Currently Reading - Evil Under the Sun

image by Alejandro esCamilla via unsplash

I am a massive Agatha Christie fan. I own most if not all of her 80 something detective novels, mostly brought second hand for R10 or R20, somewhat the worse for wear. Well, actually it might be a bit unfair to single Agatha out - I basically love all of the classic murder mystery writers, with all their attendant bits and pieces. Murder mystery birthday party? Tick. Avid murder mystery series watcher? Tick. And look at that time I wrote a murder mystery novel inspired by (among others) Dame Aggie...

So although this one is another re-read, it also represents probably about 6-8 comforting bath and bed re-reads over the holiday period. Fair enough?

Evil Under the Sun, by Agatha Christie, was published in 1941. The battered Pan edition I read came out in 1963 and is graced with the following subtitle: "Hercule Poirot on holiday - with a strangler as a fellow guest". Also draped tastefully across the front cover are a pair of scissors, a broken pipe, a button, some green cardboard (or is it seaweed?) and some sea sand and pebbles. This of course follows the comforting and slightly coy habit in detective novels from a certain era of portraying a selection of "clues" on the cover, rather than a luridly tasteless corpse. Very charming, very mannered. Very misleading as well, if you fall into the trap of assuming that those depicted are the most important and least fishy of the myriad clues provided!

(I am laughing in the picture because of the antics of the photographer, not the contents of the novel!)

Anyway, this isn't one of Agatha Christie's most well known works, but it is a classic of its kind. Fluffy as a summer pudding, with absolutely no mention of the war which must have been dominating everyone's thoughts and efforts at the time of publication, you can see why it met with a largely positive reception when it came out. Although I don't think it's one of her absolute best, there is never a moment of doubt: you are in the hands of a master.

It takes place in a fancy seaside hotel, which is located - conveniently - on an kind of large promontory, which gets completely cut off from the mainland at high tide. Even a master needs some way of limiting the pool of suspects. That being said, she does cheat a little by introducing suspects in sailing boats and a whole *gasp* drug element (you'll see). Tsk, Agatha, tsk tsk. However, the main thrust of the novel remains classical, so don't worry.

The story revolves around Arlene Stuart/Marshall, that lovely but man-mad actress, at the Jolly Roger Hotel on holiday with her husband Kenneth Marshall and stepdaughter Linda. They meet Rosamund Darnley, Kenneth's childhood friend. They also, apparently by accident, find Patrick and Christine Redfern as fellow guests.

Unfortunately for someone, Hercules Poirot is also a guest at the Jolly Roger. He watches the progress of Patrick's infatuation over Arlena with grave apprehension, and agrees with nervous Reverend Lane: "don't you feel it in the air? All around you? The presence of Evil."

The novel is sprinkled with the usual cast of characters. Mrs Brewster, the mannish spinster. Major Barry, the boring teller of endless campaign stories. Mr and Mrs Gardeners, the pleasant Americans. Mr Blatt, the annoyingly jolly sailor. There are enough twists and turns to satisfy the most ardent red-herring hunter. Details of timing, mirror placement, bath water running out, the scents in a hidden cave... all the little touches which make a mystery so satisfactory and absorbing.

And no-one - least of all the discerning reader - is surprised when Arlena is found... murdered!

The novel is beautifully structured, with the first clues appearing - only in retrospect of course - from the very first chapter. A few dodgy moves, perhaps, in introducing new information very near the end, but generally the rule of "hide nothing" is observed. Hercules Poirot is on form, and the long denouement is comforting. As always, justice is fulfilled.

This one is definitely re-readable, even if you remember the plot. It will, unsurprisingly, go onto my Agatha Christie rotation for holidays and times when things get tough.

yours sleuthingly

jjr

NaNoWriMo Weeks Three and Four: Stress and Success

       

As you can see, my NaNoWriMo 2013 story had a happy ending! Yay!

But it came close(ish) to not happening. It's easy to be optimistic about finishing 50 000 words when you're bucketing along merrily at 2000 words a day and things look rosy. Not so much when you've just moved house, you can't find an extension lead to plug your laptop in, you're trying to process year-end marks for 200 kids and you haven't written a stitch in three days...

