Cyanide in the Sun and Other Stories of Summertime Crime edited by Martin Edwards

Cyanide in the Sun and Other Stories of Summertime Crime is one of the six books I brought with me on our recent trip to Prince Edward Island. I started it on the first day of autumn, which sounds like an incongruous time to be reading a short story collection with a summer theme. However, the stories are not only set in summer, they all feature characters on holiday, too. A fact I was not aware of until I had started reading. This collection turned out to be exactly what I wanted to be reading on my trip. 

Short stories are great for when you only have small pockets of time to read in. And I have to admit that while away I was so overly stimulated by the beautiful landscape and all of the day trips we had lined up, that I was not able to carve out as much time for reading. In what time I did have available, I was often a bit distracted. I still bookended my day with reading, but not for an hour or more at a time, which is what I usually do at home.

In this collection, I discovered lots of new favourites and I have a sneaking suspicion that this book will find its way into my suitcase on my next holiday.

“Kill & Cure” by Guy Cullingford (1958)

A crime writer suffering from nightmares is prescribed a fortnight holiday at a private hotel in Bunmouth. There he just seems to get accustomed to being away from his typewriter when something extraordinary happens with one of his fellow guests. This was humorous, shocking, and very well-told in just a few pages. What a great start to this collection!

“Day Excursion” by Wilfred Fienburgh (1954)

Short and cute scene with Sergeant Pockle on a train with a bunch of “day trippers returning home from Seagate”. All is quiet in the carriage when a little boy claims he spots the man who stole his mum’s purse earlier in the day. Really lovely scene-setting in this story. Despite its brevity we get a sense of Pockle’s humour and general personality, and the other characters are equally well-drawn. 

“The Secret of the Mountain” by C. Bobbett (1928)

A man has a fatal accident on a mountain in the Lake District. His wife, Mrs. Watson suspects it was not an accident, but that an ex-business partner of her husband’s, Mr. Kent, was in some way responsible. Travers, a Scotland Yard detective, investigates. Half the fun of this one is how Travers goes about his investigation and search for the proof of murder. The only thing that didn’t work for me was the framing device, which felt unnecessary and a bit confusing to my tired brain.

“Unlucky Dip” by Andrew Garve (1956)

This is a story that is as clever as it is short. And it is very short indeed. A man dies by drowning during his regular 7:30 a.m. swim, possibly as a result of a muscle cramp. But what of the bruising around his shoulders?

I loved the setting of this one. Just imagine living somewhere with such easy access to the sea that you could enjoy the luxury of a morning swim each day! The downside, of course, is the chance of meeting your death there.

“Quarrel at Sea” by Victor Canning (1956)

This is another one set by the sea. It relies on the victim’s watch to tell the story of time of death, but not in the way you may expect. I just loved it!

“The Holiday” by Ethel Lina White (1938)

I love the start of this one.

Nearly everyone in the small block of old-fashioned mansion-flats seemed to be going on holiday, with the exception of Charles Bevan.

Checked in his ambition to become one of Trenchard’s young men, for the past eight months he had been lying in a back ground-floor flat, which looked out into the well of the courtyard. He disliked reading, so had nothing to do but listen to the rush of bath-water down the pipes from six o’clock in the morning, and to watch the lights appear in the opposite building until the final eclipse. (61)

I assumed “Trenchard’s young men” had something to do with the military, but I had to look it up. Hugh Trenchard, 1st Viscount Trenchard (1873-1956) was important in the establishment of the Royal Air Force. So our man Charles Bevan was unsuccessful at becoming a pilot, which I suspect was a disappointment a number of men had to face during the First and Second World Wars.

But let me describe the premise…

What happens when a bank robber holds up in a woman’s apartment when everyone else on her floor is on holiday. This was a surprisingly touching story with a satisfying ending. I should not have expected anything less from Ethel Lina White. After all, she did write my second favourite British Library Crime Classic, The Wheel Spins. I have yet to read something by White I didn’t love.

“Even Murderers Take Holidays” by Michael Gilbert (1950)

This one shows the author’s sense of humour, as much as his sense of justice. It’s a really fabulous holiday read told from the perspective of Croft, a hired killer. At the beginning of the quotation below, he is describing the benefit of never having met his victims before they become “objects of his professional attention”.

