Susan Spann, Flask of the Drunken Master

Susan Spann, Flask of the Drunken Master
Minotaur Books/A Thomas Dunne Book/St. Martin’s Press, © 2015
ISBN978-1-250-02706-1

The third book in the series finds Matsui Hiro (acting as a bodyguard) and Father Mateo (a Portuguese Catholic priest) investigating the murder of the half-owner of a not-very-good sake brewery; the accused in Ginjiro, who is a friend of Hiro’s (and to whom he has a personal obligation).  The murder occurred late at night, outside Ginjiro’s establishment (a bar/eatery/brewery of a higher class than the dead man,s, Chikao).  Chikao has, as it happens, a ne’er-do-well son (Kaoru) who has debts right and left; a debt collector trying to collect his debts, Akechi Yoshiki (the daughter of a murder victim in a previous book—Blade of the Samurai—in the series), may or may not have been on the scene shortly before, or at the time of, or shortly after, the murder.

Complicating matters include the political tension surrounding the appointment of a new Shogun, which threatens to engulf Hiro and Mateo (and Luis Alvarez, the Portuguese trader who has a contract to sell guns…to the wrong faction).  Security has become so tight in yoto that just getting around to make the investigation is problematic.  Another complication is that is they cannot clear Ginjiro quickly, he will be tortured until he confesses or dies.

The characters are well done (and Mina, Chikao’s widow, is especially interesting); the continuing characters hold out interest, and the drunken monk Suke actually makes a contribution to the investigation.  Spann continues to provide a rich (and so far as I can tell, accurate) backdrop for the action, and to develop the relationship between Hiro and Mateo, as they try to reconcile their cultural differences.  It may seem (it deemed to me) that the solution was sort of ad hoc, but it holds up well enough to make this a worthwhile read in an excellent series.

Copycat photoblogging AGAIN?

Yep.  Chris Bertram has a lovely shot of the "...gothic portico...in the church of Santa Maria de los Reyes in LaGuardia..." Spain.  I have an interior shot of the Pantheon, hand-held as well, from 2005.

Dermot Morrah, The Mummy Case Mystery

Dermot Morrah, The Mummy Case Mystery
Coachwhip Publications, 2016
(Reprint of ©1933 edition published by Harper)
ISBN 871-1-61646-250-5

At the end of term, on the night of the Commemoration Ball (think of it as your senior prom, on steroids), Professor Peter Benchley, an Egyptologist and Senior Fellow of Beaufort College (Oxford University) has apparently died in a fire in his rooms at the college.  Or at least someone has died.  Or maybe it’s just a mummy that has burned.  The evidence is unclear.  What is clear is that the extremely valuable mummy--the oldest extant mummy--of a Sixth Dynasty pharaoh (King Pepi) has either been burned or stolen.  Professor Benchley, who had recently purchased the mummy (and its case) from Professor Bonoff, a Russian Egyptologist, is at the very least missing.

The inquest, which is held in college and for which the Coroner’s Jury consists of the Fellows of the College, returns a verdict of accidental death, identifying the deceased as Benchley.  Two Junior Fellows, Denys Sargent (Law) and Humphrey Considine (Archeology), find themselves unconvinced by the evidence, and decide to investigate.  (Considine is Benchley’s executor, and Sargent acts, in that respect, as his legal advisor; the will has an odd codicil).  In the course of their investigation, they meet up with two (female) undergraduates from another College, who have some pertinent information, which leads to the recovery of the mummy case (but not the mummy itself).  They also try to trace Bonoff’s movements in England (including what appears to be a sighting of him in Beaufort College the night of the fire).

Morrah—an academic himself and a mathematics Fellow at New College in Oxford—never wrote another mystery—he was only 37 when this one was originally published, and that is probably too bad.  Based on what I know, he evokes the Oxford experience extremely well (if somewhat more lighted-heartedly than, for example, Dorothy Sayers did in Gaudy Night).  And Sargent and Considine are pleasant, intelligent investigators.  In particular, Considine's knowledge of the archeology of Egypt has its place in the investigation, but Sargent is the real sleuth.   The mystery itself is not the real reason for reading the book; it’s a decent plot, but I felt sure I knew the basic outline of the solution by about a third of the way into it (I was, as it happens, right—or I would not have mentioned it, would I?).  The one somewhat badly drawn character is an American millionaire, one Van Ditten, who badly wants to acquire the mummy for his collection, and expresses himself willing to pay up to a million dollars (about ₤200,000) for it.  Easily recommended as a light, pleasant summer read.

