The air is still and smells of mulch and fungal spores, and woodland sounds resonate – the harsh porcine screeching of jays and the fine ticking of robins.
The snippet above is just a sample of the deft natural descriptions that give Bruce Beckham’s Inspector Skelgill novels their unique tactile qualities. I’m not a great fan of outdoor stories, and I prefer my detectives more cerebral than instinctive. Which makes these novels entirely wrong for me, but I like them very much anyway.
In Murder at Home, book 22 in the series, our hero is out fishing on Bassenthwaite Lake, his favorite haunt, when he notices an old man on the shore in a wheelchair. The old man greets him as if he knows him, and talks to him about fishing. When a nurse comes to collect the old man, she tells Skelgill that he’s an indigent, dumped in a hospital and on the minimal welfare plan. They call him William, but aren’t sure that’s his name. He suffers from dementia.
Skelgill feels an affinity with the old man and decides to look more closely into the situation. This is not entirely outside his duties, as he and the attractive Detective Sergeant Jones are investigating welfare fraud.
Their other cohort, DS Leyton, is working undercover as a welfare worker. A flirtatious co-worker gives him a tip that the scam he ought to be looking at is one where people create false identities and then “double-dip” under their own and their assumed names. That will lead to a mother and son who are living the high life, not only on double benefits, but on murder.
I was a little ambivalent about Murder at Home at the beginning, purely for emotional reasons. But it grew on me, and having finished it I consider it one of the best entries in a stellar series. Highly recommended. The mature material is subdued enough to qualify the book as a Cozy, but the tone is a little tougher than a Cozy.
Oh, I might mention that all these books are written in the present tense. I object to that on principle, but in actual practice I always grow inured a few pages in.
Tonight, it is your very great misfortune to be subjected to my reminiscences on one of the plays I did, back in my theater days. I found the movie version on Tubi last night, and watched it out of curiosity. As it has some historical/literary significance, I think I can be excused for rambling about it here, comparing it to my own experience.
“The Admirable Crichton” is a play first produced in 1902, by J. M. Barrie, who also wrote “Peter Pan” (like that play, it indulges his fetish for girls in boys’ clothing). The main character is the eponymous Crichton, a paragon among butlers, unquestionably the literary father to both Jeeves and Mervyn Bunter (“mere” valets though they were). He manages the stately home of his master, Lord Loam, with supreme exactitude. His master, a liberal, has vague ideas about social equality, of which Crichton strenuously disapproves. (“If my master were to be equal to me,” he explains at one point, “then I would be equal to the footman.” Or words to that effect.)
Then the family (Lord Loam and his three daughters, plus two suitors, a young gentleman and a clergyman included purely to keep things respectable), decide to take a cruise in the South Seas. Crichton, condescending to serve for the duration as Lord Loam’s valet, accompanies them, along with “Tweenie,” a housemaid.
When their ship is wrecked on a desert island, Nature begins asserting herself. It soon becomes plain that, as far as survival is concerned, Crichton is the only one among them qualified to either do practical things or to exercise leadership. Before long the social order is inverted. Crichton becomes the “Guv’nor,” and Lord Loam is his devoted personal servant. Crichton is a benign dictator to them all, admired and beloved. All the ladies long to be chosen as his wife. (The gentlemen, on the other hand, are vying for Tweenie’s attention.)
At last, after two years, Crichton realizes they’re not likely either to escape or be rescued. He announces that he will marry Lady Mary, the eldest daughter, who has become a sort of Diana, a wild huntress.
Then (spoiler alert), a ship appears on the horizon. Crichton, due to his profound sense of honor, lights the signal fire himself, summoning a boat to their rescue. He makes the decision to return to his servant’s status. Back in England, when he realizes his presence is an embarrassment to the family, he retires to run a pub, taking Tweenie as his wife. Lady Mary, who still loves him, is heartbroken.
