1930s mysteries

Researching a historical mystery novel

/ Caron Allan

Because more than half of my books are set in the 1930s, I constantly find myself – even eight books in – looking stuff up. It might be easy to find stuff like ‘good poisons to kill someone with’ (My search history would def land me in a lot of trouble if anything ever happened to my nearest and dearest), but sometimes it’s deeper, more complicated stuff (ie questions such as ‘when did the UK first get direct dialling telephone systems?’ or ‘how much did a postcard and a stamp cost in 1934?’) I need answers to.

Quite often what I need to know are small obscure things that Mr Google or Mr Wikipedia can help with but if it’s a recurring issue, I need to have the answer closer to hand. And it’s important to me that the settings I create for my books are fairly accurate, because I want my readers to become immersed in the story, so I have acquired a number of books over the last few years to help me develop an authentic 1930s-feeling world for Dottie Manderson.

Plus, I just love all the pictures… (not the gory ones in the forensic books, but the pretty dresses etc)

Here are a few of the books I use regularly which have now become indispensable. I did take a few interior pics then realise – duh, idiot, copyright issues! So sadly I’m just showing you the covers. I’m taking it as read that you’d know I have a dictionary and a thesaurus by my side at all times so I didn’t bother to take photos of them.

As I write crime fiction, albeit a gentle, 1930s or 1960s brand, I need to know a bit about the icky side of a crime. so the two books below are my go-to for that sort of stuff. Though I have to bear in mind that for the 1930s – and even the 1960s – some of this stuff wouldn’t be relevant as it’s very much only ‘coming soon’ (1980s/90s and later).

I love the image of the fly on the pages in this book, btw!

This is one of my favourite books – it even tells you symptoms, reaction times, all sorts! Please note the sticky page markers!

I also need to know a bit about houses, social conventions, mod cons and everyday life in the past, so I have loved these books too:

I also find it helpful sometimes to read true crime and related non-fiction:

This was a brilliant birthday present from one of my children. A fascinating read.

Slightly more modern, a bit more gritty and just as fascinating

But if you know me, or have visited this blog before, you’ll know my real love is costume, and also social history. Here are a few of my absolute favourite books:

This book is a wonderful overview of general phases of costume change and development. John Peacock’s books are wonderful!

These books in John Peacocks other series have so much more detail and information – I highly recommend them for authors. and for a wonderful half hour’s reading over a cuppa any time you want to relax.

This is another wonderful series of book with mainly images relating to a specific era, to give an insight into British popular culture of the time. I love them.

And lastly – but most fabulous of all, and not really my era, but such beautiful photos, I wish I could put them on here to wow you:

So now you know what I do when I’m gathering ideas, checking facts and maundering over a first draft idea. Or just – you know – reading for fun.

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Sneak peek from Midnight, the Stars, and You: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 8

/ Caron Allan / 1 Comment

Book 8 of the Dottie Manderson mysteries: hitting virtual shelves near you in December 2023

This week, I thought I’d share another sneaky scene from the new Dottie book that I am currently working on. I’ve already posted one scene on here a couple of months back, and so to prove that I am actually working, I thought I’d share another. ;D

So here it is…

Sir Nigel always ensured that Lady Matilda Cosgrove – one of his oldest and dearest friends – had the Ormulu Room whenever she came to stay. In fact, he rather counted on it, because otherwise he’d have to invite fewer guests or get them to share their rooms. Very few of the other guests would feel comfortable surrounded by so much ornate, gilded wood coupled with a rather dark marble. Lady Matilda liked the room. As far as Sir Nigel could tell, she was the only person in existence who did like the room.

It was a quarter to seven on a Saturday evening in June when Lady Matilda sat at the vast gold and dark brown dressing-table and allowed her maid to dress her hair in what they both deemed to be the most becoming fashion for a lady in her late sixties. They were deep in conversation about which gown Lady Matilda had worn to a certain affair in the Spring of 1881, when there came a tap on the door.

Salt, Lady Matilda’s maid, set down her comb and perfume bottle and turned to the door to state, ‘Come,’ with as much dignity as her ladyship herself.

The door opened. A timid little red-headed maid stood on the threshold looking extremely nervous.

‘Well?’ demanded Salt. She was a fierce protector of her ladyship’s privacy.

‘Begging your pardon, my lady,’ the young woman began, ‘but Sir Nigel’s compliments and would it suit your ladyship to place your jewellery into Sir Nigel’s safe for the evening? There’s been two break-ins on this square in the last week, and Sir Nigel doesn’t want to run any risks with your ladyship’s valuables. In fact, I’m to go to all the ladies – and the gentlemen – and take their valuables down to his lordship’s safe.’

She accompanied this information with a kind of bobbing curtsey, all the while nervously wringing her hands. Lady Matilda thought she was rather a sweet little thing.

‘And what is your name, my dear?’ demanded her ladyship.

‘Eliza, ma’am. Eliza Smallwood. I’m new in this establishment.’

‘Well, Eliza Smallwood, I should be most obliged if you would take my jewellery case to Sir Nigel at once and thank him for his good sense and kind thoughts. Salt, give the child the case. But make sure ot keep out what I need for this evening, obviously, won’t you.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

Salt extracted several glittering items of great value. Once Lady Matilda had nodded her approval, the case was locked up again, the tiny black key slipped into Salt’s pocket, and the case was handed to the young maid.

