Martin Fone's Blog, page 71

Worcestershire Sauce

A thin brown, savoury, tangy, spiced sauce, a delightful hit of umami in a bottle, Worcestershire sauce is firmly established as one of the world’s leading condiments with global sales of $805.6 million in 2021. While following in the footsteps of fermented fish sauces like garum, the ketchup of the Roman world, it was created purely by chance, or so the story goes.

John Lea and William Perrins had run a chemist shop in Broad Street in Worcester since 1823. One day, they were visited by Lord Marcus Sandys who had recently returned to the family seat at nearby Ombersley Court after a spell as Governor of Bengal. While out in India he had developed a taste for a particular sauce which he asked the chemists to reproduce from a recipe he had obtained.

Chemists rather than chefs, Lea and Perrins did their best, but without the precise quantities of the ingredients what they produced they found, according to the Lea & Perrins website, to be “completely unpalatable”. The fish and vegetable mixture had such a strong and unpleasant smell that they stored it in their cellar and promptly forgot about it. It was only rediscovered some eighteen months later, by which time it had matured into a delicious sauce.

Recognising the commercial possibilities of their sauce, Lea and Perrins bottled it in the only containers they had available, their round medicine bottles. The distinctive bottle shape with its long neck is still used today. Launched locally in 1837, their sauce proved to be such a hit that they had to take over the premises next door to manufacture the quantities required.

One of their early marketing ploys was to arrange for all ocean-going liners travelling to and from England to stock Worcestershire sauce in their restaurants, even paying waiters to serve it. By 1839 the sauce had reached the United States and so popular was it that the importer, John Duncan of New York, opened a processing plant, bringing the ingredients from England, and manufactured the sauce exactly to Lea and Perrins’ formula. The American version nowadays, though, is different, using distilled white vinegar instead of malt vinegar, three times more sugar and more than three times as much sodium.

Doubt has been cast on the veracity of this version of the sauce’s origin, as the informative blog, The Heart Thrills, points out. There is no record that Lord Marcus, who was not elevated to the peerage until 1860, ever went to Bengal, let alone serve as its governor, nor did any of his immediate family. Nor was the idea of creating an anchovy-based sauce unique to Lea and Perrins.

As early as 1747 Hannah Glasse included in her The Art of Cookery Made Plain & Easy a recipe for Anchovy Sauce, while in 1830 Dr William Kitchiner gave a recipe in his The Cook’s Oracle and House Keeper’s Manual for Fish Sauce, which he had received from a “very sagacious sauce-maker”. Kitchiner’s sauce called for six anchovies pounded, two wine glasses of port, two of walnut pickle, four of mushroom catsup, sliced and pounded eschalots, a tablespoonful of soy, and half a drachm of Cayenne pepper. The ingredients were simmered gently for ten minutes, the liquid strained, and when cold, bottled and corked.

Even an Indian twist was not unique to Lea and Perrins. Since 1830 rival Worcester chemists, Twinberrow and Evans, had been selling a sauce they had developed which pandered to the growing demand for condiments spiced with the flavours of India. Meanwhile Worcester sauce was a term used to describe the sauces that local traders used to make to complement the taste of a delicacy, lampreys, which were caught in the River Severn.

Lost Word Of The Day (78)

One of the (many) downsides of the rise of social media is the opportunity it gives to rail away at the sidelines, often giving vent to opinions and feelings that they would not have the nerve to espouse in a face-to-face confrontation. Such people are known as trolls, but I much prefer to use the term anonymuncule, which was used, at least in the 19th century, to describe an insignificant, anonymous writer.

It is an amalgam of two words, anonymous and homunculus, a little man, and was used to good effect by W Lynd in The Gentleman’s Magazine in September 1882; “Rail away, my little libellous anonymuncule”.

That should keep the trolls at bay!

Lost Word Of The Day (77)

Carl is a word with a long heritage, used in Old English to describe someone who is a labourer or a craftsman but who does not have any land or property, one of the lower orders. It was derived from the Old Norse word karl which had the same meaning.