Especially when you're at a sticky patch in your plot and don't have that much more by way of detail to include before the final reveal!

Yeah, but with some encouragement from my wonderful husband, a special effort to get home earlyish from school one day and just one last 3600 word push: yippee, we have a winner!

Seriously, though, I am pretty pleased with my effort this year. I'm definitely getting into the swing of things, and my preNano prep helped a lot.

So, next year? For sure!

yours triumphantly,

jjr

NaNoWriMo Week Two: That Awkward Middle Bit

One...key...in...front...of...the...next...

One...word...after...the...next....

This is Week Two of NaNoWriMo. And I'm bang in the middle of That Awkward Middle Bit.  This is the part of the month where things get really tough. Especially when billions of exam papers and planning meetings and all kinds of other stresses attack perfectly innocent novelists!

The good news is, although I am not really alive and full of energy, I am still on track with the word count.

Here are some of the reasons why:

1) Plot Outline(ish)

So I didn't actually plan my novel in that much detail in the end. I tried hard, but I just ran out of time before NaNo began. So I have a hand-wavy excel spreadsheet which I have mostly ignored and certainly changed an awful lot.

But what I do have is a dead body, a good isolation mechanism (island in a summer storm!), a reasonable murder method and A LOT of people with subtle and complicated motives which are taking chapters and chapters to elucidate. 

So when I finish explaining one bit of motive/dark secret, I can usually just open up the next can of worms and serve. As long as I keep remembering to add little hints ahead of the time! 

Having a pretty good idea of all this detail before the time (though I'm STILL not sure whodunnit) has made a big difference to my experience of the difficult middle patch this year!

2) Conversations

"...

Almost all of my big drama takes place in conversations. I like writing conversations. They go fast. They gallop through words. They don't usually require a lot of background information. They tend to be more emotionally believable. I can write a thousand words of reasonably believable conversation in just over an hour. 

..." she said ironically.

Win-win. Seriously. Particularly when above-mentioned characters and motives can be merrily elucidated (mostly) via multiple little conversations!

Having more than three main characters to converse with each other (unlike last year) has also helped a lot. There is only so much three characters can say to each other. Eight characters? So much more possibility.

3) Sprints

Late in the evening, when I'm really tired and sick of the whole damn thing, doing word sprints with my mum or sister via Whatsapp or even with myself via well, real life has really helped!

The idea is that you write like mad...for a very short defined period of time. Fifteen minutes works well for me. If I'm racing and already in the middle of a scene, I can sometimes get close to 500 words done in 15 minutes. And not that poor quality words either.

Oddly enough, once the sprint is done I often have more motivation to keep going for longer. Yay for self-inflicted mind tricks! 

4) Um...Not spending too much time writing blog posts...

Okay, so I'm out of here. See you next week!

Just kidding. Seriously, keep wishing me luck. Two weeks to go :-) Do you have any survival hints for "that awkward middle bit" of a large project or piece of writing?

yours perseveringly

jjr

Planning vs Pantsing - NaNoWriMo 2013

I know it's early, but as you know I am already chomping at the NaNoWriMo bit. For those who don't know what NaNoWriMo is...it is an epic challenge: write a novel in the month of November. 30 Days. 50 000 Words. Yes, that is the correct number of zeros.

I won NaNoWriMo last year (by that I don't mean "came first" or anything. EVERYONE who finishes 50 000 words is a NaNo winner) and am firmly addicted to the rush of hurtling through a story at 1 667 words per day. The feeling is kind of like caffeine on a high. So naturally I want to do it again. Duh.

