Sunday, April 15, 2018

THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER -- ISSUE # ONE HUNDRED AND TEN -- 15 APRIL 2018

Nature is said to abhor a vacuum, and since this year American tax returns are not due today as usual but rather two days hence, ever helpful we rush in to fill the empty space in subscribers' reading matter. Let's hope we won't tax subscribers' patience!


ERIC'S BIT or TOO INDECOROUS FOR THE LIVING ROOM

Our new John the Lord Chamberlain mystery contains some surprising twists (we hope) and according to our publisher the trade paperback will also feature a "French fold." I had to look the term up. Very fancy. We've had twists before but never a French fold.

An Empire for Ravens will also be available as an ebook and to be honest, that's the edition I'd buy because I always read onscreen. It just seems natural. Starting back in the mid-eighties I became accustomed to working at a computer all day. I find I have less and less patience with objects that take up physical space.

I do have fond memories of books printed on paper. Among the first volumes I recall are the ones that filled the small, darkly varnished bookcase next to the rocking chair in my grandparents' Victorian furnished living room. Most impressive was Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress, uncomfortably heavy in my preschool hands, a foreboding tome, looking ancient with its antique lettering, gilt fading from the embossed pictures of religious figures. Just as old and worn looking but more friendly were Heidi and The Wind in the Willows, both of which my grandmother read to me while we sat together in the rocker. The cover of The Wind in the Willows had been rendered soft and flexible from use, while Heidi boasted a brightly colored scene of the Alps pasted to its cloth front.

The books in the spare room were very different, newer. The awkwardly fat Reader's Digest Condensed books looked ugly to me because their covers were plain text. More interesting were the bright little Erle Stanley Gardner and A. A. Fair paperbacks. These were my grandmother's favorite reading but with their guns and garrotes and red-lipped, long-legged ladies, I suspect she considered them too indecorous for the living room.

I had my own books at home, Little Golden Books with thick board covers and gilded spines. A few years later came Tom Swift Junior. I loved the jackets, each one displaying the mind and eye boggling invention of the book's title. Tom Swift and His Atomic Earth Blaster! Tom Swift and His Spectromarine Selector! Other favorites were large illustrated science and history books with their satisfying weight and slick pages.

Then there was the library with its books in every shape, size, and binding. I particularly recall Thornton W. Burgess' Old Mother West Wind series. They were unusually small volumes -- child sized -- and hidden here and there amidst the text pages were picture plates, Harrison Cady's humorous depictions of Grandfather Frog, Billy Mink, Jerry Muskrat, and their friends.

The picture books I read before anything else were large and thin. Luckily. I could pile up a lot of Doctor Seuss books to haul home. It was close to a mile walk and the load got heavy by the time I staggered up the hill leading to my house. Sometimes I couldn't carry enough back to last all day and had to make a second trip after I'd gone through the first batch.

When I started buying my own books they were almost always paperbacks and one paperback is much the same as another. Except for the ones I found used in thrift stores, secondhand bookshops, and yard sales. They came in all degrees of decay, shedding bits of spine and corners of brown pages on my shelves. Sometimes the brittle sheets detached from the desiccated spine, leaving the pages to sit loose between the covers. A challenge to read. And more of a challenge to reassemble when, as occasionally happened, I dropped a book.

Different species of paperbacks existed in New York City where I went on day trips, largely to find reading matter. For example, I was heavily into science fiction for a while and not only did New York bookstores stock rare (in the US) British titles, but the covers were weirdly glossy and exotically colorful compared to their American counterparts. Did it enhance my sense of wonder to read from such obviously alien artifacts?

In New York I also bagged foreign books in translation that local stores never stocked. New Directions published many of these in trade paperback, a format that was relatively rare back in the early seventies, and usually reserved for literary material with limited appeal. Trade paperbacks signaled that the contents were out of the ordinary. I bought works by Raymond Queneau, Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Arthur Rimbaud, and Baudelaire. All French authors. All in trade paperback. But none of them got a French fold.


NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

There's Big News on the ticker tape this time round!

JOHN'S NEXT ADVENTURE or AN EMPIRE FOR RAVENS

An Empire For Ravens will be published in various formats by Poisoned Pen Press on October 2nd. John's latest adventure is set in besieged Rome, by coincidence also the setting for our locked room short story The Finger of Aphrodite in The Mammoth Book of Roman Whodunits (2003).