Surely one of the finest productions ever done of Crichton must have been the one staged in March, 1993 by the Melbourne Civic Theater in Melbourne, Florida. (The fact that I played the lead role is purely coincidental to my mentioning it, of course. The local critic praised my performance: “It is said that acting is a series of choices, and Walker proves this saying with elegance.”) Having done several performances, I think I remember the play pretty well, and I was interested to watch the 1957 production, starring Gerald More (who was good, but no Walker).
The movie follows the play’s plot quite faithfully, but the dialogue is greatly altered. I guess this should be no surprise, as more than fifty years had passed since the play’s first opening. Times had changed. Still, I was surprised that Crichton’s initial moment of supreme self-abnegation, when he condescends to step down from the heights of butlerhood to serve as a mere valet (if only temporarily), was reduced to a couple lines and no serious struggle . And the play’s biggest boffo moment – a sight gag that always had the theater audience roaring with laughter (it involves a bucket), was completely omitted. There was also the business of a characteristic hand-washing gesture Crichton always performs as butler. He drops it entirely once he’s the Guv’nor, and the moment when he resumes servant status is marked by a resumption of the handwashing. This is also missing from the movie.
Nonetheless, the film worked pretty well on its own terms. Barrie was playing with some fairly radical social ideas here. The play could have been revolutionary (he pondered allowing Crichton to marry Lady Mary). But in the end he chose to give his audience an ending that preserved the status quo in action, while leaving them with a certain uneasiness of conscience. A sound business decision, no doubt.
After all these years, “The Admirable Crichton” remains an intriguing story, one that can be taken in more than one way.
The extent of mafia money and influence within the corridors of American power in the middle of the past century is a familiar story, told in fictional form in iconic movies like The Godfather. Given the extent of these connections, it wouldn’t be surprising if the shadowy realms of the government now known to have been involved in illegal covert activities—such as COINTELPRO and the CIA’s Operation CHAOS—turned to the mafia to handle certain jobs; for one thing, they could offer the services of experienced hit men sworn to omertà. For his part, Hoover famously denied for decades that the mafia existed, whether because he owed any mob bosses favors—or simply because he preferred to stay focused on political subversives like King.
Today’s hymn was written by the great John Milton (1608-1684). He wrote several paraphrases of select Psalms haven’t gained the favor of hymnal editors. The tune sung above by the congregation of Cathedral Church of Christ in Marina, Lagos, Nigeria is “St. Stephen” by William Jones, rector of the church in Hollingbourne, Kent.
“Let me hear what God the LORD will speak, for he will speak peace to his people, to his saints; but let them not turn back to folly. Surely his salvation is near to those who fear him, that glory may dwell in our land.” (Ps 85:8-9 ESV)
1 The Lord will come and not be slow, his footsteps cannot err; before him righteousness shall go, his royal harbinger.
2 Truth from the earth, like to a flow’r, shall bud and blossom then, and justice, from her heav’nly bow’r, look down on mortal men.
3 Rise, God, and judge the earth in might, this wicked earth redress; for you are he who shall by right the nations all possess.
4 For great you are, and wonders great by your strong hand are done: you, in your everlasting seat, remain the Lord alone.
Meekness! Humility! Gentleness! Patience! Kindness! It’s a revolting brew – when someone brings those things that are called fruits of the spirit into a cultural conflict on our enemy’s side, along with stoutheartedness. There are dangers for us there.
But the opportunities – they are so rich! Only convince your patient that those fruits of the spirit are not applicable, or not manly (if he is on the right) or are psychologically unhealthy and undermine the fight for justice (if he is on the left) and you’re home free.
Culture War: A judge rules out parts of an Iowa law. “The State Defendants have presented no evidence that student access to books depicting sex acts was creating any significant problems in the school setting, much less to the degree that would give rise to a ‘substantial and reasonable governmental interest’ justifying across-the-board removal.”
British Library:The British Library was attacked by hackers last October, and its digital resources are still offline, projected to take a year to rebuild and cost £6 million. (via Purfrock)
Shakespeare: Henry IV plays and adaptations. “More importantly, the greatest flaw of Chimes at Midnight is that Orson Welles sentimentalises Falstaff, removing much of his nasty side and turning him into a harmless fun-loving old man.”
