Martin Fone's Blog, page 80

A Murder is Announced

A review of A Murder is Announced by Agatha Christie – 230622

The first reading of A Murder is Announced took place on Wednesday, June 14th, at The Trengilly Wartha at 6.30pm. Friends please accept this, the only intimation. Astonishingly, this was the first time that I had read this Christie classic, originally published in 1950 and the fifth in her Miss Marples series, although I have seen and heard adaptations and so it was difficult to treat it with a tabula rasa. Nevertheless, it was a terrific read and fitted my brief for light holiday reading fare to a tee.

There were a number of features that caught my attention. The first was the sense of excitement that the arrival of the local newspaper created in small communities such as Chipping Cleghorn. The immediacy of social media has at some cost to reliability and truth has pretty much led to the downfall of local newspapers, but there was a time when they were the reliable source of information that confirmed or denied the tittle-tattle around the village pump.

Of particular interest was the Personal Notices and the advert announcing that a murder was to take place at Little Paddocks excited the local worthies in Chipping Cleghorn. The general consensus was that a game of Murder was to be staged, a detective style party game that was all the rage in the 1930s and also features in Ngaio Marsh’s A Man Lay Dying (1934) and Mary Fitt’s Three Sisters Flew Home (1936), and they all make pretences to be at Letitia Blackstock’s residence for the appointed hour. However, the announcement seems as much as a surprise to Laetitia as it does to anyone else. While the lights go out and someone is murdered, it is not exactly a game, but the end result is a corpse that needs to be identified and a murderer that needs to be caught.

Much of the investigation centres around who was where and who saw what as a torch was shone around the room into the eyes of all those who were present before the fatal shots, bringing into question the reliability of witnesses and the unerring knack of two or more witnesses who saw the same thing to have different impressions of what took place, a theme that was central to John Dickson Carr’s The Black Spectacles (1939).

Two spinsters, Misses Murgatroyd and Hinchcliffe, try to re-enact the scene in their mind’s eye and Murgatroyd pays with her life for a revelation that comes to her in a flash, but too late to be acted upon. Murders come in threes in Miss Marple stories and the other victim is the bumbling, slightly dotty companion of Laetitia, Dora Bunner, whose death from poisoning after her birthday party in which she enjoyed a chocolate concoction called Delicious Death, is not only an inevitable consequence of the first murder but also a clue to the identity of the killer.

A post-war feature of the book is the presence of refugees, the initial victim, Rudolf Scherz, is a petty thief from Switzerland while Blackstock’s maid, the fiery and temperamental Mitzi, is from Mittel Europa with a pathological hatred and mistrust of any figure of authority. She is a wonderful character and Miss Marple, who operates in the background having been recommended to / foisted on Inspector Craddock by her friend, the eminent former head of Scotland Yard, Sir Henry Clethering, devises a stratagem in which the maid, at some risk to herself, induces the murderer to reveal themselves.

There are plenty of suspects and motive enough for killing Laetitia as she is about to inherit a large amount of money. Christie is at her best in turning the reader’s suspicions one way and then another with a pool of suspects who are not all they seem to be or are so innocent that they can easily be taken advantage of. She does not exactly play fair with the reader, but makes up for that by delivering a superb ending that takes the breath away.

Forty-Two And The Rainbow

A rainbow never fails to enchant, a transient moment of celestial beauty, even though it is one the commonest of meteorological phenomena. For Keats it was enough to admire it for what it is, railing against Isaac Newton in 1817 for destroying “the poetry of the rainbow” by “reducing it to a prism” and, in Lamia (1820), lamenting that scientists “will… conquer all mysteries by rule and line/ empty the haunted air and gnomed mine/ unweave a rainbow”.

The first step on the yellow brick road to understanding rainbows was taken in 1621 when Dutch scientist Willobrord Snell developed his law of refraction. Discovering that when light travels from one medium to another, for example from air to water, it generally bends or refracts, he was able to calculate the degree of bend.