The official blurb for Ravens reads thusly:

Missing treasure, murder, possible treason....Emperor Justinian's former Lord Chamberlain John risks defying imperial edict by leaving his exile in Greece for Rome, where his longtime comrade Felix is in some kind of trouble. Felix has finally become a general and is fighting for Rome against the besieging Goths. John's covert entrance into Rome is ambushed, driving him deep into ancient catacombs before he exits into the heart of the city to find that Felix is missing, his household is in disarray, and a young woman servant is found dead.

The ticker tape operators wish to inform subscribers Ravens is already available for pre-order

https://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1464210659/ref=nosim/speculativefic05

and doubtless from other locations on and offline in due course.


MARY'S BIT or AVOID THAT ISOLATED RESIDENCE!

I have a regrettable liking for films of the Old Dark House persuasion (henceforth ODH), or at least those involving mysteries. And so, based on countless hours viewing their old-fashioned cinematic creepiness, a few observations on the sort of events to be expected in them.

Family gatherings are popular settings. Other arrivals at the front door: strangers stranded by a flash flood or experiencing car trouble or sometimes just wandering about lost because the driver would not stop and ask locals for directions.

Lights will fail, particularly during a thunderstorm. However, its strobe-like flashes of lightning will semi-reveal at intervals what is happening, while also creating inky shadows where anyone could be lurking -- and usually is.

Landline wires, assuming telephonic apparatus is installed given the isolation and age of the house, will be cut by a person up to no good or their outside accomplice. Alternatively the line may be brought down by high winds accompanying the afore-mentioned thunderstorm.

A cat will lurk behind the curtains, ready to leap out and scare someone. Unless the drapes conceal someone of evil intent, a corpse, or an unlatched French window previously known to have been locked as part of barring the house to intruders.

Servants tend to be few but usually include a butler given to making ominous predictions or details of the family curse, and a housekeeper with sinister looks, even when not party to the shenanigans. Lack of servants also means an inevitably overgrown garden, setting the scene for fleeing heroines to trip and injure their ankles.

Doors and windows fly open at the least puff of wind, unless the latter are found to be nailed shut as someone tries to escape from the house. Windows may also be equipped with bars, though not of the spirituous liquors type.

Secret passages are an architectural feature routinely found in the ODH. They are usually accessed via a swinging-out bookcase or fiddling with carvings on the wainscoting and often feature peep holes in their walls.

Sliding panels are also popular. Alert viewers may spot their locations early on, given their presence is strongly indicated by sofas, armchairs, or bed-heads placed closer to the wall than is usual.

Eyes in oil paintings move, their gaze following the protagonists or future victims around the room. The same effect may also involve the visor of a suit of armour.

Popular furnishings in these films include large, elaborate wardrobes (a favourite place of concealment for both the quick and the dead) and grandfather clocks whose sudden loud chimes at the wrong times inevitably startle those within earshot, including the cat behind the curtains.

Old dark houses are not as well insulated as modern homes, so draughts abound. Thus a candle will blow out almost before it's lit. On the other hand, as all players of Clue are well aware, a candlestick makes a good weapon....


AND FINALLY

We shall now return to our annual battle with ants, currently being fought in the bathroom. Meantime, the next issue of Orphan Scrivener will creep into subscribers' inboxes on 15th June. By then we may be able to declare victory in the woodpecker war mentioned last year since so far, though we've heard them hammering away in the woods, our particular red-headed devil has not yet returned to torment us further. See you then!
Mary R and Eric

who invite you to visit their home page, to be found hanging out on the virtual washing line that is the Web at http://home.earthlink.net/~maywrite/ There you'll discover the usual suspects, including more personal essays, a bibliography, and our growing libraries of links to free e-texts of classic and Golden Age mysteries, ghost stories, and tales of the supernatural. There's also the Orphan Scrivener archive, so don't say you weren't warned! Our joint blog is at http://ericreedmysteries.blogspot.com/ Intrepid subscribers may also wish to know our noms des Twitter are @marymaywrite and @groggytales Drop in some time!


Thursday, February 15, 2018

THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER -- ISSUE # ONE HUNDRED AND NINE -- 15 FEBRUARY 2018

This winter weather has been, and indeed continues to be, hard for many, bringing to mind the proverbial saying to the effect we should reconcile ourselves to present trials because the future may bring worse ones. Meantime, here's another issue of Orphan Scrivener. We leave subscribers to draw their own conclusions...