She gave another little bob and clutching the jewellery case to her as if her life depended on keeping it safe, she said, ‘Thank you, your ladyship. I’ll take these to Sir Nigel directly. Good evening.’

The door closed behind her, and Salt and Lady Matilda resumed their discussion relating to the precise colour and fabric of the gown worn on the evening of the Royal Gala over forty years earlier.

It was not long before the bell rang for dinner, and Lady Matilda descended the grand staircase to meet the other guests for a pre-dinner aperitif.

Sir Nigel greeted her with a beaming smile, taking both her hands in his and kissing first her left cheek then her right in his usual warm manner that Lady Matilda found delightfully Continental.

She lost no time in thanking him again for his invitation to stay for the weekend whilst George was overseas on his usual ambassadorial duties. As always, she offered her compliments on the charming Ormulu Bedroom, which had, she said, a rich glamour that one didn’t see everywhere. She asked after his health, heard with patience of his sciatica and stiff knees – she was herself a martyr to her knees, and promised to let him have Salt’s remedy for the relief of the discomfort – then she remarked,

‘It was so thoughtful of you to send up that sweet little girl to fetch my jewellery. I shall feel so much happier knowing my grandmother’s diamonds are safely locked away. These robberies are such a worry.’

He stared at her for a second or two too long, and she immediately divined that something was amiss. But before she could quiz him about it, the door was flung open and Salt ran in, tears streaming down her face, causing everyone to turn and stare, drinks halted halfway to their mouths.

She wailed, ‘Oh my dear lady, I’ve just found out. There isn’t any such maid as that Eliza girl in the house. And she’s gone off with all your valuables!’

And indeed she had. She had practically run down the back stairs with the jewellery case in her arms, knowing she had only a minute or two to make her escape. The side door was still ajar, and unseen by anyone, she slipped outside, pulling off her cap and apron and throwing them onto the grass, then she hopped into the waiting car at the end of the drive.

It sped off before anyone in the house had even realised there had been a robbery.

***

Reflecting on my protagonists

/ Caron Allan / 1 Comment

Dottie Manderson mysteries book 7 – out Nov 2022

My characters mean so much to me, they definitely feel real.

Very often in a cosy mystery, you meet a large collection of characters (and FYI it’s a nightmare and a half trying to think of names for them all, I have a spreadsheet and everything…) so there’s not always space in the story to give everyone their own life without totally confusing the reader. I always seem to have a ton of characters, and I tried putting in a character list at the start, I thought it would be helpful but I got complaints about that. So in the end it was just easier to leave it out. Sorry about that. Maybe you could create your own spreadsheet?

In my Dottie Manderson mysteries, I have two detectives who are the ‘main’ protagonists, Dottie herself of course, and Inspector William Hardy, with a supporting cast of around a dozen other ‘regulars’. Then each story has its own characters on top of that. My protagonists are not isolated individuals brooding alone with their ghosts or their issues. No, mine both have families who pop in and out, often the source of useful information or connections, or they can act as a sounding board for ideas and theories, or just provide encouragement in low moments.

About to press ‘upload’ on The Spy Within a couple of years ago

But making characters really stand out can be a challenge. There are reasons for this. Obviously the first reason is me. I have only a limited experience of life, and limited skill as a writer.

I think that’s the same for most of us. We always bring our own life experiences, attitudes, beliefs, our flaws and strengths with us when we create anything. It’s been said that authors put something of themselves into what they create. How can they not? So I try to compensate for this by doing research, and by trying to create people who are not much like me. I’m not sure how well I succeed with that. However, I’m not young, I’m not elegant or fashion-conscious and so I like to think Dottie is not too much like me. Though I am incredibly nosy.

I don’t like to read books where the detective is perfect. I’m sure I’m not alone in saying I’m bored by protagonists who are perfect, who always behave the right way, say the right thing, do the right thing, who think clearly at all times and never make mistakes or get confused, puzzled or just plain upset. My characters are all too flawed, and as readers will know, they sometimes make disastrous decisions. And, like us, then have to live with the consequences.

I’d like to think they grow. I sometimes stop reading a series if I feel the protagonist continually makes the same mistakes, or acts in an implausible or unprofessional manner despite twenty years as a police inspector etc. Because in real life we do learn, most of the time, don’t we? Or we try to. And if we don’t, sooner or later we get called into the office and the boss tells us we are going to be unemployed.

The gorgeous Gary Cooper – in my head this is a bit what William looks like.

Does William grow? I think he grows a little. He becomes more accepting of himself and his situation as a working copper, and doesn’t spend too much time agonising over the past. He makes some stupid mistakes, but Dottie does too, so we have to forgive him, don’t we?

Does Dottie grow? I think she does. When we meet her in book 1, Night and Day, she is very young (19) and is mainly interested in having fun and dancing with attractive young men. After two years of stumbling over corpses, she has become more confident, more caring towards others, she is more mature, and is growing a career and trying to understand the world around her, losing her childish idealisation of people. But I like to think she stays true to herself: she passionately believes in working hard, doing the right thing, and in trying to help people. She is terminally nosy and always wants to understand what’s going on in people’s lives. And of course, to help if she can. But she still loves to dance. (With a certain someone…)

Which of course will bring her into conflict with people who manipulate and hurt others, people who do terrible things and try to get away with it, and in the course of her ‘helping’ she will definitely get in the way of a certain police officer trying to solve a case.

