Martin Fone's Blog, page 58

Advice Of The Week (7)

I am not a great fan of lightning and prefer to stay indoors during a storm. However, what should you do if you are caught in the great outdoors? Some German scientists, according to Nature, have some come up with some helpful advice: soak your head with rainwater.

While the chances of being struck by lightning are around one in a million, a direct hit to the head is usually fatal. Taking two model “heads” containing three layers representing the scalp, skull, and brain, they sprayed one head with a weak salt solution to represent rainwater and kept the other dry. They then exposed the two heads to ten electrical discharges of 2kA and 12 kV.

The found that the wet head carried a lower amount of the current to the brain layer compared with the dry head, offering a survival rate of 70 to 90% compared with 30% for a dry head. Vapourising water could reduce the temperature of the skin and direct lightning away from it, the believe, but they will conduct more research on their findings.

Instead of rushing for shelter when there is lightning and a downpour, perhaps we should stay in the open and bare our heads. The choice is yours.

Big Ben Strikes Eleven

A review of Big Ben Strikes Eleven by David Magarshack – 240127

Magarshack was better known as a translator, especially of Russian novels and in particular Dostoevsky, but turned his hand in the 1930s to writing detective fiction. Big Ben Strikes Eleven, which was originally published in 1934 and has now recently been reissued as part of the British Library Crime Classics series, was the first of his three efforts.

Two of my enduring impressions of “classic” Russian literature, of which I have read mercifully little, is that they are overlong and full of deep introspection, traits which, unfortunately, has introduced into his crime fiction. The length of the book is extended by the suspects and witnesses either refusing to co-operate by refusing to answer questions or by giving their own particular version of what happened and even the humblest of characters, the window cleaner who discovers the body, is allowed the space to ruminate upon what implications his find will have on his life.

The book concerns the death of Sir Robert Boniface, found shot in his car close to Hampstead Heath. Was he murdered or was it suicide? As is the way with these novels, the victim is a deeply unpleasant man full of overarching ambition, not beyond a bit of fraud to achieve his business goals and betting the fortunes of his company and those of his investors in a wild attempt to alter the world order. It emerges that the Board of his company has rumbled his plans and are trying to force him out or at least clip his wings. Was this enough to drive him to suicide?

The absence of a gun at the scene suggests, though, that it is murder and there are several suspects with motive enough to kill Boniface. The principal suspect is Frank Littlewood, the disenchanted nephew who has recently been sacked by Boniface and has written a virulent article that indicates that he knows enough to dish the dirt on his uncle. Another with just cause is Matt Caldwell, the stereotypical bohemian artist, who painted a portrait of the businessman which revealed his true character but which Boniface took exception to and refused to pay for.

The third prime suspect is Benjamin Fuller who works in Boniface’s personal office and is spotted by Superintendent Mooney, who is leading the investigation for the Yard, disposing of the gun. His wife is Boniface’s lover and will not grant him a divorce to allow him to marry, perhaps motive enough although the death of the magnate will not solve the impasse in his marital affairs.

The resolution of the case revolves around those irritating little clues that do not fit easily into what otherwise seems prima facie to be an open and shut case, a grey handkerchief, a cinema ticket, a discarded cigar, and some scratches on the paintwork of Boniface’s car. Always be suspicious of a perfect alibi, especially when presented by an inscrutable secretary who clearly knows more than they let on.

The pace of an otherwise pedestrian book only livens up at the end when the culprit makes a break for it and rushes to their death on Westminster Bridge. When Mooney reflects on what has happened and what he could have done to prevent it, Big Ben strikes eleven. Mooney is a fairly colourless character but is more considered in his actions than his more impetuous colleague, Inspector Beckett, and has the knack of worrying the awkward details into a coherent picture.     

The book has its moments but it is easy to see why Magarshack concentrated on developing a reputation as a translator.

Looe Gin Navy Strength

Looe is a beautiful seaside resort in southeast Cornwall and just off the seafront at West Looe, the town is intersected by the River Looe, is Looe Island, once a site for pilgrims and now a sanctuary for rare plants and wildlife. For gin afficionados Looe is the home of Copperfish Distillery, an enterprising distillery that is making waves from its quayside distillery with a range of spirits including moonshine, gin, and rum.

