Martin Fone's Blog, page 29

Drinking Feat Of The Week

Professional darts has gone a long way to cleaning up its act since the days when it featured rather obese chaps quaffing beer and puffing fags as they stood at the oche throwing arrows at a board. Nevertheless, old habits die hard even if they have migrated to the crowd, as events at this year’s PDC World Darts Championship held at Alexandra Palace revealed.

Nathan Aspinall stopped play before the deciding leg in his clash with Andrew Gilding in amazement as he watched an unnamed fan, dressed in a hot dog costume, as you do, down a four-pint jug of beer. “I was just intrigued to see if he could finish it,” he said. “Unbelievable”.

Aspinall was not put off his stride by what he had witnessed, winning his place in the last sixteen with a 4-0 victory but the fan was not so lucky. He was ejected.

The Curious Case Of Beeston’s Bananas

For the last year or so early in the morning on the second day of every month a plate of between fifteen and 20 bananas has been carefully positioned on the corner of Abbey Road and Wensor Avenue opposite the church in the Nottinghamshire town of Beeston. They are always freshly bought, peeled and seem to be drizzled with a sweet substance rather like honey. The mystery is no one seems to know who is putting them there or why.

The bananas are left there to go mouldy and even the local wildlife seems to eschew them. Their presence has sharply divided public opinion in the area with many local residents regarding a plate of rotting bananas as damaging the a-peel of their street. One, a local volunteer litter picker, has even put up a sign, saying “Please, respectfully, no more bananas! The uncollected plates and rotting bananas leave such a mess. Wishing a happy new year to all”. Nevertheless, on January 2nd another plate appeared.

The most likely reason for the strange deposit, locals believe, is that it is some form of religious offering. In Hinduism, offering bananas to deities is common practice, the fruit representing abundance, fertility, and good fortune, while honey is often added to bring natural sweetness and nourishment to offerings.

I am agog to find out whether another plate appears on February 2nd.

Death On The Riviera

A review of Death on the Riviera by John Bude – 241207

The sixteenth in John Bude’s William Meredith series, originally published in 1951 and reissued as part of the British Library Crime Classics series, is rather a strange affair, an investigation into a counterfeit money and cigarette smuggling racket which then veers around the two-thirds mark into a murder mystery. At times it reads like two distinct stories that have been tacked together, with the common thread being the investigators, a joint Anglo-French operation on French soil, and Tony Shenton.

Seconded to the Riviera to halt the operations of a leading London counterfeiter, Chalky Cobbett, and effect his arrest and deportation, Meredith and his young assistant, Strang, are aided by French Inspectors Blampignon and Gibaud. There is little of the Anglo-superiority or xenophobia that often appears in these situations and the teams work well and not without a little humour as they often struggle to understand each other’s idiomatic language. Their investigations soon focus on Villa Paloma, the residence of Nesta Hedderwick.

As is the way with these stories, she has gathered an eclectic mix of people including a companion, Miss Pilly, her niece, Dilys Westmacott, with whom Strang inevitably becomes romantically entangled, Paul Latour who is masquerading as an artist, Kitty Linden, who is there at the invitation of the dashing Tony Shenton, the latter being suspiciously is in the habit of going off on early morning drives on fishing trips. It is not too difficult to work out why Shenton is acting so suspiciously nor his true relationship with La Hedderwick. Bude, I believe, intends us to be sorry for Netta at the end but his portrayal of her as an ill-tempered and vindictive woman at the start makes it difficult to shed too many tears for her.

The way the gang arrange their drop offs is certainly ingenious but with a mix of some luck and determined police work the operation is soon rumbled and wrapped up only for a complication to emerge, Shenton’s disappearance and his car found with traces of blood on the exterior passenger side. This part of the story brings into sharper focus a character we met at the start of the book, Bill Dillon, who was relieved when entering the country, coincidentally at the same time as Meredith and Strang, that something in his luggage was not discovered by the customs officers. We learn the import of that something at the denouement.

Dillon is seen having a robust argument with Shenton the day before he commits a dramatic suicide in front of Kitty by hurling himself over a cliff edge. The face of the body is so disfigured that positive identification cannot be made but the working assumption, based on Kitty’s evidence and another witness, is that it is Dillon. But is it really and where is Shenton?

The animus between Shenton and Dillon has nothing to do with counterfeit money or cigarettes but centres around Kitty and an unwillingness to do the right thing. Of course, both Dillon and Shenton bear striking physical similarities and it is only a small cicatrix that gives the game away along with three rucksacks, two thermos flasks and the mystery object in the luggage that allows the murderer to make a dramatic, if short-lived, escape.

