E.O. Higgins's Blog: A review in the Huffington Post.

Audiobook

Chapter one of the audiobook version of Conversations with Spirits is now available via #Soundcloud.

Note to self: include fewer famous Scots.

https://soundcloud.com/user-124921949...

Chapter I — Ghosts of my Past

The first exclusive extract from my upcoming, ghostwritten autobiography THERE IS NO LIFE is now available via Medium.

https://medium.com/@eohiggins/ghosts-...

Fans of my (banned) blog ‘The Massive Gift of Laars Head’ will no doubt find the details of how I gained my supernatural skills explosive!

(Warning: there are fewer recipes than on the blog.)

Best of the Century!

The events in Conversations with Spirits take place in the second week of December 1917 – so, I guess, this is the centenary!

Yes, it’s exactly 100 years since Trelawney Hart and Arthur Conan Doyle made their fictional trip to the Kent coast to bear witness to the ‘physical mediumship’ of that mystical chap, that bore a striking resemblance to my older brother…

Oddly enough, when I wrote the story – oh so many moons ago now – and envisaged the protagonist: an irascible, drunken, chain-smoking, tweed-sporting arsehole, tottering about Thanet’s public houses with a misplaced sense of entitlement – I had, weirdly, never heard of Nigel Farage. Yes, those were happy days indeed!

So, what was happening 100 years ago?

Those history buffs amongst you will probably be scratching your corduroy-clad arses and saying to yourselves: “Hang on, there was something going on in 1917, wasn’t there? A war – or some such thing? Don’t remember much mention of that in the book?”  

And, of course, you’re right. On both counts.

1917 was, of course, the penultimate year of The Great War! (Though ‘The Great War’ seems like it might be something of a misnomer – because, by all accounts, it was a bit shit.) And you’re also quite correct, the war doesn’t really feature that much in Conversations with Spirits. It is, in fact, rather an incidental character in the book. It’s there, it gets referenced, but it's always far off – hovering about the scene’s edge…

There is a reason for this. When I started writing the book, I had not intended it to be set during the war at all – and indeed, placing it there meant that I was forced to juggle a few historical details. But, the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a thing that needed to be done.

At the start of the novel, Trelawney Hart is entirely self-absorbed. The fact that there is a war going on, is of little interest. His point of view – skewed by personal tragedy and successive brandies – is entirely inwardly focussed.

His futile, sedentary existence is as far removed as can be from the average soldier’s experience – he is leading a withdrawn existence, hidden away from the wider proclivities of life, inside a safe, luxuriant environment. His privilege being such that, in drinking to excess, he is slowly killing himself…

Naturally, when he encounters Sir Arthur – an older man that desperately wants a greater part in war, but has been denied it – there is a tension. And it’s a tension was very much required. After all, what’s the point of having an absolute stinker of a character, if he doesn’t get endlessly needled by much better people?

Anyway, the action in the book – such as it is – begins with Trelawney’s journey from London to Broadstairs on Friday the 14th December 1917, and ends – with the mystery finally unravelled – the following Sunday.

The news-journals that weekend were primarily concerned with the British forces’ ‘Jerusalem Operations.’ Having taken place largely in the Judean Hills, the fighting had culminated at the end of the first week of December with British forces capturing Jerusalem. 

It was such a big news story, that I thought it made sense to reference it in the book:

Here it is in the middle of Chapter II:

-------------------

It struck me that there is something otherworldly about these great municipal railway stations – it’s the noise and smoke and waves of dispossessed people. I could readily imagine myself lost in some classical depiction of Hell.

Having procured a number of newspapers from the bookstall, I walked down the platform and boarded the train in a cloud of filthy air. Due to the mix-up with the tickets, I was still lugging about the carpet-bag that Sibella had packed for me. I planted the bag and the bowler hat into the wooden rack above my head and settled into a seat within the empty compartment.