A Meeting with Murder: Miss Gascoigne mysteries book 1 of my spin-off series set in the 1960s came out last October.

As the relationship between herself and William progresses, (spoiler alert) I’m not sure quite how Dottie will manage to solve murders and juggle her commitments. Will we see her pushing a perambulator with a couple of kids along to interview suspects? I just don’t know. Maybe I will leave her to raise her family and we can come back to Dottie in the 1950s when she is a mature woman with more or less independent children? Who knows. Maybe she will be a kind of Miss Marple detective as she gets older. I didn’t want her to be one of those detectives who remains the same age throughout all the books. Yet as I immerse myself in this pretend world I have created for Dottie, as time passes I am all too aware of the even greater threat looming on her horizon: World War II. How can I leave out something so important and far-reaching in its consequences and still keep this series ‘cosy’? I’m not sure I can.

American actress Loretta Young – my inspiration for Dottie.

This could well be one of the reasons why about four years ago I began to think about a new series with a new character. So I came up with Diana ‘Dee’ Gascoigne, adopted daughter of Dottie’s sister Flora and her husband George, confidently stepping out into the 1960s, wearing high heels and a brightly-coloured mini-dress, long hair back-combed and flicking up at the ends, ready to take on the modern world. The detective is the son (spoiler again!) of Dottie and William, known as Bill. (I’ve given away quite a bit now…) He has followed his father into the police. Having seen at close quarters his mother ‘meddling’ in police affairs, he tries to warn Dee off, but of course, she doesn’t listen. As he says, ‘She comes from a long line of nosy women.’

Keeping it in the family: this has led me to think about the successive generations. Will there be a Dottie-spin-off set in the 1990s? The 2020s? They seem so real to me, I find it hard to believe that they won’t go on and on, one generation giving way to the next, just as we do in the real world. Maybe there will be a Dottie and a William in the 22nd century, nailing criminals with technology we can only dream of. I hope so.

***

(and sorry for the really long post this week…)

Me at work on another draft of book 8…

Reading a mystery

/ Caron Allan / 4 Comments

As you know, I mainly write cozy mysteries, some set in the 1930s or 1960s, some in the ‘now’, and one even set in both the present and the past. Cozy mysteries or cozy crime is the genre where I feel most at home, and those are the kind of books I love to read. I have been reading this genre since I was about 9 or 10 years old, when I began first with the Famous Five, then the Secret Seven, then on to Patricia Wentworth and Agatha Christie. I have always loved the idea of detecting along with the ‘official’ sleuth, trying to get to the clues and figure out ‘whodunit’ before the book’s detective.

If you ever get stuck for books to read, maybe cast your eye over this list and see if there are any names that are new to you. These are the mystery authors whose books I enjoy the most, some are old and some are modern. When you find an author you really like, do you read their books over and over again, or do you remember the too well to do that?

I love to revisit old favourites, but I have a pretty good memory for characters and plots, so I often remember a book too well to enjoy it unless a lot of years have gone by. There are some books where I just reread the beginning – I love a good beginning that sets up the story perfectly and for the reader, there is that delicious sense of anticipation. But I do reread books that I know really well, sometimes I enjoy watching something unfold on the page even though I know exactly what to expect and when.

So then, my favourite mystery authors, here we go, and in no particular order:

Agatha Christie: obvs you’ve all read her books! But have you tried Death Comes As The End – set in ancient Egypt, it’s an interesting variation on the classic murder mystery genre. My personal favourites are Evil Under the Sun, Death Comes As the End, and Death on The Nile.

Patricia Wentworth: if you like ‘em traditional with plenty of romance, these are for you! Often overlooked these days though her books have been enjoying a new lease of life through reprinting. My favourites are: The Girl In The Cellar, The Listening Eye and The Chinese Shawl.

Mary Stewart: not a cozy as such, her books fall into the category of romantic suspense along with authors like Phyllis Whitney. Of Mary’s books, I really enjoy: The Gabriel Hounds, Madam, Will You Talk? and Nine Coaches Waiting. She does that thing where she uses a quote from scripture or Shakespeare as a chapter subtitle. I love that!

Phyllis Whitney: this lady wrote zillions of books before she passed away just a few years ago. My favourites are The Red Carnelian, Columbella and The Turquoise Mask.

Another romantic suspense author is M M Kaye. Look for her ‘Death in…’ short series of 6 books. For me, the best ones are Death in Zanzibar, Death in the Andamans, and Death in Berlin. Try them and let me know if you have a different favourite!

Coming back to modern cozies, how about trying Helena Dixon? I am a big fan of her Miss Underhay series, which like my own books, are set in Britain in the 1930s. Book 1 is called Murder at The Dolphin Hotel, and although you can read them in any order, reading from the beginning will enhance your pleasure as there are continuing storylines that carry on from one book to the next.

Don’t forget to give Sara Rosett a go – she has a couple of series of mysteries, and of course you mustn’t forget Frances Brody, Vaseem Khan and Julia Chapman. Or Julie Wassmer’s Whitstable Pearl series, now wonderfully adapted for TV and starring Kerry Godliman as Pearl.