By the 15th century, though, the term had assumed a more pejorative sense, a word used to describe someone who was churlish and stingy. Thomas nashi in Christ’s Tears over Jerusalem (1593) marks this change of meaning; “none is so much the thieves mark as the myser and the Carle”. This sense has survived in Scottish dialect.

Also from the same Old Norse root is churl, appearing in Old English as ceorl and meant a man, husband, or a freeman of the lowest rank. By the 14th century a churl had become particularly associated with rude, ill-bred people and by the 16th century, by extension, was another term for a stingy miser. Henry Smith uses it in this sense in his A Sermon of the Benefite of Contention (1591); “When the churles barnes were full, hee bad his soule rest, thinking to gaine rest by covetousnes, that he might say. Riches gaine rest as wel as godliness….”

Churls and churlishness might still be with us, but carls have retreated into the mists of obscurity.

The Polo Ground Mystery

A review of The Polo Ground Mystery by Robin Forsythe – 230926

This is the second novel by Robin Forsythe to feature his amateur sleuth, Algernon Vereker, originally published in 1932 and reissued by Dean Street Press. It seemed a little more mannered and dated in style than his debut novel, Murdered or Missing, and some of his language will test the vocabulary of even the most well-read of readers. A country house murder with more than one twist, it has much to recommend it.

How an author chooses to portray the relationship between amateur sleuth and professional police detective is always an interesting feature of a piece of crime fiction. Many paint the policeman as a bumbling incompetent, all too prone to jump to conclusions and miss the subtleties of the case, a device which enhances the brilliance of the amateur. Forsythe, however, shows the police more respect, perhaps coloured by his own brush with the law, and Inspector Heather is not only competent and efficient, but even manages to pull one over Vereker at the end.

The set up of the novel is promising. A prominent businessman, Sutton Armadale, is shot dead on the polo ground of his country estate in Surrey, his dying word being “Murder”. His wife’s necklace, valued at £20,000, has gone missing and it is assumed that Armadale was killed while in pursuit of the robber. At the same time, his business rival, Raymond Braby, has been arrested for fraud, causing financial ruin to many. Armadale, of course, has had a hand in his downfall.

Vereker is not convinced by the theory that Armadale, having disturbed the burglar, was shot in pursuit of the culprit. After all, Armadale was almost fully dressed, there are two marks in the grass a set distance apart, and a tape measure on his desk. The position of the body, the locus of the wounds, and the two gun shots heard about six minutes apart seem to rule out suicide. An enigmatic note on Armadale’s desk, once cracked, leads to the conclusion that there is a darker and more archaic reason for his demise.

At Armadale’s house on the night of the murder are the usual motley collection of characters, including his nephew, Basil Ralli, the beautiful femme fatale, Edmee Cazas, the wonderfully named Captain Rickaby Fanshaugh, Ralph Degerdon, and Aubrey Winter, while Mrs Armadale’s “friend”, Stanley Houseley arouses suspicions with his nocturnal movements. There are enough characters with motives, ranging from envy, hopes of personal gain, a former employee with a grudge, and thwarted lovers to keep the investigators occupied.          

It emerges that the murder and robbery are not linked and once this has been established, Vereker sees his way to constructing what really happened to Armadale. The resolution of the book poses several moral dilemmas. If you put something back, have you really stolen it? If you engage in what in modern parlance is called an assisted death, are you guilty of murder or manslaughter? To say too much more would give the climax away, but Forsythe’s narrative does rather leave the answers to these important questions, which still resonate today, somewhat open.

The culprit come from leftfield and, while their part in the drama satisfies the facts, their guilt does seem a convenient literary device to bring a tale that was in danger of meandering into the distance to a conclusion. There are some tedious passages, Forsythe almost lurching into Freeman Wills Crofts territory with the attempts to reconcile the number of bullets, shells, and reports, but Vereker’s exchanges with Heather and the intricacies of the plot save what was a clever idea from failing to deliver.

I found it an enjoyable book, perhaps not as good as Forsythe’s debut, and one that raised some interesting moral dilemmas.     