Presently, the compartment began to fill up. A small, sallow-looking man climbed into it, furiously rubbing his hands together. The left leg of his trousers had lost its stitching and hung down behind his heel. As he planted himself into the chair next to me, I was hit by the curiously potent scent of old bread crusts.

He was closely followed by a slipshod woman, of robust character, who dropped breathlessly into the seat on my other side. Unclasping the handbag resting on her knees, she delved inside and surreptitiously extracted a large pink saveloy, which she devoured hungrily.  

Just as the whistle blew, and the train departed the station, a beery looking bloke (from the candle wax staining his frayed shirt cuffs, evidently some manner of tallow chandler) clambered into the carriage from the platform’s edge and settled into the vacant seat opposite me – whereupon, he instantly took up a knife that had been concealed within his left boot. Not unnaturally, I started at this, and, observing my surprise, the man looked across at me with some relish. Then, apparently by way of explanation, he took a pippin from the pocket of his dishevelled greatcoat and sliced into it. “Don’t worry,” the man breathed in a low, rasping voice as he pulled away a chunk of the apple with his thumb. “You ain’t my man. You needn’t worry.” 

“I see our boys ’ave gotton Jerusalem back,” said an old man from behind a quivering newspaper, further down the line. “It’s about time we gave ’em what-for – filfy Arabs.”

“I know,” replied a marmalade-haired woman sat two seats to my right. “It ain’t right, is it, the Germans ’aving that? After all, it were buildeth ’ere, weren’t it?"                                                             

--------------------

Obviously, I couldn’t allow the anniversary to go unremarked...

Well, actually, I could’ve done – and, let’s face it, you probably wouldn’t have been massively inconvenienced if I had.

But, I suppose, it’s also a fairly good opportunity to offer you, gentle reader, some seasonal greetings!

I wish you all figgy pudding – and lashings of good cheer!

Happy Christmas, one and all!

Edward x

Still in the Top 10!

Aw, thanks...

The ebook of Conversations with Spirits is currently only $1.99 on Amazon.com!

If you're looking for a mystery novel that involves Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Harry Price (plus lashings of cherry brandy)...this could be for you!

You will also receive my undying gratitude, naturally!

Thank you!

Edward x

http://www.amazon.com/gp/bestsellers/...

It's something of a mystery...

Wow...

The Kindle edition of Conversations with Spirits was #72 across all books on Amazon last week. And bestselling in a number of genres - including 'Crime Fiction' and 'Mystery'!

But...THANK YOU, AMERICA!x

http://www.amazon.com/Conversations-S...

Cheap and free books

Delightful people!

Pledge for any Unbound book this week and enter 'SUMMER15' at the checkout to get £5 off.

Oh, and just for today, they will send you a free ebook of Conversations with Spirits.

http://www.eohiggins.co.uk/#!Free-ebo...

The Autodidact in the Attic

"Tightly-plotted, E.O. Higgins’ Conversations with Spirits doesn’t have a superfluous scene or unanswered question. The reader is engaged on page one and remains so until the very end.

A review with everything. Even crows.

http://theautodidactintheattic.com/

Nonsense upon stilts - the lost Sherlock Holmes story

In the August 1943 edition of The Strand Magazine, biographer Hesketh Pearson revealed that he had discovered — among Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s papers — the outline of an unknown Sherlock Holmes story.

Written out in Conan Doyle’s neat little hand, the working title seems to have been 'The Adventure of the Tall Man'.

Here is the outline.

(Sherlock Holmes fans be warned — it’s not his best work.)

“A girl calls on Sherlock Holmes in great distress. A murder has been committed in her village - her uncle has been found shot in his bedroom, apparently through the open window. Her lover has been arrested. He is suspected on several grounds:

(1) He has had a violent quarrel with the old man, who has threatened to alter his will, which is in the girl's favour, if she ever speaks to her lover again.

(2) A revolver has been found in his house, with his initials scratched on the butt and one chamber discharged. The bullet found in the dead man's body fits this revolver.

