Emily Winslow, a unique and original voice in crime fiction today

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Contributor: Rosalind Esche

Emily Winslow, with her multiple narrators (reminiscent of Wilkie Collins’ great detective novel of 1868, The Moonstone) has introduced an unusual and distinctive voice into the world of contemporary crime fiction. For Winslow, the story is central, and everyone comes and goes in and out of that story, like characters entering and exiting the stage in a play, each bringing something of their own to bear on the unravelling of the mystery set before the reader. As the title of her first book The Whole World implies, everyone has a part to play, every voice counts, every viewpoint is important, and no one person is the star.

Winslow uses this literary device in order to convey the unreliability of memory, the potential incoherence of differing points of view and the challenging process of piecing together the disparate pieces of a puzzle in order to understand the whole.

Winslow has said that she does not know the resolution of each mystery before it begins – she participates in the process of investigation as she writes, piecing random facts together, uncovering evidence, trying to make sense of conflicting accounts, working her way towards the resolution alongside her detectives. This makes for a most unusual experience for the reader, who feels drawn into the psyche of the characters, with their “first person” view of the world, their alienation from one another, their cross purposes and failure to connect.

The author’s style unveils a subtle process of layering characters’ innermost thoughts, feelings and memories, gradually building as close to a coherent picture as possible, somewhat analogous to the technique of an artist delicately shading in blank spaces on a sheet of paper, slowly building depth and dimension.

Emily Winslow has certainly established herself, in a genre crowded with talent, as a sophisticated storyteller with her compelling and unsettling books. It is safe to say that no one else out there is writing anything like these books.

 

 

Grace

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Contributor: Rosalind Esche

At the beginning of lockdown in the spring of 2020 I thought I would make use of the extra time at home to catch up on my ever growing, and increasingly daunting, ‘to be read’ pile, which in my imagination had assumed an accusatory air, with each new tome added increasing my sense of failure. However, I found myself unable to pick up a book, my concentration was in shreds, my motivation non existent. This ‘reader’s block’ lasted for several months, during which I turned to the uplifting and life affirming drama series Life on Mars, which became my lifeline, as it did for so many others. And it was a tv drama which finally kickstarted me into reading again – the ITV adaptation of Peter James’s Roy Grace novel Dead Simple, starring John Simm as Detective Superintendent Grace. I enjoyed the dramatisation so much I decided to read the book, and that was it – I was hooked, and have been powering through the Roy Grace series ever since.

I like the cumulative effect of binge reading these books, I feel immersed in Detective Superintendent Roy Grace’s world, his thought processes, his working methods, his relationships and his city, Brighton. I am completely absorbed by the authenticity for which Peter James is known and respected. I am learning things about police investigation methods I didn’t know I even wanted to know! Have I always been a closet police procedural nerd without realising it? Or have these compelling books turned me into one? I don’t know, but I’m so glad I discovered this series.

The author steadily builds an atmosphere of deep concentration, absolute dedication and quiet reflection, creating an aura of resolute professionalism around his Detective Superintendent Roy Grace as he takes control of a major crime investigation. Grace exudes calm authority, and is liked and respected by his team of trusted officers, which expands into a cast of dozens as an investigation gains momentum and the field of enquiry grows ever wider. 

However, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace, consummate professional that he is, is also capable of pursuing his own lines of enquiry outside the normal investigative framework when he thinks it will help solve a case. And that can lead him into some most unusual territory. Grace uses the paranormal if he thinks it will help his investigation (openly admitting that sometimes it does, and sometimes it doesn’t), consulting mediums and pendulum dowsers. James has said that the police do this more than we might think, simply viewing them as another resource in the pursuit of information, which intrigued me.