Or you might try something a little less cozy – perhaps try Ann Cleeves, Abir Mukherjee, Robert Galbraith or Val McDermid to name some of my personal favourite authors.

Let me know how you get on! Who are your favourite mystery authors? Happy reading!

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The world of the murder mystery

/ Caron Allan / 2 Comments

Not sure this guy is really a detective, or just a businessman who is late for a meeting.

As you may know, I love traditional detective fiction aka murder mysteries. You can get mysteries where there’s no murder, but if the stakes aren’t high, my attention isn’t grabbed. And if you’re here, reading this, the chances are, you probably like them too!

In the old Golden Age of detective fiction, there is generally a Countess clutching her pearls, casting disapproving looks at the corpse leaking blood onto her Aubusson carpet, and declaring that surely the perpetrator is some stranger, some tramp or wandering vagabond. ‘It can’t possibly be one of us.’

For me, the thrill of these books is the certain knowledge that, yes, it is most definitely one of ‘us’. One of these characters, outwardly so genteel, so polite, offering around the drinks decanter, or standing when a lady comes into the room, or smiling pleasantly and asking after the vicar’s marrows, it’s one of them. Most of them have known each other for years and see each other almost every day out walking the dog or playing tennis, or at drinks parties or dinner parties, at bridge evenings and coffee mornings. (Because this is the life of villagers of that era, we feel.)

An old lady with glasses can be the rich countess, or the village spinster/busybody. She doesn’t mind whose role she plays so long as she’s busy and well paid in scones and tea.

Like the suspects now before us, we too would like to believe that those around us are just like us, and thereby comes the assumption that no one ‘like us’ could possibly do something so sordid as to kill another person. Because such an action implies loss of self-control, unacceptable levels of emotion, and of course, a denial of the never-say-die attitude that instils us with hope for a better tomorrow. Or if not better, then at least no worse.

So when someone—let’s call him Major Wainwright—is found underneath the billiard table with his head bashed in or a hat pin piercing his eye to skewer his brain, we automatically think, no one I know could possibly commit such an act. Therefore, it could only have been done by someone ‘not from here’. Here endeth the first act of our little fiction.

Sorry about that graphic image, by the way, that fictional situation got really bad, really fast, didn’t it? I’ve been reading Agatha Christie this week, in case you’re wondering. And while I’ve got you here, I’ve no idea why it’s always a major. I can only assume that a warrant officer or a corporal just doesn’t have the same ring?

But when we look at those cast members or story characters around us, we suddenly think, how well do we really know them? This is what writers sometimes call the second act world of the ‘unknown’ or the ‘new world’, where we suddenly see everyone as different and unknowable.

Let’s look at this bunch of weirdos and oddballs.

Take the major’s wife, for example. She’s known for her knitting circles and good works. As is the vicar’s wife, busily visiting the elderly and infirm, taking care of the vulnerable.

The major enjoys civil war reenactments, often heard to say ‘That’s not how I would have done it.’

Then there’s the vicar himself. Does he really need to spend so much time shut away in his office muttering scriptures or Latin phrases to himself? What’s he really doing in there?

What about Miss Simmons, the village busybody, who knows everyone and everyone’s history. They say she has a heart of gold, but is she really over that old romance? After all, she’s never married, does she still carry a torch for that certain someone? these country villages seem to always have a nosy old woman. (Often that’s me.)

What about the village doctor—I bet he knows a secret or two.

Then there are the rest who can change from story to story, as required: there might be a visiting artist, or an aunt from another village, or perhaps a daughter just returned from university to care for an elderly father who once threatened the organist with his walking stick. And of course we have the organist himself. But don’t stop there, there’s the butler, the maid… oh all sorts of people. Maybe a weekending couple, he is ‘something in the city’ and she is a famous model, renowned for her torrid affairs before she settled down to marry a man twenty years older than herself. then there might be a gay couple, known locally as ‘artistic’, (that was euphemism my mum used for a couple of gay men we knew when I was a child in the early 60s) in those unenlightened days, they may have been viewed with suspicion.

But in spite of all these people with their secret backgrounds, their secrets thoughts, ideas and attitudes, we still keep coming back to the same thing: surely no one I know would commit such a vicious crime?

But how well do I really know them? As I watch them gathered around the corpse, their various emotions—triumph, relief, satisfaction, fear, horror, dismay, anger, sorrow—fleetingly appearing on their faces, I’m forced to admit it feels as though I am in a room filled with strangers.

It’s the job of acts 2 and 3 to unmask all their carefully concealed pains and plans and desires to arrive at the truth. Any one of them could be the killer…

And for readers of mysteries, that’s the beauty of it!

***

Desert island author

/ Caron Allan / 6 Comments

‘I thought this was voluntary?’

I’m thinking of doing my own mock-up version of Desert Island Discs. For those of you who don’t know, there is a long-running radio show called –you’ve guessed it—Desert Island Discs. Each week a guest selects their favourite music along with a book and a luxury item to take with them to be stranded (I assume deliberately) on a desert island. It’s a fresh (even now after over 3000 episodes) way to interview celebrities of all kinds and find out what makes them tick.