Corpse Of The Week (2)

It was a red letter day in Reading, Pennsylvania on October 7th when Stoneman Willie was finally laid to rest. He gave a false name when he was arrested for pickpocketing in 1895, and died from kidney failure while languishing in the local jail.

Accidentally mummified by an undertaker who was experimenting with new embalming techniques, he has been prominently displayed in an open coffin in the town, dressed in a suit and bow tie with a red sash across his chest. His hair and teeth remain intact and his skin has taken on a leathery appearance.

Only recently has his true identity been discovered and he will be buried with his real name inscribed on the tombstone, local officials having overruled the request of Auman’s Funeral Home that the mummy remain undisturbed so that the effects of the embalming technique can be studies.

Prior to his internment, Stoneman Willie had one last hurrah, paraded on a motorcycle as part of the town’s 275th anniversary celebrations. After that, he deserves a bit of peace.

Watson’s Choice

A review of Watson’s Choice by Gladys Mitchell – 230919

Reading a novel by Gladys Mitchell is never going to be an easy ride but by her often perplexing standards Watson’s Choice, the twenty-eighth in her Mrs Bradley series and originally published in 1955, is one of her more accessible. Unusually for her, we get to meet all the characters in the opening chapter, all of whom are guests who have been invited to a house party held by Sir Bohun Chantrey, who is concerned that his life is in peril. The party is to celebrate Chantrey’s love of Sherlock Holmes with each of the invitees is asked to dress as a character from the mysteries of Conan Doyle’s iconic creation.

Anyone who expects this to be a conventional country house murder mystery, especially when there is a thick, atmospheric fog swirling around, is in for a big surprise as, wait anxiously as we might, no body is discovered in either the library, on the lawn, or in a bedroom. However, the party does lay the groundwork for the mystery that is to follow. Chantrey astonishes his assembled guests by announcing that he is going to marry one of his nephews’ governess, Linda Campbell, a turn of events that upsets the plans of Manoel Lupez, Chantrey’s illegitimate bullfighting son who is determined to prove his entitlement to Chantrey’s estate.

The guests are put further at their unease when a large dog made up to resemble the Hound of the Baskervilles makes an appearance. Linda is particularly frightened by the sight of it. Inevitably, Mrs Bradley, who has assumed the guise of Mrs Farintosh, her secretary, Laura Menzies, and ger fiancé, Inspector Gavin of the Yard, are invitees to the party and take the opportunity to snoop around and experience the strained and strange vibes of the party.

One of the delights of the first part of the book is its unashamed homage to the works of Conan Doyle. It is full of references to characters and objects which play prominent or minor roles in the unfolding of the Holmes’ greatest cases, and it takes a will of iron not to be diverted and look up what part items such as Francis H Moulton’s hotel bill and Hunte’s opium-laced curry played in Sherlock Holmes’ bulging casebook.

During the night Linda disappears and the tutor tells the other guests that he had a dream of finding her dead on the heath. However, Linda returns, telling an equally cock and bull story of being abducted and then released. It is not until several weeks later that the events initiated by Chantrey’s house party reaches its dramatic and inevitable conclusion when Linda disappears again and her body is found in a nearby abandoned railway station, one in which the dog that played the part of the Hound of the Baskervilles was kept. Mrs Bradley, Menzies, Gavin, and a returning Alice Boorman, who happens to live nearby, in their various ways investigates what happened to Chantrey’s fiancée.

Inevitably, the threats to Chantrey and the death of Linda are linked, and the identity of culprit owed more than a little nod to The Red-Headed League. Their unmasking plays out a scene from The Adventure of the Six Napoleons, demonstrating that Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes holds a greater influence over the book than does Sophocles’ Oedipus.

It is a romp of a book, Mitchell having fun in demonstrating her love and knowledge of Conan Doyle’s works and, while the pace of the book drops in the middle section, it is redeemed as the narrative reaches its finale. Mitchell cannot resist muddying the waters of what is a straightforward tale, but has produced a book that will satisfy her fans and given those who want to see what all the fuss about her is about a moderately easy introduction to her distinctly left field take on detective fiction.