In the first Grace book, Dead Simple, the detective faces a hostile QC who tries to undermine his authority in court by ridiculing his use of a medium during the course of an investigation (which led to a conviction). The silk taunts Grace with his line of questioning:

‘”So you regularly turn to the dark arts in your work as a senior police officer, do you Detective Superintendent Grace?” An audible snigger rippled round the courtroom. “I wouldn’t call it the dark arts,” Grace said. “I would call it an alternative resource. The police have a duty to use everything at their disposal in trying to solve crimes.” “So would it be fair to say you are a man of the occult? A believer in the supernatural?” the silk asked.’

In one of my favourite moments of the book, Peter James supplies his beleagured Detective Superintendent with an inspired response to his interrogator:

‘”What is the first thing this court required me to do when I entered the witness stand?” he asked. Before the silk could respond, Grace answered for him. “To swear on the Holy Bible.” He paused for it to sink in. “God is a supernatural being – the supreme supernatural being. In a court that accepts witnesses taking an oath to a supernatural being, it would be strange if I and everyone else in this room did not believe in the supernatural.”’

The silk sits down.

There is another reason for Grace consulting mediums and the paranormal, but that will have to wait …

Why Do We Read Detective Novels?

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Contributor: Rosalind Esche

‘Crime fiction confirms our belief, despite some evidence to the contrary, that we live in a rational, comprehensible, and moral universe.’ – P. D. James

For those who don’t read them, it would be tempting to think that those who do are sick people who enjoy indulging vicariously in violence. This may be true of some readers, but I would hazard a guess that for the vast majority the murder itself is secondary to the intricacies of the plot, the complexity of the puzzle, strong characterisation and an evocative setting. Of course we may enjoy a frisson of pleasurable fear at a safe distance, while curled up cosily at home with a book, safe in the knowledge that however frightening the story, it isn’t happening to us. Many argue that dark fairy tales serve the same purpose for children. The fact that there are so many crime novelists, and millions around the world reading them, demonstrates a universal need for what they provide.

When Alison Bruce, author of the Gary Goodhew detective novels, answered our Lockdown Reading questionnaire, she  recommended The Science of Storytelling by Will Storr for both readers and writers. This book explores storytelling from a scientific point of view, looking at research from the realms of psychology and neuroscience to explain why we humans seem to be hard wired to need stories in order to function.  Storr doesn’t share P.D. James’s belief in a moral universe, he thinks that the world is chaotic and our lives meaningless, and argues that our brains trick us into thinking otherwise through creating our own personal story, so that we can deceive ourselves that the world makes sense and that our lives have meaning. But he does agree with her on the fundamental point that we humans have a need to make sense of our experience, whether we believe in a world of nihilistic chaos or a moral universe, and that we do this through storytelling.

All of us are storytellers, constructing stories about ourselves and our experiences on a daily basis, but some people go one step further  – they tell stories for a living. How extraordinary that we human beings not only turn our own personal experiences into a continuous narrative, but we need to hear/read/watch other people’s narratives, which we then relate back to our own circumstances and experience. So we buy books, go to the theatre, watch tv dramas and films. Even the songs we listen to are stories.

Whether or not we agree with Storr’s philosophical position, we can accept his analysis of the essential components of good storytelling, including unexpected change and information gaps, which create ‘gnawing levels of curiosity’ in readers. This applies to all storytelling, but for those of us who read crime fiction it rings particularly true. ‘The place of maximum curiosity – the zone in which storytellers play – is when people think they have some idea but aren’t quite sure’ he tells us.

Storr quotes Professor George Loewenstein who, in his paper The Psychology of Curiosity, based on psychological tests and brain scans, lists four ways of involuntarily inducing curiosity in humans:

  1. The ‘posing of a question or presentation of a puzzle’
  2. ‘exposure to a sequence of events with an anticipated but unknown resolution’
  3. ‘the violation of expectations that triggers a search for an explanation’
  4. knowledge of ‘possession of information by someone else’

Storr points out that readers of detective fiction will immediately recognise the familiar components of the detective novel in which the reader is:

  1. ‘posed a puzzle’
  2. ‘exposed to a sequence of events with an anticipated but unknown resolution’
  3. ‘surprised by red herrings’
  4. ‘tantalised by the fact that someone knows whodunnit, and how, but we don’t.’

and admits that ‘Storytellers have long known these principles, having discovered them by practice and instinct.’ He goes on to remark that ‘Without realising it, deep in the detail of his dry, academic paper, Loewenstein has written a perfect description of police-procedural drama.’

