THEORPHAN SCRIVENER ISSUE # FORTY-THREE - l5 FEBRUARY 2007

Since our last appearance in your in-box vast swathes of the country have been afflicted with weather as cold as charity. As we write, snow is falling steadily and it looks as if we already have a foot or so, with more on the way.

Few have described a bitter winter landscape as well as Wallace Stevens, whose poems likened icicles to barbaric glass and described juniper trees as shaggy with encrustations of ice.

We're all familiar with the way noise seems to carry further than usual over snow, and in his l930s work The Sun This March, Wallace talked about such air bringing the sound of voices akin to lions. Although Wittgenstein was of the opinion we wouldn't be able to understand lions even if they were able to talk, doubtless if such leonine roars were intelligible they'd be grumbling about the cold. However, today such voices are more likely to convey our subscribers' complaints not so much about the weather as finding this latest issue of Orphan Scrivener lion in wait when they open their email.

But given you've read this far, press on, lionhearts!

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MARY'S BIT or CLOAK FIRST, DAGGER LATER (MAYBE)

Subscribers who remember our first newsletter back in February 2000 may recall it related a near miss involving a lighting fixture while readers who missed the enthralling tale of this incident can view it at http://home.epix.net/~maywrite/toc1.htm#xmas

And now here we are seven years later, and it's a case of history -- or in this case, her story -- repeating itself.

I was looking out the door on a recent stormy day when a particularly strong gust of wind shook the house and at that very instant the dome-shaped ceiling light behind me parted company with its anchor and crashed to the floor a foot or so away, outdoing the famous chandelier scene in Phantom of the Opera, but fortunately not hitting yours truly. It was a lucky escape, since the fallen globe amply demonstrated the astonishing breadth of distribution and amount of shards and tiny splinters even a small glass object will achieve when it shatters and scatters.

In films of a macabre nature this sort of event would be accompanied by a soundtrack of screeching violins, before a lesser player in the kinematic drama would start up, wild-eyed, to declare "There's a curse on this house!" and then take flight, probably to a nasty fate.

When it comes to ill wishing, however, they'd have to travel a lot further than just fleeing a malignant building to beat that bane of the ancient world, the defixio or curse tablet.

Curse tablets have made an appearance or two during John's adventures, most notably in the short story And All That He Calls Family, published in Mike Ashley's 200l anthology The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits: A New Collection (issued as The Mammoth Book of More Historical Whodunnits in the US).

Delving into the topic while writing Family showed human nature has not changed much over the millennia, although methods used to bring ruination or retribution are different nowadays. Rather than the court case, gossiping tongue, or poison pen letter, the seeker of justice -- as they saw it at least -- petitioned the gods for personal intervention, ignoring the wise advice that one should be certain of one's own roof before summoning a storm.

In brief, these requests were usually inscribed on a thin sheet of lead, which was rolled up and buried or sometimes thrown into a well, thus ensuring the cursed person could not find and destroy it and, like as not, compose one of their own.

Petitions for heavenly intervention were, it seems, as varied as the interests of humanity. Chariot teams were a popular target, so rather than nobbling horses or waylaying charioteers, wagerers anxious about their bets or supporters of competing teams improved their chances of winning by asking various deities to tangle the feet of rival teams' horses or otherwise cripple them, arrange for chariots to crash at the turns, or cause charioteers to fall ill or suffer incapacitating injuries.

Needless to say, such tablets were also used in attempts to blight the romantic prospects or business interests of rivals, interfere with the professional success of an athlete or actor, or wreak havoc on a person the petitioner disliked for one reason or another.

Written generally to a formulaic magickal text, sometimes arranged in a pattern, examples have been excavated where the name of the accursed was squished into a constricted space. This leads experts to theorise that fill in the blank tablets were available, an early example of consumer driven supply and demand, and it has been suggested literate persons such as scribes were happy to inscribe names for those who could not write, an unexpected but doubtless lucrative extra benefit accorded to the educated classes.

Apparently one of the commonest reasons for these malignant petitions was to ask the god or gods to punish thieves and return stolen property to its owner, and one such was excavated last year in Leicester, England.

