As I mentioned in the last blog, I was at St. Hilda’s mystery conference where – amongst other goodies – Natasha Cooper talked about John Buchan. She made the interesting comment that Buchan’s work always contains a quest for identity and, like all good critical comments, that was really illuminating. I love JB and whole passages in his books came to life again as I mentally reviewed them in the light of what Natasha said.
Take The 39 Steps for instance. This book suffers, like other very well-known books, from people sure they’ve read the book whereas they’ve actually seen the Hitchcock film. There’s no problem with the Hitchcock film against which all other film adaptations are measured (Buchan himself enjoyed it very much) but it isn’t the book.
Now, the quest for identity in The 39 Steps can result in hilarity. Richard Hannay has an uncanny ability in the matter of disguises. Disguise, of course, was de rigueur for any detective or thriller hero of the time, more or less by public demand. Sherlock Holmes never felt happier than fooling Dr Watson whilst disguised as a tramp, a Lascar seaman, an out-of-work groom or whatever, and where Sherlock trod, fictional heroes for the next thirty or forty years or so more or less either reacted to or from this Canonical pattern, and Hannay faithfully followed suite.
He meets his match, of course, in the sinister chief of the Black Stone gang, who’s even better at disguise than Hannay. (The chief of the Black Stone, Graf von Schwabing, was such a useful villian, by the way, that Hannay has to defeat him all over again in Mr Standfast and this time, unlike a Fu Manchu, for instance, the elusive Big Black Spider of German Intelligence stayed dead.)
Now, so far, so jolly. However, the beginning of The 39 Steps does hint at something a little deeper. Hannay, in that hot summer on the eve of War, has recently arrived from South Africa, a mining engineer of Scottish descent who has made his money. Like many another Buchan hero, he’s achieved success and, having got it, doesn’t know what to do with himself. He doesn’t, in fact, know quite who he is. Fortunately for Hannay, the unfortunate Scudder, to whom he’s given houseroom, ends up pinned to the floor of the flat with a long dagger and Hannay, immediately suspected by the police, disguises himself as a milkman and – for no very clear reason – runs off to Scotland.
Hannay spends the rest of the book in a bewildering series of disguises and – follow me closely – it’s only when he’s pretending to be someone else that he feels he’s recovered the truth of who he really is. Not only that, but Hannay, being Hannay, and not Sherlock Holmes, feels he has to explain his facility with disguise. He does it by citing his old fried, Peter Pindaar, the Boer hunter, who has told Hannay that if he wants to disguise himself properly – this obviously being a prime need in South Africa – he has to do more than put on another man’s clothes, he has to be the other man; he has to take on his thoughts, his feelings and his identity. It’s significant, isn’t it?
I’ve talked about The 39 Steps because it’s Buchan’s best-known book. Immensely readable, it hurtles along and is the book that has ensured the rest of the Buchan thrillers are continuously in print. However, in the rest of Buchan, the same themes crop up over and over again; success is greatly prized – and Buchan was a Border Scot with a proper appreciation of success – but it always leaves a “what now?” feeling. Buchan’s books usually start with a feeling of ennui. Then the hero has to lose himself; a process is that always physically demanding, usually calling for him to live on the edge of whatever society he’s in and almost always involves disguise.
I don’t think it’s too far-fetched to see this as having it’s roots in Buchan’s abiding uncertainty about his world. A poor boy, he had taken virtually every prize the world had to offer. He was a famous author, yes, but also figured prominently in politics. An enthusiastic hunter, fisherman, walker and mountaineer, he was forced by wretched ill-health to spend long periods as an invalid. He ended up as the greatly-loved Governor-General of Canada and even achieved, with a blissfully happy marriage, a successful home-life. (So does Hannay; one feels Hannay’s home-life is a reflection of Buchan’s but with fewer megalomaniacs plotting to take over the world.) Was it enough? Perhaps not.
It’s very touching that in Sick Heart River, his most introspective book and the one he completed a few days before his own death, Edward Leithen, the dying hero, is seen to be more, far more, than the English gentleman and Decent Chap that his companions thought him. At long last, he finds peace. It reads like an epitaph for his author.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
St Hilda's, August 2009
It was the Mystery and Crime conference at St Hilda’s, Oxford last weekend (21st-23rd August) and, as last year people seemed to be queuing round the block to say, “Are you coming to St Hilda’s?” Yours Truly put in an appearance.
Gosh, I can see why people like it. St Hilda’s is a lovely venue. It’s a Victorian college, founded in 1893, and the main building has a real grace and charm. The setting is perfect, with the river running close to the main door with lawns and trees. The accommodation is fine, if a bit student-y (it is a college, after all) and the Garden Building, where I was, has a complicated sort of trellis arrangement on the outside.
