The Edinburgh Mystery

A review of The Edinburgh Mystery: And Other Tales of Scottish Crime, compiled by Martin Edwards – 251120

The Edinburgh Mystery is another collection of short stories, seventeen in all, compiled by Martin Edwards for the British Library Crime Classics series. The connecting theme for the collection is that they are all written by authors with a connection with Scotland, either by being Scottish by birth or having lived in the country or by setting their story there. It is a broad enough net to ensnare such luminaries as Conan Doyle, Michael Innes, Josephine Tey, J J Connington, and G K Chesterton. Curiously, the book’s title comes from a story by a writer with the most tenuous connection, Baroness Orczy, who just used Edinburgh as a setting for a story in her Mysteries of Great Cities collection.

With such a great cast list there are no obvious clunkers, but also only one contribution by an author that I have not encountered before, J Storer Clouston. Such is Edwards’ diligence in searching the archives for obscure items, though, that unusually for a collection like this, there is only one story, a rather light Sherlock Holmes story, that I had read before.

The stories are presented in chronological order, with Robert Louis Stevenson opening the batting with Markheim which has very much a Christmas Carol feel about it, with Markheim visiting a pawnbroker on Christmas Day, and flipping his lid. Murder ensues and the inevitable discovery. The language is heavy and, while interesting enough, it does betray its age. However, Conan Doyle’s light and inconsequential The Field Bazaar gets the scoreboard moving while Baroness Orczy and Chesterton’s contributions are both intriguing puzzles and satisfying.

The medium of short stories allows he writer to come up with a twist at the end to disconcert the reader and several contributors do not pass up the opportunity such as Clouston’s A Medical Crime where the tables are turned on a rather pompous police officer. John Ferguson’s The White Line employs an ingenious and amusing method of bringing conclusive proof as of the identity of a jewel thief on a liner, although perhaps improbable in practice, while Cyril Hare in Thursday’s Child completely pulled the rug from under my feet in what is an excellent example of economical short story telling at its best.

H H Bashford, in The Man on Ben Na Garve, though, chooses to end his story on a note of ambiguity, as does Jennie Melville in Hand in Glove, while Michael Innes in The Fishermen confounds fans of Sir John Appleby by allowing him to tamper with evidence at a crime scene, most unexpected behaviour, and then offers a plainly bizarre solution to a set of circumstances that look like murder.

Scotland being a land of wild terrain, glowering mountains, and hostile midges, there is very much a hunting and fishing vibe running through some of the stories. The story that made me chuckle most, though, was Margot Bennett’s The Case of the Frugal Cake, a case of poisoning, the resolution of which lies in one of the nation’s supposed characteristics, extreme thrift. It was just the right length to seem satisfying and to make its point, unlike P M Hubbard’s The Running of the Deer which just seemed overlong for what it was.

At least it was something. For me the most disappointing contribution was Josephine Tey’s Madame Ville D’Aubier which was both inconsequential and failed to set the level of underlying disquiet that the finale demanded. The feeling of disappointment was heightened as it had immediately followed the enjoyable tale of the experiences of an ingenue policeman in Augustus Muir’s The Body of Sir Henry as he discovers a dastardly murder.

It was good to see old favourites, Sir Clinton Driffield and his Watson-like sidekick Wharton, appear in Connington’s Before Insulin and Anthony Wynne’s Footsteps reminded me that I should read more of Dr Eustace Hailey, the so-called Giant of Harley Street.

I found that there was a greater level of consistency between the stories than in other collections and, as always with these anthologies, there is something for everybody.

Vivandières

In the French army of the 18^th century the legal right to sell food and drink and other essentials such as tobacco, wig powder, writing paper, and ink to the soldiers was granted to just eight men, known as vivandiers. It was a lucrative monopoly as their wares at a time when the army did not even provide its soldiers with the necessities of life.

As serving soldiers themselves, the vivandiers were often too busy to spend much time on their lucrative sideline and were often given permission to marry and to allow their wives to become de fact vivandières. The logic behind having this form of private enterprise to service the soldiers’ needs was impeccable: they wanted these luxuries and if they were not available, would be tempted to leave the camp and forage for them themselves. Having vivandières on tap reduced the risk of desertion.