MARY'S BIT or BEFORE CEILING CAT

It's not too often we need to turn our thoughts to ceilings, except when they develop brown stains which tend to take on strange resemblances to clipper ships or a galloping horse or whatever other image our subconscious suggests to us, accompanied by that sinking feeling the roof must have sprung a leak. Of course, ceilings also loom large in certain mysteries, ghost stories, and horror films, where the strange stain up there is scarlet and...drips.

There was a ceiling mystery of a different kind a year or two back when the extension housing our bathroom developed a leak. The solution was to reroof it and in the process of doing so, the builder discovered that the original roof was still in place below the one visible to the world, so the bathroom in effect had a false ceiling. Not uncommon, of course, but in this case there was a gap between the two roofs a couple of feet high. Needless to say, with a pair of mystery writers in residence the discovery triggered a discussion of how such a situation could have come about and how it could be integrated into a novel. Certainly small items could be temporarily concealed there but as a hiding place for a living person -- my immediate thought until I realised how small the height of the secret place was -- it would be useless. Naturally bodies also sprang to mind, along with remembrance of Kipling's ghost story The Return Of Imray, in which a ceiling is used to great effect.

In a house we previously inhabited there was a false ceiling in the basement. Our cat Sabrina sometimes hid up there and for all we knew slept there as well. She reached it by launching herself from a sink up to a window sill where she liked to sit and survey the outside and then from there into the space between the ceiling and the floor of the room upstairs. This was well before we discovered the intertube's famous Ceiling Cat and so now, catching a glimpse of its frowning feline face reminds us of Sabrina, long gone though she is.

Earlier still my family lived in a Victorian maisonette which still sported traces of faded glory. Though built for the working class, its front room (the equivalent of a parlour) had been constructed with a ceiling featuring a circle of decorative mouldings centred around its original gas light. Not as elaborate as the ceiling compared to a frosted wedding cake in The Great Gatsby perhaps, but striking in an ordinary home. As an aside, let me mention the seance in Ruined Stones, the second Grace Baxter novel, took place in a room modelled after the one just described, so while the maisonette itself is long gone, along with the entire terraced street and its neighbours, the ceiling and other architectural features remain remembered in print at least. While on the topic, the maisonette where Grace takes lodgings is a mirror image of the one in which my older sister began married life, complete with a low sloping ceiling at one end of the kitchen so steep it made the space beneath it virtually useless as living space.

Speaking of low ceilings, they are one of the most striking features of the house where we now live. It is no exaggeration to declare that downstairs a light bulb can be changed without the need of a step stool and while admittedly we are both taller than average for our genders according to official statistics, we still did not expect to occasionally bang our knuckles on the ceiling upstairs when disrobing or getting dressed or being careless when putting on or taking off a sweater.

The low head room upstairs also means a ceiling fan is out of the question since installing one would be dangerous to our heads, although in a different way than Alice found when she drank from a magic bottle -- a danger in itself, one would think, since she did not know what it contained. In any event, the result was Alice found her noggin pressed to the ceiling and was forced to stoop to avoid a broken neck. Another instance is to be found in A Christmas Carol, when Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas past revisit Scrooge's former employer Mr Fezziwig, first seen sitting at a high desk. It is noted had he been two inches taller his head would have knocked against the ceiling. Similarly in Crime and Punishment a room is described as low-pitched enough that a man over average height would feel uneasy about the possibility of knocking his head against its ceiling.

So much for the visible. But what of the invisible? Gutenberg.org, that wonderful source of fiction etexts, offers a collection entitled Famous Modern Ghost Stories. Edited by Emily Dorothy Scarborough, its contents include Fitz-James O'Brien's haunting (in both senses of the word) tale What Was It? After reading it, short or tall, you may well find yourself feeling uneasy and glancing up at the ceiling more than usual.


NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

News of blogs and interviews and similar appearances is scanty on the ground at the moment -- would the same also applied to the last fall of snow, still so frozen footprints hardly register on it! -- given all our available time is currently devoted to completing John's latest adventure. We expect to send it to Poisoned Pen next month, so there should be more news of it in our April newsletter. Stay tuned!


Friday, December 15, 2017

THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER -- ISSUE # ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT -- 15 DECEMBER 2017

This issue of Orphan Scrivener is written to an accompaniment of the constant howl of high wind gusting around Maywrite Towers, bringing with it single digit wind chills and snow rather than playing celestial symphonies such as Longfellow heard at a time of similar meteorological conditions. No, hereabouts his downbent branches representing instrument keys are booming out a dirge for warmer days. And on the theme of dirges, subscribers may consider such aeolian lamentations appropriate as they continue reading....