As a picture paints a thousand words, so to speak, here’s what it looks like from the outside:
Goodness knows what all the woodwork is for, but I can tell you, it’s great for hanging out the white jeans and white tee-shirt that I managed to slosh red wine down. I don’t know what it is about me, wine and anything coloured white but, as sure as night follows day, the three things will come together and then it’s Ho for the tube of travel wash and some impromptu laundry.
The highlight of Friday night was, without a doubt, the after-dinner speech by Priscilla Masters on the subject of Luck and her early life. Priscilla’s parents, who sound an incredibly generous and open-hearted couple, adopted Priscilla and six other children (I think it was six; I was laughing too hard to take notes) the children coming from all four corners of the globe.
The great thing about St Hilda’s is that it doesn’t loose sight of the fact it’s an academic institution. The speakers present proper papers and I knew I was going to enjoy it when the very first one was Jill Paton Walsh on Lord Peter Wimsey’s first case, the Attenbury emeralds, followed by Kate Charles on Margery Allingham. Theology, morals, psychology and motivation all got thoroughly analysed and it set the tone for the weekend. It’s great to have serious stuff like this but treated with enough humour – and there was lots of humour – to lighten the discussion. It was a bit like the best conversation in the pub who’ve ever had and set the standard of the papers to follow.
Privately, Jane Finnis and myself descended to personalities over a bottle of wine. I essayed the theory that Rudyard Kipling’s short stories were complicated (Mrs Bathhurst to you, Jane!) Jane took the opposite view and the ensuing literary discussion (complete with quotes, poetry and yet more wine) was one of the best bits of the weekend.
The only thing wrong with St Hilda’s isn’t a televisions and I didn’t have a radio. Dear Lord. This, with England’s fate hanging in the balance at the Oval (Cricket, yes, we’re talking about cricket) was a severe deprivation. Calls home filled some of the void and so did Len Tyler’s frequent trips to his car radio. (“We should be at the Oval, Dolores; Flintoff’s hitting them all over the ground.”)
It was Len (L.C.)Tyler who pondered one of the conundrums of the weekend; when is a Man a Woman?
Now, those of you who know Len, author of the excellent The Herring Seller’s Apprentice, will know that he isn’t given to such deeply philosophical sounding speculations. Not shortly after breakfast, anyway. I mean, it sounds like something almost German in its complexity. What it actually was about was the annual meeting of Mystery Women, the group set up by Lizzie Hayes. I asked if he was attending and hastened to reassure him that mere sex was no barrier. After all, Martin Edwards and Andrew Taylor are members and Andrew’s got the tee-shirt to prove it! Len duly attended and after that came the punting.
Okay, hands up, I was pants. Priscilla Masters, who was watching my attempts from the front of the boat (she was sort of lured into it) eventually took matters into her own hands, suggested I shipped the punt-pole and paddled us up the river. And back.
And, as I’d been silly enough to get in a punt wearing white jeans, it was back to the laundry again….
Gosh, I can see why people like it. St Hilda’s is a lovely venue. It’s a Victorian college, founded in 1893, and the main building has a real grace and charm. The setting is perfect, with the river running close to the main door with lawns and trees. The accommodation is fine, if a bit student-y (it is a college, after all) and the Garden Building, where I was, has a complicated sort of trellis arrangement on the outside.
As a picture paints a thousand words, so to speak, here’s what it looks like from the outside:
Goodness knows what all the woodwork is for, but I can tell you, it’s great for hanging out the white jeans and white tee-shirt that I managed to slosh red wine down. I don’t know what it is about me, wine and anything coloured white but, as sure as night follows day, the three things will come together and then it’s Ho for the tube of travel wash and some impromptu laundry.
The highlight of Friday night was, without a doubt, the after-dinner speech by Priscilla Masters on the subject of Luck and her early life. Priscilla’s parents, who sound an incredibly generous and open-hearted couple, adopted Priscilla and six other children (I think it was six; I was laughing too hard to take notes) the children coming from all four corners of the globe.
The great thing about St Hilda’s is that it doesn’t loose sight of the fact it’s an academic institution. The speakers present proper papers and I knew I was going to enjoy it when the very first one was Jill Paton Walsh on Lord Peter Wimsey’s first case, the Attenbury emeralds, followed by Kate Charles on Margery Allingham. Theology, morals, psychology and motivation all got thoroughly analysed and it set the tone for the weekend. It’s great to have serious stuff like this but treated with enough humour – and there was lots of humour – to lighten the discussion. It was a bit like the best conversation in the pub who’ve ever had and set the standard of the papers to follow.
Privately, Jane Finnis and myself descended to personalities over a bottle of wine. I essayed the theory that Rudyard Kipling’s short stories were complicated (Mrs Bathhurst to you, Jane!) Jane took the opposite view and the ensuing literary discussion (complete with quotes, poetry and yet more wine) was one of the best bits of the weekend.