Thought to be about 1,500 years old and addressed to the god Maglus, it asks the deity to destroy whoever stole the cloak of Servandus, who had no hesitation in requesting results within nine days http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/bigphotos/1227855.html

Perhaps Servandus was dubious about Maglus' interest in such a minor matter, for he also obligingly provided a list of over a dozen possible culprits. To mystery readers this will suggest either Servandus had a large number of lightfingered friends or alternatively he did not move in the best company. But given the loss of his cloak infuriated him so much that he decided to involve a god, I suspect if he did not soon retrieve his garment a persuasive dagger might be drawn on suspected perpetrators until either his cloak was found -- or he was, lifeless in an alley.

Although seven has been regarded for centuries as a number of great mystical import, I'm not leaping to conclusions although I may well attempt to keep away from lighting fixtures as much as possible during February 20l4. As for Servandus, we'll probably never know the end of the story unless further discoveries eventually shed illumination on the outcome of the theft of his cloak.

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NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

Only one report is unspooling from the ticker this time around, but it's a matter not only newsworthy but also one that's new to the residents of Casa Maywrite! Read on...

CLUBBING TOGETHER or READING REED AND MAYER

We're honoured to be able to announce that currently two book clubs are reading about John's adventures.

The first is Mysterybooks, which has been meeting monthly since January l997, when a group of sorority alumnae friends realised they were all reading mysteries. Based in California, they discuss a new author each month, sometimes one specific book, pairing it with a film based on the novel, a potluck dinner, or an appropriate ethnic meal at a restaurant. For February 2007 the choice was any novel from our series, and we thank the members of Mysterybook for their interest and support.

On the other side of the country a church book club in Ohio is currently reading One For Sorrow. We hear members are finding it a little different from many historical mysteries, particularly its look at various religious beliefs. We thank them also and hope their weather-delayed discussion goes well.

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ERIC'S BIT or STREET SEENS

Since the middle of January we've been in the midst of a cold spell. The office space heater has been blowing more hot air than the two scriveners. I've had to slither into the crawl space once already to use the heat gun on a frozen water pipe. At least the giant lurking spiders were probably all frozen to their webs.

There are people who'd be happy to have pipes to freeze, or a roof over their heads. I used to pass them on the streets when I lived in New York almost thirty years ago. They may have had places to live of some sort but as far as I could tell they were always outside. Or nearly outside.

The first level of the subway station beside Washington Square Park was deserted. To reach the lower levels and catch your train you needed to pass through a huge dark space resembling an empty parking garage. Somewhere in the shadows lived a man who screamed. He'd shriek and roar and the noise would echo around the pillars. It wasn't so much a communication of pain as rage. A monstrous anger that pulled a sound straight from a tormented soul that could never have been achieved by human vocal cords alone. Maybe he was one of the junkies who populated the park. I never caught a glimpse of this man nor did I want to.

I had plenty of opportunities to get a good look at the cadaverous looking fellow who stood outside the porno theater not far from Borough Hall in Brooklyn. His activities were equally as mysterious. No matter the time of day or the weather he'd be there, just under the marquee, writing in his notebook. It was a medium sized ring-bound notebook with a cardboard cover. He'd peer around, give every indication of engaging in deep thought, lick his pencil and proceed to jot down who knows what. He held the notebook close to his chest. Was he keeping track of pedestrian traffic along Smith Street? Making notes on passersby? Occasionally, he would bend down and, using a piece of chalk, make an "X' on the pavement at his feet. So he stood there amidst his burgeoning "X's" -- patterns which may or may not have meant anything -- until the rains came and he had to start all over.

A few blocks distant, an older man with a Santa Claus beard liked to push his shopping cart along trendy upscale Montague Street. The cart was filled with bulging plastic bags, bits of newspaper, an old shoe or two, and empty soda cans. He carried grimy scraps of paper covered with scribbles. He was constantly peering at them, shaking his head and muttering to himself. When I passed by close enough to hear him I realized he was mumbling about what sounded like extremely complex medical procedures. The terms he was using were a lot longer than the "Xs" scratched on the sidewalk by the fellow by the theater but just as mystifying to me.

One winter the medical man vanished. For weeks I didn't see him. I figured he had moved on or succumbed to the elements. Then one day in early spring, there he was again, pushing his cart as usual, dressed in the same ragged coat, near as I could tell, but he was missing a hand. The stump was wrapped in bandages.