René Descartes then created a rainbow in his laboratory by passing light through a flask of water and applied Snell’s law to calculate the angles of refraction and reflection of a beam inside a droplet of water. He documented his findings in the first detailed study of rainbows, L’arc de ciel, later to be incorporated into his Discours sur la méthode (1637). One thing baffled him; why was a rainbow made up of different colours?

Isaac Newton answered that in Opticks (1704). Passing light through a prism, he found that it decomposed into seven colours and that the order in which they appeared, red orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet, immortalised in the mnemonic Richard of York Gave Battle In Vain, remained the same every time.

There is some debate as to whether indigo, for many indistinguishable between blue and purple, should be a separate colour in the rainbow spectrum. Was Newton, more romantic than Keats gave him credit for, lured by the by the cosmic significance of the number seven? It is more likely, though, that in Newton’s time the distinction between indigo and blue was more marked, blue being more of a greenish-blue aqua-like colour compared with the bolder hue of indigo, one of the most valued and expensive dyes of the age.

In the world of rainbows, though, seven pales into insignificance compared with forty-two, the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything, according to Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (1979).

On meeting a droplet of water, some rays of light will penetrate it, and are refracted on the way in, reflected as they hit the back of the drop, and refracted once more as they leave. The rays hit the drop at various angles, and the higher up they strike, the greater the angle of reflection. The most intense concentration of light, the Descartes ray, occurs when the rays are reflected at around forty-two degrees. It is at this point that the raindrop scatters most light, producing the bright and vibrant colours that form a rainbow.

When the white light decomposes into its distinctive colours, their order is determined by the wavelength associated with that colour. As the colour’s wavelength does not change, the order in which they appear in a rainbow remains constant. Blue, with the shortest wavelength, is refracted at a greater angle than red, the colour with the longest wavelength, but after the rays are reflected from the back of the droplet, the angle at which the blue light exits is slightly smaller than that of the red. As a result, blue is seen on the inside of the rainbow’s arc and red on the outside.

Do Octopi Dream Of Electric Sheep?

Some intriguing research emerged from the depths of the pages of Nature the other week, concerning some research conducted by a team from the Okinawa Institute of Science and Technology, OISTers you might say, into the sleep patterns of the nocturnal octopus, Octopus laqueus.

During daylight the creatures close their eyes and adopted a resting process associated with sleep. Every sixty minutes or so, the animals underwent rapid changes of skin colour lasting about a minute, together with changes in breathing rate, as well as body and eye movements. This period of “active sleep”, the researchers claim, is analogous to REM sleep patterns observed in vertebrates, particularly humans, and is associated with dreaming. The OISTers have concluded that the octopi might well be dreaming.

Of what would be an interesting piece of research. However, before we get too excited, there might be a simpler explanation; the octopi are simply adjusting their camouflage patterning while they sleep.

Lost Word Of The Day (52)

As you get older and more worldly wise, you get subtle and crafty, or so they say. A long-lost adjective, defined by Thomas Blount in his Glossographia of 1665 as meaning “crafty, subtil, gotten by long use” but, sadly, long fallen out of use is veteratorian. It is derived from the Latin adjective, veteratorius, which meant crafty.

There is a certain irony that the word when voiced seems far from subtle in its formation. Perhaps that is why it fell out of favour.

The Case Of The Platinum Blonde

A review of The Case of the Platinum Blonde

The Case of the Platinum Blonde, the twenty-eighth in Bush’s Travers series, originally published in 1944 and now reissued by Dean Street Press, might easily have had the Conningtonesque title of The Case with the Two Solutions. Our narrator, Ludovic Travers, the horn-rimmed spectacles wearing amateur sleuth, tells his readers at the outset that he is rushing to put the details of the case down on paper as he is on the horns of a dilemma.

While the events that were triggered by the murder of Herbert Maddon in the Sussex village of Cleavesham are resolved to the satisfaction of the local police and George Wharton of the Yard, Travers has an altogether different explanation for the deaths, one which would show that Wharton had missed a glaring and significant clue, thus damaging the reputation of his old sparring partner, and also would have profound societal repercussions. While alerting the culprit to the fact that he knows the truth and, in doing so, receives their tacit admission, Travers is uncertain what to do.