Now according to the NaNo lore and prophets, there are two ways of writing your NaNo novel. Planning (self explanatory) and Pantsing (flying by the seat of your pants). Last year, having discovered the notion of NaNo in the 20s of October, I pantsed it. Largely, anyway. I had a more-or-less chapter plan scribbled somewhere on a piece of paper. I had a couple of characters developed a couple of days before starting...but that's about it. Perfect for my episodic, fantasy-ish romp of a story. Short of words for the day? Insert a new species of monster, and some flashy spells. 

source

But this year I'm thinking about emulating some of my favourite authors of all time and writing a golden age style detective story. Think Dame Agatha and her coven of cronies. Ngaio Marsh, Dorothy L Sayers... *happy sigh* I do love a good murder mystery. If I had the creative energy to write Poirot or Lord Peter fanfiction I SO would.

source

But...one small problem... as we all know, a good detective story is built on timetables, and alibi charts and stuff. Turning clocks back, train schedules, tide tables, that sort of thing. Just the sort of thing which is impossible to make up on the fly. Not at 1000 words per hour, anyway. And in any case I may, possibly, skip over those pages in detective stories. I want to get to the good stuff, you know?

I have some ideas about how to do this without making myself miserable with tables and boring alibi charts, such as making characters like I would create computer game/dungeons and dragons characters. If and when I carry these ideas out, I will share them. Judiciously, of course, so as to save you all from the spoilers.

But basically, if I want this year's NaNo to be a win for me, and if I don't fall back on the interesting zombie apocalypse/teacher twist that is still a valid possibility... I need to start planning. Like, now.

So, er... bye! No time to talk. I'm planning...

yours prudently

jjr

File Transfer

“So there have been four suspicious male deaths linked to the school in past year,” Asanda announced. Small talk satisfactorily concluded; she was never slow to get down to business. “Two ODs, one shooting and a mystery bug.”

“Can we assume it’s that recent?”

“I kind of assumed it was. Why would she delay coming to you?”

“Maybe some new piece of information emerged.”

Asanda shrugged. “Okay, I’ll dig deeper. But you can check these ones out so long. Do you have your net-book?”

Danny pulled the slim volume out of his rucksack, and in three minutes received a blue-tooth transfer from her iPhone. He only hesitated for a moment before creating a new folder. Murder Possibles.

Asanda was still talking. “I included the shooting just in case. Didn’t think she’d have any doubts if that was the one, but you never know. And I wasn’t too fussy about age. We’re not dealing with the most massive pool of suspects.”

“Victims.”

“Whatever. Of course, chances are whatever this nutcase is talking about didn’t even make it into the news. So no guarantee my people even know about it.”

“Got the disclaimer loud and clear, A. Thanks anyway. I know it’s not exactly in your sphere.”

 She smiled. “Yeah, got me right out of the mood for pool parties. But I guess it makes a change.”

By mutual consent, they got up and made their way out of the shop. As they came to point at which they would part ways, Asanda paused.

“Danny, be careful will you? This isn’t someone cheating on their girlfriend, or buying exam papers. Those files…they’re for real.”

 He looked at her, and saw that there was genuine concern behind the jade eye-shadow. 

“I’ll be fine, A. It’s probably just some nut-job, as you said.” 

All the same, as they air-kissed and went their separate ways, Danny quickened his pace. He wanted to see what was in the files.   

More about Asanda

At exactly four-thirty that afternoon, Asanda slid into the seat opposite Danny at her favourite coffee bar, Vivant. Despite the fact that he disliked the faux leather sleekness of the place, Danny had already been there for ten minutes. He'd ordered Asanda's favourite latte, and acquired a corner table. This was quite an achievement at Vivant at any time of day, and half an hour before closing it required a great deal of persistence.

As usual when not in school uniform, Asanda had taken great care over her appearance, and Danny was glad he had secured a fairly secluded spot for their conversation. Casual eavesdropping was so much more likely when he was with Asanda. People noticed her, whether they liked it or not. She stood out of the crowd even in track-pants and a hoodie; her startling and ultra modern ensembles were nothing short of mesmerising.

Today it was skin tight emerald jeans, royal blue stilletos and a sequinned tank-top.

"You don't exactly blend in," Danny grumbled half-heartedly.

"Nice greeting, I don't think." She drew her latte towards her, and took a thirsty gulp. "Didn't you notice my new hair?"

"You're always changing your hairstyle."

"Hello. This weave cost me four hundred bucks. Not counting the stylist. Admire, damn you."

Danny grinned. Being Asanda was an expensive business. "You look incredible. But what's new?"

"That's better."