I came across the distillery when I bought a bottle of their Original Dry Gin, which I reviewed some time ago, and I need not repeat the story of their development. Just follow the link! In my explorations of the world spawned by the ginaissance I have developed a fascination and taste for Navy Strength gins and as Copperfish produce a Looe Gin Navy Strength it was inevitable that I would purchase a bottle from my usual supplier, Drinkfinder UK.

With an ABV of 57% it comes in a 50cl bottle, presumably to protect the innocent or unwary, but there is nothing bashful about its design. Like the Original Dry the label is deliberately reminiscent of a saucy seaside postcard, featuring a mermaid posing in front of the Looe seascape. It is certainly eye-catching if not particularly politically correct in these sensitive times. A blue circle to the left of the mermaid’s right shoulder tells me that the bottle contains Navy Strength.

The label at the rear uses a pale yellow background to good effect, making the verbiage, mainly in black and blue print, easy to read. My bottle is number 251 from batch 1. The bottle itself is cylindrical, made from clear glass, with a flat shoulder, medium sized neck and a silver cap with an artificial stopper.

Navy strength gins are normally based on the recipe of one of the distillery’s existing gins only with the volume turned to eleven and Copperfish have followed this route, basing their offering on their Original Dry Gin. Handcrafted in small batches in their bespoke 500 litre pot still, it uses a grain spirit and botanicals including juniper, coriander seed, orange peel, cinnamon bark, lemon peel, Angelica root and orris bark.

In the glass, surprisingly clear for its strength, it was just what I had hoped for, an intense hit of juniper with vibrant citric notes and long and dry finish. Lovely! If you are in to Navy Strength gins, it is definitely one to look out for.

Until the next time, cheers!

Subject: Murder

A review of Subject: Murder by Clifford Witting – 240123

One of the three Clifford Witting novels reissued by Galileo Publishers in 2023, Subject: Murder, originally published in 1945, the sixth in his Inspector Harry Charlton series, has a very autobiographical feel about it. It charts the early military career of Peter Bradfield, one of Charlton’s junior colleagues, and is based on Witting’s “personal experience as a bombardier in an anti-aircraft detachment”. It is full of the minutiae of army life told with a dark acerbic humour and so convincing is it that the reader finds themselves immersed in the daily grind of the lives of the protagonists.

In fact, you could argue that the murder mystery, because of course there is one, plays second fiddle to the author’s desire to put his military experience down on record. In comparison to the long sections about life in the detachment, the murder and the resolution of how and whodunit is wrapped up with unseemly haste and, although the choice of murderer makes sense with little clues thrown in along the way, it seemed a little random with a couple of others just as likely. There is almost time and focus spent on Bradfield’s burgeoning and successful romantic liaison.

As luck would have it, as it often does in Golden Age detective fiction, Bradfield ends up posted to the Lulverton area, where he served as a detective in civvy street and, more importantly for the series, the stomping ground of Harry Charlton who gets dragged in to investigate the murder of Battery Sergeant-Major George “Cruel” Yule. There is no secret that the sadistic and vindictive Yule who subscribes to the dictum that knowledge is power is going to meet his just desserts, as it is indicated almost at the start of the book.

It is a cruel murder, inspired by a passage detailing the torture and death of the Marquis of Santagena from The Bloodhound of Valladolid, a biography of Torquemada, with Yule, bound with a dog lead and tied to a horse with a gun rope, being dragged and trampled by it after it had been incited by a thistle inserted into its posterior. The animus against Yule is steadily built up as the story unfolds; he is lazy, is conducting an abusive relationship with a woman in the village, he claims that Johnny Fieldhouse assaulted him and has him sent to a detention centre where he breaks his jaw, he knocks a cat into a boiling bucket of tea and there is the mystery of what happened to Fitzgerald’s dog which was handed over to Yule but was later found with such severe injuries that it had to be shot.