Anonymity was one of the advantages of professionalism.

Nevertheless, there’s no denying, he sometimes felt the strain. And when you feel strain you need a holiday. A quiet holiday, with all business barred. A holiday beside the sea.

At random Croft had selected Blymouth, on the South coast.

The season was nearly over and the first gales of autumn were emptying the promenades and bringing down, with the yellow leaves, the prices at the many boarding houses. (82)

This is a perfect story to be reading at the end of summer or in early autumn. And I have to say, that I applaud his timing for a holiday. I much prefer autumn gales to the stiffling heat of the hot summer sun. But you just know that Croft is going to ruin his holiday when he suddenly finds himself on the job.

Several times, in the course of the ensuing days, Croft warned himself not to be a fool. He reminded himself of the old saying that you should never mix business with pleasure. A holiday was a holiday.

Worse, he was stepping outside his own strict line of business. But however hard he argued he could not argue away the tangible figure of five thousand solid, indisputable, Bank of England pounds.

For years he had been acting as an agent. Now was his chance to become a principal.

For years he had been removing unwanted persons in return for—what? A pittance, a salary. Here was the big money, waiting to fall into his hands. (83-84)

This story was so good! Gilbert just lines up all the pieces of this story so brilliantly. It’s full of an inevitability that is no less satisfying when the obvious conclusion comes to fruition.

“‘Mr. Bearstone Says…’” by Anthony Berkeley (1943)

This one kept me guessing right until the end, and it did not end up where I thought it would at all. A man dies while out for his morning swim, and his wife is near hysterical about it. But what of Mr. Bearstone, the ex-business partner of Mr. Hutton? What if Mr. Bearstone and his lover, Mrs. Hutton, were in cahoots? Of course it was possible, but the station sergeant, Roger, met Mrs. Hutton at a party in November 1939 and got the impression that she was a very silly creature. Now, some years later, the question is, could such a silly woman be trusted as an accomplice to murder? This was another goodie!

“In the Picture” by Nicholas Bentley (1956)

There is an atmospheric, almost Ripley-esque feel to this story. Two couples go to France for a holiday, but one of the members of the group has a plan to appease his jealousy towards his admirable wife. This was another short one, of which, there are a number in this collection. Normally, I gravitate towards longer short stories, but I have to say I found all of the stories in this collection to be really strong, and this one was no different. 

“And the Police Were Not Called” by Bernard J. Farmer (1951)

This is a cute little mystery featuring a police constable who is staying on holiday at a boarding house where missing five pounds goes missing. 

“Consider Your Verdict” by Anthony Gilbert (1956)

A woman, our narrator, meets a man on holiday. She makes herself sound wealthier than she is, because she wants to impress him. Meanwhile, he fails to mention he’s a conman. This was a fun one. Moral of the story… One should not tell lies! 

Side note… The conman is named Gil Arnott. I always get a bit of a thrill when I come across a my own last name (Arnett), even if it is a variant spelling and it’s just the character name of a criminal. Is anyone else like this?

“Crooked Harvest” by Shelley Smith (1947)

Nigel Armstrong, an antique dealer imagines himself rescuing a woman that he has recently met and fallen for. When the opportunity arises to save her from a crook he seizes it with unexpected results.

The opening made me laugh.

Nigel Armstrong wondered disconsolately why he had ever imagined that a quiet holiday in the country would be fun. It was dull, unbearably dull. No one to talk to, nothing to do but walk. He kicked an inoffensive stone along the lane. It wasn’t true that country folk were friendly, they were hatefully reserved and stuck up.

That adorably pretty Miss Brown, for instance. Her house was a stone’s throw from his, they saw each other daily, and yet he could not get into conversation with her. (129)

Nigel has basically described my ideal holiday, or life, for that matter. Countryside, dull, no one to talk to, and lots of walks. Add books to the list and you can sign me up. 

You will be glad to know that Nigel’s holiday does pick up quite a bit.

“Cyanide in the Sun” by Christianna Brand (1958)

The problem with having a favourite author is that you come to expect quite a lot from them. Christianna Brand is the author of my favourite British Library Crime Classic, London Particular, so I expected this one to be my favourite story in the bunch. It was not. Her book, Cat and Mouse, took me reading it a second time to really enjoy it, so perhaps I will have to give this one another go, too.