Asanda and Danny's relationship baffled a lot of people. It was probably only the asocial and inscrutable Prawn who had ever gotten close to the truth.

"He understands her when she's being ironic, and doesn't care what she looks like. She isn't interested in a romantic relationship, and provides a totally unique skill-set. It's a match made in heaven."

Introducing Asanda

Danny always attended the school play. In fact, he always attended every school event worth mentioning. He made it his business to be present whenever a large group of students gathered together.

“You have to be there, and you have to be seen,” he’d explained to Lilah, soon after she’d joined his crew. “Otherwise you’re out of touch; or they think you’re out of touch. Either is fatal in our line of business.”

Since official events were vastly outnumbered by unofficial house parties, after parties and braais, Danny had an unusually busy social life, mostly arranged by Asanda January.

Asanda was extremely tall and exceedingly beautiful. She already had a lucrative modeling career, and was confidently expected to make it big. Unsurprisingly, she was also popular, well informed and invited to every party going. It wasn’t really considered a party if Asanda wasn’t there; and since Asanda always took Danny as her unofficial, unannounced and if necessary uninvited plus-one, Danny’s presence had also become necessary to the party culture.

As every celebrity knows, keeping up this kind of social presence doesn’t just happen. Some evenings, Danny and Asanda would have no fewer than five scheduled stops on their route. This was only possible by careful planning, precise timing and ruthless efficiency. Happily, these were Asanda’s speciality. Each day, Danny would get an email at around 4pm, giving him the outline of that evening’s activities, complete with dress code, gift requirements and timeframes.

However, today’s email simply read: we need to talk.

Whatever Danny may have been expecting, this wasn’t it. It was unheard of for Asanda to take a raincheck on social events. Even exam season had been known to come and go without seeing an abatement in her relentless programme.

So his response was simple: when and where?

From last Friday

That evening, Danny skyped Prawn. It was the only way to have a conversation with him – Prawn had stopped coming to school half way through the previous year, and visitors were not encouraged.

“Someone found locker 1542,” Danny said quietly.

A few kilometres away, Prawn's pinkish eyes bulged, the effect magnified by the angle of his web-cam. “It's not even supposed to belong to you.”

“Can we check out the cameras?”

“I can access the footage easily enough, if that's what you mean.” A scornful look crossed his translucent face. “They store it on the external server; two weeks worth. Barely any security worth mentioning. But it won't help. That place is a madhouse.”

“She must have left some kind of a trace.” Despite himself, Danny could feel his frustration rising like bile. He wasn't used to being beaten at his own game. And the knowledge that he was speaking to Prawn only to confirm what he already knew just made matters worse.

“Are you working physical evidence?”

“Teach your grandmother, Prawn.”

“How about tracing the back story?”

“Asanda's on it.”

“Okay, so back to my first thought then. How the hell did she find you?”

Danny paused. “Accessing the locker allocations wouldn't have helped her. Those have all been

tweaked. No trace of our business left there.”

“Plus I added a few anti-hacker titbits of my own,” Prawn reminded him smugly. “Any unauthorised entry would have set off alarm bells all over my system. And I'm assuming this isn't an official investigation.”

“Which means...”

“The easiest way to find it without risking detection would have been physical observation.”

His face cleared. Here was something concrete. “Following one or more of us. Getting the general location.  Narrowing down the field. Hanging around during busy times. Keeping an eye on things. Maybe making friends with a few bona fide locker holders so she's got an excuse to chill there.”

“Not impossible. How long do you reckon this chick's been planning the set up?”

“We'll have to wait for Asanda on that one.”  

***

I promise I'm back on the challenge now...

Locker 1542

“I think my brother was murdered.”

Danny Whitman stared at the note. Characteristically, no twitch in his pale face betrayed the fact that he was extraordinarily disturbed by the presence of a foreign communique in locker 1542. Danny had not reached his lofty position by reacting mindlessly to circumstance. Only the slightest sideways movement of his bleached eyes indicated his sudden awareness of his surroundings.