Circumstantial evidence points to Johnny Fieldhouse as the murderer, but as his close friend Bradfield cannot believe that he is guilty. Charlton, though he is forced to arrest Fieldhouse, also seems to share his colleague’s doubts. Some off stage investigations by Sergeant Martin reveal that there is a different construct to the motivation behind the murder and one of the officer’s alibis is quickly broken. The book ends with Charlton getting his man and Bradfield getting his girl.

The resolution of the case revolves around access to and missing keys, alibis, rubber gloves, and whether a phobia of horses can easily be eradicated. There are clues as to the identity of the murderer throughout the book but the reader has to be unusually attentive to spot them and realise their import.

Wartime experiences has inspired great literature and whilst Witting’s has not contributed to a classic, it is an entertaining enough read. I did wonder at times where the book was going, a feeling compounded by its somewhat rushed conclusion.

On My Doorstep (21)

The area around Frimley where I live is not generally known as a hotbed of sporting innovation. It did host a world championship boxing match back in 1860 when prize fighting was still illegal, but, perhaps more enduringly, a century ago this month (March 2024) it was also the venue for the world’s first organised Motocross event, a form of off-road motorcycling race. For aficionados, it is one of the most skilful, energetic and exciting motor sports around.

From perhaps as early as 1906 official  Auto-Cycle clubs had offered daredevil motorcyclists the opportunity to show off their skills in time trials over designated courses. However, in 1924 the Camberley Club, which had met from 1913 at the Victoria Hotel on London Road, decided to spice matters up by organising a two lap race over the roughest off-road terrain that could be found on the Army land to the north and east of Camberley. There were to be no rules, no penalties for riders who fell off or crashed their machines – the working assumption being that they all would – and the winner would be the one who completed the course in the fastest time.

To emphasise its unique challenge the organisers called it a “scramble” or, more formally, the “Southern Scott Scramble”, a reference to the Scott Trial which had been held on the Yorkshire Moors since 1914 and itself a namecheck for a type of bike. Naturally, as the competitors were likely to drawn from wealthy gentlemen, the order of events allowed for a 2.5 hour break for lunch midway between the two laps.

Over eighty competitors took part in the race in March 1924, using road bikes as there were no specialised off-road motorcycles at the time. The terrain, described as “the worst freak course…with the steepest hill he had ever seen”  by one competitor, soon took its toll, with half the bikes disintegrating and failing to complete the course. Even those who had survived the horrors of the First World War confessed that they were very frightened.

Many of those that made it round were so damaged that they could only be transported back by their owners by train. The resourceful Mr T G Waterhouse came prepared, bringing a length of gas-piping to straighten out his Velocette “as the need arose”. Surprisingly, there were no serious casualties.

The winner, after two hours of riding a 486cc, two-stroke cylinder Scott Squirrel motorcycle and clocking up an average speed of 25 mph, was a former 2nd Lt from the Royal Flying Corps and Camberley resident, Arthur Sparks, who later opened a garage in the town. The Scramble was such a success that its format was copied across the country. It also inspired motorcycle manufacturers to develop specific off-road bikes, ensuring the scramble would go global. In France it became known as the “motorcycle cross-country” which was abbreviated to the now familiar Motocross.

To celebrate the centenary the Witley & District Motor Cycle Club have revived Camberley and District Motor Club and have organised, for March 24th, an event using the format of the original competition and part of the original course. I wish them well.  

“Anonymous” Post Boxes

A familiar, if now somewhat sadly underused piece of street furniture, is the post box, of which, according to The Letter Box Study Group, there are around 800 different types, including more than 400 different varieties of pillar box, around 160 types of wall box, 66 Ludlow boxes, and almost 80 versions of the lamp box. The introduction of the Uniform Penny Post by Rowland Hill in 1840 opened up the postal system to almost everybody in the United Kingdom and the increased use of the system meant that the old ways of posting letters, either by taking them personally to a Receiving House or giving them to a perambulating, uniformed Bellman who alerted residents to his presence by ringing a bell, were becoming unable to cope with the demand.