A certain amount of belief needs to be suspended here as we are assuming a minimum level of survival comfort and apparently electricity on this desert island… Try not to worry about the details. (How did the stranded person get there? What if they need medication? A special diet? How long will they be there for? What furniture/food/shelter/clothing do they have? Are they alone? Where is the fresh water supply? What about a loo? Ignore all that.)

Just out of curiosity I Googled the show and it’s been running since 1942!! I was astonished. Hugely famous and influential people have guested on the show, here are just a few names to wow you:

Ivor Novello, Humphrey Lyttelton, Leslie Howard, Arthur Askey (at least twice), Wing Commander Guy Gibson, Claire Luce (who took the original part in Gay Divorce when it was a play, before Ginger Rogers made it her own in the movie, I based my first Dottie book, Night and Day on this version.) Michael Redgrave, Celia Johnson, Deborah Kerr, Stewart Granger, Peter Ustinov, Ian Fleming, Alfred Hitchcock, and so many, many more. The castaways were not just British actors, musicians, Members of Parliament, war heroes and other popular names, but there were many, many others including US stars and notable figures: Tyrone Power, Count Basie, Blanche Thebom, Earl Hines, Paul Robeson, Dave Brubeck, (quite a few musicians, I notice), Paul Gallico, Regina Resnik, Tallulah Bankhead, Louis Armstrong, Andre Previn, and James Stewart.

Me playing the piano in my ballgown as my leggings dry on the sand…

James Stewart chose a piano as his luxury item. Actually most people seemed to choose notebooks and writing implements, or canvases and paints to take as their luxury item. Perhaps there is a sense in all of us that thinks that, given enough time, we’d get through all our routine basic duties or tasks and finally have a moment to do what we really want to do – be creative. Others wanted to take photos of their family, or their favourite tipple: plenty of good quality claret was requested!

Don’t ask me to do without this…

It’s odd, isn’t it, discovering what is most important in our lives? If we know our loved ones—and the cat/goldfish/gerbil are safe, what else is important? If you’re going somewhere with no shops, businesses or commerce, do you need money? Or jewels? Or designer clothing?

Here are my own 8 choices of music. I should just say, I like most kinds of music, but some are dearer to me than others. I cheated by going for albums rather than individual tracks 😊.

  1. Corinne Bailey Ray’s album called ‘Corinne Bailey Ray’.
  2. Riverside’s ‘Out of Myself’.
  3. Nina Simone: ‘Feeling Good: The Very Best of Nina Simone’
  4. Handel: Messiah (this is a big compromise as I like different versions of this by different orchestras/choirs depending on the track…)
  5. Paul Weller’s ‘Modern Classics’.
  6. The Very Best Of Jimmy Somerville, Bronski Beat & The Communards (You can get a lot of extra mileage with ‘best of’ compilations, just a little tip for you, in case you’re ever in this situation.)
  7. Simply Red: ‘Men and Women’.
  8. Can I bring the whole set of ‘The Marriage of Figaro’? I don’t think I can choose just one track… It won’t take up much room, I promise. Oh, and the libretto so I can sing along – there’ll be no one around to scare with my voice.

And for my book—Again, to show just how times have changed, and also, to bend the rules a wee bit, I’ll take my Kindle eReader. Hahahahahaha! (charging point is assumed…)

Which means, my luxury item is going to have to be a bottomless tub of Options white hot chocolate too. Then I’d truly be happy.

Oh wait, I forgot my notebooks and pens. No, it’s okay, my Kindle has got my Evernote note-making app on it. Phew. For a moment I almost got out of the boat and went home again.

And that’s it. I suppose what I wanted to say really was, wow what a huge number of really special people were on Desert Island Discs. It’s no wonder it’s considered an institution. I would love to have spent half an hour talking to so many of those people, sadly no longer with us. If you want to know more, you can take a look on Wikipedia:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Desert_Island_Discs

Or on the BBC’s page:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b006qnmr/episodes/player

Who would you want to interview?

If you were the castaway, what items would you take with you? What music would you choose? It’s a dilemma!

***

Ten (awful) things about me

/ Caron Allan / 4 Comments

Of course, I don’t wear the anorak all the time. It’s for special occasions.

I thought I’d tell you ten things you might not know about me. Why? Well, we’re all besties now, right, so that means I can off-load some of my mess special characteristics and just—you know—really be myself with you.