Following the French revolution and the emergence of Napoleon’s Grand Armée, a military force of such a size and spending more time abroad than at any time before in French history, the monopoly was broken and more and more women took on the role of the vivandière. Also known as cantinières, they were often wives or relatives of serving soldiers who accompanied the regiment on its campaign. Their association with a particular regiment was reflected in their distinctive garb, often based on the uniform of the male soldiers.

A vivandière would wear a jacket and blouse, either tight or loose-fitting depending upon the regiment they were associated with, trousers, which were either straight or full legged and gathered at the knee or ankle, and a knee-length skirt over the trousers. The uniform was topped off with a hat, a kepi or one with a brim. Their most distinctive accoutrement, though, was the tonnelet, a brandy barrel attached to their hips.

The distinctive uniform served two purposes: it served to cement the relationship of the vivandière as a member of a specific regiment and it was more practical, often a greater freedom of movement than the civilian dress of the time. By the late 19^th century, though, vivandières were compelled by regulation to wear plain grey dresses and carry metal identification discs.

During the century the role of the vivandière expanded, becoming something akin to the forerunner of the nursing corps. They would often give a wounded man a shot of liquor, free of charge this time, but they might even take them back to the nearest aid station, suggesting that many of them were not slight, flighty damsels but great strapping lasses. They would then head back into the fray to repeat the feat. Although technically supposed not to fight, it is hard to imagine that some could not resist the temptation.

The role of vivandière spread to other countries’ armies. They served on both sides of the American Civil War, where they were known as “daughters of the regiment”, charging into battle shoulder to shoulder with their male colleagues, and in the armies of Spain, Belgium, Italy, Germany, Switzerland, and several in South America.

They were finally banned by the French War Ministry in 1906.

Death In High Heels

A review of Death in High Heels by Christianna Brand – 251118

It is always interesting to read the debut novel of someone who was to become an accomplished crime writer. Originally published in 1941 and reissued as part of the British Library Crime Classics series, Death in High Heels is the first in Brand’s series featuring her first sleuthing incarnation, Inspector Charlesworth. After a stodgy start it gains its stride and becomes a satisfying read even if it is not as polished work as many of her later books.

The story is set in a high class dress shop, Christophe et Cie, owned and managed by Frank Bevan, and staffed by nine women and the rather camp Cecil Prout. The big question occupying the minds of the women is the identity of the person Bevan is going to send to Deauville to open a new branch, a poisoned chalice you might think given the book’s publication date but presumably the setting is pre-war. Nothing of the major conflict sweeping through Europe at the time obtrudes into this rather hermetically sealed world.

The bookie’s favourite is Miss Doon, described as Bevan’s left hand, but unexpectedly the owner decides to bestow the honour on his right hand, the efficient but unpopular Miss Gregory, abruptly cancelling his lunch appointment with Miss Doon. This sudden change of plan is to be catastrophic for Miss Doon. Meanwhile two of the girls, Mrs Rachel Gay and Mrs Victoria David pop across the road to buy some oxalic acid crystals with which to clean a straw hat. On their return to the shop they spill some of the crystals, some of which are gathered and the rest pass through several hands on their way to being disposed of.

The staff have the benefit of a hot meal which they consume on the premises, rabbit curry being the highlight of the day’s menus, a concoction that can hide a multitude of sins. Her dining plans having been altered at short notice, Miss Doon eats in the staff canteen but is soon rushed to hospital and dies an agonizing death having been poisoned, by oxalic acid of course. The question is whodunnit and why.

Into the breach steps Inspector Charlesworth who, if the truth be told, is not only out of his depth but is fatally beguiled by the bevy of beauties that work at the shop, especially by Victoria who makes him go so weak at the knees that he compromises both his professionalism and his ability to solve the case. So much at sea is he that he has to bring a colleague in, the dour, efficient, unimaginative Smithers, who is determined to demonstrate that Charlesworth has been so besotted by Victoria that he has failed to spot the obvious.