Reverse The Charges

A review of Reverse The Charges by Brian Flynn – 230916

The ever-inventive Brian Flynn brightened up the war years with the highly entertaining and yet slightly bonkers Reverse The Charges, the twenty-ninth in his long running Anthony Bathurst series, which was originally published in 1943 and rescued from obscurity by Dean Street Press. There are corpses galore, four murders, an attempted murder with the assassin doing serious damage to a mannequin with an axe, and the inevitable suicide of the culprit, unmasked in Poirot-style as all the interested parties are gathered together in a room to hear the great sleuth reveal his understanding of what happened.

Set in Mallett in Glebeshire, the life of the town is rocked when a farmer by the name of William Norman is killed while driving his car from an evening at the White Lion, having had six burning cinder pellets put down the back of his neck by his passenger. A second murder soon follows, that of the baker, Henry King, who ingested a poisoned fish while lunching at the White Lion. The next victim is George Clarence, a ne’er do well, whose body was found feet up in a barrel in the courtyard of the White Lion, the water in the barrel having been tainted with port. The fourth victim is an eleven-year-old boy, Richard Yorke, who was smothered to death by a cushion and whose body was found on a settee in the White Lion.

You do not have to be a keen student of royal history to realise that the Chief Constable, who goes by the name of Sir Charles Stuart, might be in serious danger and likely to be attacked with an axe. However, it takes Bathurst a long time to make the connections, his excuse, not unreasonably being that he could only deal with the facts as they presented themselves to him. He was called in after the first murder and takes several to occur before a link becomes apparent.

Before that, there are some significant distractions. Was the culprit a homicidal maniac with no logic to their actions or was there something significant in the curious fact that each of the victims were suffering from advanced terminal illnesses? Could the murders be seen as a form of kindness, a form of euthanasia to relieve them of their sufferings? Was the link to the White Lion in each of the four murders of any significance? And why was Clarence in the process of selling a stamp collection, which he had stolen, and why did it end up in the possession of Mallett’s acknowledged philatelist, one of King’s fellow diners at the White Lion?      

There is much for Bathurst to think about but in conjunction with his old sparring partner, Inspector MacMorran of the Yard, and Venables of the local police who receives a blow to his head for his troubles, they ponder all the points of the case, and resolution seems to come out of the blue when a dying man by the name of Jordan makes a full confession.

However, Bathurst is not satisfied and ponders the case some more. The causal link and the whodunit are not too difficult to spot, but the motive seems to come a little out of the blue and you cannot help thinking that the plans of the murderer are a little too involved to settle what is effectively an old score, a love spurned.

Each of the four murders require a high degree of planning, selecting the right victims with the right names and matching a means of despatch that matches their monikers and then being able to commit the murders undetected. The first murder, using burning coals which not only have to be kept warm and hidden from the intended victim, but also pushed down his back while he is driving. The second relies on the plate of food being left unattended at the serving hatch for a vital few seconds. As the murders are merely a smokescreen to throw off suspicion ahead of the main event, the murder of Stuart, it all seems too much effort.

However, it does not do to spend too much time wondering about the logic of the plot. This is a Flynn tour de force in which his narrative power, imagination, and wit carries all before it. Great fun.

Oh, and I thought I was well up on my cricket history but the reference to Lionel Palairet got through my guard and broke my stumps.

Goldsmith’s Folly

In the early evening of April 8, 1824, Treen’s Logan Rock was dislodged from its pivot by Hugh Goldsmith and the crew of the HMS Nimble, dropping several feet on to a ledge. Once news of Goldsmith’s act of folly reached Penzance, it roused the sort of righteous indignation that only the strict application of Law 20.1.2 in cricket can today. Local worthy, Sir Richard Vyvyan of Trelowarren, vowed that he would “prosecute the delinquent with the utmost vigour” and once the Royal Cornwall Gazette had given the story due prominence, it was picked up by the national papers. Pressure was put on the Admiralty to restore the focal point of Treen’s tourism industry, something which many eminent engineers at the time thought could not be done.