  1. I got a 10-yards swimming certificate when I was ten years old. So if I’m ever on board a boat that sinks really, really close to the shore, I’ll be fine.
  2. When I was out for a walk with my family in a park when I was eleven years old, I needed to go to the bathroom, and there were no bathrooms, so I went behind a tree, and a man and his dog came over and asked if I was okay. (I didn’t realise there was a path behind the tree as well as in front of it.) I was too embarrassed to say I was peeing, so I made up a totally unlikely story about losing my pocket money behind the tree and said I was looking for it. Crouched there as I was, I half-heartedly raked through the  leaves by my feet. The only problem was, this kind man decided to help me look for it…. It was about five long minutes before he must have realised what was going on, and with a panicked expression got up, said goodbye, and that he hoped I’d find my ‘pocket money’, then he and his dog ran! Aww. My parents laughed, but I was mortified.
  3. I failed my English Literature ‘O’ level. Though I later went on to complete a Bachelor’s degree in English and History so I certainly showed them!
  4. I also failed my Sociology ‘O’ level. Ironically, it was the only subject I really studied hard for. I must have guessed how bad I was at that subject. To make matters worse, my teacher told my parents I wasn’t going to pass and so they had to pay for me to be allowed to sit the exam. All for nothing. Is it too late for a resit?
  5. I love cats and dogs but I’m allergic to fur and dander.
  6. I love learning new languages, but I am hopeless at it. I always get the different languages muddled in my head, and I may start a sentence in French, but I’ll just as likely end it in Spanish or German…
  7. I once peed myself laughing with my cousin, then had to throw myself in a handy nearby river to disguise my ‘accident’ so as not to get into trouble with the dreaded parents. I was about twelve at the time. I was a horrid child! I also fell into a river on Boxing Day, then sat in a tree in my underwear hoping my clothes would dry in the breeze and went home an hour later frozen half to death in sopping wet clothes. Me and bodies of water do not get on.
  8. My work experience week coincided with my sixteenth birthday, and I was sent to spend a week with the local newspaper. I spent my sixteenth birthday covering court cases as a junior reporter. It was fascinating and I got well and truly bitten by the true crime bug!
  9. I once rode my bike into a fence and smashed it. And I took myself to the front door of the fence owner to confess all. He was so astonished at my honesty that he let me off. (Another pre-teen escapade!)
  10. I got thrown out of our school’s church service for asking too many questions about God. I wasn’t even a disbeliever, I just was asking tricky theological questions, which apparently was not okay. (Still eleven!) Oh well. I also got a prize in school prize giving for Religious Education, so maybe they forgave me after all.

So yeah. That’s me. I can kind of see how I ended up being a writer.

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Coming January 2024: Midnight, the Stars, and You: Dottie Manderson mysteries book 8 #newbook #mysteries #HistFic

/ Caron Allan / 2 Comments

I thought I’d already shared this, but I can’t find it anywhere, so here it is, a sneak peek of the opening scene of chapter one, possibly for the second time. (and sorry, too, it’s a bit long…)

Book 8 of the Dottie Manderson mysteries finds Dottie fed up with waiting and all the fuss, and just wanting to get on with being Mrs Detective Inspector William Hardy. She and her mother and her sister all want different things, and Dottie thinks, ‘It’s my wedding, it should be how I want it!’ An unexpected invitation could be just what she needs. How wonderful it will be to get away to a weekend house party and forget all the worries of organising a wedding!

Of course William, like all husbands-to-be everywhere has no interest whatsoever in the problems of the right kind of lace or the perfect place setting. In any case, he’s got a special kind of investigation going on, one that means bringing a good friend to justice, stretching his loyalty to his profession almost to breaking point.

Dottie Manderson was already fed up to the back teeth with parties. Admittedly, she thought, one expected parties in June. And just lately life had been nothing but. Tennis parties, tea parties, afternoon dancing parties, mid-morning tea parties, dinner parties, drinks parties in the evening, it was endless. And now, socialising in London was giving her a sense rather too much like continually stepping over graves—those of dead friends as well as dead relationships. Wherever she went, dragged along by her mother or her sister, or her mother and her sister, to various events in so many houses and gardens, she was continually running into people she either knew, or had heard of through other acquaintances.

This evening was a case in point. They were at the Sir Nigel Barrowby’s lavish Tyne Square townhouse for dinner and dancing. Dottie hid behind the same half-glass of white wine she had been clutching for almost two hours and looked about the room.

Over there by the fireplace, hanging on the arm of a man with a military moustache, was Anabella Penterman nee Wiseman of the New York Wisemans, married to Dottie’s almost-beau Cyril Penterman less than a year and a half ago, and yet now if the gossip columns were correct, the couple were very publicly living separate lives, and divorce seemed to be on the cards. The woman had glanced at Dottie four times now, though only managing a polite smile the first time, every other occurrence accompanied by a bright hard stare. Dottie noted that the woman had lost a lot of weight, and her left hand held no rings.

Then, on the opposite side of the vast drawing-room was the Honourable Peter St Clair St John giggling rather childishly, in Dottie’s opinion, with a couple of really quite young girls.

‘Far too young for him,’ Dottie murmured out loud.

‘Oh definitely, dear,’ replied a woman standing a few feet away. She drew a little closer, saying in a low tone, ‘I don’t know what their parents are thinking, introducing them to that wolf.’

‘Is he a wolf?’ Dottie turned to face her companion, a blonde woman in her early thirties, immaculately turned out. Dottie felt a slight flash of recognition but couldn’t quite reach at the woman’s name. ‘I always found him a bit dull, if I’m honest. And only ever interested in himself.’

Belatedly she wondered again who she was speaking to. It wouldn’t do to say that to a close relation.

‘Well, absolutely. His only interest in his life has always been himself. A thoroughly tiresome younger brother, I don’t mind telling you. But once he gets a girl to himself, he’s all hands, from what I hear.’

Too late Dottie recognised Christiana St John Milner, the widow of the Milner empire since her husband, the Honourable Sebastian Wilcott Milner had passed away under what Dottie had always regarded as odd circumstances during an avalanche when out skiing with friends in the Swiss Alps just–what–surely it was barely six months ago, Dottie thought, yet here was the young widow in a daring dress of figure-hugging gold lame, not a single sign of mourning about her.