It seemed incredible. Someone had taken this man off the street, amputated his hand, and then simply sent him back out, in the same rags, before his dressings had even come off.

Some street people engaged in business. A man with a saxophone set up shop beside an office supply store in downtown Brooklyn. He'd sometimes put the saxophone to his lips and sounds would emerge. Every time I went by he'd be playing "People" or maybe it was "When the Saints Go Marching In." People left money in the cigar box by his feet.

Downtown Brooklyn wasn't a prime location, even for begging. The fellow I'd see outside Macy's in Manhattan didn't have to perform. He just sat against the wall. The coat he wore, consisting of clear trash bags, must have convinced more than a few clothes shoppers to drop a coin or two into his cup.

Oddly enough, the city's street entrepreneurs seemed to keep abreast of what went on in their far flung community and were alert to new business opportunities. One day I was surprised to see that the Brooklyn saxophonist had replaced the sitter at Macy's. I suppose the previous owner of the location had vacated his spot and the saxophonist had leapt at his chance to move up in the world.

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AND FINALLY

It'll be mid-April before Orphan Scrivener will again be discovered loitering in your in-box, by which time spring should be here or at least on its way. Philip Larkin declared the season was heralded by the brightly clothed trumpeters of newly green bushes and trees as the leper winter relaxed the grip of his pale hands and crept away. For now, we'll emulate that bleached spectre and sidle off until Orphan Scrivener springs back into view on l5th April.

See you then!
Mary R and Eric

who invite you to visit their home page, hanging out on the virtual washing line at http://home.epix.net/~maywrite/ There you'll discover the usual suspects, including more personal essays, lists of author freebies and mystery-related newsletters, Doom Cat (an interactive game written by Eric), and a jigsaw featuring the handsome cover of Five For Silver. There's also an Orphan Scrivener archive, so don't say you weren't warned! Intrepid subscribers may also wish to pop over to visit Eric's blog at http://www.journalscape.com/ericmayer/

THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER ISSUE # FORTY-TWO - l5 DECEMBER 2006

Contemplating the winter weather advancing over the horizon reminds us of a question hotly debated in cold months: why don't more writers scribble paeans to sultry days to warm us up a bit during the forthcoming frigid season?

Not a bad idea you may say, unless you live in tropical climes, yet so often creative quills seem to dip into lower temperatures as well as ink pots. For example, James Thomson valiantly upheld the Scottish reputation for dourness when he wrote about sad, sullen, stormy winter and yet went on to welcome its gloom and hail its horrors -- although the latter was not perhaps meant in the meteorological sense.

Emily Dickinson declared winter afternoon light seen at a certain angle oppressed after the fashion of sacred tunes, a statement which many would hotly deny. William Wordsworth might not be among them, being of the opinion winter loved sounds akin to dirges, while Philip Larkin took up the theme of the death of the year by observing the winter season closes around us after the fashion of a shroud.

Still, it won't be too long now before the days again start to lengthen, and with that in mind, perhaps we may be so bold as to venture a paraphrase of William Shakespeare and whisper the current winter of discontent may briefly be made glorious summer by this latest issue of Orphan Scrivener -- or at least a bit warmer if you print out the text, roll the pages up, and utilise the result to weatherstrip around draughty doors and windows.

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ERIC'S BIT or PILLARS OF THE COMMUNITY

Last week after I had spent a couple hours nailing down patches on the sun porch roof, I found myself writing about a sixth century stylite who will appear in our seventh Byzantine mystery.

Pillar saints were holy man who sought to mortify the flesh and commune with God by retiring from the world to dwell atop columns. The practice originated in the fifth century with Simeon who, according to Evagrius in his Ecclesiastical History, lived atop a 60 foot high pillar (40 cubits) for thirty years after having spent several years on shorter columns. Others soon followed Simeon's example. Saint Alypius reportedly stood upright on a column for 53 years until his legs gave out, and then spent the last 14 years of his life lying down.

Walking around a roof would seem like good preparation for imagining what it must have been like to perch on a pillar, and although I didn't stay up there for nearly as long as a stylite did, since I'm afraid of heights it seemed like forever. Writers are supposed to draw on their own experiences, after all, and this particular one seemed apt.