Realising that he was in hot water and fearing for his safety, a contrite Goldsmith confided to his mother on April 24th in a letter that he was taken aback by the reaction he had provoked. “I knew not”, he wrote, “that this rock was so idolised in this neighbourhood, and you may imagine my astonishment when I found all Penzance in an uproar. I was to be transported at least; the newspapers have traduced me, and made me worse than a murderer, and the base falsehoods in them are more than wicked”.

Nevertheless, whether bowing to pressure from the Admiralty or out of genuine contrition, he vowed to put “the bauble in its place again and hope[d] to get as much credit as I have anger for throwing it down”. He received the support of an eminent Cornish engineer and politician, Davies Gilbert of Tredrea in St Erth, who persuaded the Admiralty to provide all the equipment necessary for the attempt free of charge and pledged £25 towards the cost of labour and other expenses which Goldsmith, a man of relatively little wealth, was expected to meet.

After months of preparation, work began on October 29th, 1824, and the Royal Cornwall Gazette reported that crowds of people watched the rock being carefully hoisted back up the cliff with the assistance of cranes, winches, and sheer muscle power. At around 4.20pm on November 2nd a great cheer went up as the stone finally rested in its former position and was seen to rock. A correspondent was moved to remark that “it is but justice to Lieutenant Goldsmith to say that he evinced the greatest care and intrepidity in this difficult and dangerous undertaking, tho’ nothing can excuse his first act”.

Goldsmith, who remained in the Navy but was never promoted, was dogged by his escapade until his final days. He only finished paying off his share of the £130.8s.6d the restoration project cost, according to a receipt displayed in The Logan Rock public house in Treen, plus interest shortly before he died in 1841 at sea on the HMS Megaera off St Thomas in the West Indies.

To prevent a recurrence the rock was chained and padlocked and Treen, deprived of its monumental tourist attraction, was nicknamed Goldsmith’s Deserted Village. Even when the rock was eventually freed, it was not as mobile as it once was, although, according to local historian, Craig Weatherhill, a series of rhythmic heaves applied to the south-western corner of the rock will get it moving, after which the motion can be kept going with the use of one hand. The anchor holes used to haul the logan are still visible in the surrounding rocks.

Treen’s logan was not the only Cornish rocking stone to attract the attention of the military. In 1650 during the English civil war, Shrubshall, a roundhead commander at Pendennis, had the logan at the top of Men-Amber rock near the hamlet of Nancegollan toppled, suspecting it to be either the meeting point for Royalists or the venue for pagan rites. It was never restored. Of Cornwall’s other two significant logans, the one at Zennor, illustrated in 1858 a photograph entitled The Rocking Stone of Zennor, no longer rocks but, happily, the one on Bodmin Moor’s Louden Hill has so far evaded that fate.

Logan rocks are not confined to Cornwall. If you find one, do not do a Goldsmith!

Lost Word Of The Day (76)

We are familiar with the term hunk meaning a large piece of something and, informally, a strong, attractive man, but what about hunks or hunx, a word with an unknown origin that appeared in the 17th century? Describing a miser or an ill-natured person it was used by some of the English language’s greatest 19th century writers.

Dickens wrote in The Old Curiosity Shop (1841) “that you become the sole inheritor of this rich old hunks”, while Charles Kingsley, in Two Years Ago (1857), left no one in any doubt as to its meaning; “one fellow comes and borrows my money and goes out and calls me a stingy old hunks because I won’t let him cheat me”. Trollope, in The Way We Live Now (1875), wrote “Crumb had anathematised old Ruggles and his money too, telling him that he was an old hunx”.

The word does not seem to have survived long into the 20th century, by which time we had become rather miserly in our epithets for stinginess.

Lost Word Of The Day (75)

It is more than a truism that a child is indulged more by their grandparents than their parents. It is also more than a truism that often the burden of childcare, at least during daytime and school holidays, falls on grandparents.

A word that rather neatly wraps up the two concepts into one is mammothrept, now sadly fallen into obscurity. It means a spoiled child and was used by Ben Jonson in Cynthia’s Revels published in 1616; “O, you are a mere mammothrept in judgement then”. It was derived from the Greek mammothreptos which meant a child brought up by their grandmother.

If we do have to suffer spoiled brats, at least there is a great word to describe them.