Gratifyingly, though, Charlesworth manages to pull himself together and what looks like a suicide attempt by Irene Best coupled with a visit to a séance enables him to see that the mystery of Christophe et Cie boils down to answering two questions: how could anyone leave a room that they had not entered and whether it would be as difficult to write in gloves that are too small as too large. An interview with a suspect with large hands brings the solution to him in a flash.

While several of the staff have dark secrets, it boils down to a story of ambition, not for professional advancement but for personal security. The culprit seemed fairly obvious, despite Brand’s attempts to bombard the reader with too many characters, their identity confirmed by the botched suicide and the crudely written note.    

There are some moments of comedy, mainly provided by the effeminate Mr Cecil who could only bear to describe a toilet as a huh-hah and the stolidly working class Mrs ‘Awkins. I particularly enjoyed the scene where Charlesworth steeled himself to open a trunk which he suspected held the remains of Cecil’s “friend”, Mr Elliot. This is not a politically correct book but no worse than others of its age and there is a vein of snobbery running through the story.

As for Charlesworth it was another thirty-eight years before Brand gave him another major outing, in The Rose in Darkness, losing his spot to Inspector Cockrill, although the two do work hand in hand in Death of Jezebel only for Charlesworth to be outshone by her new star. Perhaps she realized that his reputation was beyond salvation.

It is not one of her best but there is enough in it to recognize that Brand was destined to be a formidable crime writer.

Rattlesnake Kate

Katherine McHale was born, probably, on July 25, 1893 in a log cabin on the Colorado prairie and led a hard and eventful life, marrying six times including, in a moment of nominative determinism, one of whom was Jack Slaughterback. Kate’s claim to fame came on the morning of October 28, 1925 when she heard shots being fired near the pond on her land.

As was her wont, she saddled her horse, .22 rifle by her side and her three-year-old adopted son, Ernie, in front of her in the saddle, and rode to the pond. There she found a coiled rattlesnake coiled to strike and with no more ado shot it dead. The report of the shot roused the other rattlesnakes in the vicinity and three more slithered into view. These she also shot dead but even more snakes appeared on the scene.

With no opportunity to reload her gun, she left Ernie who was by now screaming the place down on the horse which she tethered to a bush, she uprooted a fence post and with it began beating and stabbing all the reptiles. The battle lasted a couple of hours and when she had killed all the snakes, exhausted, hands bloodied and bruised, dress spattered with blood, she returned to her horse, comforted Ernie and slowly made her way back home.

On the way back she encountered a neighbour whom she told about her ordeal and he volunteered to return to the site with Kate to collect the dead snakes while his wife comforted Ernie. They found 140 dead rattlesnakes, several of which were three feet long, which they collected and carried back to her homestead in three bathtubs. She then hung each snake on her washing line to dry out.

News of her ordeal spread like wildfire and soon came to the attention of the press, a reporter from a local newspaper persuaded Kate to hang the snakes over a nearby fence to make for a better photograph and took several of the grisly haul with Kate standing next to them. The Associated Press then picked up the story which it fed to the east coast dailies and it even made headlines accompanied by the striking photograph in newspapers in England, France, Germany and Mexico.

Kate then took some lessons in taxidermy and then after carefully skinning the snakes and removing the rattle tails, cured them until she had decided what to do with them. Perhaps surprisingly, she decided to make a flapper-style dress out of them, four of the larger snake skins being deployed to make the bodice and another forty-three the skirt. She then fitted the two pieces together. So pleased was she with her creation she sent off an application for a patent.  

Other dried snake skins she made into a pair of shoes, a belt and a neckband while with the rattles she fashioned items of jewellery such as earrings, necklaces, and bracelets. By now a sought after local celebrity she was a star attraction at local functions, where she always wore her trademark snakeskin dress, matching shoes and belt.        