The only thing wrong with St Hilda’s isn’t a televisions and I didn’t have a radio. Dear Lord. This, with England’s fate hanging in the balance at the Oval (Cricket, yes, we’re talking about cricket) was a severe deprivation. Calls home filled some of the void and so did Len Tyler’s frequent trips to his car radio. (“We should be at the Oval, Dolores; Flintoff’s hitting them all over the ground.”)
It was Len (L.C.)Tyler who pondered one of the conundrums of the weekend; when is a Man a Woman?
Now, those of you who know Len, author of the excellent The Herring Seller’s Apprentice, will know that he isn’t given to such deeply philosophical sounding speculations. Not shortly after breakfast, anyway. I mean, it sounds like something almost German in its complexity. What it actually was about was the annual meeting of Mystery Women, the group set up by Lizzie Hayes. I asked if he was attending and hastened to reassure him that mere sex was no barrier. After all, Martin Edwards and Andrew Taylor are members and Andrew’s got the tee-shirt to prove it! Len duly attended and after that came the punting.
Okay, hands up, I was pants. Priscilla Masters, who was watching my attempts from the front of the boat (she was sort of lured into it) eventually took matters into her own hands, suggested I shipped the punt-pole and paddled us up the river. And back.
And, as I’d been silly enough to get in a punt wearing white jeans, it was back to the laundry again….
Friday, August 21, 2009
All at the seaside
We had the annual family holiday last week. It wasn’t so much bucket and spade as pack-a-macs and umbrellas and keeping a stiff upper lip. Honestly, I think the Met Office’s prediction of a “Barbecue Summer” is going to be up there with Michael Fish’s famous comment before the hurricane of 1987. (“There’s a lady who phoned up to say she heard there was a hurricane on the way. Ho, ho, ho…”)
To those reading this in sunnier climes than Dear Old Blighty, you ought to know there was a time – it seems a long time ago now – when Britain had summers. This hasn’t happened for a while and this year has been no exception.
The Gordon-Smith troop gave Cornwall the once-over this year. It actually did stop raining long enough to register but there is a reason why the countryside is so beautifully lush and green. Plenty of people have written about Cornwall; here’s one of the reasons why.
Gorgeous, isn’t it? It’s Mullion Cove, near the Lizard. We stayed in Carbis Bay, near St Ives of cat fame. (“As I was going to St Ives, I met a man with seven wives. Every wife had seven sacks and in each sack were seven cats…” etc) The reason why there were so many cats in St Ives is that the upstairs rooms in this predominantly fishing village were used to store nets and sails and mice loved nibbling away through the ropes. It was biological warfare up there. So much so, there was – ages ago – an official cat nurturer who rejoiced in the sobriquet of “Pissy Willy”. This was your basic, Victorian-style neutering where a couple of bricks and a tom-cat with a pained expression featured. Apparently Willy also manufactured ice-cream; and was never known to wash his hands. I mean, it makes you think twice about the nut sundae, doesn’t it!
My holiday reading was Louise Penny. I had the pleasure of meeting Louise and her husband, Michael, a couple of years ago, and we got on like a house on fire. Gosh, she’s a good writer. She brings such a sense of place to her stories that I’m sure I could find my way round the fictional village of Three Pines. Gamache, her detective, is such a nice bloke to spend time with as well, that you feel, by the end of the book, that you’ve made a friend.
St Ives is, of course, known for Art. There’s lots of hobby painters - it’s so picturesque that it makes you long for a paint-brush - but real artists live/lived there too. The most famous is the sculptor, Barbara Hepworth. She had a studio in St Ives with a garden attached. The garden is fascinating. It’s fairly small but full of these amazing sculptures that are positioned against the plants and the settings she chose. I can’t honestly say I’m a huge fan of abstract art, but I fell in love with that garden. It’s interesting, too, that her sculptures are so easy to copy – many a town centre is disfigured by its pointless obligatory lump of Hepworth-style Art – but the real thing has got life and magic all of its own.
Across from Barbara Hepworth’s house is the old Palais de Dance. It’s been unused as a dance-hall for years and now, empty and silent, it’s used as a store-room for Hepworth’s sculptures. Some of the figures in the garden look like Easter Island figures and it’s odd to think of those stone giants waiting on the dancefloor. There’s a story in there somewhere; stone music to breath them into life. Maybe – in the story – they are dancing but their life runs on such a different scale than ours that we can’t see them move. Rather like the kids in the morning!
To those reading this in sunnier climes than Dear Old Blighty, you ought to know there was a time – it seems a long time ago now – when Britain had summers. This hasn’t happened for a while and this year has been no exception.
The Gordon-Smith troop gave Cornwall the once-over this year. It actually did stop raining long enough to register but there is a reason why the countryside is so beautifully lush and green. Plenty of people have written about Cornwall; here’s one of the reasons why.