Catching Dottie’s glance at her dress, Christiana smiled and held out her hand. ‘I don’t think we’ve ever been formally introduced, though I’ve seen you at a number of events over the last two or three years. Christiana, please.’

Dottie shook her hand. ‘Dottie Manderson. Just Dottie.’

‘Not Manderson for much longer, I hear,’ Christiana said.

‘No, that’s true. Not for long now. The wedding is in August.’

‘Lovely. And am I right in thinking that he’s not one of our lot?’

Dottie tried not to be offended. She’d heard this a lot in recent weeks, and should really have become used to it. But still, it grated.

‘He works as a police officer, I expect you mean,’ she said, carefully keeping her tone neutral.

Christiana looked mortified. Her hand came out to just touch Dottie’s arm. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Please don’t think I meant…’ she sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it quite the way it may have sounded. Oh this is a terrible start to a friendship. I’m not a snob.’ Looking into her glass, she said softly, ‘Believe me I know all too well how hard it is to find a good man. And when one is lucky enough to find him, one thanks one’s lucky stars and refuses to let go.’

‘I’m sorry too,’ Dottie said. ‘I’m afraid there have been a number of critical comments, and I’m feeling rather on the defensive. William’s family had an estate but unfortunately it was sold a few years ago to cover—er—’

‘Death duties?’ Christiana suggested helpfully.

Dottie gave slight shake of the head and a wry smile. ‘That. And debts.’

‘Ah! Well, there are plenty of those amongst the so-called upper-crust And even the aristocracy, as we both know. I can look around this room and tell you who is solvent and who hasn’t got the proverbial penny to bless himself with. Let’s start with my idiot brother. Broke,’ she smirked at Dottie, ‘Definitely not got a penny to his name. I’m so glad you didn’t fall for him.’ She discreetly pointed out two other men and a woman and said, ‘Broke,’ for each of them.

Dottie was astonished. Christiana was right. These four people were four people who Dottie would have practically gone to her grave believing to be financially stable, solvent. Inadvertently she took a gulp of her horrid wine. She grimaced ad swallowed quickly.

‘But my father is thinking of going into business with Lord Dalbury and his friend Milo Parkes. They’ve been having talks all week at Father’s club.’

Christiana looked concerned. ‘Oh my word, no! Please warn your father to get out whilst he can, they will bleed him dry!’

Dottie nodded. ‘I’ll tell him. Thank you for the tip. It’s astonishing isn’t it. As you say, one takes everyone at face value, and we make assumptions based on what we see.’

‘Which prompts me to ask, Dottie, what do you think of my dress?’

‘Oh it’s lovely!’ Dottie didn’t even have to stop and think about that.

‘It’s actually an old one of my mother’s. Yes, really, it’s more than twenty years old. She had some beautiful gowns and coats and things. Furs. Some of them were terribly expensive, and my brother wants to get rid of them. Sell them. He needs the money.’

Dottie said nothing, wondering—or rather suspecting she might know where this was leading.

‘I’m having a house party next weekend. I know it’s horribly short notice, but I was wondering if you’d do me a huge favour. I was hoping you might know a few people who would be interested in buying Mother’s things. I don’t want them going to just anybody, but if they were people you could recommend, I might not mind too much. I don’t want it to feel like village jumble sale with everyone pawing over my mother’s things. But if I can help Peter, I feel I have to do so, he’s so wretchedly clueless. Could you spare me a weekend to come and visit, and bring your lovely fiancé, of course, and if you could just go through Mother’s things and tell me what might fetch some cash, and who might be interested… there aren’t many ‘names’, Mother went rather her own way in fashion, although there are some Carmichael and Jennings items you might be interested to see. Well, perhaps you’ll think about it and let me know. You can telephone me, I’m on Belgravia 139.’ She grabbed Dottie’s arm and said in an urgent tone, ‘Do say you’ll think about it, please. This means so much to me.’

‘I will,’ Dottie promised, and had only time to repeat these words as the music suddenly began, and a young man came to ask Christiana to dance.

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Job vacancy: armchair sleuth required

/ Caron Allan / 3 Comments

 

We at LaughingAtLife.org (not a real company!) have a new part-time vacancy for the role of armchair sleuth.

About this role:

You must be ready, willing and able to deliver timely advice to all suspects and potential victims. (But not too timely. Whilst we agree that forewarned is forearmed, if you’re too good at your job, you may find the number of victims drops alarmingly and you are left with no one to investigate/suspect which will lead to everyone at LaughingAtLife.org moving into the genre of romance. Or maybe Fantasy. No one at LaughingAtLife.org wants that to happen.)

 

You should be highly experienced in delivering comments such as ‘I knew that was going to happen’ or ‘You could write this (insert offensive vocabulary here) stuff yourself!’

If you have fancied taking part in shows such as Gogglebox, this job could be for you!

Essential qualifications:

Eagle-eyed attention to detail.

Nerves of steel.

Ability to pick locks with a hair pin or safety pin. Or a lock-pick.

Suspicious of everyone and everything.

Able to sniff out spurious motives and supply educated guesswork.

Possess own monocle or pince-nez or (misplaced) reading glasses.

Should be able to demonstrate a long-established habit of putting your fingertips together in a thoughtful manner before speaking.

You must have a luxurious moustache which you continually fondle or trim or dye a suspiciously dark colour. This role is open to all genders.