Although the storyline is a little disjointed and there is too much coincidence to make it truly satisfying, it is a pleasant enough read and Bude does deploy no little ingenuity in devising solutions to the mysteries. I found there was more emotional content than I normally expect in a Bude novel and the descriptions of northern France still recovering from the ravages of war fascinating.   

The Lost Art Of Whistling

It is the one human accomplishment that androids cannot ape in Star Trek (2009)and, according to the Apollo astronauts, cannot be performed on the moon. It profoundly irritated Winston Churchill to the extent that the practice was banned from the War Rooms but for Paul McCartney, hearing a postman whistle From Me To You (1963)was the moment that he knew that the Beatles had made it.

Whistling, as Lauren Bacall succinctly put it, simply involves putting your lips together and blowing. The lips, curled tongue, teeth, or fingers, moderate the air, creating turbulence, and the resultant sound is enhanced by the curled tongue which acts as a resonator. Different types of whistle can be produced by varying the lip shape using a combination of fingers, tongue, and epiglottis.

Often learned in childhood, most of us can whistle but to do so in a tuneful fashion is an art. Skilled practitioners built careers out of their talent, musical halls of the late 19th and early 20th centuries regularly having a siffleur on the bill. The million-selling artist, Ronnie Ronalde, followed in their footsteps with his whistling songs such as If I Were A Blackbird (1950) as did Roger Whittaker, whose hits included Mexican Whistler (1968).

Percy Edwards endeared himself to the British public with another form of the music hall siffleur’s art, the ability to imitate the songs of hundreds of bird species. A career launched initially on the wireless, a concept almost as ludicrous as Peter Brough’s success as a radio ventriloquist with Educating Archie, Edwards was at least able to make the transition to television.

For some, though, whistling was not a frivolous pursuit but an essential means of communication. Shepherds use a series of whistles to pass vital instructions to their dogs to control their flocks while in the 19th century pickpockets and pimps used a series of coded whistles to warn of the approach of the police. The practice was so common that many shopping areas banned whistling, an embargo still enforced by the Beadles at Mayfair’s Burlington Arcade.

Lightermen on the river Thames were employed to steer barges laden with cargo, known as lighters, to their destination. Dick Fagan, in Men of the Tideway (1966), tells how during his apprenticeship he was taught how to whistle, each lighterage company having its own distinctive whistling sound, which employees used to identify themselves to their colleagues over distance, especially at night.

Recalling a trip to the countryside with his girlfriend, Fagan heard “a loud shrill whistle, very close. My firm’s whistle”. Looking up, he spotted a bird “with its beak open and the familiar notes pouring out of it as though it had been a lighterman all its life”. Other birds aped the calls of rival lighterage companies, suggesting that their distinctive calls owed their origin to a time when the banks of the Thames in London were visited by more than sparrows, seagulls, and pigeons.

Bloody Instructions

A review of Bloody Instructions by Sara Woods – 241205

Monday December 2nd, 2024 was a red-letter day for fans of Golden Age Detective fiction, the day when Dean Street Press, after resolving the issues caused by the tragic and untimely death of Rupert Heath, was able to resume publishing and expanding its impressive catalogue. The author they selected to open this new chapter of their story is the Anglo-Canadian writer, Sara Bowen-Judd, better known by one of her noms de plume, Sara Woods.

Bloody Instructions, originally published in 1961, is the first of her Antony Maitland series and there is very much a feel to the book that this is going to be the start of a series, as indeed it was, running to some forty-eight novels. We are introduced to her sleuth, an aspiring barrister, Antony Maitland, his wife, Jenny, uncle, and the formidable barrister, Sir Nicholas, who live together, Jenny often acting as a buffer between the two men. The relationship between the two is finely drawn, Sir Nicholas grooming his nephew for a career in law and while he keeps him on a tight rein, his acute enough to trust the younger man’s instincts.

The case is simple enough, a senior partner of an established law firm, James Winter, is found murdered in his room, fatally stabbed in the back. He had a number of visitors that afternoon including the leading Shakesperean actor, Joseph Dowling, with whom he had a blazing row over a divorce case. Circumstantial evidence suggests that Dowling is the murderer, especially as a witness, a clerk from another firm of solicitors, Armstrong, is adamant that he saw Dowling return to Winter’s chambers after his initial appointment had concluded. The murder weapon was Dowling’s, given to him in 1944, and the police are satisfied enough with their case that they put the actor on trial for murder.

Of course, what really happened is radically different. Antony’s role is somewhat tricky as he was on the scene when Winter’s body was discovered, having been sent there to collect a missing affidavit. He followed someone into the chambers who he was convinced was not Dowling, although he was not sure who it was. He also knows that Miss Meadows’ original testament that Winter’s partner, Charles Prentiss, was not in the office at the time is false. He also feels that the murder was premeditated, not the result of a violent reaction to an argument.  On the basis of his suspicions, he persuades Sir Nicholas to take up the cudgels on behalf of Dowling.