Gorgeous, isn’t it? It’s Mullion Cove, near the Lizard. We stayed in Carbis Bay, near St Ives of cat fame. (“As I was going to St Ives, I met a man with seven wives. Every wife had seven sacks and in each sack were seven cats…” etc) The reason why there were so many cats in St Ives is that the upstairs rooms in this predominantly fishing village were used to store nets and sails and mice loved nibbling away through the ropes. It was biological warfare up there. So much so, there was – ages ago – an official cat nurturer who rejoiced in the sobriquet of “Pissy Willy”. This was your basic, Victorian-style neutering where a couple of bricks and a tom-cat with a pained expression featured. Apparently Willy also manufactured ice-cream; and was never known to wash his hands. I mean, it makes you think twice about the nut sundae, doesn’t it!
My holiday reading was Louise Penny. I had the pleasure of meeting Louise and her husband, Michael, a couple of years ago, and we got on like a house on fire. Gosh, she’s a good writer. She brings such a sense of place to her stories that I’m sure I could find my way round the fictional village of Three Pines. Gamache, her detective, is such a nice bloke to spend time with as well, that you feel, by the end of the book, that you’ve made a friend.
St Ives is, of course, known for Art. There’s lots of hobby painters - it’s so picturesque that it makes you long for a paint-brush - but real artists live/lived there too. The most famous is the sculptor, Barbara Hepworth. She had a studio in St Ives with a garden attached. The garden is fascinating. It’s fairly small but full of these amazing sculptures that are positioned against the plants and the settings she chose. I can’t honestly say I’m a huge fan of abstract art, but I fell in love with that garden. It’s interesting, too, that her sculptures are so easy to copy – many a town centre is disfigured by its pointless obligatory lump of Hepworth-style Art – but the real thing has got life and magic all of its own.
Across from Barbara Hepworth’s house is the old Palais de Dance. It’s been unused as a dance-hall for years and now, empty and silent, it’s used as a store-room for Hepworth’s sculptures. Some of the figures in the garden look like Easter Island figures and it’s odd to think of those stone giants waiting on the dancefloor. There’s a story in there somewhere; stone music to breath them into life. Maybe – in the story – they are dancing but their life runs on such a different scale than ours that we can’t see them move. Rather like the kids in the morning!
Sunday, August 2, 2009
The keen observer (as all the readers of this piece naturally are) will notice that I’ve written anything for the last couple of weeks. This isn’t idleness (well, not entirely, anyway) but computer gliches. It’s still not entirely sorted out, but it’s getting there – I hope. I spent last week off-line altogether and it’s weird how cut-off it makes you feel. Considering that only a few years ago, computers were the stuff of science-fiction, it’s astonishing how necessary they’ve become. I sometimes feel we’re all going to end up like one of those races they used to have in Star Trek, who are just pure brains and no bodies. Mind you, I think the Youth of the future will probably have enormous thumbs, because of all the texting they do.
Talking of Youth – mine – we travelled down to Egham, Surrey, to watch Helen’s graduation.
Here’s a picture of all the graduates throwing their hats in the air after the celebration. It was a wonderful day, set in the architecturally wacky late-Victorian dream of Thomas Holloway’s Royal Holloway. Royal Holloway is now part of London University but when Thos. built it – it opened in 1886 – it was a women’s only college inspired by his wife, Jane, who reckoned it was a good use of quarter of a million or so. There’s a statue of Thomas presenting the college to Jane in the middle of the quad and he looks fairly smug about it – and with good reason, too. There’s few buildings which bear the imprint of their designer quite so blatantly. It looks like a French château run mad. It’s impressive but always makes me want to laugh, too – so result! The graduation started with sparkling wine and Haribos (you know, those squashy sweets) outside the History Department, and then, after this laid-back introduction, we moved into the very formal surroundings of the Chapel. The Chapel, as you might expect from such a sturdy individualist as Thos, is decorated without a trace of English restraint, but in an exuberant Italian-with-attitude style, glowing with colour and with lots of women saints on the walls. Here’s a bit of the roof. 
Trumpeters sounded, the graduates walked in, received their degrees and the whole thing went like clockwork. Then it was off outside, into the gigantic Quads, for more sparkling wine and nibbles (if you could get to them; graduating gives the Young a fairly hearty appetite.) It was a wonderful day; it all ran to plan and even the sun shone.
The other event worthy of note is that the cat establishment of the Gordon-Smith household is now back up to full strength. Tospy, The Ancient Of Days, handed in her chips a while ago at the grand old age of 19. Post of Most Senior Animal was then taken by Snooker (aka “Grumpy”) who is impartially bad-tempered with dog, cat and human alike. She just can’t see why any other animal is needed and knows just who to blame for disturbing the even tenor of her days. She reminds me of Maurice in Suzette Hill’s “Bones” stories. Her life didn’t get any better when we arrived home with a new kitten. Peter had naming rights and – because he’s a bit of a Francophile – chose “Minou”. Apparently every French children’s story has a cat called Minou. Perhaps we should try and find her a blue-and-white stripy collar with an onion motif. Here she is, helping The Graduate at work
. I'm off to Sunny Cornwall (fingers crossed) next week so I'll talk more when I get back.