To solve the problem Anthony Trollope, the novelist but then a Surveyor Clerk at the Post Office, proposed the introduction of roadside post boxes, which he had seen while travelling in France and Belgium. On November 23, 1852 a trial began in Jersey with the installation of four red, cast-iron pillar boxes and it was extended the following year to Guernsey.  

The trial having been considered a success, from 1853 post boxes began to be installed on the mainland, the first in Carlisle. Local surveyors had the responsibility for the design, manufacture, and installation of them with the result that there was no standard design. By 1857, however, it was settled that the aperture through which a letter was posted should be horizontal rather than vertical and later that it should be under a slightly protruding cap to protect it from the rain.

In 1859 the colour of the boxes was standardised with green chosen to ensure that they blended in with the surroundings and did not appear to be obtrusive. The problem was that many people could not find them, or at least they claimed, and eventually yielding to public pressure, the colour of letter boxes was standardised once more with a return to the original red in 1874. It took ten years to complete the task of repainting them.

Irrespective of the shape and design of our local post boxes, they contain a royal cipher and/or the words “Post Office”. However, the post box outside No78, Banbury Road, the home of the lexicographer, James Murray, which was installed in 1885 to handle the volume of correspondence he was generating, has neither. It is what is known as an “anonymous” post box and is the result of a design error.

From 1879 Andrew Handyside and Company, an iron founders from Derby, had responsibility for manufacturing a new design of post box with its familiar cylindrical shape replacing the previous hexagonal design. Unfortunately, during the manufacture neither the royal cipher, at the time “VR”, nor the Post Office’s name were incorporated into the design. Perhaps because it was a new design or the roll-out was conducted at a leisurely pace astonishingly it took eight years for the mistake to be spotted and for new boxes to be fitted once more with the cipher and the Post Office’s name.

The post box outside of Murray’s house is one of the relatively few “anonymous” post boxes still in existence, making the seemingly unassuming Oxford suburban house even more remarkable.

Ban Of The Week (2)

The menace of the smombie is still with us, those irritating people who are so glued to the screens of their mobile devices that they pay little attention to what is going on around them or where they are going. There are encouraging signs, perhaps, of an attempt to eradicate the menace.   

In a referendum which saw a turnout of 20% of the residents of Seine-Port in the Seine-et-Marne area south of Paris, 54% voted to restrict smartphone use in public, banning children and adults from scrolling on their devices while walking down the street, while sitting with others on a park bench, while in shops, cafes or eating in restaurants, and while parents are waiting to pick up their children at the school gates. If you want directions, just ask someone. Shops and other public areas are being encouraged to display a sign of a smartphone with a red line through it.

The ban is not legally enforceable but the mayor believes it will serve as an incitement to moderate smartphone usage in public. We will see.

Conspiracy At Angel

A review of Conspiracy at Angel by Brian Flynn – 240120

Conspiracy at Angel, the thirty-second in Flynn’s long-running Anthony Bathurst series, originally published in 1947 and reissued by Dean Street Press, was universally panned by critics and is said to have been the novel that precipitated his fall into obscurity. Flynn was a writer who was unwilling to rest on his laurels by repeating a winning formula, but was always willing to experiment, often with success but sometimes less so. Even at my most charitable, this book falls into the latter category.

There are some unusual features about the book. Flynn is normally inventive with his titles, often picking upon an obscure element of the tale to bring to the fore, but this one is unusually prosaic. The story is about the unravelling of a conspiracy centred upon the town of Angel, not to be confused with the district in London. All the members of the gang, Messrs Gunter, Layman, Webber, Newman, Miller, and Mann, have anglicised versions of German surnames and at one stage Bathurst suspects that there is on the track of uncovering an international Nazi plot. However, the plot is more mundane, centering around the racecourse in the town, conveniently positioned near a river with a ferry crossing.

Bathurst normally operates in tandem with officers at the Yard, principally assisted by Inspector MacMorran, but here he operates mainly on his own, drawing upon the verbose Colonel Schofield, the archetypical retired military man, and his daughter, Priscilla, for assistance. During the course of Bathurst’s investigations, MacMorran, at telephone length, provides some background information and only appears on the scene as the story moves to its climax. The Colonel never really cuts it as a realistic character and the story misses something without an effective accomplice for Bathurst to spar with. Schofield’s characterisation also adds to the sense that this is an over wordy novel with too much padding and repetition.