However, as we readers know, police procedure without well drawn characters is ultimately limited, satisfying in the way that completing a crossword puzzle is satisfying, but lacking emotional depth and of no lasting impact. While the mystery at the heart of a detective story compels our immediate attention, there is no doubt that the detective’s relationships, be they romantic, familial or working, are an essential weapon in the author’s armoury for sustaining our interest, particularly in crime fiction series, in which we can follow personal storylines as they develop in each succeeding book. We gradually get to know John Rebus, Cormoran Strike, Roy Grace, Harry Nelson, as their personal stories unfold within the framework of each successive plot, returning to them like old friends with each new book.

In the end, for me,  it’s simple psychology – detective fiction deals with light versus dark, good versus evil, it provides the feeling of security that comes from a puzzle solved, loose ends tied up, bad people getting their comeuppance and order and safety being restored. On top of all that you get interesting characters and as often as not some humour thrown in. The crime novel provides a framework within which the author can explore human nature, morality, psychology, social issues, human relationships and more besides. As Ian Rankin said “I discovered that everything I wanted to say about the world could be said in a crime novel.”

A Family of Phrenologists

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Contributor: Rosalind Esche

When we think of seaside promenade attractions, such as fortune-telling, palm-reading and so forth, we tend to imagine stripey booths and bead curtains. When I worked on the Tower Project at Cambridge University Library I catalogued a series of pamphlets written and published by the Ellis family, who advertised themselves as phrenologists and publishers (but who dabbled in a great deal more than that), and had impressive premises on the promenade in Blackpool.

The Ellis family establishment

Note the heads either side of the word “Phrenologists” above the door, and the slogan “Advice On Health” on the roof, between two particularly striking hands, palms facing outwards, in front of the chimneypots. Clearly the Ellis family, Ida, Albert and Frank, were successful enough to operate from a solid building rather than a beach hut. The 1911 census records that Albert and Ida Ellis (husband and wife), Frank Ellis (brother) and Annie Edwards (domestic servant) occupied a house with 11 rooms, not counting, as instructed on the census form,  “scullery, landing, lobby, closet, bathroom, nor warehouse, office, shop.” Looking at the illustration of their promenade premises (81/82 Central Beach, Blackpool) it is likely that the consulting rooms were on the ground floor and they lived in 11 rooms above on two further floors – quite an establishment. Albert originated from Canterbury, and Ida from Suffolk, but when they first arrived in Blackpool I could not discover. Blackpool, as a popular seaside resort, offered excellent opportunities for a business such as theirs. Albert and Ida were 42 and 43 respectively at the time of this census, and had been married for 21 years.  All three Ellises give their occupation as Palmist/Phrenologist and record that they work “at home.”

Each family member specialised in their own particular skill: Frank in physiognomy, Albert in graphology and phrenology, Ida in palmistry, crystal gazing, automatic writing and psychometry.  When customers consulted the Ellis family they would receive a booklet described as a “chart,” published by the Ellises themselves, packed full of information, with blank spaces in which a personal reading would be inscribed, with appropriate advice.

Even babies could be taken to a consultation and have their own chart filled in with their potential characteristics, personality, skills and so forth.

Each chart has an index to character, so that after the initial phrenological consultation, the relevant Ellis, presumably Albert in this case, would mark in pencil numbers listed in a sort of tabular key at the front of the booklet, which the customer then relates to the characteristics correspondingly numbered in the following pages.  After that there are pages with blank spaces in which the Ellises would write customised advice (for an extra fee) on your health, occupation, relationships and so forth, even describing “persons likely to prove enemies.”  On a page headed “Summary of mental powers” the seven options provided include “You have inherited a very inferior nature, and will not think for yourself. You are low and vulgar in your habits.”