The centrepiece of the book is the court case where Sir Nicholas locks horns with the equally formidable Bruce Halloran. The cut and thrust of the interrogation of witnesses is done well, just enough to give a sense of the impact of the questioning on the witness, the jury and the development of the case but not too much as to make it tedious. It is a fine line to tread and Woods does it well. A sensational development when all looks lost changes the outcome and turns what seems to have been a murder committed for the flimsiest of reasons to one designed to cover up a fraud that has enabled one of the characters to benefit financially.

There are enough hints and clues as the narrative unfolds to alert the reader that there are stronger motives at play, ones that really make murder make sense and even enable them to identify the murderer. One of the intriguing aspects of the story is the parlous situation that Antony finds himself in. He is a good friend of Dennis Dowling, Joseph’s son, and could be construed as having reason enough to fabricate evidence in favour of the thespian, a career-ending act if he is proven to have lied on oath, as Halloran points out with some force. This adds some spice to a story that is well told, engaging, with some interesting and well-drawn characters, and is ultimately satisfying.

I look forward to reading the other four reissues and am grateful to Victoria Eade for the review copy.       

Scratching Fanny – The Aftermath

The affair of “Scratching Fanny” might have been a hoax and an egregious attempt to frame a man for murder, but as well as eliciting a groundswell of sympathy at the time and highlighting divisions in the approach of religious bodies to the supernatural, it lived long in the public memory. Mrs Nickleby in Charles Dickens’ Nicholas Nickleby (1838-9) opines that her great-grandfather must have been at school with the Cock Lane ghost, “for I know the master of his school was a dissenter, and that would, in a great measure, account for the Cock-lane Ghost’s behaving in such an improper manner to the clergyman when he grew up”. He also mentioned it in Dombey and Son (1846-8) and A Tale of Two Cities (1859).    

“If one phantom is more discredited than another, it is the Cock Lane ghost”, wrote Andrew Lang in Cock Lane and Common Sense (1896), “The ghost has been a proverb for impudent trickery, and stern exposure, yet its history remains a puzzle, and is a good, if vulgar type, of all similar marvels … We still wander in Cock Lane, with a sense of amused antiquarian curiosity, and the same feeling accompanies us in all our explanations of this branch of mythology … but from the true solution of the problem we are as remote as ever”.

While we can still join Lang in wandering down Cock Lane, Parsons’ house was demolished in 1979.

The Methods Of Sergeant Cluff

A review of The Methods of Sergeant Cluff by Gil North – 241202

Originally published in 1961, the second in North’s Caleb Cluff series, and reissued as part of the British Library Crime Classics series, The Methods of Sergeant Cluff is the archetypal slow burner. For a relatively short book it takes its time to get going but it is well worth persevering with.

As the only detective in the town of Gunnershaw, even though he is on leave recovering from his exploits in Sergeant Cluff Stands Firm, Caleb is called upon to investigate the murder of Jane Trundle. It seems to be an open and shut affair, a case of get Carter, or at least according to Inspector Mole, but Cluff is not sure. Jane, an attractive girl who worked in the local chemist owned by Mr Greensleeve, was stepping out with Jack Carter, but those who knew her realized that he was unable to meet her aspirations for the good life. She had more money in her handbag than she would have accumulated from her earnings and, we later find out, she is with child.

Although the circumstantial evidence points towards Carter, he vehemently professes his innocence. Greensleeve, trapped in a loveless marriage, is a local worthy who prides himself on the position he has established for himself in the town. Jane was one of three female assistants in his employment and it emerges that more went on in the back room of the dispensary than making up prescriptions. The two other girls, Margaret and Jean, seem to know more than they let on and one of the subplots of the story is Jean’s moral dilemma as to whether to let on what she knows. Her decision almost leads to her demise.

The reader is lulled into a false sense of security as to where the story is heading, only for North to spring a twist in its tail, although there are enough pointers along the way not to make it a total surprise. Given the pace of the rest of the book the denouement is surprisingly dramatic and seems a little rushed with almost too much going on and little time to assess the developments. It does, however, make the wait worthwhile.

Cluff is far from a team player, a man of idiosyncratic methods, some of which would be frowned upon within the modern day police force. He uses his profound knowledge of the town in which he grew up and the characters that populate it to good effect and is prepared to literally stare out his suspects, increasing the psychological pressure until they crack. Although he is allocated an assistant, Constable Eric Barker, he is relegated to being a bag carrier, less use to the curmudgeonly detective than his faithful hound, Clive.