The story starts on a bizarre note. Richard Langley, as he arrives in Angel, meets Priscilla Schofield carrying a cat by the name of Ahaseurus, and is asked to deliver it to her father’s house. Langley, who in this part of the story is a blithering idiot straight out of Wodehouse, goes to the wrong house, mutters the phrase “the cat is out of the bag” in jest, only to find that the conspirators around the table take it to mean something else and Langley only just escapes with his life. The rest of the opening section, entitled In the Wings, details Langley’s story as he tries to find out more about the shady characters, the theft of his car which is returned with a body, that of Trimmer, in it, and his own disappearance.

A week later, Priscilla concerned at Langley’s disappearance, calls in Bathurst for assistance and the main part of the book, entitled Centre Stage, details his investigations which leads to his understanding of what the conspiracy is all about and how it is pulled off. Having two post offices at the gang’s disposal allowing them to back time telegrams and a boat with a hooter proves extremely useful. As Bathurst gets warmer, he is increasingly in danger, having to dress in drag to escape some heavies who are dogging him and taking the guise of a mechanic to understand better the role that the ferry plays in the scheme.

This is another Flynn story where a code in the form of an acrostic provides a useful clue that allows Bathurst, who was struggling to make headway, to locate where Langley is or has been. The section ends with the discovery and rescue of Langley. The third section, Curtains, sees the implementation of Bathurst’s carefully worked out plan, which garners enough evidence to put the gang away and, following a confession, solve Trimmer’s murder. However, it is all a little low key, adding to the sense that Flynn never really had his heart in the story.

One saving grace is that setting the tale in a sporting milieu allows Flynn to indulge his enthusiasm for racing, the Colonel’s passion for horse racing form giving him the opportunity to be inventive with names. There is a Brains Trust Q&A session airing the leading sporting topics of the day, only to be rudely interrupted by the lights going out and a shot fired, and I enjoyed MacMorran hustling Bathurst off the phone as he was off to watch Tottenham play Aston Villa in a 2.45 kick off.

There is also one major loose end. What happened to Maddison, a private investigator who dogged Bathurst in the early days but as soon as our hero decamped from his hotel, was never heard of again? And was the saccharine love interest between Priscilla and Langley really necessary?

The moral of the story is beware of strangers bearing cats.

Luxardo London Dry Gin

Founded in 1821 by Girolamo Luxardo and still controlled by the same founding family, Luxardo is one of the oldest European companies producing liqueurs and spirits. It is best known for its Maraschino Liqueur and Cherries and operates out of Torreglia in Padua after moving from Zara, the Venetian capital of Dalmatia, following the devastation caused to the area in the final throes of the Nazi withdrawal from the area. Their website has a fascinating account of the family’s back history.

The first juniper-based distillate produced by the Luxardo family appeared in their catalogue in 1833 but their London Dry Gin is based on their recipe for Ginepro di Dalmazia which they have distilled since the beginning of the 20th century, although the bottle dates the recipe to 1936, featuring Dalmatia’s famous juniper. As well as the juniper eight other botanicals go into the mix – coriander, iris, angelica, liquorice, cinchona (a bark which gives a woody, dusty, and tannic flavour), cinnamon, cardamom, and bitter oranges. The composition of the base spirit used is not declared.

The botanicals are infused in the base spirit for twenty-four hours in a copper pot still before distillation. The spirit is then refined for nineteen days before bottling with a more than acceptable ABV of 43%.

Luxardo products have a reputation of being a little earthy and their version of a London Dry is no exception. On the nose the juniper comes through loud and clear mingling with some citric notes. In the glass it is a gin that is going to divide opinion. The juniper is forward, which is a tick in the box as far as I am concerned, and it combines with the bold bitter orange but there is a curiously chalky texture to the spirit which is initially a surprise and can be off-putting. The spices put in a brief appearance but never really make their presence felt and the gin signs off with a bit of a damp squib, more earthiness and tannin. All the ingredients are there to make a superb gin but it seemed to me a bit like a Ferrari consigned to driving in a Welsh twenty-mile an hour speed zone.