ERIC'S BIT OR SANTA CLAUS AND MR HYDE

Christmas has always been a mixed bag for me. Or perhaps I should say a mixed stocking, remembering the big red ones I hung on the fireplace as a child. Come the great morning and they'd be filled with treats. There were delightful candy canes and chocolate pieces of eight covered in gold foil. But valuable space in the toe would inevitably be filled with a sour, seedy tangerine.

Is it any wonder Christmas -- as usually practiced -- is such a Jekyll and Hyde when it demands we go on an annual spending spree to celebrate the birth of a man who preached poverty?

I loved my advent calendar with the little doors you opened to read about the story of the birth of Christ in twenty-four gradually revealed snippets. What suspense! To be honest, the calendar mostly served as a countdown, not to the Nativity, but rather the arrival of Santa Claus.

Nothing about Christmas is quite right. All the colored lights are gorgeous and cheering but the holiday colors red and green just don't go together. They grate on me. The music can be as beautiful as Silent Night and as maddeningly horrible as Little Drummer Boy. It's exciting to tear gift wrap off presents, but the wrapping and the disposal of the paper isn't so thrilling.

Then there were those weeks of delicious (well, okay -- greedy) anticipation (maybe too many...) and the blissful orgy of piling up new toys under the tree. Still, I never did get that amazing Cape Canaveral launch center with the gantries, rockets, control tower, technicians, astronauts, and utility vehicles. Everything moved and there were lights that probably flashed and maybe bells, and buzzers, and I'll bet the rockets took off too and had parachutes for re-entry. Somehow. I remember that toy more vividly than most of the gifts I actually received.

Come to think of it I never got a handcar for my model railroad either!

That HO railroad setup was a holiday highlight. We'd hike the woods finding moss and appropriate ferns to cover the tunnel in realistic greenery. Great fun. Except my feet froze from stomping around in the snow.

Christmas trees posed a similar problem. There's nothing merrier than a festive pine all tarted up in blinking lights and tinsel. However, I've always favored natural trees and, in my experience, there's no place on earth colder than a Christmas tree lot in early December. Whenever I venture out to buy a tree you can bet that the temperature will be below that at the North Pole. A brisk wind will be whipping the snow off the rock-hard ground into my face, freezing the tears running down my cheeks as I dig blue spruce and scotch pine out of the drifts with numb hands.

Don't remind me about trying to vacuum up the needles that fall to the floor either. I can never find them all. By July I'm still stepping on them. At least the dead tree is gone by then. Although if you miss the pickup date in many places you've got a problem. I've had to saw up the tree with a hacksaw and burn it in the fireplace. That isn't very festive. Plus, next year I needed to ask Santa for a new hacksaw.

Speaking of Santa, he's the worst problem of all. At some point [CAUTION. SPOILERS AHEAD] we all have to endure the disappointment of discovering he doesn't exist. Even if he did eat the cookies and drink the milk I set out for him. In my case, I also went from the magical fantasy of free toys delivered by a reindeer-drawn sleigh to the miserable reality of trying to play Santa, trudging around crowded malls with maxed-out credit cards.

With Christmas you never know what's going to happen. One year I got a bicycle from my parents. Another year I got a draft notice from Uncle Sam.

Perhaps the biggest Christmas inconsistency is how it can make you appreciate those you share it with while at the same time missing those who are gone.

For me what counts, in the end, is that Mary and I will be celebrating our 25th Christmas together this year. And that at least has no downside.


NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

It's not drawing our bow at much of a venture to guess many readers have pets and so our sole bit o' BSP this time around deals with that very topic in a December 13th interview conducted by Heather Weidner and published on the Pens, Paws, and Claws blog. Its tag line is Writers And The Animals They Love and so Heather's questions included the most unusual working animals we've created (hint: see Three For A Letter), a favourite book featuring an animal as a central character, how we have used animals in our writing, and more -- including the revelation one of us may be the only mystery writer whose first childhood pet was a budgie with a Geordie accent. Point your clicker to

http://penspawsandclaws.com/meet-mary-reed


MARY'S BIT or STILL A FAVOURITE MANY YEARS LATER

When strings of street lights sprang up in yellowish necklaces dotting along the busy roads and another sooty night began to fall upon Newcastle-on-Tyne, my sister and I would go up to our attic bedroom and draw curtains patterned with castles, ships, and jesters with curly-toed shoes to shut out a darkening urban landscape of slate-roofed dwellings marching down in regular lines to the river. Ungraced by gardens or trees or any growing thing except whatever took root in the cemetery at the top of our street or on bomb-sites left uncleared for years after the war, those long grey terraces of houses stretched away out of sight in all directions, sheltering the inhabitants of the northern English industrial city known proverbially for its coal, not to mention shipyards and factories that in those days rang with the noise of machinery around the clock.