I can’t help thinking that anyone diagnosed in this category would feel pretty hard done by, parting with ready cash only to be told they were vulgar and inferior. The Ellis family obviously didn’t pull their punches; perhaps such brutal truths bestowed an air of authenticity on their readings.

The Ellises knew that they had to keep clients coming back for more. In their “Advice worth following” on p. 23 of “Stepping stones to success” they explain:

 “We would like you to consult us every year, because science is advancing so quickly that we are continually adding new features to our book. This enables our clients to obtain the latest information about themselves we can give, and also an opportunity to compare one chart with another, and thereby see what improvement has been made.”

Good idea to let your clients know that you keep up with the latest research in your field, there’s nothing so reassuring as a commitment to professional development in health practitioners.

In the lists of their books for sale at the end of their pamphlets, I noticed that the Ellises had initials  (F.B.I.M.S.) after their names, which my research tells me stood for Fellow of the British Institute of Mental Science. Apparently the British Institute of Mental Science was founded by Albert Ellis in 1891, initially to offer postal tuition, later  issuing diplomas and certificates.*

Thanks to information provided by Mark Ellis, a descendant of the Ellis family, we know that Ida ran the consulting rooms at these premises while Frank was busy running the promenade business.

The Ellises are careful to qualify their claims to scientific authenticity in “Notice to clients” at the beginning of “Palmistry chart” with an ingenious  explanation of why a client’s life may not unfold as read in their palm:

“It must be thoroughly understood that palmistry does not teach that things must absolutely occur, but that they possibly may unless steps are taken to hinder their occurrence. Thus it will be seen that if a voyage is marked on the hands, and efforts are made to hinder such an event, the mind will gradually register on the hands that the voyage was hindered, or the sign may fade away; whereas if events had taken their ordinary course the voyage would have been undertaken.”

In other words, anything could happen.

The allusion to science is a canny ploy by the Ellis family – phrenology occupied a curious position in the public imagination during the late 19th and early 20th centuries, peddled on the one hand by fairground quacks, while being the subject of genuine academic research by respected thinkers on the other.  Significant British phrenologists included the Scottish brothers George and Andrew Combe, who established the Phrenological Society of Edinburgh in 1820. This group included such well-respected luminaries as the publisher/author Robert Chambers, the astronomer John Pringle Nichol, the botanist Hewett Cottrell Watson and psychiatrist and asylum reformer William A.F. Browne (who took part in debates at the Plinian Society, of which Charles Darwin was a member). However, phrenology enjoyed a chequered career as a serious academic discipline, was rejected by the British Association for the Advancement of Science, and was eventually designated a pseudoscience.

 

We may scoff at the Ellis family’s methods, but aren’t they just cashing in on that enduring human need – to be listened to? Clients could enjoy the time and undivided attention of Albert, Ida or Frank at a consultation. What, after all, are psychiatrists and counsellors, if not people who will listen and dispense advice, for a price? And a much higher price than the Ellis family’s fees. Perhaps we should see the Ellis family as the poor man’s psychoanalysts, the working class alternative to the psychiatrist’s couch? People then, as now, were hungry for the promise of self-improvement, success, personal happiness and fulfilment.

As for Albert, Ida and Frank, the bumps on their heads would surely have denoted sharp business brains. It feels a bit like booking with a certain budget airline, reading Ellis family booklets – you’re forever coming across extra charges.

“If at any time you require a more complete guide to success, you should send this book by post to the address on the cover, and enclose ten shillings.”

“We shall be pleased to fill up any portions of this book at any time from your photo or handwriting or impressions of hands. Our fee for doing so through the post is one shilling for each part.”