The gin is presented in a clear glass, rounded bottle rather like a wine bottle with tall, rounded shoulders leading to a long neck, a dark blue cap and an artificial stopper. The front label is busy, very Italian and the colours, at least on my bottle, are rather subdued, perhaps suggesting that it has lingered on the shelves of Drinkfinder for some time. The front label uses a mix of blues, gold, and red against a white background and features the Luxardo family crest at its centre. It also reinforces the family’s long distilling tradition.  

Luxardo also have a sour cherry gin, which I have not tried. The glory of gin is that it is a spirit that can accommodate almost any combination of botanicals, meaning that there is more than one for any palate. Sadly, this is not one that will get into my top ten.

Until the next time, cheers!

Death At The Dolphin

A review of Death at the Dolphin by Ngaio Marsh – 240118

You can take the girl out of the theatre but you cannot take the theatre out of the girl. I have been plodding my way through Ngaio Marsh’s Inspector Alleyn series in chronological order and Death at the Dolphin, the twenty-fourth originally published in 1966, is at least the fifth set in the theatre, where she had worked as a director before taking up writing as a career. Naturally, this means that she can put her insider knowledge of how the theatrical world works into good use but there is a risk that by turning to the same relatively close knit community there is a risk that some of her books seem a bit samey.

This book, which went under the alternative title of Killer Dolphin in the United States, is more of a mystery than a murder mystery and has a promising opening. Peregrine Jay explores a disused London theatre, the Dolphin, and nearly drowns as he falls down a hidden well, only to be rescued by a mysterious millionaire, Vassily Conducis, who seems particularly shaken by the sight of Jay’s gloved hands gripping for dear life to the rim of the well.

The pace of the book then slows down as Marsh sets up the story. Conducis, inspired by Jay’s enthusiasm for the theatre, decides to restore the Dolphin to its former glory, appointing Jay to be its creative director. The play for the opening night is written by Jay, The Glove, inspired by the glove said to have been belonged to Shakespeare’s son, Hamnet, and owned by Conducis. The glove is to be the centrepiece of the foyer, flanked by two specially commissioned statues of dolphins. Inspector Alleyn oversees the security precautions for the glove which turn out not to be as robust as they should be.

The inevitable happens; when the theatre is supposedly cleared the glove is stolen, one of the theatre’s security men, Harry Jobbins, is battered over the head by one of the dolphin statues and the precocious eleven year old child star, Trevor Vere, who as a stereotypical boy in crime fiction is mischievous and a prankster and was lurking in the theatre, tumbles over the balcony suffering concussion and a broken leg. The glove is subsequently found in the theatre and Alleyn’s ability to explain what went on that night rests mainly upon the boy’s ability to recollect what happened at the time of the theft. Naturally, a staged visit by all the cast members to his hospital bed triggers his memory and enables Alleyn to solve the case. The culprit does not resist and confesses all.    

Aside from the central mystery of who stole the glove and caused Jobbins’ death, there are a couple of sub plots. One, was the glove on display genuine or was it a substitution and, if so who, who did it and how did Conducis get the glove and what was behind his phobia of gloved hands gripping on desperately and what hold did the odd ball actor, Hartley Grove, have on him? Alleyn, ably assisted by his sidekick, Fox, supply the answers in their phlegmatic, unshowy way.

As is to be expected, Marsh’s observations on the thespian community, their jealousies, pettiness, and feelings of self-importance are acute. The pompous lead actor, Marcus Knight, is well drawn and his feud with Hartley Grove, who has the ability to wind him up, is one of the highlights of a book that rarely moves above the moderately interesting. I did enjoy the relevance of Jay’s recollection of the ending of The Cherry Orchard as he left the theatre on that fatal night, a nice touch as was the arrival of the eminence grise, Mrs Guzman, in the final paragraphs.