A serial killer who preys on random strangers stalks the seaside town of Scampton. The means of murder, cyanide in the food. The whodunit aspect was obvious to me from the start, so obvious I thought it could not possibly be them. The howdunit was much more interesting, but that it required an explanation dampened the punch. 

“The Fly” by John Bingham (1953)

A man dies while night fishing in Norway. It could be an accidental death, but Superintendent Wills, an experienced fisherman himself, thinks not. This story was short and smart. 

“A Holiday by the Sea” by Will Scott (1924)

Giglamps, a do-gooder tramp, and his new friend, Cheerful—who isn’t—catch a ride to Margate. There they find themselves on the trail of a pretty boy conman, and his band of thieves. This was such a fun one! Giglamps was such a character! I would love to read the collection of Will Scott’s short stories featuring this character, called simply, Giglamps (1924).

The passage I am about to share is a smidge spoiler-y, so skip it if that bothers you. But I had to share it because it’s such a great example of Giglamps’ voice.

“[I]t’s really remarkable the amount o’ good we done by comin’ to Margate for eight hours, although there’s all the cops in Kent lookin’ for us, although the only chance we had to bathe was in trouble. We never got no nearer the sea than the smell, but we done a mighty lot o’ good. Except to ourselves.” (183) 

Doesn’t he sound fun?!

“Two on a Tower” by Michael Innes (1956)

A tidy little story about a couple and a friend who travel together to Italy, with deadly results. Smartly worded, brief, with a strangely satisfying conclusion.

“The Summer Holiday” by Celia Fremlin (1983)

Celia Fremlin just writes the best crime fiction. This was tense, believable, but also completely unbelievable—if you know what I mean. Clever and deceptively simple. There is no mystery here, but with this much tension and atmosphere, it doesn’t need one. I loved it!

She would never have believed that widowhood would suit her so well. She would have said, if you’d asked her, that she was one of those unassuming, dependent little women who would be lost without a man to lean on.

And now here she was not feeling lost at all, not the least bit. It was amazing—and, in a way, rather disturbing. (191)

One of my favourite things about Fremlin’s writing is her ability to write women who subvert expectations. In this one, Emmy will stop at nothing to avoid going on holiday with her family, even if it results in the police getting involved.  

“The Summer Holiday Murders” by Julian Symons (1960)

My favourite of the bunch has to be this long, almost novella length story. It had great pacing, kept me guessing, and I suspected just about every character, but the culprit. 

One of the women on a coach tour is found drowned in a pool, having appeared to have fallen down some rocks and hit her head. It could have been an accident. But what about the copy of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes with the pages torn out that was found beside her? When a writer of detective stories who is on the tour researching his next book, inserts himself into the investigation things really start to heat up! It’s just so good! I really must read more by this author in future.

Like a cruise, there is something so sinister about a coach tour. All those people of various backgrounds in forced proximity with each other, being carted around for brief stops, and planned surprises feels like the prime scenario for crime to flourish. And flourish it does in this story!

I love how Martin Edwards signs off his introduction to this collection, not least because I read this book while on holiday. 

If you’re reading this collection on holiday, I hope you enjoy it—but keep your eyes peeled for sinister strangers prowling around your resort or hotel corridors, and if you’re travelling in a group, do watch out for your fellow passengers. They might not be all they seem… (11)

I must admit, it made me feel grateful that I knew who I was holidaying with quite well, and we only had two nights during which we would be rolling the dice with our safety while staying at a hotel!

Thank you to British Library Publishing for kindly sending me a copy of Cyanide in the Sun for review. As always, all opinions on the book are my own.

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The Mysterious Mr. Badman by W.F. Harvey

It’s not too late to squeeze in one last summer mystery. William Fryer Harvey’s 1934 novel, The Mysterious Mr. Badman, begins in a Yorkshire bookshop on a sultry afternoon in July.

While on holiday in Yorkshire, Athelstan Digby agrees to look after the bookshop of his hosts for the afternoon. The weather is stifling, so Mr. Digby doesn’t expect much traffic, but over the course of the afternoon a vicar, a chauffeur, and an out-of-towner ask for the same book, The Life and Death of Mr. Badman by John Bunyan.