In September 1969, Kate donated her famous flapper-style snakeskin dress and her various snake-made accessories, as well as the rifle she’d used to shoot the first four snakes, to the Greeley History Museum. Shortly afterwards, on October 6, 1969 she died aged 76 and was buried in the Mizpah Cemetery in Platteville, Colorado.

Murder Jigsaw

A review of Murder Jigsaw by Edwin and Mona Radford – 251115

Fishing is a pastime that I have never taken to never having the patience to sit quietly on a riverbank pitting my wits against an innocent creature going about its business but I do appreciate the skill, particularly of the fly fisherman and I know enough to realise that an ardent sportsman would be circumspect in the way that they laid down their rod and that dry fly fishing and wet fly fishing never mix.

Doctor Harry Manson, the Yard’s eminent forensic scientist, is a dry fly fisherman and considers that the way Colonel Donoughmore, a fellow dry fly practitioner, had laid down his rod and had a wet fly attached to the line are too curious to pass off as coincidence or carelessness. In another case of a busman’s holiday, Eric and Mona Radford’s second book in their Manson series, originally published in 1944 and reissued by Dean Street Press, takes the sleuth on a holiday to the Cornish fishing hotel, the Trewarden Arms, famed for its nearby rivers teeming with abundant supplies of trout and salmon.

Any hopes that Manson may have had of a few days’ sport are quickly dashed when the Colonel’s body is found drowned in a nearby salmon pool. The local police are quick to dismiss the death as an unfortunate accident, but there are little clues including fragments of green weed in the dead man’s lungs and stomach and the pure coincidence of him falling into the water at the only open part of the river together with the position of the rod and the fly suggest otherwise. Caught hook, line and sinker Manson is forced to lead the investigation and quickly summons his sidekick and fellow scientist, Merry, to assist.

Inevitably, the Colonel turns out to be a deeply unpleasant character, a share pusher duping rich fools into investing in non-existent companies, a womanizer with more than an eye for the local talent, and not averse to a spot of blackmail when the opportunity presents itself. A couple of his fellow guests at the hotel who were on the riverbank at the time of his death had publicly uttered threats against him, while Major Smithers had been wiped out by an unwise investment Donoughmore had introduced him to, while Sir Edward Maurice had also been duped but not to so catastrophic effect.

And then there is Janice Devereux, about to marry a wealthy man, who had lost her first husband out in India when he was serving in the same district as Donoughmore. They must have met but why did they ignore each other at the hotel and why was Donoughmore so suddenly interested in the circumstances of Devereux’s death and what hold does he have over her? There is enough bait swirling in the tempestuous eddies of the Trewarden Arms to tempt a murderer, but who?

A Manson story is an Austin Freeman-lite, detailed enough in its description of investigative methodology to give it a sense of realism but not too heavy to swamp and discourage the reader anxious to know whodunit. Manson’s Box of Tricks comes into play, allowing him to take a more detailed analysis of the body than the local man, particularly to isolate some intriguing clues that cast doubt on the locus of the murder. He is also painstaking, spending a couple of hours painstakingly piecing together fragments of spectacle lenses and also incredibly fortunate, stumbling upon a cigarette butt which enables him to crack a seemingly watertight alibi. Never one to play down his scientific training, Mason even casts the solution to the mystery in the form of three algebraic formulae.

His conclusion is that something happened on July 15^th to bring matters to a head and an investigation of the hotel register helps to put the pieces of the jigsaw together. In a nice touch Manson allows the culprit to travel to Exeter before they are arrested, this sparing his beloved Trewarden Arms from the ignominy of having an arrest on its premises. The Colonel was triply unfortunate on the day of his death, adding complexity to an ingenious plot, and there is some irony in that he was assaulted by his own priest.

As is their wont, the Mansons helpfully point out in intermissions some points that the reader might want to consider if they are playing the armchair sleuth but these pointers disappear as the plot reaches its resolution. There are clues and heavy hints enough if the reader is diligent enough to spot them.

The book must have made the contemporary reader long for the idyllic lazy summer days of peacetime. These forensic novels are not everyone’s plate of fish and chips but I felt that there was enough mix of scientific acumen and genuine mystery to make the book a satisfying read.