Tag Archives: Arthur Conan Doyle

Crook Books

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I seem to have turned to a life of crime.

I am immersed in old novels of mystery and detection.

My mom coulda been shocked and ashamed (think of a teary-eyed matron: “He’s a good boy…”), but she first introduced me to Hercules Poirot.

My dad woulda said “Whadda ya expect from a kid who’d rather read a book than change the oil in the car.”

Janie, the love of my life; “He’ll get over it. Next week it’ll be giraffes in outer space. He’s retired and having a fine time.”

Oh, but I’ve had a nefarious past. On stage I’ve murdered (“Deathtrap,” Dial M for Murder,” “Ceremony of Innocence”, and “Sweeney Todd”), I’ve stolen (Glengarry Glen Ross,” and “Little Foxes”), I’ve evaded taxes (“You Can’t Take It With You,”) and I’ve tried miserably to play Dracula, which was a crime unto itself.

But that was the theatre.

Now it’s the written word.

That’s powerful stuff.

I blame it on a local bookseller. He shrewdly showed me a group of criminous novels by Emile Gaboriau he had just obtained. Having read the canons of Arthur Conan Doyle and Paul Feval in the past, I was open to exploring the originator of Monsieur LeCoq. That led me back to re-read Sherlock’s adventures.

The same bookseller then lured me to a pile of beautifully maintained mystery novels published in the 1930’s by the Mystery League for cigar shops and drug stores. Some were good, most were…not so much, but they took me to the pre-WWII seaside villages, pubs, trains, pubs, church graveyards, pubs, estuaries, and pubs of England. This is not the between-the-wars England of Agatha Christie (not that there’s anything wrong with that.) These often tawdry stories have also taken me to German castles, Parisian bordellos, New Orleans unrestrained Mardi Gras bacchanals, the treacherous dressing rooms of Philadelphia department stores, and New York speakeasies. What’s not to like?

Currently, I’m hanging out with the obnoxious Philo Vance, for whom no expense need be considered…for that matter no other person on the planet need be considered. Whatta guy.

And…

I am luxuriating in the mystery novels of Edmond Crispin (real name; Robert Bruce Montgomery) and his ever-so-erudite don/detective, Gervais Fen.

Tagging along with Professor Fen, I’ve visited post-WWII pubs, pulled the blackout curtains after dark, climbed into choir lofts, chased lost Shakespearean manuscripts and toy shops that move, lugged a pig head in a sack, run for Parliament, and protested animal cruelty sitting on a branch in a tree.

It’s been delightful, but I must caution. It’s best to read Crispin with a dictionary nearby. Gervais is verbose, has a serious vocabulary (word-wise and quote-wise), and is unabashed in employing same…and it’s very worth knowing what he’s saying. It’s usually apt and funny.

What have I learned thus far in this hazardous literary journey?

When in doubt, arrest the local publican.

The Blue Carbuncle

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I know it’s early, but may suggest a Christmas movie?

If, like me, you’ve seen the standard yuletide fare the requisite three dozen times, and, like me, you have a pretty good idea of what to do with a general, and like me, you’ve avoided shooting your eye out, and like me, you really dread being forced to resort to the Hallmark Channel, you could clear your egg nog noggin with this.

I’ve begun an extended journey of revisiting the Sherlock Holmes canon as interpreted by Jeremy Brett.

To quote that jolly philosopher Joe Ferrell (who at least once shared a drink with Charles Dickens); “What a joy!”

And it is.

I first met Mr. Holmes as relentlessly portrayed by Basil Rathbone as a non-glamorous leading man in a drab 1940’s overcoat (there’s a reason why Errol Flynn got the girl in THE ADVENTURES OF ROBIN HOOD), dragging a befuddled Dr. Watson around a foggy, criminous London as he skewers the flagitious verbally before he claps ‘em in irons.

Subsequent Sherlocks were just as fun to follow.

Ian Richardson was commanding and thoughtful. That Baskerville mutt gave him no paws.

Benedict Cumberbatch rode the razor rail of sanity and brilliance to bravely butt heads with that Napoleon of Crime; Professor Moriarty.

But Jeremy Brett continues to be the Holmes for me. Fiercely intelligent and fiercely impatient. Knows everything about poisons and smokes like a chimney. A master of disguise and occasionally has the fashion sense of Lebowsky in his flat. uber-sensitive to every nuance of a client’s usually unlikely conundrum and then barges out of the flat, oblivious to Mrs. Hudson’s prideful cuisine under cover on the table;

Holmes; “Come Watson! The trail is hot!”

Hudson; “Which is more than the dinner will be.”

The Brett version of Sherlock is immeasurably enhanced by the passage of time. Brett covers many cases over a number of television seasons. Thus, as we do in Doyle’s stories…and in life, we see Brett’s and Sherlock’s athletic energies wane, stamina fade, wrinkles grow, hairline weaken, and wheeze lurk a little closer to the surface. For some reason…this resonates with me and makes me feel even closer to the still fabulous consulting detective. I’m even considering starting a bee hive. IYKYK.

My favorite Jeremy Brett Sherlock is probably THE BLUE CARBUNCLE.

It’s London at Christmastime. There’s snow, visible breath, top hats, mufflers, various carriages, pubs, a pint of yer finest, and a missing blue gem with a blood-red history. How Dickensian can you get?

Wait!

“Please sir, may I have some more?”

How about geese?

I have a thing about a Christmas goose. Janie, on a whim, cooked a goose for our Christmas years ago and it has become a holiday comfort food for me ever since.

Several geese figure prominently in this story. Whose geese are they? Whence did they come? Wither did they go? Why? What did they eat? Who ate them? Who should go to jail? Whose hat is it?

A well-cooked goose answers most queries and worries.

Goose bless us every one!