Talking of Youth – mine – we travelled down to Egham, Surrey, to watch Helen’s graduation.
Here’s a picture of all the graduates throwing their hats in the air after the celebration. It was a wonderful day, set in the architecturally wacky late-Victorian dream of Thomas Holloway’s Royal Holloway. Royal Holloway is now part of London University but when Thos. built it – it opened in 1886 – it was a women’s only college inspired by his wife, Jane, who reckoned it was a good use of quarter of a million or so. There’s a statue of Thomas presenting the college to Jane in the middle of the quad and he looks fairly smug about it – and with good reason, too. There’s few buildings which bear the imprint of their designer quite so blatantly. It looks like a French château run mad. It’s impressive but always makes me want to laugh, too – so result! The graduation started with sparkling wine and Haribos (you know, those squashy sweets) outside the History Department, and then, after this laid-back introduction, we moved into the very formal surroundings of the Chapel. The Chapel, as you might expect from such a sturdy individualist as Thos, is decorated without a trace of English restraint, but in an exuberant Italian-with-attitude style, glowing with colour and with lots of women saints on the walls. Here’s a bit of the roof. Trumpeters sounded, the graduates walked in, received their degrees and the whole thing went like clockwork. Then it was off outside, into the gigantic Quads, for more sparkling wine and nibbles (if you could get to them; graduating gives the Young a fairly hearty appetite.) It was a wonderful day; it all ran to plan and even the sun shone. The other event worthy of note is that the cat establishment of the Gordon-Smith household is now back up to full strength. Tospy, The Ancient Of Days, handed in her chips a while ago at the grand old age of 19. Post of Most Senior Animal was then taken by Snooker (aka “Grumpy”) who is impartially bad-tempered with dog, cat and human alike. She just can’t see why any other animal is needed and knows just who to blame for disturbing the even tenor of her days. She reminds me of Maurice in Suzette Hill’s “Bones” stories. Her life didn’t get any better when we arrived home with a new kitten. Peter had naming rights and – because he’s a bit of a Francophile – chose “Minou”. Apparently every French children’s story has a cat called Minou. Perhaps we should try and find her a blue-and-white stripy collar with an onion motif. Here she is, helping The Graduate at work
. I'm off to Sunny Cornwall (fingers crossed) next week so I'll talk more when I get back.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Talking at the Portico
I gave a talk in the Portico Library, Manchester this week, together with three other crime writers. There was Kate Ellis, Cath Staincliffe and Martin Edwards and the whole thing was organized by Dr Jennifer Palmer, a “Mystery Woman”. That doesn’t means she lurks round corners with a cloak and black mask – unless there’s something she’s not telling us – but that she’s part of the Mystery Women group who publish an excellent magazine containing reviews and articles. Martin Edwards, (who’s another one who, at first glance doesn’t seem much like a Mystery Woman either) was rather nice about me on his blog. Cheers, Martin! Martin’s blog, (called “Do You Write Under Your Own Name”) says I was Lively and Entertaining. Well, you know…. I'd like to put a photo in at this point of us all in action, but for some mysterious reason, the ruddy thing won't upload. And, as the reason for that is lost somewhere inside printed circuits, I can't take a spanner to it. *Sigh* Still, Martin's got a picture on his blog (like, I'm not jealous or anything!) so you can see it there. Sniff. I wish my computer did pictures. It always has done before. Double sniff.
Martin, in addition to having a computer that blinkin' well works, goes from strength to strength. He won the CWA short story dagger last year and has two series and a stand-alone book, Dancing For The Hangman, about Crippen in print and contributes to no end of anthologies and so on. Not only that, but he’s got a full-time day job as a solicitor. I genuinely don’t know how he does it. I think he might have nicked Hermione Grainger’s time-turner.
I was in excellent company and the atmosphere was relaxed and friendly. It’s fascinating that writers who write such different books should gel together so well. My sister-in-law, Jenny, was desperately impressed that I’d been on a panel with Cath Staincliffe. Jenny’s a huge fan of Cath’s books and was really pleased when I was able to say what a nice person she was. My Dad, on the other hand, loves Kate Ellis, and it impressed him no end I was mixing in with “real” (ie – he’s heard of them) writers.
The Portico Library is somewhere I’ve always fancied going in. I used to pass it on my way to work every morning in Manchester Library. (That's the big one with the impressive dome). It’s tucked round the corner from Manchester City Art Gallery and is picked out by a blue plaque, saying it was founded in 1806 and it's not really changed much. To go inside is like travelling back in time. It’s a private library and combines the functions of a club, library and coffee-house. The books are numerous, ancient and leather-bound and the Reading Room is crying out to have a Baronet with a dagger of oriental design in his ribs lying punctured on the rug.