There is a tendency in Golden Age fiction, particularly noticeable in Maigret and Mrs Bradley, for the sleuth to assume the role of the supreme arbiter of justice, often allowing a form of what might be termed natural justice to take the place of judicial justice. Living the rest of one’s life with a guilty conscience and knowing that at least one person knows your guilty secret can be just as hard to bear as being sentenced to die by hanging. Travers too assumes this role, although his stenographer’s suggestion to let the vicissitudes of war allow the culprit to play a form of Russian roulette seems a reasonable way out of the problem. The uncharitable, though, might say to hell with any social consequences and let the wheels of justice turn as they will.

The book raises the question, also seen elsewhere in the genre, as to whether anyone in a particular social stratum could really commit murder, never mind be held accountable in a court of law for their actions. There is a feeling that members of the cloth, senior politicians, aristocrats, and senior public office holders are above the sordid human emotions that often are the spur for murder. This innate prejudice can hamper the outcome of investigations as the two radically different solutions put forward by Bush amply illustrates.

Down staying with his sister while convalescing, Travers is asked by Wharton to find out the identity of a man whose face rang a bell. It turns out to be Maddon to whose door Travers sees the eccentric Augustus Porle pinning a notice warning the occupier that the day of vengeance is at hand and that at 11pm his soul will be required of him. Intrigued, Travers returns to find that not only is Maddon dead but his desk and pockets have been rifled and his corpse savagely kicked by Temple. The room reeks of perfume and cigarettes in the ashtray and hairs on a chair are traced to a platinum blonde, Thora Chavelle, wife of the local Chief Constable. Chavelle steps aside from the investigation, allowing Wharton to descend from the Yard to take over.

The story is one of petty blackmail, marital infidelity, and a frustrated love affair and, seen in this light, it is easy to see who the culprit is and the enormity of Wharton’s mistake. Bush, though, has constructed, as usual, a complex plot which has just enough twists and turns to keep the reader on their toes and while the morality of the outcome might perplex some, it is a tale told with some panache and humour. The complex relationship between Wharton and Travers is an endearing feature of the series.

Angry Tweeters

In my experience, the twittersphere in particular and social media platforms in general are not areas noted for calm, rational, and reasoned expressions of views. However, are there locations where social media users are more prone to express feelings of frustration and disgust? This was the question that a team of researchers from Kyoto Institute of Technology in Japan were keen to discover.

Analysing two million tweets from users based in London and San Francisco and mapping the locations from which they were sent using Open Street Map, they discovered that people were most likely to post splenetic tweets at railway stations. Other transportation hubs such as bus stops and bridges were high up on the angst stakes.

Who would have thought it?

Trevethan Chauffeur’s Reserve Cornish Dry Gin

Continuing my exploration of Navy Strength gins, while in Cornwall I could not resist getting my hands on a bottle of Trevethan Chauffeur’s Reserve, produced by the Trevethan distillery who are based in Saltash just the right (or rather left) side of the Tamar from a Cornish perspective. It is some years since I tried their Cornish Gin which I had thoroughly enjoyed and as the Chauffeur’s Reserve uses the same ten botanicals – juniper, coriander, cassia, angelica, cardamom, orange peel, lemon peel, and vanilla with the local touch provided by elderflower and gorse flower picked from the local hedgerows – although the quantities are increased by 30%, it seemed a low risk option to buy a bottle.

The distillation process is a one-shot process which means that the proportions of each botanical have to be carefully calculated to ensure that the required complexity of flavours coupled with the smooth texture of the spirit is achieved in one distillation. There is no blending or tweaking after distillation which means that what comes out of the still is what we drink, reflecting the true taste of the product on the day that it was made. Mine came from batch number 22.

The eponymous Trevethan and, indeed, the chauffeur was Norman Trevethan who was chauffeur to Earl and Lady St Germans amongst others before turning his hand to distilling. In 2015 his grandson, engineer Robert Cuffe, together with a chemist, John Hall, decided to revive the Trevethan brand and it has established a niche as one of Cornwall’s more distinctive and successful spirits.