(3) He possesses a light ladder, the only one in the village, and there are marks of the foot of such a ladder on the soil below the bedroom window, while similar soil (fresh) has been found on the feet of the ladder.

His only reply is that he never possessed a revolver, and that it has been discovered in a drawer of the hat stand in his hall, where it would be easy for anyone to place it. As for the mould on the ladder (which he has not used for a month) he has no explanation whatever.

Notwithstanding these damning proofs, however, the girl persists in believing her lover to be perfectly innocent, while she suspects another man, though she has no evidence whatever against him, except that she feels by instinct that he is a villain who would stick at nothing.

Sherlock and Watson go down to the village and inspect the spot, together with the detective in charge of the case. The marks of the ladder attract Holmes's special attention. He ponders - looks about him - inquires if there is any place where anything bulky could be concealed. There is - a disused well, which has not been searched because apparently nothing is missing. Sherlock, however, insists on the well being explored. A village boy consents to be lowered into it, with a candle. Before he goes down Holmes whispers something in his ear - he appears surprised. The boy is lowered and, on his signal, pulled up again. He brings to the surface a pair of stilts!

"Good Lord!" cries the detective, "who on earth could have expected this?" - "I did," replies Holmes. - "But, why?" - "Because the marks on the garden soil were made by two perpendicular poles - the feet of a ladder, which is on the slope, would have made depressions slanting towards the wall."

(N.B. The soil was a strip beside a gravel path on which the stilts left no impression.)

This discovery lessened the weight of the evidence of the ladder, though the other evidence remained.

The next step was to trace the user of the stilts, if possible. But he had been to wary, and after two days nothing had been discovered. At the inquest the young man was found guilty of murder. But, Holmes is convinced of his innocence. In these circumstances, and as a last hope, he resolves on a sensational stratagem.

He goes up to London, and, returning on the evening of the day when the old man is buried, he and Watson and the detective go to the cottage of the man whom the girl suspects, taking with them a man whom Holmes has brought from London, who has a disguise which makes him the living image of the murdered man, wizened body, grey shrivelled face, skullcap and all. They have also with them the pair of stilts. On reaching the cottage, the disguised man mounts the stilts and stalks up the path towards the man's open bedroom window, at the same time crying out his name in a ghastly sepulchral voice. The man, who is already half mad with guilty terrors, rushes to the window and beholds in the moonlight the terrific spectacle of his victim stalking towards him. He reels back with a scream as the apparition, advancing to the window, calls in the same unearthly voice - "as you came for me, I have come for you!" When the party rush upstairs into his room he darts to them, clinging to them, gasping, and, pointing to the window, where the dead man's face is glaring in, shrieks out, "Save me! My God! He has come for me as I came for him."

Collapsing after this dramatic scene, he makes a full confession. He has marked the revolver, and concealed it where it was found - he has also smeared the ladder-foot with soil from the old man's garden. His object was to put his rival out of the way, in the hope of gaining possession of the girl and her money.”

High spirits

Conversations with Spirits now has 99 reviews on Goodreads - with an average review rating of 4.47 out of 5.*

Who will be the 100th reviewer?

Well, seven days from now, all reviewers - yes, even those ones that seem genuinely mystified by the pun in the book’s title - will be entered into a draw to win the last shiny, golden hardback in my possession.**

I would also like to take this opportunity to thank all of you that have taken time to review the book.

...Thank you!

As a wise and fascinating man once said: a lot of people call you the elite - I call you my base.

Have a delightful day.

(And, may I say, I hope YOU win...)

Yours, as ever.

Edward xx

*Thanks!
**I can also sign / dedicate, if need be.

Everything must go!

The Amazon 'Boxing Day Sale' ends tomorrow...

But, for tonight only, the Kindle version of Conversations with Spirits is still just 99p!

Want to see what moved an extremely busy man to write a 1-star review or what it was that so confused an apparently 'working' psychic? It's all here:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Conversations...