 “Palmistry by post or by personal interview. If by post it is necessary for the client first to send 6d. for a bottle of Transferine, a liquid composition for the purpose of making impressions of hands. Fees according to length and detail of description.”

I can’t help wondering what the ingredients of Transferine were – Mark Ellis told us that it was invented by Frank as a removable (washable) type of ink for sending hand prints by post.

The Ellises were careful to preserve their intellectual property, too. On the first page of all their publications is the following warning:

“This chart is copyright, and legal proceedings will be taken against any person or persons who publish any portion of it without the written consent of the publishers, who have obtained an injunction and costs against a character reader who infringed the copyright of one of their charts.”

In other words, look out, any other “mental scientists” out there, and make sure you don’t impinge on the Ellis family turf.

 

*Witchcraft, magic and culture 1736-1951 by Owen Davies (published Manchester UP, 1999) – this book is held by Cambridge University Library at this shelfmark: 198.c.99.179

These pamphlets are housed in the tower of Cambridge University Library at the following shelfmarks and may be requested for consultation in the Library building:

  • Aids to self improvement. Classmark 1916.8.483
  • Guide to fame and fortune. Classmark 1916.8.572
  • Guide to health. Classmark 1916.8.484
  • Guide to success. Classmark 1916.8.509
  • Palmistry chart. Classmark 1916.8.617
  • Stepping stones to success. Classmark 1916.8.508
  • What baby is likely to become. Classmark 1916.8.621

Life on Mars

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Contributor: Rosalind Esche

The thing that has kept me going during all three lockdowns has been the British tv drama series Life on Mars, first unleashed on our tv screens 15 years ago in January 2006. I somehow managed to miss it then, but discovered it, thanks to my son, during the first lockdown during the spring of 2020. Now I wonder how on earth I’ve managed without it all this time. What a life saver! Life on Mars boasts some of the best writing for British tv drama in living memory. This is no ordinary popular tv series, it is so much more than that. In case you don’t know, it’s about a police detective who has a car accident in 2006 and wakes up in 1973. If that sounds bizarre, too “sci fi” for you, outlandish, silly even, don’t be put off – watch it, you’ll be surprised.

If you like strong characterisation, tight plotting, sharp dialogue, profound themes, laugh out loud humour – you will find all of these and more in Life on Mars. This is genuinely great writing. Life on Mars, groundbreaking in its day, has to be one of the most remarkable tv dramas ever broadcast – after 15 years it has not dated at all and is still held in great affection by legions of devotees. It is easy to see why – it fires your imagination, evokes powerful emotions, makes you fall in love with its characters, refuses to deal in easy stereotypes, presents you with complex moral dilemmas, surprises and challenges you, and amidst all of this it entertains and amuses with tremendous pace and energy.

The writers manage to create a seamless interweaving of all these disparate elements, producing a compelling drama enacted by characters who steal into your heart as each episode unfolds, drawing you into their world, making you care. The subtle layering of themes, and the cross referencing between not only the various plots, but between the two different worlds of 1973 and 2006, is deeply satisfying, and warrants more than one viewing in order to capture all of its rich complexity. Most of all it is the development of personal relationships between the characters which is ultimately so moving. But there is no sentimentality here, this is tough writing, demanding mature reflection on thought provoking subjects such as corruption, loyalty, conscience, duty, truth, loneliness, alienation, friendship and love.

Once you start watching it you feel an overwhelming need to discuss it endlessly with someone else who’s watching it, conversations can last hours and continue over days, weeks, months. Is Sam in a coma or is he mad, or has he actually travelled in time? Are his colleagues real, or a figment of his imagination? Who, or what, is Frank Morgan? Ultimately you realise that what really matters is the emotional immediacy of the drama itself – it isn’t meant to be a realistic text, it’s about the transformational power of love and friendship, about choosing life in the face of grey, bleak isolation.