Cluff is also one who is willing to let events play out for themselves and in the end is content to play one suspect off against another, using a sprat to catch a mackerel. It is an approach that for all its moral dubiety brings results, but he does seem to believe that the justice system which he is supposed to represent is not always the most appropriate way to clear up a situation. To Moss’ exasperation Cluff’s methods do bring results.

North ratchets up the tension well and he has a profound sense of the tightness of the communities in which he has set his narrative. There is a discernible change in style, the sentences less staccato-like as he takes his time to explore the psychological impact of the case on the principal characters. I did not enjoy it as much as the first novel but, nonetheless, it made for a thought-provoking read.

The Perils Of Elections

The recent death of former US President, Jimmy Carter, at the grand old age of 100 brought to mind a study published in the BMJ at Christmas 2015 which looked at the relative longevity of leaders from 17 of the richest countries since 1722. Their sample comprised of 540 candidates for election, 279 winners and 261 runners-up who never held office.

What the research found was that candidates who served as a head of government lived 4.4 fewer years after their last election than did candidates who never served. The inevitable conclusion was that election to head of government is associated with a substantial increase in mortality risk compared with candidates in national elections who failed to secure the public vote.

Clearly, Jimmy Carter was an outlier to this trend, another astonishing metric by which his career can be measured.

Nappy Of The Week

In my day a long drum solo was the cue for those of us with weak bladders to leave the concert arena and find relief at the nearest convenience. These days with the pace of the music more incessant the opportunities to take a leak without missing too much of the show are few and far between.

An American sparkling water brand, Liquid Death, known for their heavy metal-style images and marketing, have come up with an enterprising solution. It is marketing what it calls a limited-edition Pit Diaper, in essence an adult incontinence nappy bedecked with metal studs and chains, designed for concertgoers to avoid long queues for the toilets.

Wearing one allows you to spend a penny without leaving the mosh pit. Mind you, it will set you back a cool £80, although it does come with 52 depend guards. Despite the price, the initial batch has sold out.

It brings a new dimension to letting it all go at a concert!

Metropolitan Mysteries

A review of Metropolitan Mysteries: A Casebook of London’s Detectives edited by Martin Edwards – 241129

It is a while since I have read one of Martin Edward’s meticulously compiled anthologies for the British Library Crime Classics. Metropolitan Mysteries is a follow up in a way to his earlier Capital Crimes and features a series of eighteen short stories, some shorter than others, all set in London and featuring sleuths who solve baffling mysteries in double-quick time.

One of the joys of dipping into an anthology is to find a writer who is new to you or about whom you have forgotten and Edwards uses his encyclopedic knowledge of the genre to good effect. The jewel in this particular crown is his unearthing of Eric Bennett who seems only to have written one novel, Murder in the Admiralty. His contribution to this collection is a story which was published in the Evening Standard in June 1939.

London is about to host a major international conference, even Hitler has signalled his intention to attend, and the city is being spruced up in anticipation, including Nelson’s Column. Imagine the steeplejack Cockspur’s horror when he discovers the body of the Foreign Secretary, Marriner, on the top ledge of the column. How did he get there and who killed him? Step forward Superintendent Aldgate who even steels his nerve to visit the scene of the crime. For those of us who like an ingenious murder which teeters on the edge of bonkers, this is a marvellous treat and I will not forget the Flying Fakasakis in a hurry.

One of the surprising features of this anthology is how many senior politicians meet their maker and to continue the parliamentary theme there is even a contribution from a sitting MP, William Fienburgh.

London offers a wide range of settings, from the tube where there is a particularly gruesome murder with the body caught in the escalator to bohemian Chelsea and all points between. Some, though, could have been set anywhere like Josephine Bell’s The Case of the Faulty Drier, which will enhance anyone’s phobia of sticking their head under a hair salon’s drier, and Anthony Berkley’s rather impressive portrayal of a deadly wife in Unsound Mind.

The stories run the whole gamut of the genre from whodunits to howdunits to the impossible crime and locked room mystery. In the latter subgenre John Dickson Carr shows his skill to good effect and it is always good to catch up with Dr Gideon Fell once more. For those who like their murders laced with humour, Jefferson Farjeon’s Sergeant Dobbin Works it Out and Michael Gilbert’s Back in Five Years bring a smile to the face.

Curiously, the contributions of the big name writers are generally lightweight, particularly the Dorothy L Sayers and Margery Allingham contributions. While Sherlock Holmes is ineluctably associated with detection in the capital, there cannot be anyone who is tempted to pick up this anthology who has not read The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans. I did, though, make a mental note to explore Baroness Orczy a little more as I found her contribution, The Miser of Maida Vale, both clever and satisfying.

It is definitely a book to dip in and out of and whilst there are no absolute duds, the quality of the stories can be variable. The joys of anthologies!