Working on A Famine of Horses while finishing the latest Bill Slider novel
My choice for the next Usual Suspects mystery discussion is A Famine of Horses by P.F. Chisholm. I like this book mainly because of the way it brings a distant time so vividly to life. One way Chisholm does this is by weaving particulars about dress, food, and other specifics into a narrative that has an actual historical personage as its hero. I refer to Sir Robert Carey, cousin to Queen Elizabeth I – His father, Lord Hunsdon, was the son of Mary Boleyn, sister to the ill-fated Anne, Elizabeth’s mother.
Sir Robert Carey, First Earl of Monmouth, circa 1591
The historical Sir Robert Carey’s main claim to fame is his breakneck horseback journey in 1603 from London to Edinburgh. His purpose: To inform King James VI of Scotland that he was now King James I of England:
When the Queen died at Richmond Palace Lady Scrope threw the blue ring from a casement window to her brother. Carey, who had previously told King James that he would be the first man to bring the news, set off immediately for London and from there started his epic ride to Edinburgh. He completed the journey in less than three days, and on his way caused King James to be proclaimed by his brother (the governor) at Berwick upon Tweed, the strongest fortress on the road from Scotland. On arrival at the Palace of Holyroodhouse, he hailed King James as King of England and Scotland.
From The Great North Ride
P.F. Chisholm’s prose style is uniquely suited to the time and place of which she writes. It helps cast a spell; I feel transported to that era. One of my favorite of her locutions occurs when she’s describing Sir Robert’s fast-growing goatee as “invading upland pastures.”
Then there’s the passage in which he strives to convey to Henry Dodd, his second-in-command, the flavor of the language used by those who wish to survive at the Queen’s court:
“Well,” he said consideringly, “a scurvy Scotsman might say she is a wild old bat who knows more of governorship and statecraft than the Privy Councils of both realms put together, but I say she is like Aurora in her beauty, her hair puts the sun in splendour to shame, her face holds the heavens within its compass and her glance is like the falling dew.”
Dodd, astonished by this recitation, asks if all the courtiers are required to speak in this manner. Sir Robert replies with unaccustomed bluntness:
“If they want to keep out of the Tower, they do.”
Queen Elizabeth I, the Darnley portrait, circa 1575
My favorite scene in Famine is one in which the characters move seamlessly from discussing a murder investigation – the killing of one Sweetmilk Graham – to making music together:
“And then,” continued Carey, as he dug in a canvas bag for the latest madrigal sheets he had carried with him faithfully from London, “there’s where he put the body. After all, Solway field’s a very odd place. The marshes or the sea would give him a better chance of the body never being found. It’s almost as if he couldn’t think of anywhere else. And how did Swanders come by the horse?”
“Killed Sweetmilk?” asked Henry Widdrington, picking up one of the sheets and squinting at it. “
“Not Swanders. He doesn’t own a dag. A knife in the ribs would be more his mark. Can you take the bass part?”
Henry Widdrington whistled at the music. “I can try.”
Meanwhile Lord Scrope, Chief Warden and husband to Sir Robert’s sister Philadelphia, is hard at work tuning the virginals in a corner of the room they’re currently occupying. Scrope may be a lackluster administrator, but he’s a genuine music lover and an excellent keyboardist.
And so, they’re off and singing! The effect they’re striving for would have sounded something like this:
or, more informally, this (‘O Eyes of My Beloved’ by Orlando di Lasso – such a beautiful song!):
(Now in my youth, I sang with a madrigal group, and I can tell you from experience, it’s a fiendishly tricky business for nonprofessionals.)
Another way in which Chisholm strives to achieve authenticity is through liberal use of vocabulary appropriate to the times. Here I must insert a caveat. Words such as Cramoisie and dag do not trip lightly off the tongue of a modern reader. The author does not provide a glossary; I rather wish that she had. Even a few footnotes at the bottom of the page would have been helpful. The degree to which this is a problem will of course vary from reader to reader. (I put together a brief glossary for my fellow Suspects. It’s available upon request!)