Mr. Digby has never heard of the book, and there is no record of it in the bookshop catalogue, which is what he tells each prospective customer. When a copy happens to arrive in a bundle of secondhand books, he snaps up the lot double quick. But then the book gets pinched.

Mr. Digby and his nephew, Jim Pickering, are motivated to find out what makes this book so special. Soon they find themselves caught up in a crime more involved than a little antiquarian book theft, and much more deadly.

I was first attracted to this book because it was advertised as a “bibliomystery”. I must admit I was a bit disappointed on that front. I don’t believe I have ever read a book from this sub-genre, or at least not one that was calling itself a bibliomystery, so I may have had unfair expectations that the mystery be entirely wrapped up in books, which it is not. From Mr. Digby’s perspective, the impetus for the mystery is this book by John Bunyan that goes missing, but the book only plays a small role in the mystery as a whole. 

However, I was also very much attracted to reading a mystery set in Yorkshire, and in that regard this book came through. In fact, it is the setting more than the mystery that came out on top for me. I do love descriptions of nature, and books with a setting that is as necessary to the plot as any of the main characters.

At Kildale Mill he stopped to watch the peat-brown water swirling over the ruined weir, and then struck up on to the moor, choosing a patch that had been burned two years ago and which was now carpeted with green bilberry and bell heather. The walking was easy and he made good progress. It was extraordinarily peaceful. The only sound came from a lark, lost in the blue. There was no one in sight, no one, that is, except the young lady who stood silhouetted against the sky-line, apparently lost in admiration of the view. Then, as he looked, she turned and began to walk quickly towards him. It was Miss Conyers, a deeply agitated Miss Conyers, very different from the reserved, slightly cynical young lady he had met the preceding afternoon. (38)

For me, descriptions like this are better than a photograph or a painting, because I get to create images of the place in my mind as I read, like a film strip that alters, fills in, becomes clearer, as I go along. I’m still thinking of this setting with longing and wishing I was Mr. Digby, setting out in the morning with a map, a cocoa tin for any rare flowers I might find, which in the mean time has been filled with half a pound of raisins bought at the village shop (37). I’m not sure I would be as clearheaded as Mr. Digby about coming across a body on the moors, but I would like to think I would be as cool under pressure as he is throughout this book.

Later, when the above mentioned Miss Conyers lends a hand in the investigation, she becomes Diana, not that Mr. Digby refers to her as such, but the reader gets to be on a first name basis with her. Diana has her own peaceful moment in nature.

Jim proposed that they should all drive on to Whitby, but Diana pleaded a headache. She would find a quiet corner in the Spa gardens, she said, and they could meet her, say, at six at the South Cliff tea-rooms.

She sat for an hour, listening to the music of the band, while from the crowded beach below came the cries of happy children. The bay was dotted with boats. A steam drifter was leaving the harbour, the smoke from her funnel hanging like a black streak across the weather-beaten roofs of the old town, backed by the grand silhouette of the castle and the castle rock, weather-beaten too, but still unconquered. (95)

I thought that last sentence was particularly pleasing, so I had to share it. I think the next bit in the book is interesting in terms of plotting and pacing. It is when the sun disappears behind a cloud and the air gets chilly, that Diana makes her way into town to get make some purchases for the house. There she spots a clue to the chauffeur they have been looking for without even trying. If only all mysteries came together so easily! There are plenty of aspects of this case that Mr. Digby properly investigates, but I did find this coincidence a bit too convenient for my liking. I love the scene setting, though, and how the author gives both his character and the reader a momentary break to catch our collective breath before carrying on with the investigation.

For the most part, I felt remarkably relaxed while reading this book, so I was a bit surprised to see the back cover copy describes it as “fast-paced”. It is slim, just over 200 pages including the introduction, and it does get more tense as it closes in on the climax, but looking back on it now a couple of weeks after finishing this book—I know, very tardy in my review writing—I recall finding the beginning intriguing, the nighttime intruder at the bookshop thrilling, the finding of a body on the moors very exciting, and then my interest dropped off for a while. The tension leading up to the climax was great, and I actually felt concerned about the fate of our main characters. That is, until I reminded myself it was going to turn out all right in the end. Probably.

I know I went on about the setting, saying it was better than the mystery, and I stick by that. However, the mystery in this one was not at all bad. It just is not at the same level as the best books in the British Library Crime Classics collection, in my opinion. Harvey did do a great job of creating characters I cared about, and putting them it tight spots that made me worried, and had me nearly convinced they were not going to get the baddie.