British Post Office: A TV series, Mr Bates vs the Post Office, tells the incredible true story of a massive scandal in the British postal service, one that accused hundreds of subpostmasters of financial mismanagement and avoided finding fault with the source, the computer system they all used.
“Having Jones and Dolan as our entry point to the human cost of such horrifying corporate skullduggery is the perfect choice. But there were many hundreds of people who found themselves being gaslit by a helpline, and the cast is massive, and excellent, throughout.”
Photo: Opposition, England. From the Detroit Publishing Co. Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division
One book I own that I wish was in perfect condition is a Rankin & Bass edition of The Hobbit (1977). It’s a coffee table book, perhaps designed to read with two or more children in and around your lap. The full text is included, so you won’t miss any details, except maybe those skewed by the illustrations.
I assume my parents bought this, and I don’t remember it being a gift to me. I just acquired it at the appropriate hour. My own children rough it up a good bit, as they have done with many books.
The video above is a recording of “The Wellerman,” done by a Norwegian group whose name means “The Greedy Seagulls.” I’ve posted a version of this sea shanty before, and I’m not adding this one because I’ve sensed any clamor on your part for a reprise. My main interest is in the boat the singers are on (which, though it’s a sailing schooner, appears to be under engine power here).
That boat is the replica of the sloop “Restauration.” The original Restauration carried about 50 people on the first organized Norwegian immigrant voyage to the United States, back in 1825. There’s a plan to sail this boat to America next year, in honor of the 200th anniversary of the voyage.
I saw this replica, purely by accident, on my last Norway visit in 2023.
My own people did not come to America till the 1880s, so I can’t claim the honor of being what’s called a Slooper. However, the ship sailed from Stavanger, and a number of them were members of the Haugean sect, of which some of my ancestors were leaders. So they would certainly have known the Sloopers.
I understand when a cast of characters is in high school, the plot usually entails going to class, but I remember the third novel, Rise of the Circle, ending on big decisions and cosmic revelations. This novel, Omni’s Fall, begins with our hero struggling through math class.
I guess that means it’s just another Monday.
Teenaged metahuman Connor Connolly feels compelled to act, even when he doesn’t know what to do. That gets him into big trouble and threatens to end his heroic career. The authorities over him keep telling him to stand down and not draw attention to himself, while at the same his Batman-like mentor is calling him out to missions. After each feat of heroism, his metabands, the technology that makes him a superhero, look more damaged than before. Should he keep using them? As soon as he decides to rest a while, another threat or opportunity arises.
The plot and structure of the book are fun and maybe hold together, but they aren’t strong. I liked the villain and the new developments to the world. I still like the characters. But everything together didn’t work as well as I wanted it to.
It’s one thing for the hero to press on when everything is telling him to play it safe. Maybe he can’t stop, because the threat will run him down or the bad guys will get away. Maybe he’s the only one with all the facts to bring justice. It’s another thing for the hero to keep risking his life because “somebody’s got to do something.” No one throws himself in front of a runaway train because somebody has to do something to stop it. Of course, when you open the possibility of being able to stop the train with your super strength, how big does that possibility have to be for you to make the jump?
With the threat of his metabands failing, Connor must confront the possibility that he may no longer be able to fight bad guys as Omni, but when that argument comes up, he gets defensive and denies all of his worries like a man denying he has colon cancer. He isn’t mature enough to have the power he has, and he isn’t mature enough to recognize his immaturity. The fear of having your power taken from you is a good theme, but this story doesn’t go deep enough to make it compelling.
I read several of Randy Wayne White’s Doc Ford mysteries about a decade ago, and liked them, but I stopped because I found myself less and less comfortable with the worldview. But a deal showed up recently for one of White’s earlier books, Florida Firefight. This was written under the pseudonym Carl Ramm, and was the first volume in a series about a freelance commando named Hawker.