Or, failing the moustache, you may have a knitting fetish, and take knitting everywhere with you so that you are ready at a moment’s notice to disarm suspects with your apparent inoffensiveness and the sense of calmness that you radiate.

Must be able to recall a long series of villagey anecdotes you can crowbar into any conversation.

Must know the difference between a colonel and a major. Must equally be conversant with the differences between life-peers and the other sort, whatever they are.

Must be able to shake your head sorrowfully from time to time and say ‘The world is a very wicked place’ or make some quote about the fallibility of mankind.

Additional desirable qualifications:

Knowledge of Shakespeare, Milton and the Bible useful.

Must not be liable to scream or faint when confronted with a gory scene.

Encyclopaedic knowledge of deadly fungi and herbs could come in handy.

Must be able to dip fingertip in any powdery drug and taste it without dying and also must be able to identify said drug.

Salary:

No salary, just the reward of knowing you did your best, and served your country. Or, failing that, completed at least one matinee jacket for the new baby of a friend of a friend.

Perks:

No perks. There is no holiday allowance, as every time you go on holiday, someone will do something stupid and you will find yourself ‘embroiled’ in a new murder case. Even if you have a staycation, the grumpy colonel in the Old Manor House will upset someone who will then disguise themselves as a vicar and whack the colonel over the head 47 times with a fire-iron. You will of course realise that this was almost inevitable given the colonel’s manner, and also it will be just what happened with Mrs Castle’s little boy in Northampton when he skived off school that day.

There is no sick pay, apart from the satisfaction that your last days will be repackaged and sold as ‘Mr X’s, Ms Y’s or Mrs Z’s Final Cases’ with a picture of the actor who plays your role on the front cover.

How to Apply:

Seriously?

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More vintage magazines for women

/ Caron Allan

Last year I posted a couple of articles about women’s magazines from the 1930s. (If you missed them, you can find them here.)

Over the last two weeks I’ve been fortunate enough to acquire two more vintage magazines aimed directly at women. what impressed me about these was first of all, that this magazine – Woman’s Own – is still in circulation and massively popular today. The second thing I noticed is that there really isn’t a lot of difference between the WO of 1934 and those of 2021.

Have women’s concerns changed very much in 90+ years? I’m not sure they have. for many women, the home and family is still one of the most important things in life, and I’m not saying that in a patronising way, nor ignoring the fact that women today have many more opportunities to have a career, and that the concept of ‘the family’ is miles different – and rightly so – to that of the 1930s.

But at rock bottom, many women are interested in and still worry about how to care for, manage or improve their relationships, their attractiveness, their budget, and their partners and children.

My Woman’s Own mags are from Feb 1934 and this week’s copy – by chance I nabbed a ‘diet special’. Here are a few snippets that struck me as interesting:

Hubby Management: It’s the wife’s job to make her home as welcoming as possible to induce the man (and man ONLY!) to stay at home instead of going out gallivanting. tips are given on how to do this, though the mags expert – whoever that was, possibly (we don’t know!) a bloke – comments that some men will always stay out and shouldn’t get married in the first place. Too late if you’ve got one of those, girls!

We have the readers’ letters, essentially a problem page. My faves are ‘should cousins marry?’ (Surely they know the answer to that?) and the ‘worried wife’ letters. I feel for the worried wife. She knows exactly what the answer will be but doesn’t want to admit it. Poor woman. Did she sling him out? Or – as I feel is more likely – did she just suffer in silence?

There’s a load of fashion tips and ideas, mostly, I was interested to note, clothes you could make at home. This magazine is aimed at the upper working class and lower middle class, women who have a little money but not enough to buy off-the-peg items and certainly not bespoke. ‘Home economy’ was one of the watchwords of the day, and it included apparel.

I personally think this looks absolutely horrid, and a cross between a Christmas panto costume and something out of Red Riding Hood. This one below is slightly nicer, but again, still all your own work.

Although the models in the designs look about 35 to 40, in fact some of these are aimed for teenagers from 14 years of age. not much difference in those days between what mums and their daughters were wearing.

And of course, the eternal battle with the scales. I was interested to see things haven’t changed much here either, although some of our modern ingredients – chorizo and the whole gluten-free plan would have been completely alien to women of the 1930s.

Looks like this lady – a nurse, not a nun as I first thought – was following the crap-yourself-thin diet. 18lbs was a good result! Was she just a bit constipated after Christmas? All those mince pies…

Looking good appears to be a perennial issue for many women. We want to keep our looks as long as possible, after all, and keep ourselves in good condition. So I suppose it’s not surprising magazines for women contain so many hints, tips and advice. With the growth of city populations, the expansion of the suburbs, many women would have been cut off from their usual channels of information: mothers, grandmothers, aunties. Equally, magazines adopt a sisterly or motherly tone to offer the advice so desperately needed in those times. Today, magazines are more likely to have a friendly, conversational tone, inviting you to confide and share like a friend coming alongside to offer a sympathetic ear.

I’m in awe of the fact that this magazine has been around so long. It’s fascinating to read that the same ideas preoccupied women before my mother was born, as they do now. We may have Smartphones, the Internet, Netflix and Just Eat, but at the end of the day, we still want to look good, feel good, and keep our man where we can see him.

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