It’s a small building – or, at least, it seems so. It actually has Tardis-like qualities, as it expands dramatically once you get into the building proper. The Portico frequently puts on exhibitions and, if you’re in Manchester, it’s well worth taking a look. You feel as if it should be frequented by gentlemen in knee-breeches and, if you close your eyes, I’ll swear you can hear the rustle of silk from long-gone dresses whispering by. One Portico institution who’s a absolute gem is Muriel. (She doesn't wear silk dresses - at least not at work, I don't think). Muriel is 80 and does the cooking – brilliantly. The buffet was splendid. On the way out there’s a picture of a raised hand and underneath it says, “Stop! Have you paid Muriel?”
Love it.
Last week’s blog had a pleasantly surrealistic touch, as I presented a crossword without a grid. I simply couldn’t get the “grid” to upload and still can’t. I tell you, the problems I have... However, here are the answers.
1 Across and 2 Down Mrs Hudson’s famous lodger
Sherlock Holmes, of course. Wasn't Mrs Hudson a long-suffering woman?
3 Down: Where the coded detective lives
Oxford - that's "Morse" of course.
6 Across and 4 Down “- - - - -“ (2 words) American West Coast crime as seen on TV
LA Law
5 Across and 17 Down She does her detecting in Cheshire, perhaps?
Miss Marple – Agatha Christie was a frequent visitor to Marple
5 Down According to TS Eliot, he’s “The hidden paw” but he and The Great Detective slugged it out at a waterfall
Okay, so I got the first bit wrong, (whoops!) but I was working these out really fast in the intervals of making butties and covering strawberries in chocolate for the buffet that evening. “McCavity” is, of course, TS Eliot’s “Mystery cat/He’s called the Hidden Paw” and Moriaty is Sherlock’s nemesis.
7 Across and 18 Across Jack Haldean’s first adventure (1,4, 5, 4, 5 words)
A Fete Worse Than Death (Yo! Brilliant book!)
8 Down and 16 Down “I counted them!” Richard Hannay steps up to his first adventure
The Thirty-Nine Steps - and what a truly brilliant writer John Buchan is.
9 Across A misleading fish
A red herring!
10 Down How many tailors?
Nine (natch)
11 Across Get on the Orient Express and you’ll end up in this continent
Asia – although nowadays it stops in Venice.
12 Across A favourite murder weapon
Gun. You really did need the grid for this one. Sorry.
13 Across Watch it, husbands! Her indoors might slip this in your tea!
Arsenic – but try to use something more obscure. Arsenic’s for beginners.
14 Across Whimsical Christian who rocks?
Peter (Wimsey) That’s his Christian name and “Peter”, as you know if you’ve been listening in church, also means “Rock”.
15 Across Not the garden of the police
Yard
19 Down A Holmly writer’s profession
Doctor - either Watson or Conan Doyle
20 Across “Mr Holmes! They were the footprints of an enormous….”
Hound, say we all. Gosh, that's a great bit in the book.
21 Across Write with this in a shortened prison?
Pen (itentiary)
22 Down The cruise of the steamer Karnack brings death on this Egyptian river
Nile - AC's Death on the Nile.
23 Across “--- - and sound? A good place for valuables
Safe
24 Down Every Great Detective has a deadly one of these
Foe
25 Across If you hear a bomb starting to do this, run for it!
Tick
26 Across According to Dorothy L Sayers, the “tailors” were these
Bells - and blimey, it was difficult to explain to my mate, Mary, how a tailor could be a bell!
27 Across Live and let live? Not according to James Bond
Die
28 Across Become this, and you’ll be of interest to malefactors
Rich
Martin, in addition to having a computer that blinkin' well works, goes from strength to strength. He won the CWA short story dagger last year and has two series and a stand-alone book, Dancing For The Hangman, about Crippen in print and contributes to no end of anthologies and so on. Not only that, but he’s got a full-time day job as a solicitor. I genuinely don’t know how he does it. I think he might have nicked Hermione Grainger’s time-turner.
I was in excellent company and the atmosphere was relaxed and friendly. It’s fascinating that writers who write such different books should gel together so well. My sister-in-law, Jenny, was desperately impressed that I’d been on a panel with Cath Staincliffe. Jenny’s a huge fan of Cath’s books and was really pleased when I was able to say what a nice person she was. My Dad, on the other hand, loves Kate Ellis, and it impressed him no end I was mixing in with “real” (ie – he’s heard of them) writers.
The Portico Library is somewhere I’ve always fancied going in. I used to pass it on my way to work every morning in Manchester Library. (That's the big one with the impressive dome). It’s tucked round the corner from Manchester City Art Gallery and is picked out by a blue plaque, saying it was founded in 1806 and it's not really changed much. To go inside is like travelling back in time. It’s a private library and combines the functions of a club, library and coffee-house. The books are numerous, ancient and leather-bound and the Reading Room is crying out to have a Baronet with a dagger of oriental design in his ribs lying punctured on the rug.