Obsolescent themes in mysteries

A couple of books I’ve read lately made me think about themes or plot devices that used to be common in mystery novels, but no longer work for “contemporary” mysteries—those set in the 21^st century.  *There may be “spoilers” in the following material; proceed at your own risk*

Two of these are significant plot points in a Perry Mason mystery I just finished, *The Case of the Blond Bonanza* (1962).  A significant plot point involves a man who disappeared when a boat overturned 14 years before the events in the book; he then re-appears with a different name and a new life.  This is a fairly common device in some books, either in the plot or (as in *The Maltese Falcon* [the Flitcraft parable (for a lengthy discussion: http://j-nelson.net/2015/01/twenty-writers-dashiell-hammett-the-flitcraft-parable-from-the-maltese-falcon/)] a narrative device.  (A recent example is in Lawrence Block’s novella, *Resume Speed.*)  In a time before nearly everyone had a Social Security number, and getting employment did not require you to have a SSN, drifting from place-to-place with a very malleable identity more-or-less works as a plot device.  But in a “contemporary” story, it’s something that almost demands explanation—how does the character get away with it?

The second plot point in the Gardner book involves a PI keeping one of the characters under surveillance.  He has to leave his surveillance position to make a phone call, which eventually tips Perry off as to the actual course of events.  (Again, this is a common bit in a lot of PI novels—the need to find a phone to report in/ask for help/etc.)  But now, with cell phones, that no longer works. 

The other plot device comes mostly from “caper” books, especially those involving the heist of a company payroll.  [Donald Westlake as Richard Stark, *The Score* (1964) is a good example.]  As late as the mid-1960s, this seems somewhat plausible.  But by about the late 1960s/early 1970s (and in my own case, from the very first summer job I had, working for a grocery store chain), companies generally paid by check, even to employees without bank accounts, and today most large firms pay only by direct deposit.  So another plot device that worked fairly recently would probably raise eyebrows in a book set in the US in the 2010s.

 

Sylvia Fischbach Braden, Karl Marx Imperial Dispensary and Himalayan Tea Garden

Sylvia Fischbach Braden, Karl Marx Imperial Dispensary and Himalayan Tea Garden
Silver Oaks Press (Baltimore Maryland), © 2016

I sat down and read the 22 poems in this stunning book, and found myself at a loss.  I am reminded of Buddy Glass (in J.D. Salinger’s “Seymour: An Introduction”) saying that what he wants to do for his readers is plunk down all the poems written by his older brother Seymour.  I find myself wanting to type this book out for you to read now, to fall into now, to discover now.  I started by putting bookmarks on the pages of the poems that particularly moved me, but stopped, because I was bookmarking almost every page.  I want to quote from them (and will, a little, but only a little).

I should say that Sylva and I attended the same high school, graduating in 1965, and that, of all the people I knew there (and we had, I think, an extraordinary class), only Sylvia intimidated me (intellectually).  And now, 51 years later, I find myself intimidated again by the brilliance and intimacy of what she has written.  She weaves together her life with her memories of (and love for) her mother, father, sister, grandparents, and I, the reader, became surrounded by her words, caught voluntarily in them, wishing the book were longer. 

In time, the poems span the 20^th century; in space, they move from India to St. Louis to Indianapolis, to Baltimore.  Emotionally, from tranquility to anger (“Sestina: Hopping Mad”) and back.