However, when I began to ponder what I might have learned on the roof that could be transferred to my fictional holy man I encountered difficulties. True, I felt rather more exposed to the breeze than normal and the ground certainly appeared to be a long way down. But I didn't have to actually get on the roof to realize things of that kind.

Then too, I'm not a hermit, let alone the particular example I was trying to imagine. In fact, a Byzantine holy man who disliked heights as much as I do would probably have chosen a less elevated form of self abnegation -- cave dwelling, for instance. On the hand, I could also see how he might decide to torture himself with fear for the glory of God.

But having to guess rendered the whole roof exercise worthless.

It may be I was not sufficiently observant while up there. I didn't pay enough attention to my emotional reaction or look hard enough for telling details. I was too busy keeping an eye on the location of the edge of the roof to do that. It would certainly have been a telling detail if I'd lost track, even if I may not have lived to tell about it, which certainly would've saddened me.

Maybe I could really get inside a stylite's head if I stood on my chair for a week. It would probably make the cat nervous, though. And if I stood on the roof for that long the neighbors might get nervous.

I once listened to a short woman who had written a fantasy novel about a tall hero explain how she had carted a stool around her house and kept standing on this stool while going about her business to see how it would feel to be taller.

That seems like overkill. I wonder if she actually had any revelations a few inches off the floor that she couldn't have reached by a simple thought experiment?

I guess I'm lazy. There are writers who won't set a book in a locale they haven't visited and if they have to vacation for weeks in exotic lands -- well, it's a tough job but someone's got to do it, even if only part of the expense comes off their taxes.

But since the sixth century Constantinople Mary and I write about has been obliterated by the passage of time and buried beneath yards of rubble and new construction, there isn't any question of traveling there. I have lived in New York City and so I imagine Constantinople circa 542 was somewhat like New York City circa 1979, but with horses rather than taxicabs, hot dog vendors rather than purveyors of grilled fish, and stylites rather than Hare Krishnas.

Come to think of it, I suppose the top of a stylite's column had the same olfactory character as the 42nd Street subway station.

There'd be no chance I'd ever find myself in the same kind of spots John does. The closest I've ever got to an imperial banquet was to have high tea at the Trump Tower. And John will insist on venturing down dark alleyways. Never mind authorial responsibility, I draw the line at dark alleyways.

Sometimes it's best just to use your imagination.

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NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

A couple of snippets to ring out the old year....

CREATING A SCENE(RY) or GET READY, GET SET, GET WRITING

We were honoured to be interviewed a few weeks ago by The Motivated Writer, whose motto is Where Inspiration and Determination Meet. The topic was setting and its effects on story and you can read our thoughts on this subject in the November issue of TMW at http://www.themotivatedwriter.com/11november.html Our thanks to Su Kopil for extending her invitation to participate in the discussions.

DORJ RETURNS or MONGOLIAN MAYHEM

The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries, edited by Mike Ashley, has now appeared. Content includes such puzzles as how a man -- on his own while clearly visible in a glass phone box -- was killed and in what fashion a bullet fired *two centuries before* finds its mark in a man sitting in a room alone. As lovers of locked room mysteries we're particularly happy to have contributed a story to Mike's collection featuring our Mongolian protagonist Inspector Dorj faced with solving a locked circus caravan murder -- a crime with no lack of suspects and motives.

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MARY'S BIT or ROOM AT THE BOTTOM

Some years ago I laboured as secretary to a fellow whose political views were, well, quite different from my own. Thus when I trotted into his office to take dictation, we'd often get into really lively discussions. On the other hand, he enjoyed J. R. R. Tolkien's fiction -- we talked more about that at my job interview than anything else -- and would occasionally go so far as to make the office coffee.

Indeed he's gone even further than that, for he is now an MP representing a certain UK constituency in the European Parliament.

Having received his latest newsletter this very week, I began thinking about politics (megaphone voice off: stand back, this could be dangerous!) and found myself remembering No Job For A Lady, the British sitcom about a new woman Labour MP played by the wonderful Penelope Keith, and from there meandered on to recall Yes, Minister and its natural successor Yes, Prime Minister.