Whether you add The Mysterious Mr. Badman to your end of summer TBR or save it for next July, this is a great one for book lovers or anyone craving a holiday in Yorkshire. I suspect many of us fit into at least one of these two categories! 

I have my friend Gina (@babsbelovedbooks) to thank for this book. She absolutely spoiled me by sending me a few (NINE!) British Library Crime Classics. This happened a while ago, and I was so overwhelmed that I haven’t even been able to photograph them all together. If you have visited this blog before, you will know how much I love these books, and how excited I am to have a whole bunch of new ones to read. The only thing I can liken it to is having a whole cupboard full of candy just waiting to be enjoyed. Thank you, dear Gina, for the books, and more importantly, for you and your friendship! 

Gina and I live some distance apart, but we get together at least once a week virtually for our movie and crochet dates. Right now we are both making blankets using the same Flowers in the Snow pattern, but with different colours. You can see a glimpse of mine in the bottom right corner of the last two photos. When I’m not working on it I have the project sitting on my dining room table, so that I can readily admire it every time I walk by it on the way to the kitchen. The muted palate is making me so happy that I just had to share it alongside these beautiful books. I hope you don’t mind the indulgence. 

***If you got something out of this post, please consider subscribing to my blog. You can find the email sign up on the right hand side at the top of this page (on desktop version only), or click on the link here. You will receive a confirmation email in your inbox (or possibly your junk folder). Once you click to confirm your email address you will receive an email notification whenever a new blog post goes up. And, of course, you can unsubscribe at any time. Feel free to email me if you have any trouble subscribing, or if you just want to chat about books. I would love to hear from you! Whether you subscribe or not, I’m thankful you are here.***

This blog post contains affiliate links for Blackwell’s. As a Blackwell’s Affiliate, I may receive a small commission, at no additional cost to you, if you decide to make a purchase through one of the links on my website. I recommend Blackwell’s because I use them myself. This helps support me in sharing—what I hope is—valuable content. Thank you for your support!

Cat and Mouse by Christianna Brand

This review is a testament to the power of a positive review written by someone whose taste you trust. Before you think I am a massive narcissistic, allow me to explain.

I picked this book up a little over a month ago, and I was so excited. It feels like I reference Christianna Brand’s London Particular just about every time I review a British Library Crime Classic, but it is my favourite book in this collection. Needless to say, when I saw that British Library Publishing were coming out with another Christianna Brand title, I cheered. Expectations were high. Brand’s 1950 novel, Cat and Mouse opens with a dedication to Mary Lewis, one of Brand’s writer friends or perhaps an editor, I assumed. In a letter to this Mary Lewis, which is included at the start of this book, Brand refers to a passage in Northanger Abbey where Catherine Morland, Miss Tilney, and Henry Tilney are all discussing the melodramatic novels of the time. “I thought it would be fun to do a good, old-fashioned mystery melodrama, two tombstones and a lantern and all: and since you told me the true story which has formed the basis of my plot, I hereby dedicate its three duodecimo volumes with all my gratitude, to you.” The joke is, Mary Lewis was Brand’s real name. She has dedicated the book to herself, and clearly gotten quite the kick out of it. In Northanger Abbey, Henry says, “there must be a murder” and so says Brand. Her melodrama is full of the wit any reader of her work has come to expect, and a good dose of murder too.

But there lies the tricky part. For some reason, I read that playful letter and got the impression that the book would be a joke. Not in a derogatory way. I expected Cat and Mouse to be poking fun of melodrama in the same way Stella Gibbons’ Cold Comfort Farm is a parody of the romanticised pastoral novels written by authors at the time, like Mary Webb. I’m not sure if anyone, other than myself, would have come to this screwy conclusion, but it is a screwy one. My advice is to read Cat and Mouse as you would any of her other novels, expecting Brand’s sharp wit and panache for plot-y plots and twists galore. My other advice is to get on board with the main character, Katinka Jones. I wasn’t on Katinka’s side when I read this book the first time. Yes, I read this book twice. When I reached the end the first time… Well, frankly, I was relieved the thing was over. I was annoyed with Katinka and it did have a clever ending, but it had not been funny. It had been frustrating. I felt like I had missed something, like I wasn’t smart enough to get it. You can imagine how much I enjoyed that feeling! I certainly had no plan to review it. The book was gifted from British Library, and while when a publisher sends a review copy, it is implied the reviewer is meant to review it. However, a negative review is hardly likely to help with sales. So it was not going to review it then. It was decided.