It’s a small building – or, at least, it seems so. It actually has Tardis-like qualities, as it expands dramatically once you get into the building proper. The Portico frequently puts on exhibitions and, if you’re in Manchester, it’s well worth taking a look. You feel as if it should be frequented by gentlemen in knee-breeches and, if you close your eyes, I’ll swear you can hear the rustle of silk from long-gone dresses whispering by. One Portico institution who’s a absolute gem is Muriel. (She doesn't wear silk dresses - at least not at work, I don't think). Muriel is 80 and does the cooking – brilliantly. The buffet was splendid. On the way out there’s a picture of a raised hand and underneath it says, “Stop! Have you paid Muriel?”
Love it.
Last week’s blog had a pleasantly surrealistic touch, as I presented a crossword without a grid. I simply couldn’t get the “grid” to upload and still can’t. I tell you, the problems I have... However, here are the answers.
Clues
1 Across and 2 Down Mrs Hudson’s famous lodger
Sherlock Holmes, of course. Wasn't Mrs Hudson a long-suffering woman?
3 Down: Where the coded detective lives
Oxford - that's "Morse" of course.
6 Across and 4 Down “- - - - -“ (2 words) American West Coast crime as seen on TV
LA Law
5 Across and 17 Down She does her detecting in Cheshire, perhaps?
Miss Marple – Agatha Christie was a frequent visitor to Marple
5 Down According to TS Eliot, he’s “The hidden paw” but he and The Great Detective slugged it out at a waterfall
Okay, so I got the first bit wrong, (whoops!) but I was working these out really fast in the intervals of making butties and covering strawberries in chocolate for the buffet that evening. “McCavity” is, of course, TS Eliot’s “Mystery cat/He’s called the Hidden Paw” and Moriaty is Sherlock’s nemesis.
7 Across and 18 Across Jack Haldean’s first adventure (1,4, 5, 4, 5 words)
A Fete Worse Than Death (Yo! Brilliant book!)
8 Down and 16 Down “I counted them!” Richard Hannay steps up to his first adventure
The Thirty-Nine Steps - and what a truly brilliant writer John Buchan is.
9 Across A misleading fish
A red herring!
10 Down How many tailors?
Nine (natch)
11 Across Get on the Orient Express and you’ll end up in this continent
Asia – although nowadays it stops in Venice.
12 Across A favourite murder weapon
Gun. You really did need the grid for this one. Sorry.
13 Across Watch it, husbands! Her indoors might slip this in your tea!
Arsenic – but try to use something more obscure. Arsenic’s for beginners.
14 Across Whimsical Christian who rocks?
Peter (Wimsey) That’s his Christian name and “Peter”, as you know if you’ve been listening in church, also means “Rock”.
15 Across Not the garden of the police
Yard
19 Down A Holmly writer’s profession
Doctor - either Watson or Conan Doyle
20 Across “Mr Holmes! They were the footprints of an enormous….”
Hound, say we all. Gosh, that's a great bit in the book.
21 Across Write with this in a shortened prison?
Pen (itentiary)
22 Down The cruise of the steamer Karnack brings death on this Egyptian river
Nile - AC's Death on the Nile.
23 Across “--- - and sound? A good place for valuables
Safe
24 Down Every Great Detective has a deadly one of these
Foe
25 Across If you hear a bomb starting to do this, run for it!
Tick
26 Across According to Dorothy L Sayers, the “tailors” were these
Bells - and blimey, it was difficult to explain to my mate, Mary, how a tailor could be a bell!
27 Across Live and let live? Not according to James Bond
Die
28 Across Become this, and you’ll be of interest to malefactors
Rich
Monday, July 6, 2009
Poisioned Pen
This appeared on the Poisioned Pen blog spot
http://authorreviews.blogspot.com/2009/07/author-dolores-gordon-smith-talks-about.html
Didn't they do a nice job?
http://authorreviews.blogspot.com/2009/07/author-dolores-gordon-smith-talks-about.html
Didn't they do a nice job?
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Never a crossword
I had a party last night to celebrate the publication of As If By Magic. The book’s dedicated to my sister, Barbara, and here’s a picture of us both together. I’m the one in the grey-green top. 
Things never quite work out as expected, do they? That top is of real silk, a marvellous floaty thing with bits of gold in the dangly bits and – on the hanger – looks great. It looks great when you first put it on. In fact it lulled me into a state of trust until I was well and truly at the party and it was too late to do anything about it. It slipped. It moved. It wriggled about as if I was suffering from fleas. It also showed my underwear. (At least it did until my mate, Mary, hissed at me, “Go and take your bra off!”) The undershirt bit took on a separate life from the overbit. It fact it was a ruddy nuisance and a pain in the neck. Did I care? No, not much. It was a great evening, far too good to be spoiled by idiotic pieces of cloth, however much of a mind of their own they developed.