A Famine of Horses is the first in a series that at present comprises eight novels. I have read all of them. In the main, they are quite entertaining. I thought A Murder of Crows (2010) rather sub par, to the extent that I had trouble finishing it. On the other hand, I found A Chorus of Innocents (2015), a real triumph and, in my opinion, the best series entry since the series itself began. A Suspicion of Silver, entry number nine, is due out in December of this year. (P.F. Chisholm is a pseudonym used by Patricia Finney, a writer of historical fiction and children’s books.)
Another series of which I’m inordinately fond is the Bill Slider series written by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles. These novels have the same sparkling irreverence and wit that I prize in the Sir Robert Carey novels. The latest, which I just finished, is entitled Shadow Play.
The dialog that characterized Slider’s team is often quite delightful. To wit:
“I’ve never been there,” Atherton said. “Don’t need to. It’s a totally justified irrational prejudice based on subliminal impressions gained over a lifetime.”
“I wish you came with subtitles,” Loessop complained.
And I love this description of a top speed race to capture a suspect on the run, so dizzying it’s positively cinematic:
It was a glorious, adrenalin-fueled chase, through the narrow streets of Soho, dodging the evening revellers and the crawling traffic; down Wardour Street, left into Noel, left again into Poland, across Broadwick Street, into Lexington. Onlookers stepped helpfully out of the way, even when LaSalle shouted, ‘Police!’ In the old days someone would have stuck out a foot. Loessup began to fall behind, but LaSalle had long legs. Where were the two men carrying a sheet of glass, the tottering stack of cardboard boxes, the young mother pushing a pram, when you needed them?
Having just finished the twentieth installment of the adventures of Bill Slider and company, I find myself so enamored of this series that I’m thinking of going back to the beginning and starting it all over again!
Father’s Day
My Dad was a wonderful man. He loved my brothers and me, but I got the lion’s share of his attention when I was little by being sick much of the time. (This period of susceptibility on my part, though it produced plenty of anxiety, was relatively short lived.)
Dad was somewhat impatient for us kids to grow up. He was eager to take us to one of his favorite venues. He had the idea that I would especially appreciate the place. And so off we went…
…to the race track.
Here we see Dad and myself in animated discussion as we compare the various tip sheets. Dad kindly placed bets for me. I paid especial attention to the colors worn by the jockeys.
I cherished experiences like these, because they represented a rare opportunity for me to get close to my father. For the most part, he was a reserved person and one not easy to know. This eased somewhat for me as I got older. Certainly he was always there for me in times of need, which were, luckily, few.
This photo of Dad was printed and framed and given to me as a gift by my son Ben. It resides on the living room wall. From the couch where I love to sit and read, I can see it clearly. In ancient times, families possessed lares and penates, defined as “…the protectors of a family’s treasured possessions and regarded as the souls of deceased ancestors.” (From Tales Beyond Belief). I often think of these as I gaze upon Dad’s portrait.
I think my father would be especially pleased to know that his grandson Ben is also a splendid Dad.
Welles, age four; Etta, age seven, and Dad. All rather depleted, but still happy
Frédéric Chopin and Krystian Zimerman
Many of us who studied the piano in our youth played certain compositions by Frédéric Chopin. I remember in particular learning the nocturnes and some of the waltzes. I was never very proficient, but I fell in love with the music. That love has stayed with me throughout my life.
Recently I found this YouTube video of Krystian Zimerman playing Chopin’s Ballade No. 1 in G minor, Opus 23. This performance must have taken place quite a few years ago as Zimerman is now in his early sixties. The room in which he’s playing is lovely yet bare. I can’t tell if this was a public performance or not.
In fact, the only thing I can tell for sure is that it is beyond beautiful. Everything that makes Chopin’s piano music great – the drama, the melody, the poignancy – is here. It is almost as if Zimerman is channeling Chopin; he is so utterly lost in the music. The composer comes alive in the fiery, passionate playing of this young virtuoso. (And doesn’t he so look the part?)