As bed-time approached we'd read for a while before the light was put out -- and for a lot longer afterwards by torchlight under the covers. Books aplenty were available to us between the city's free libraries and Christmas or birthday gifts, for we always received a book to mark each occasion. So it was that at about l2 or l3 I discovered Louisa May Alcott's Little Women, and later on her other novels about the March sisters' adult lives.

One thing about Little Women was rather puzzling. Like us, they lived in financially straitened circumstances and yet had a servant, Hannah, who had been with them for years. As a daughter of the working class, this seemed very strange to me, the more so as my mother had been a parlour maid and the notion of us having a servant was so alien as to be unthinkable, despite the fact that I was always being told that I had too much imagination. One of my favourite scenes is Beth's reaction to the beautiful piano given to her by elderly Mr Laurence, for her expression upon seeing it must surely have been the same as that displayed by my musically gifted sister when our parents managed to get hold of a second-hand upright piano for her. This piano subsequently lived in our scullery next to the copper where the original tenants boiled up their washing, our street and those surrounding it having been built for industrial and pit workers when Queen Victoria still ruled. Graced with high ceilings, picture rails, and ornate iron fireplaces, they are now sold for fabulous sums as artisans' dwellings. When we lived there, there was still a working gas light in our bedroom but the entire place was also extremely damp and the only plumbing was a cold tap in the scullery, the necessary offices being in the back yard -- about as far as you can get from the brown stone March house which, although old and a little shabby, had a garden with roses and vines and stood on a quiet street in the suburbs.

Yet as thousands of readers from numerous countries living in all sorts of housing have discovered, there is much emotional common ground with this delightful tale of a family's ups and downs and its tears and triumphs. I loved Little Women the first time I read it and every year or so I re-read it. The four March sisters -- gentle and ailing Beth, artistic but vain Amy, quiet, dependable Meg, and the tomboy bookworm Jo -- have become old friends. We see them shepherded by Marmee while their father, not strong enough to soldier and too old to be drafted, serves as a chaplain in the Civil War. Then there's their dashing next door neighbour Laurie, his grandfather Mr Laurence, Laurie's tutor John Brooke, the girls' rich but demanding Aunt March with her huge library and disrespectful parrot, plus a bevy of supporting characters, most of them types familiar to us all. Time has made Little Women as familiar and comfortable as a favourite pair of slippers, while that strong sense of the March family's love and emotional support for each other remains as striking as the first time I opened the book and began reading.

It is Jo, generous and good hearted although hasty in her speech until she learns patience, who has always been my favourite of the four sisters. She is the only character with whom I have ever identified and as a youngster I firmly declared that like her I was going to be a writer and furthermore intended to live in a garret. In fact, I said it so many times that it became family legend, one of those humourous stories trotted out whenever we'd gather for celebrations, like the saga of when my brother-in-law lost me at a tender age in the London Tube system.

Now, years later, I live far away from Newcastle-on-Tyne. But I still have my battered old copy of Little Women and I did finally achieve that long-held ambition -- only I scribbled in a basement rather than a garret!


AND FINALLY

Samuel Johnson once remarked that the business of life is to go forward. Doubtless many of us won't be at all sorry to slam the gate on the difficult twelvemonth that has been 2017 with the fervent hope that next year will be better. Only fly in the ointment: the next edition of Orphan Scrivener will buzz into subscribers' inboxes on February 15th.

See you then!r… Mary R and Eric

who invite you to visit their home page, to be found hanging out on the virtual washing line that is the Web at http://home.earthlink.net/~maywrite/ There you'll discover the usual suspects, including more personal essays, a bibliography, and our growing libraries of links to free e-texts of classic and Golden Age mysteries, ghost stories, and tales of the supernatural. There's also the Orphan Scrivener archive, so don't say you weren't warned! Our joint blog is at http://ericreedmysteries.blogspot.com/ Intrepid subscribers may also wish to know our noms des Twitter are @marymaywrite and @groggytales Drop in some time!


The Orphan Scrivener -- Issue # One Hundred and Fifty-Four -- 15 August 2025

As with much of the country we continue to cope as best we may with the ongoing heatwave. Fortunately we have yet to reach the type of high ...