My friend, Angela Churm, who I’ve known for years was there. She'd driven a couple of hundred miles to be there, starting at half-five that morning. She’s great at keeping all the books in order and looking after the money. Not only that, but we sweating round Tescos in the afternoon, buying all the food and (some) drink. After that, it was all hands to the pump – thank you family! – laying it all out.
One of the things we had was a Detective Crossword.
Here's everyone hard at work, doing it. I can’t put the crossword grid on the blog for some reason, which is frustrating, but these are the clues – they’re not too hard! The “grid” is a standard scrabble board.
1 Across and 2 Down Mrs Hudson’s famous lodger
3 Down: Where the coded detective lives
6 Across and 4 Down “- - - - -“ (2 words) American West Coast crime as seen on TV
5 Across and 17 Down She does her detecting in Cheshire, perhaps?
5 Down According to TS Eliot, he’s “The hidden paw” but he and The Great Detective slugged it out at a waterfall
7 Across and 18 Across Jack Haldean’s first adventure (1,4, 5, 4, 5 words)
8 Down and 16 Down “I counted them!” Richard Hannay steps up to his first adventure
9 Across A misleading fish
10 Down How many tailors?
11 Across Get on the Orient Express and you’ll end up in this continent
12 Across A favourite murder weapon
13 Across Watch it, husbands! Her indoors might slip this in your tea!
14 Across Whimsical Christian who rocks?
15 Across Not the garden of the police
19 Down A Holmly writer’s profession
20 Across “Mr Holmes! They were the footprints of an enormous….”
21 Across Write with this in a shortened prison?
22 Down The cruise of the steamer Karnack brings death on this Egyptian river
23 Across “--- - and sound? A good place for valuables
24 Down Every Great Detective has a deadly one of these
25 Across If you hear a bomb starting to do this, run for it!
26 Across According to Dorothy L Sayers, the “tailors” were these
27 Across Live and let live? Not according to James Bond
28 Across Become this, and you’ll be of interest to malefactors
Things never quite work out as expected, do they? That top is of real silk, a marvellous floaty thing with bits of gold in the dangly bits and – on the hanger – looks great. It looks great when you first put it on. In fact it lulled me into a state of trust until I was well and truly at the party and it was too late to do anything about it. It slipped. It moved. It wriggled about as if I was suffering from fleas. It also showed my underwear. (At least it did until my mate, Mary, hissed at me, “Go and take your bra off!”) The undershirt bit took on a separate life from the overbit. It fact it was a ruddy nuisance and a pain in the neck. Did I care? No, not much. It was a great evening, far too good to be spoiled by idiotic pieces of cloth, however much of a mind of their own they developed.
My friend, Angela Churm, who I’ve known for years was there. She'd driven a couple of hundred miles to be there, starting at half-five that morning. She’s great at keeping all the books in order and looking after the money. Not only that, but we sweating round Tescos in the afternoon, buying all the food and (some) drink. After that, it was all hands to the pump – thank you family! – laying it all out.
One of the things we had was a Detective Crossword.
Here's everyone hard at work, doing it. I can’t put the crossword grid on the blog for some reason, which is frustrating, but these are the clues – they’re not too hard! The “grid” is a standard scrabble board.Clues
1 Across and 2 Down Mrs Hudson’s famous lodger
3 Down: Where the coded detective lives
6 Across and 4 Down “- - - - -“ (2 words) American West Coast crime as seen on TV
5 Across and 17 Down She does her detecting in Cheshire, perhaps?
5 Down According to TS Eliot, he’s “The hidden paw” but he and The Great Detective slugged it out at a waterfall
7 Across and 18 Across Jack Haldean’s first adventure (1,4, 5, 4, 5 words)
8 Down and 16 Down “I counted them!” Richard Hannay steps up to his first adventure
9 Across A misleading fish
10 Down How many tailors?
11 Across Get on the Orient Express and you’ll end up in this continent
12 Across A favourite murder weapon
13 Across Watch it, husbands! Her indoors might slip this in your tea!
14 Across Whimsical Christian who rocks?
15 Across Not the garden of the police
19 Down A Holmly writer’s profession
20 Across “Mr Holmes! They were the footprints of an enormous….”
21 Across Write with this in a shortened prison?
22 Down The cruise of the steamer Karnack brings death on this Egyptian river
23 Across “--- - and sound? A good place for valuables
24 Down Every Great Detective has a deadly one of these
25 Across If you hear a bomb starting to do this, run for it!
26 Across According to Dorothy L Sayers, the “tailors” were these
27 Across Live and let live? Not according to James Bond
28 Across Become this, and you’ll be of interest to malefactors
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