The bottle design exudes style and elegance, using clear glass to make a thin rectangular bottle with narrow shoulders, a dumpy neck with wide lips leading to a wooden stopper with an artificial cork. The labelling makes use of a stunning art deco pattern in gold against a black background. The Trevethan name is embossed in the glass on the thinner two sides of the bottle. It is good enough to keep even once the contents have long since gone. Although the distillery was established in 2015 the labelling makes great play of the spirit’s 1920s origins as the gin is a recreation of Norman’s original recipe.

On the nose there is a massive hit of juniper but belying its strength of 57% there is not the clinical smell of alcohol that you might expect. Instead, the spirit’s aroma hints at a more complex drink with hints of spiciness and earthiness coming through. In the glass when mixed with a premium tonic it louches to give a cloudy, milky appearance. In the mouth there is no mistaking its strength, juniper to the fore, mellowed by the citric notes, its dryness and spiciness given a hint of sweetness by the addition of vanilla and gorse. There is a long, spicy, satisfying aftertaste which allows you to savour a full-bodied gin in all its glory.

This was a gin that was right down my street but was also one that took no prisoners. Make sure the roller is safely stowed away in the garage for the evening before taking a sip.

Until the next time, cheers!

Sleeping Murder

A review of Sleeping Murder by Agatha Christie – 230622

For those of us who like to follow a series in chronological order, novels like Sleeping Murder pose a bit of a problem. It was not published until October 1976, ten months after Christie’s death, and its subtitle, Miss Marple’s Last Case, clearly suggests that she viewed it as her last Marple story. However, in what is a revealing insight on a writer who surrounded herself with death, it appears that she was so concerned about being a victim of the Blitz that she penned what she considered to be the last Miss Marple story and the last Poirot adventure, Curtain, during the war years. As she survived the conflict unscathed and went on to write many other novels featuring her two main detectives, she held back on their publication. Chronologically then this is her fourth Miss Marple story.

Seen in that context, the late publication date seems appropriate for what is in modern parlance a cold case. Newly married Kiwi, Gwenda Reed, has arrived in Blighty without her husband, who is to join her later, and is looking for a house on the English south coast. She finds one, Hillside, which she feels at home in. As workmen carry out renovations and reveal a hidden door, it reveals a wallpaper with the very design she had in mind for the nursery. Reunited with hubby, Giles, she goes to a performance of The Duchess of Malfi in London with Raymond West, his wife, and his aunt, Miss Marple.

When in Act 4 Scene 2 Ferdinand utters the line “Cover her face, mine eyes dazzle; she died young”, Gwen sees an image of herself as a young child seeing a man uttering the self-same lines while strangling a blonde-haired young woman called Helen. She rushes out of the theatre in terror and despite Miss Marple’s sage advice to let sleeping dogs, or murder, lie, she is determined to find out who Helen was, the identity of the murderer, why she was there and what, if ny, association it had with the house.

This is another of those cases where a little knowledge of Jacobean tragedy will provide the reader with the key to unlocking the mystery. For those who are less familiar with the works of John Webster, they will have to follow the unravelling of the hidden secret that Hillside had carried for eighteen years.

Purists will argue that the plot relies on far too much coincidence to be convincing. After all, of all the houses in all the coastal towns in southern England why was Gwen drawn to this one and how convenient that it should be available. Nevertheless, it is an intriguing tale and Gwen’s determination to find out the truth sets in motion a chain of events that leads to other deaths, a discovery about her past and an uncomfortable resolution.

Christie is a good writer, capable of retaining the reader’s interest with her crisp, sharp style, her sometimes razor-sharp observations and her carefully drawn characters. The dialogue might leave something to be desired but as a book it is an enjoyable foray into the deep secrets of a family. Curiously, there is no sense of finality about the book, no hint that Miss Marple will be shuffling even further into the background, leading me to assume that Christie fully intended, as indeed she did, to chronicle the exploits of her amateur sleuth if she survived the War.