This must be why Life on Mars speaks to so many people at the moment. Everyone I know who’s been watching it during lockdown has felt compelled to watch it over and over again. You never tire of it, and each time you re-watch an episode you discover something new. That is the mark of excellent writing. It is life affirming and uplifting, which is why it has become the comfort viewing of so many people during this wretched pandemic. It should be prescribed by the NHS as essential to mental wellbeing.

Hats off to writers Matthew Graham, Ashley Pharoah and others, for producing such great work, to the cast for exceptional acting, to the directors and producers and everyone else involved in this most wonderful drama series, what an outstanding achievement. Thank you for enriching my life.

Life on Mars is available on Britbox.

#LifeonMars

 

Discovering Tower Treasures

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What’s really housed in Cambridge University Library’s fabled 17 storey tower? Contrary to a popular notion among students, the tower is not packed with pornography (Neville Chamberlain did rather unfortunately refer to the tower as ‘this magnificent erection’) but you might be surprised to learn that it houses a remarkable collection of so called ‘ephemera’ (non academic material) including board games, recipes, Victorian toys, handbooks on poultry farming, colourful children’s books, pamphlets on palmistry and treatises on phrenology, all jostling for shelf space in this 1930s landmark of the city skyline.

I was lucky to be part of the Tower Project at the University Library, cataloguing online all items received under legal deposit by the library from 1800 to 1925. A collection that had up until then been accessible only by consulting small, handwritten, wedge shaped books which read from back to front, and were slotted into niches in a corridor wall, became discoverable through the library’s online catalogue by anyone around the world with an internet connection. 

I blogged about the books I was cataloguing for the Tower Project, and I’m still blogging about them now in the hope that they will amuse, intrigue and entertain.

The Average Boy

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“When stress of weather, or the coming of long winter evenings, or any other reason gives the indoor part of life a larger importance, this indoor handy book will be found an invaluable companion.”

If your children are bored being cooped up at home under the current lockdown, this may well be the book for you. You may think “Harper’s indoor book for boys” by Joseph H. Adams old fashioned, published as it was in 1908, but the scope of its ambition is impressive. No egg boxes and pipe cleaners here, oh no, this is on an altogether grander scale. Projects include making a bird cage, a candelabra, a stereopticon (double magic lantern, in case you were wondering), a settle and “nooks for books,” not to mention trying a spot of pyrography (fire-etching on wood – is this wise?), bookbinding, Venetian metalwork, even clock making, for goodness’ sake.

What a joy parenting must have been in 1908, when “the average boy” (as he is constantly referred to in this handy tome) would tackle “fitting up a boy’s room” at the drop of a hat, assembling “an indispensable clothes press” along the way, while constructing a “curved-back window seat” at a moment’s notice. Where have we gone wrong? To think that your sons could furnish your entire house for you if only they didn’t spend all their time sitting comatose in front of a screen.

An exercising weight

Heaven knows it’s easy enough to feel inadequate as a parent, but I can see that I have fallen lamentably short:

“Nearly every boy has had, at one time or another, a desire to make scroll-brackets, fretwork-boxes, and filigree wood-work of various sorts.”

Oh dear. I failed to nurture this enthusiasm while my boys were growing up – neither of them could build a whatnot* to save their lives.

Whatnot

This book was originally published in America, and is a testament to the self-reliance and energetic spirit of our pioneering cousins across the water. Perhaps this explains the book’s assumption that one has sufficient space at home in which to construct what has to be the most ambitious project in this frankly daunting volume, a “house gymnasium,” featuring an “adjustable flying trapeze.” Yes, that’s right, a flying trapeze.

The high expectations of the average boy expressed in this “indoor handy book” beg the question as to what constitutes average. I wonder how many botched whatnots and wonky settles cluttered up Edwardian family homes? As for the consequences of pyrography and flying trapezes, we can only hope that the emergency services in 1908 were up to the task.

* ”For trinkets, books, and the general assortment of odds and ends that a boy is sure to possess.”