The life religious has not been neglected either. A handful of older sitcoms poked kindly fun at the other sort of minister. All Gas And Gaiters featured several clerical gents connected with St Oggs Cathedral, including an archdeacon who was fond of a wee tipple. The misadventures of a hapless novice monk at Mountacres Abbey enlivened Oh Brother! and its titular character advanced in the church hierarchy to later star in Oh Father! Arthur Lowe also donned ecclesiastical garb, going from his role as Captain Mainwaring in Dad's Army, the much-loved WWII comedy series about a unit of the Local Defence Volunteers, to portray a Roman Catholic priest in Bless Me, Father, a sitcom set in London about five years after the war ended.

There've been a number of British sitcoms involving various professions, although most of the ones I mention are now in the vintage production category. There were several based upon the popular Doctor novels by Richard Gordon, in which medical students created havoc at St Swithin's Hospital. Then there was Don't Wait Up, in which father and son, both in the throes of divorce and both medical men, share a flat. May To December, a particular favourite of mine, was set in a solicitor's office. Its gentle humour arose from a romance between a middle-aged partner in the legal firm and a teacher in her 20s who consulted him for advice on her divorce.

Although not a situation comedy as such, I'd nominate All Creatures Great And Small, with its stories of vets working in the Yorkshire Dales in the late '30s and early '40s, as straddling the line between series dealing with professional lives and those concerned with working schmoes. In the latter category, one of the first was The Rag Trade. Its setting was the workshop of a fashionable attire company, and usually featured various run-ins between management and their unionised workers. This naturally resulted in constant summons to strike, announced by a blast of the shop stewardess' whistle and cry of "Everybody out!". Harried foreman Reg Varney subsequently reappeared as the driver of a double-decker in On The Buses, always at odds with the local bus inspector while casting a hopeful eye on the possibility of romance with one of the company's pretty clippies.

We must not overlook the scurrilous, grubby crew who were The Dustbinmen. Trevor Bannister, who portrayed a character who fancied himself a ladies' man and was therefore known by the unforgettable nickname of Heavy Breathing, rose in the world to become junior assistant selling gents' ready-made clothing in an old-fashioned department store in Are You Being Served? He and his fellow workers from that floor of Grace Brothers' store changed occupations again a few years afterwards when they took over a country house, Millstone Manor, in an attempt to run it as a hotel, having learnt their Grace Brothers pension fund had been used to purchase it so there was nothing left for them. Alas, Grace & Favour (broadcast in the US as Are You Being Served Again?) departed from the TV landscape before we saw the end of the story.

The lesser-known sitcom Room At The Bottom revolved around maintenance men working at a factory, episodes underlining the undoubted ability of such workers to cause a great deal of trouble within a company, while Brush Strokes painted a humorous portrait of the life of a painter and decorator, not least his various romantic entanglements.

Then there was penny-pinching Mr Arkwright, proprietor of a Yorkshire shop which was Open All Hours, or at least a fair number of them. Other representatives of the working class were rag and bone men Steptoe and Son, always quarreling yet bound together by familial ties, and two tailors of different faiths who worked together in Whitechapel, east London, in Never Mind The Quality, Feel The Width -- not to mention The Likely Lads (and its sequel Whatever Happened To The Likely Lads?), relating the adventures of a pair of friends working in a factory in my home area of northeastern England.

Service industries also provided comedic possibilities. Bootsie And Snudge were ex-servicemen who worked in London's Imperial Club. I should perhaps make it clear this was a club for gentlemen of the retired general and landed gentry type rather than...another type of club. A French cafe in occupied France was the centre of inept cloak and dagger operations in 'Allo 'Allo, which poked even-handed fun at various national stereotypes in such a broad fashion as to overcome an initial controversy over a comedy largely based on sending up Resistance work. And of course few will have forgotten John Cleese's classic hotel sitcom Fawlty Towers, with its lanky proprietor harassing guests and staff alike while himself living in fear of the tart tongue of his diminutive wife.

But, you may ask, haven't there been any TV comedies with writers as characters rather than, well, writing the episodes? Well, the only one springing to mind -- today at least -- appears as costar of As Time Goes By. Geoffrey Palmer plays a Briton who had run a coffee plantation in Kenya who,intending to write his biography, returns to the UK. Having arrived there, he engages a secretary from a temp agency to handle the typing of his manuscript. As it transpires, the secretary's mother is Judi Dench, the girlfriend with whom he had lost touch some thirty or more years before; the opening titles show this estrangement came about because a letter from one or the other went astray.