The Decline And Fall Of The Medlar

The medlar laboured under several disadvantages, not least their fruit’s appearance: it just does not look appetising. Its underside, consisting of a central pit surrounded by two widely spread sepals resembles a well-formed backside, making it the butt of bawdy humour. Colloquially, it was known as “openarse”, a term first appearing in Aelfric’s Grammatica-Latino-Saxonica (c995 AD) and used by writers such as Chaucer and Shakespeare for its comedic value. The French were equally unflattering, likening it to the backsides of, variously, a donkey, monkey, or dog.

Although fruiting much later than other English fruits, medlars do not offer immediate gratification. When they are first picked, the inner flesh is rock hard and acerbic to the taste. To make them edible, they must be bletted, a term coined by John Lindley in his Introduction to the Natural System of Botany (1839) and derived from the French word “blessi”, used to describe the bruised appearance of some fruits. He later defined the process as “the kind of change which results in the formation of a brown colour, without putrefaction, as in the case of the fruit of the Medlar”.

The chemical process of bletting is still not well understood, but, in essence, enzymes in the fruit break down complex carbohydrates into simple sugars such as fructose and glucose and reduce the harsh tannins. Once picked, medlars were placed, bottom downwards, in a crate of sawdust or, according to Chaucer’s Reve’s Tale, in mullock (rubbish or debris) or stree (straw), and left in a cool place. After several weeks, their skin begins to take on a wrinkled texture, turning dark brown, and the once hard, astringent flesh softens to a consistency akin to that of a baked apple.

They are ready to eat when they smell like apples. The once white, acrid flesh transforms into a brown, apple-like purée and tastes like a very sweet fig with a touch of citrus. Even then, getting at the pulp for cooking is a challenge as the medlar is full of seeds. Simmering and mashing the pulp separates the flesh from the seeds, but if eaten raw, the only way to remove the non-edible seeds is to spit them out.

Before Lindley, the chemical process necessary to render the medlar edible was simply known as rotting. Recipe books, like Robert May’s The Accomplish’t Cook (1660), instructed cooks to “take medlars that are rotten”. This association with decomposition made the medlar the Marmite of fruits, provoking extreme reactions and resulting in it being tolerated simply because it was the only fresh seasonal fruit available. “A few people like Medlars and a great many other people make a hollow pretence of doing so”, one writer acknowledged.

Harsher critics claimed that a bletted medlar “doesn’t look fit to eat”, they were “not sufficiently good to make them worth raising, except as a curiosity”, and were “one degree better than a rotten apple”. D H Lawrence was even more damning, describing them as “wineskins of brown morbidity, autumnal excrementa…an exquisite odour of leave taking”. For one writer the experience was all too much; “try as we would, we just could not get up the courage to…taste one”. Clearly a case of chacun à son gôut.

Medlars, though, were manna from heaven for writers seeking a memorable turn of phrase. Thomas Dekker, in The Honest Whore (1604), wrote that “women are like medlars, no sooner ripe than rotten” while for Samuel Johnson one man’s “wit is like a medlar; it is never ripe until it is rotten”.

As Baird and Thieret concluded in their paper, The Medlar from Antiquity to Obscurity, published in Economic Botany[1](1989), “that medlars must be bletted before they are edible and that, once bletted, they have an internal appearance that to some people is uninviting – these facts militate against wide popularity of this fruit. Further, the wide variety of “better” fruits available nowadays rather successfully outcompetes medlars” Nevertheless, it “is one that deserves to be more widely known and used. Well-bletted medlars are, in our opinion, good – indeed, better than some of the “better” fruits sold in grocery stores”.

When it comes to medlars, beauty is more than skin deep, it seems.   

[1] https://www.jstor.org/stable/4255177

Lost Word Of The Day (51)

Summer is here, whether you use the meteorological or astronomical seasonal calendar, and the hedgerows near Blogger Towers are full of long trailing brambles. I am hoping that August will see them provide us foragers with a bumper crop of blackberries.

If I were around in the 18th century I might have been moved to observe that the bushes were particularly veprecose, an adjective, now sadly fallen out of fashion, meaning full of brambles. Its origin is the Latin noun, vepres, which meant bramble bush.

If you are careful, veprecosity is good.