Chopin was a native of Poland, as is Krystian Zimerman .
Frédéric Chopin 1810-1849
“‘The void, the waste, the black blackness.'” – The Knowledge, by Martha Grimes
In 1981, Martha Grimes burst onto the mystery scene with The Man with a Load of Mischief. In that novel, we were introduced to DCI Richard Jury and a colorful cast of supporting characters. This has been followed by twenty-three additional novels in the series, the titles all standing for the names of pubs or similar establishments.
The Man with the Load of Mischief – wonderful title, that – was one of the first mysteries pressed eagerly into my hands when I came to work at the library in 1982. It was swiftly followed by The Old Fox Deceiv’d, published that same year. I stayed with the novels for a while, then left off reading them, and came back to it in 2006, intrigued by the reviews of that year’s series entry. In The Old Wine Shades, a mother and son and their dog mysteriously go missing. Some nine months later, the dog reappears – but only the dog. What is one to make of these strange circumstances? I am reminded that Grimes wrote about this curious canine with especial eloquence and charm. I love this kind of writing! It may be time to reread this book. 
From the Publishers Weekly review:
The author’s gift at melding suspense, logical twists and wry humor makes this one of the stronger entries in this deservedly popular series.
The Old Wine Shades was followed by Dust, a novel to which I am particularly partial because of its references to Henry James, specifically to Lamb House in Rye, East Sussex, where The Master dwelt from 1897 to 1914 (two years prior to his death). 
So: The Knowledge. This, of course, is the name of a pub – but one shrouded in mystery. Rumors of its existence persist, but those who should be most in the know – namely, London cab drivers, deny any knowledge of it. Yet those same men and women are required to pass an incredibly difficult test known as – what else? – The Knowledge. It is reputedly
…a test which is amongst the hardest to pass in the world, it has been described as like having an atlas of London implanted into your brain.
An appalling crime is committed in front of the Artemis Club, an elite London establishment. Robbie Parsons, a London cab driver, is a witness. What happens next defies expectation – especially on Robbie’s part. From this act there grows a larger mystery, and a fiendishly complex one at that. This is a case for Superintendent Richard Jury. He’ll need maximum brains and expertise to figure this one out.
At one point, fairly early on, the action switches to Africa, where Melrose Plant, Jury’s longtime unofficial assistant sleuth, is pursuing a crucial line of inquiry. Plant, aka Lord Ardry, is assisted in his endeavors by one Patty Haigh, a ten- (eleven?) -year-old girl of preternatural resourcefulness. She was my favorite character in the novel. Back in London, Patty’s confederates habitually stationed themselves at Heathrow and other key venues. They reminded me of the Baker Street Irregulars in the Sherlock Holmes stories.
In fact, for this reader, the appeal of these novels lies in their characters rather than their plots. This one was especially convoluted; I’d be hard pressed to unravel its complexities. No matter; I enjoyed spending time with this diverse and invariably entertaining dramatis personae. Melrose Plant in particular has a line in pained bewilderment that always makes me smile.
We here in greater Howard County have always had a special pride in Martha Grimes, a resident of Bethesda, one county to the south of us. Grimes also represents a small but significant group of American mystery writers who set their books in Britain. Two others that come to mind are Deborah Crombie and Elizabeth George. I’ve read and enjoyed several titles by Crombie. (If you’re going to read just one, I recommend Dreaming of the Bones.) I fear I must number myself among a small band of Elizabeth George dissenters. She’s hugely popular with readers and critics alike, I know. But for the most part I have found her writing to be ponderous and humorless. I readily concede, though, that the book that I did get through, With No One As Witness, was extraordinarily powerful (not to mention apparently enraging to some of her faithful readers).
At any rate: back to The Knowledge. It did get a bit sluggish in some places, but for the most part I enjoyed it and recommend it.