Hopefully that won't be the fate of this newsletter....

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AND FINALLY

In about fortnight or so the old year will totter offstage into welcome retirement and we'll all be tooting our horns, throwing confetti and streamers about, singing the chorus at least of Auld Lang Syne, and generally mafficking about to welcome the arrival of another twelve-month of pristine leaves of life awaiting everyone's scribblings. However, the human condition being what it is, 2007 will doubtless have its bleaker moments, which for our subscribers will include contemplating the next Orphan Scrivener will arrive to peek out coyly from their in-box on l5th February.

But for now we'll close by wishing everyone a happy holiday, whatever they celebrate, and an even better year in 2007 than they had in 2006.

See you in February!
Mary R and Eric

who invite you to visit their home page, hanging out on the virtual washing line at http://home.epix.net/~maywrite/ There you'll discover the usual suspects, including more personal essays, lists of author freebies and mystery- related newsletters, Doom Cat (an interactive game written by Eric), and a jigsaw featuring the handsome cover of Five For Silver. There's also an Orphan Scrivener archive, so don't say you weren't warned! Intrepid subscribers may also wish to pop over to visit Eric's blog at http://www.journalscape.com/ericmayer/

THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER ISSUE # FORTY-ONE l5 - OCTOBER 2006

Robert Browning wrote of autumnal decay mutely appealing for sympathy, but as we tap out this newsletter great swathes of lime and lemon, scarlet and ruby, russet and gold (not to mention one or two remaining pockets of green) are rioting loudly all over the landscape. Our recent chillier nights have certainly worked their paintbox magic on leaves.

Upstate NY had its first major, and unexpected, blizzard a day or so ago. We have had other reminders that winter is coming down the pike. The groundhog we've occasionally seen loitering in the back garden has put on an enormous amount of weight since our last issue and migrating birds have been stitching arrows across the sky this past week or three.

A couple of days ago we learnt that October l5th is National Grouch Day -- but can we really be surprised since it's the very day Orphan Scrivener routinely swoops crow-like to darken your email in-box? So read on and let the grouching commence!

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MARY'S BIT or STAMPING OUT CRIME

When I was eleven I started to collect stamps, an endeavour accomplished by nabbing any envelopes which arrived as well as the wild spending of pocket money at a newsagent and tobacconist a couple of streets away. Its proprietor sold -- among numerous necessary items not falling into those particular categories, such a cough sweets, writing pads, and bootlaces -- little packets of foreign stamps.

On one occasion, staring into the shop window at a set of triangular stamps from the Pacific (I seem to recall they were Tongan) I suddenly forgot how to pronounce foreign. I could hardly go in, put down a couple of pennies, and ask for stamps from countries that were abroad. On the other hand, hanging about the emporium door for ages trying to remember would run the risk of suspicious looks from the chap behind the counter. So in the end I plucked up courage, went in, and -- as will happen when a familiar phone number is temporarily forgotten but returns to us when we start dialing -- as soon as I began to make the request, the word came out correctly pronounced, albeit with a broader Geordie accent than the one I now possess.

In those days I didn't collect stamps with a particular topic, but if I ever take up the hobby again, my focus will be on matters mysterious, for I have discovered a fascinating website devoted to Detective Fiction On Stamps.

Its content covers philatelic images from about two dozen countries with the themes of mystery authors and their characters as well as actors who have portrayed the latter.

There's evidence of conflicting decisions on who gets the nod as one of the best-known sleuths. Nicaragua issued a set in l972 celebrating the 50th anniversary of Interpol, illustrated with their choices for The 12 Most Famous Fictional Detectives. In l996 Guernsey celebrated l00 Years of Cinema with a set depicting Five Classic Screen Detectives whereas Dominica's homage to the same event featured Ten Fictional Detectives.

The small screen is not forgotten either. To my delight, a British set about classic TV series features not only Inspector Morse and his scarlet buggy but also a stamp honouring Rising Damp, one of my favourite sitcoms. Most of us have rented from landlords like Rigsby! Avengers fans may also like to check that page

Alas, it appears Tonga has not yet obliged with a stamp honouring mysterious literature. I'd complain about it, but that would be foreign to my nature.