Her use of language—simple, direct—is stunning.  For example, from “Seedpods Explode in Eden:

I like to imagine
Impatiens glandulifera
blooming prodigiously
in the foothills
behind Eden Hospital,
the now-crumbling edifice
in Darjeeling
where my mother was born…

I’m not going to quote it, but the fourth stanza in “It’s May” is one of the most effective uses I have read of using language to evoke a feeling of love and (it seemed to me) loss.  “The Upanishad Admonishes” is a perfectly wrought reminder that our lives are more than this or that (and reminded me of the great Issa’s haiku, “I know this world of tears/Is only a world of tears/And yet…and yet”).  The three “Grayson’s Tail” poems are beautiful—and simple, especially the final line of the second one (“Grayson”).  And this, from “New Year,” transfixed me:

(And now I’ve spent
half an hour on you tube
dancing with tiny rhythmic
hip and shoulder shrugs
inside my swivel chair,
listening with love and awe
to Oscar Peterson
and others
Begin the Beguine).

(And I’ll save you the trouble of looking for it yourselves—it’s here.  And listening with love and awe is the only possible response to almost anything played by Oscar Peterson.)

But enough.  If you possibly can, find this book, read it.  And re-read it.  It is a beautiful book.  Written by a beautiful person.  Peace, and love, Sylvia.

I.J. Parker,, The Convict's Sword

I.J. Parker, The Convict's SwordPenguin, 2011
ISBN  978-0143115793

Sugawara Akitada, second secretary in the Ministry of Justice faces a number of crises--first in his professional life (his superior hates him), second in his family life (his wife thinks he is neglecting his family in favor of his career), and third in his conception of himself (how does he relate to his responsibilities, including to one dead friend in particular).  In the 12th century, Kyoto is facing a smallpox epidemic, Akitada's retainer Tora is suspected of the murder of a street singer, Akitada faces the possibility of dismissal from his position and has to cover for his superior who has fled the city, and he also has to come to terms with his family crises and his feelings of responsibility to his dead friend Haseo.  The plot is serviceable, but Akitada can be wearing as a character--he is mercurial (indeed, I wondered sometimes if he might be bi-polar), and much of the heavy lifting is done by others.  I remain a fan of this series, but this is far rom the strongest entry.

I don't like to be pedantic, but...

This, from an author, in a blog post:

"Right after World War I, the country started urbanizing, and as of the 1920 census, just over half the U.S. population lived in cities for the first time ever. Barely fifty years before, only five percent of the population had."

Well, no.  In 1870, according to the Census, 25.7% of the US population lived in what the Census called "urban places."  In fact, in 1790, 5.1% of the population lived in "urban places."  Urbanization was a continuous process through the 19th and 20th centuries, not something that began after World War I.  (This matters to me because I teach US economic history, and I really prefer that people get things right.  The part of the blog post dealing with what happened in agriculture in the 1920s, I want to emphasize, is just fine.)  Here are the data:

 

The Urbanization of the US Population

(https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Urbanization_in_the_United_States)

Year	United States	Northeast	Midwest	South	West
1790	5.10%	8.10%		2.10%
1800	6.10%	9.30%	0.00%	3.00%
1810	7.30%	10.90%	0.90%	4.10%
1820	7.20%	11.00%	1.10%	4.60%
1830	8.80%	14.20%	2.60%	5.30%
1840	10.80%	18.50%	3.90%	6.70%
1850	15.40%	26.90%	9.20%	8.30%	6.40%
1860	19.80%	35.70%	13.90%	9.60%	16.00%
1870	25.70%	44.30%	20.80%	12.20%	25.80%
1880	28.20%	50.80%	24.20%	12.20%	30.20%
1890	35.10%	59.00%	33.10%	16.30%	37.00%
1900	39.60%	66.10%	38.60%	18.30%	39.90%
1910	45.60%	71.80%	45.10%	25.50%	47.90%
1920	51.20%	75.50%	52.30%	28.10%	51.80%
1930	56.10%	77.60%	57.90%	34.10%	58.40%
1940	56.50%	76.60%	58.40%	36.70%	58.50%
1950	64.00%	79.50%	64.10%	48.60%	69.50%
1960	69.90%	80.20%	68.70%	58.50%	77.70%
1970	73.60%	80.50%	71.60%	64.80%	83.00%
1980	73.70%	79.20%	70.50%	66.90%	83.90%
1990	78.00%	84.00%	73.90%	71.50%	87.60%
2000	79.00%	84.40%	74.70%	72.80%	88.60%
2010	80.70%	85.00%	75.90%	75.80%	89.80%