Shortly after Chicago policeman James Hawker has been fired for violating department policy by doing the right thing, he gets an invitation to spend Thanksgiving with a reclusive tycoon whose son Hawker had tried to save. The tycoon tells him he knows of a town in Florida called Mahogany Key, where Latin American drug smugglers are moving in. He’s concerned about his friends there and would like Hawker to go down and help. His cover story will be that he’s bought the local marina and wants to get it going profitably again. Intrigued – and having nothing better to do – Hawker decides to take the job.
What he finds is a depressed community, falling into ruin. The local residents had attempted to resist the incoming gangsters, but found themselves outmanned and outgunned, and now they’re beaten. With the assistance of a beautiful environmental biologist, Hawker forms a plan to defeat the narco smugglers and help the locals regain their pride.
There was nothing out of the ordinary about Florida Firefight. It follows the essential thriller formula that has worked so well for so many writers, like Lee Child and Gregg Hurwitz more recently. Lots of action, with a layer of inspiration in there somewhere. But I thought the book well written, except for some awkward information dumping in the first scene. Otherwise, the book was a fast and exciting read.
I found it melancholy, though. It reminded me of a time – not very long ago – when we lived in a very different country. We had a simple, comprehensible chief enemy in the world – Soviet Russia. Americans still had a sense of being one people, of sharing an identity. Remembering those times, under present circumstances, was kind of depressing.
There was one substantial sex scene, more explicit (in my opinion) than strictly necessary.
Florida Firefight was a well-written novel, and very entertaining on its own terms. I should mention that pretty conservative opinions got expressed, somewhat to my surprise.
As you know if you’re a regular here, I have no qualms about trashcanning a book after reading a couple of pages, if it fails to please me. This practice is made easier by the fact that I get a lot of books free or extremely cheap, through Kindle offers. The world is full of shabby, overoptimistic self-published books, and I’d rather not stomp on the author’s dreams by panning their book when I could just keep mum.
But occasionally a slightly more promising book shows up and keeps me reading long enough, before disillusioning me, that I don’t want to lose my sunk time cost without even being able to do a review. So I read that book through, and then I trash it here.
That is the story with Revenge at Sea, by Brian O’Sullivan.
What made me increasingly hate this book, as I slogged through it, was not only that the prose was bloated and bad (it started fair and deteriorated as it went along. This is not unusual. It’s common – and not actually a bad idea – to do a lot of polishing at the start, when you’re trying to hook the reader). It wasn’t just that the dialogue was stilted and not half as clever as it thought itself.
My main complaint was that our hero/narrator was an idiot.
The aforementioned hero/narrator is Quint Adler, a reporter for a minor newspaper in California’s Bay area. Supposedly, he is highly talented (this is dubious based on his prose) but has never gotten his big break. One night, while in a hospital after an injury, he overhears a suspicious conversation between his roommate and a companion. It sounds like they committed a major crime. He snaps a picture of the guy’s information sheet and, after being released from the hospital, goes to check the guy’s home out. He finds the man dead, but does not inform the police. Instead, he sees it as his opportunity. If he can figure out what the guy was involved in, he can write the Big Story that might supercharge his career.
Gee, what could possibly go wrong?
Over the course of the next few weeks, Quint will lie to the cops, get some people killed (gruesomely), be framed for murder, and at last have a showdown with his nemesis on a yacht on the open sea. (The final climax is one of the least plausible I’ve ever encountered in a novel.)
Quint spends time in jail during this story. It doesn’t occur to the author to describe Quint’s feelings about being locked up. There is zero description of the jail experience. He knows people he’s talked to have killed by mobsters, but fails to make the connection that he might be in danger too.
Like I said, an idiot.
The author also misuses words, like “taciturn” when he seems to want “covert.”
This is, in short, a badly written book that I labored to finish.
The author shows signs of talent, but he needs a good editor. At least 1/3 of his verbiage could have been cut, and it would have only improved the experience.