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NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

This time around the ticker tells subscribers about a fellow whose crimes were just not cricket as well as revealing hot news from Greece.

FILING A STORY or UNRAFFLING A MYSTERY

Mystery*File is home to a huge selection of articles about mysteries, reviews, author interviews, checklists, and more. Since the last Orphan Scrivener was issued, Mary's essay on A. J. Raffles, the gentleman burglar and amateur cricketer created by E. W. Hornung, has appeared on the M*F website. Want to read biographies of Raffles and his hapless friend and partner in crime Harry "Bunny" Manders? How was it Raffles was thought to have died twice? Is it possible Raffles finally redeemed himself after his life of crime? Bearing in mind there are extensive spoilers, if you wish to find the answers to these burning questions point your clicker at Raffles.

TWOFER RETURNS or A BLAZE OF GLORY

And speaking of burning, the Greek edition of Two For Joy has appeared under a title we recklessly -- and loosely -- translate as Byzantium Ablaze. Published by Govostis, its cover features drawings of three personages from the Ravenna mosaics. They are recognisable as the man we dubbed John, his arch enemy Empress Theodora, and a third person whose identity is uncertain though we have our suspicions, set against scarlet flames flowering in the background. If you'd like take a glance, pop over here to Govostis. Our thanks to Govostis for again bringing Ioannis back to his own country!

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ERIC'S BIT or WORKING FOR TREATS

In a couple of weeks it will be Halloween. Nothing beats putting on a mask and prowling the streets at night.

Unfortunately I'm too old to do that without getting arrested.

I can only recall fondly the distant days when it was a thrill just to be out after dark. The crunch of desiccated leaves under my feet, the skeletal trees leaning out over the sidewalks, the way night transformed the familiar neighborhood into a eerie, alien landscape full of secrets.

Oh heck...I'd never have gone out in the cold except for the treats.

I hate the cold. That trick-or-treat bag used to get heavy and my hand would turn numb hanging onto it. But when I got back home, upended the bag over the table, and spilled out a mountain of chocolate and candy corn, that made the misery worthwhile.

Of course there were always apples. They fit in with the season. My friends and I hated people giving out apples. Apples were too heavy to cart around and anyway no one goes out in the cold for fruit. Our parents were always nagging us to eat fruit. Today fears about concealed razor blades have pretty much put an end to Halloween apples. I doubt kids are shedding any tears over that.

It was always the retired folks who had the bowl of apples in the hallway by the door and they were the ones who always insisted we come inside and perform for our treats. Back where I grew up the Puritans had got their oar in and so it was more like work-for-treats. We were required to sing a song or tell a joke or recite a poem. Somehow we never had the courage to explain things to these misguided adults. "I'm afraid we've got a little misunderstanding here. The way it works, see, is you hand over the treats or we come back and soap your windows, or smash a pumpkin on your porch."

We preferred householders who couldn't be bothered to get into the spirit of Halloween. The ones who opened the door a crack, tossed some money in our bags, and sent us on our way. Money was what we preferred. A quarter would buy more penny candy than most people would give out, not to mention being lighter to carry. We couldn't help noticing the bigger the house, the more likely we were to get money rather than candy. Some years my friends' parents drove us to a nearby upscale development. The people up on the hill put dollar bills in our bags.

Ever notice how tall kids are today? I wonder, if I put on a mask, and slouched...

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AND FINALLY

This issue of Orphan Scrivener was written during an early cold snap. As he indicated above, Eric does not care for winter and vastly prefers the hot summer weather -- which Mary particularly dislikes -- so we both agree with Carol Bishop Hipps, who described October as the gap between the miseries of the two aforementioned seasons.

We're now at the end of this latest newsletter and so will be taking our leaves. However, after a gap of two months we'll be back to spread misery among subscribers again when our next Orphan Scrivener flaps in from the aether on December l5th.

See you in then!
Mary R and Eric

who invite you to visit their home page, hanging out on the virtual washing line at There you'll discover the usual suspects, including more personal essays, lists of author freebies and mystery- related newsletters, Doom Cat (an interactive game written by Eric), and a jigsaw featuring the handsome cover of Five For Silver. There's also an Orphan Scrivener archive, so don't say you weren't warned! Intrepid subscribers may also wish to pop over to visit Eric's blog.