The Bomb Maker by Thomas Perry
I was busily at work on another post but I have to interrupt myself in order to write about this book. It is quite possibly the most gripping thriller I’ve ever read.
Or listened to, actually. The reader is Joe Barrett. His voice is somewhat gravelly; his reading, low key. I wasn’t sure I would like it. But about half way into the first disc – there are nine altogether – it grabbed me.
And would not let go. I used any and every excuse to get into my car. I got everywhere early. I sat and listened, mesmerized and full of dread.
So: all plot and no character development, right? Wrong. The bomb maker – we never learn his real name – squares off against Dick Stahl, an experienced professional in the fields of both law enforcement and private security. Stahl’s deep knowledge of a seemingly limitless variety of explosive devices, detonators, and the deadly ways in which they can be deployed is combined with an equally deep understanding of the human potential for depravity. This makes him a formidable adversary. But the bomb maker himself is equally formidable. And unlike Dick Stahl, he has no moral compass at all.
The Kirkus review of The Bomb Maker describes Dick Stahl as “a hero worth caring about.” I could not agree more. And to add to the gifts abundantly present in this novel is a love story with just as much suspense inherent as the crime story possesses. Oh, and did I mention: the writing is excellent.
The part that remained remarkable to her was that on the first night they had both known they were very likely to die in days or weeks, and they had each accepted the other as the ideal person with whom to share those days and nights. Her impulsive attraction to the nearest wise and brave man had turned into something huge and real.
Where has Thomas Perry been all my life? After some twenty-five years of gorging myself on crime fiction, I’ve somehow managed to have read just this one of Perry’s twenty-five novels. That will now change. (Anyone have any recommendations?)
The Bomb Maker opens with a bang. It builds to an hair-raising climax. And the ending is – well, you’ll see. You will, won’t you?
New artists, new art
New to me, I mean to say. And very welcome discoveries they are!
Estes Park Colorado, by Albert Bierstadt (Click twice to enlarge.)
I know this artist and his fabulous vistas, but I’d never seen this one.
Jungfrau Switzerland, by Alexandre Calame (Click twice to enlarge.)
Lake of the Four Cantons, by Alexandre Calame
I love the way the sun strikes the mountains while the trees in the foreground remain in shadow.
The Bachelor, by Rose O’Neill
I would have entitled it The Bachelor Beset (or Bewitched or Besieged). What a felicitous discovery is Rose O’Neill, who, among other things, created the Kewpies (derived from ‘Cupid’).
Worshipping Freddie, by Rose O’Neill
Inevitably, this illustration put me in mind of delightful visits to The Art Institute of Chicago with Welles, Etta, and their game-for-anything Mom.
Sale at Bendel’s, by Florine Stettheimer
Marvelous! Henri Bendel has been a fixture on Fifth Avenue for as long as I can remember. And Florine Stettheimer is yet another fascinating discovery.
New Mexico Afternoon by Carlos Vierra
Northern New Mexico in Winter, Carlos Vierra
Santa Fe by Carlos Vierra
Carlos Vierra’s art reveals the glorious color in (supposedly) monochromatic New Mexico.
Carlos Vierra’s house in Santa Fe
Yes, the sky really is that blue, nearly every day. Sigh…
Along the Rio Grande, by Walter Ufer
Navajo Women Waiting, by Barbara Latham (Click to enlarge.)
After Rain, by Rae Sloan Bredin
Reverie, by Rae Sloan Bredin
I’ve been introduced to these artists and their works through these two magazines:
Albert Bierstadt 1830-1902
Alexandre Calame, 1810-1864
Rose O’Neill 1874-1944
Florine Stettheimer 1871-1944
Carlos Vierra 1876-1937
Ernest L. Blumenschein 1874-1960
Walter Ufer 1876-1936
Barbara Latham 1896-1989
Rae Sloan Bredin 1880-1933
Musical suggestions to go with your viewing:
Books to the Ceiling 