Then I read Sabine’s glowing review…

Sabine’s favourite British Library Crime Classic is the same as mine, London Particular. Do you want to know what Sabine’s second favourite BLCC is? The same as mine. The Wheel Spins by Ethel Lina White. From reading her reviews over the years, I know that if Sabine likes a book, I will too. If she loves a book, so will I. And she loved Cat and Mouse. So what could I do? I had to give it another shot. I had to read it again.

When I picked it up a second time less than a month after my first reading, I was a bit concerned I was jinxing myself by not leaving long enough between readings. But it felt like this book and I had unfinished business. I wanted to know where I stood with it. I just could not put it off.

And now, after the longest introduction to a review, in the history of introductions, here is my review of Christianna Brand’s Cat and Mouse. 

Katinka Jones, the Miss Friendly-wise agony aunt for Girls Together magazine, is on holiday in Wales in September. She visits her Great Uncle Joseph where he lives by the giant reservoir some miles outside of Swansea. This passage describing Katinka’s uncle reminded me of something out of Cold Comfort Farm, and is probably what solidified the idea that this book was going to be a parody when I read it the first time.

Nobody remained but Great Uncle Joseph, known in the Welsh idiom as Jo Jones the Waterworks, because of the proximity of his home to the giant reservoir— the nearest he’s been to water for a long time, thought Tinka, eyeing with disfavour his unattractive person. (Cat and Mouse 23)

Apparently, Katinka didn’t tone down the colour of her red lips and nails enough for Wales, and finds herself unwelcome in her uncle’s home, so she takes up residence in a “gloomy little hotel” in Swansea (23). At a loose end she decides to pay a visit to Amista, a young woman who is a longtime writer to Girls Together, asking for beauty tips and love advice. Hard to say you’ve ‘dropped in’ when you’ve travelled six miles by bus and boat and climbed up a mountainside to get to the person’s house. But Katinka does just that. Once there she introduces herself, leaving out the Girls Together bit, as it might sound a bit mad, and says she is calling on Mrs. Carlyon. The only problem is, everyone in the house, including Mr. Carlyon claims there is no such person. Not only that, there are only two servants and Carlyon living in the house. Even Mr. Chucky, the man she met in the village who offered to come with her to see Carlyon, who she thought was handsome when you really looked at him, says he has never seen the woman. “I didn’t even know Mr. Carlyon was married,” claims Mr. Chucky (41). 

Stumbling out of the house and into the “silver rain”, Katinka runs down the mountain hoping to catch a ride across the river with the woman who delivers the milk, Miss Evans the Milk as she is referred (41). Apparently high heels are not all weather or all terrain footwear, and she takes a tumble, twisting her ankle. Sitting on a rock, waiting for the pain to subside, Katinka collects herself. That’s when she remembers spotting one of Amista’s letters waiting to be mailed sitting on a table in the front hall when she came in. Now, the letter is gone. The mail taken by Miss Evans the Milk. And Carlyon, who comes after Katinka, is none too pleased to hear that she has injured herself, leaving him obliged to have her stay the night. 

But he would not smile, and she gave herself up to the struggle. Every touch of her foot upon the ground was agony.

She was worn out before they had reached the top of the path: sick with pain, almost sobbing with dejection and weariness. She had no idea what time it was, but the mist was closing in about the mountain, the fine, soft drizzle of rain made grey evening of September afternoon. The mountain rose up, impregnably stern, behind the fretted decoration of the silly peaked roofs of the house; and at sight of the servants standing in the little porch, like two dogs straining at the leash to come to their master for some news that they knew he carried, her heart failed her. I must go into the house again and into that horrible hall... (48)

The first time reading this I thought I was meant to be poking fun of Katinka with the author, but I wasn’t finding the situation, or Katinka, very funny. Actually, I was finding Katinka a bit frustrating. I mean, she kept oscillating between fear and infatuation, which got a bit dizzying after a time. The whole Amista doesn’t exist, but wait no, I just remembered this thing, so she must exist! And, suspecting Carlyon of everything imaginable one minute and being in love with him the next, was exhausting. Katinka is supposed to be “an old, old lady of very nearly thirty, grown tough and cynical in the service of her profession”, but what she appeared to be is a young girl in her teens, like our heroine from Northanger Abbey, 17-year-old Catherine Morland (17).