Locker 1542 had been chosen specially for its location. It was a top level locker in the Beitman Building, East Wing – an area which was seldom without a buzz of activity. None of the busy passers-by ever bothered to take note of a slender figure extracting this notebook or that backpack from the bank of battered lockers. But now all the factors which made locker 1542 ideal for Danny's usual purposes were working against him. In the press of humanity all around him, and the hubbub of slamming doors and clicking locks, there was no way that he could identify a single interested observer or apprehensive lurker.

Instead, he slipped the note into the breast pocket of his beautifully laundered blazer and gently closed the locker door.

An hour later, Danny spread the same scrap of lined paper in front of Lilah Davids, the youngest of his lieutenants.

“Well, it looks like ordinary foolscap,” she said doubtfully. “Torn off the bottom of one of the exam pads you buy cheap on campus.”

Danny waited. She wasn't one of his top resources for nothing, and he was confident she'd pull something out.

“Written in ballpoint, pressing fairly hard – so I might be able to read some indentations.”

“Would they be likely to help?”

Lilah scowled at the scribbled writing. “It looks like whoever wrote this did it on impulse. Tore it off the bottom of her notes. Chances are she – ”

“She?”

“Come on, Dan. Look at it. With those e's its ten to one female, probably a junior. Anyhow, chances are she already pressed on this page while writing other notes. In which case, I should be able to get a partial read of whatever she's been writing about before this.”

He smiled. “Thanks Lil. And listen, give it top priority?”

“Sure. Always happy to pry into other people's stationery. Might be able to find you a match on the ink as well, for what its worth, especially if Galway buys my excuse for using the Chem lab.”

“He'll buy it.” No-one refused a polite request from Danny's crew, not even staff members. Their reasoning, hand tailored by Danny himself, was always impeccable; their credentials and reputation unblemished.

“I'll bb you when I get something. God, I better run. Mrs A will have my guts if I'm late again.”

Lilah hurtled off; satchel, kitbag and portfolio case crashing in her wake. Danny watched her go with some indulgence. Gone were the days when he ran for class. And in truth he wasn't much more concerned with finding the identity of his mysterious correspondent than he was with the prospect of Mrs Adams really having Lilah's guts. She'd contacted him, and when she was ready she'd contact him again. In the meantime though, more information was always good information. You never knew when it would come in handy.

Murder These Days

“Murder just isn't the same these days,” sighed Mrs Bradbury-Newton. “There's no class to it any more. It's just shootings and bashings and stabbings, and burnings and drownings and gang violence. What's happened to the good old middle class murder?

“I suppose really its the fault of suppliers. I mean, in the old days it was perfectly simple to get a decent supply of arsenic, or cyanide or whatever it was that you needed. You just popped down to the chemist a few villages away from your own, disguised with a headscarf and sunglasses, and told the assistant you needed it to kill rats. Or maybe wasps. Or something to do with hat-paint and cosmetics. Then you signed the poison register under a false name, preferably one that belonged to someone you wanted to incriminate, and walked away with enough poison to kill a small army.

“Even if you were cursed with a group of intelligent and observant chemist's assistants in your neighbourhood there was a very reliable alternative. You were bound to have a chum from boarding school who now worked in the nearby hospital dispensary. You simply nipped over to have tea with her at work, distracted her with a facsinating newspaper clipping and nicked a bottle or two from the poisons cupboard. Your kid leather gloves, absently mindedly left on, ensured that no fingerprints would be left behind. And again, you walked away with all the lethal material you could ever require.

“And here I am, an excellent candidate for becoming a respectable middle class murderer, and I cannot think of a single means of acquiring any of the traditional poisons. I'd have to be a chemistry major to come up with a way of quietly offing my husband, or mother-in-law, or illegitimate second cousin twice removed turned blackmailer. Or at least of doing so without leaving an official trail or a terrible mess. They just don't sell arsenic at the corner chemist any more. Neither do they keep cyanide in a dusty and disregarded poisons cabinet, under the inattentive eye of a college buddy. And wearing kid gloves would be bound to raise suspicions before I even got started.

“This must be why all those mystery writers turn murder stories into thrillers these days.  No such thing as a nice clean murder, worthy of puzzling out over your knitting.”

Mrs Bradbury-Newton sighed again. “Murder these days.”