in his Survey of London, noted that “the Garden of the King’s Wardrobe is converted into a large and square court, with good houses”, what is now Wardrobe Place. The houses are mainly, if not exclusively, offices now but a still visible painted sign on the wall of No 6, bearing the legend “Snashall & Son. Printers, Stationers and Account Book Manufacturers”, gives a sense of the type of businesses that were to be found in what is now a pleasant oasis in a busy part of the City. Signs such as this must have been an everyday sight in days of yore.