However, on my second reading I didn’t notice any of this. It’s not just that I glossed over these aspects of Katinka’s character. I did not notice them. Once I decided to take the novel seriously, I was on Katinka’s side and I could see why she was torn between her attraction for this man and her suspicion of him. Part of her wants to forget all about Amista. If she can do that, then there is no mystery. If there is no mystery, Carlyon becomes a sad, handsome man, who keeps giving her signs that he is as interested in her as she is with him. But there’s the other side of that. If she cannot prove Amista’s existence, then Carlyon will continue to believe that Katinka is a journalist, who has butted into his home with an unbelievable story. 

Along with Northanger Abbey, this novel has a dash of Jane Eyre. Katinka even references Charlotte Brontë’s novel. The descriptions of the landscape in Cat and Mouse reminded me of a very different book, Forest Silver by E.M. Ward. Perhaps, I only made the connection between these two, because I have not read many books set in Wales, but when Katinka runs out into the “silver rain”, I immediately thought of my beloved Forest Silver. Brand and Ward are clearly writing about the same landscape and the use of the word silver is uncommon enough in descriptions of nature that I suspect silver light must be a characteristic of the place, or perhaps the grey from the mountains reflects off other surfaces, giving them a silvery cast. I had to include a favourite quotation of mine from Forest Silver.

From the narrow road they looked down through tree branches to the lake, that lay rippled and silver bright behind the dark trunks. Almost at the top of the hill they turned off by a little path that led to a gap in the roadside wall. Through the gap they could see into the solemn wood of Bainriggs, now colourless and vague but so sodden with the day's rain that, except in the black tree shadows, everything was changed to silver. The moonlit rocks, the wet sponge of moss upon the ground, leaves, lit spaces of the beech trunks and the stems of birches, always silver but now brighter than in any noontide, all these shone and glittered with a light so wan and yet so brilliant that it seemed like the phosphorescence of a world long dead. (Forest Silver 10)

Katinka does not romanticise the landscape in the way Richard Blunt does in Forest Silver, but I got the sense that she would be inclined to, if she was not so consumed with the mystery of Amista.

She wandered over to the window and, parting the curtains, leaned her forehead against the chilly glass, staring out across the opposite mountain. But the rainbow was gone. Nothing to be seen but the shaft of thin sunshine across the hump of the hill, the sullen, silver river in the valley and, at a turn of the mountain path, the two tiny specks creeping upward towards the house. (Cat and Mouse 79)

There’s that word silver, again. I don’t know what it means. I don’t even know what the landscape in Wales actually looks like, because I have not been. But I felt like these two authors were writing about the same place, a place I would recognise if I saw it, and so much of my traveling happens on the page. When I visited London for the first time, it felt like home. It felt like a place I knew, could find my way around, and a place I had created an image of in my mind with the help of countless authors. Likewise, Wales is being written on my mind, and in my heart through Ward, and now Brand. If anyone has any recommendations for books set in Wales that can help me continue to fill in the details of the landscape, I would love to hear them. 

In the meantime, I’ll be reading Northanger Abbey, which I picked up on a whim after finishing this one. (Full disclosure, I'm reading an ebook of this. But I have linked one of the many gorgeous editions I would buy if I had the means.) It appears two readings of Cat and Mouse in a month only whetted my appetite for melodrama. I never would have guessed it.

Give this fun and witty, but dark, indeed, very dark, rollercoaster of a novel a try. Believe in Katinka Jones, as she ferrets out the truth about Amista, even if she must first stumble upon every untruth as she trods the uphill path to get to the precipice of this inventive novel. 

I have to close this post by thanking Sabine for her wonderful review of Cat and Mouse. She says more, by saying less, than I ever could. 

Thank you to British Library Publishing for kindly sending me a copy of Cat and Mouse for review. As always, all opinions on the book are my own.

***If you got something out of this post, please consider subscribing to my blog. You can find the email sign up on the right hand side at the top of this page (on desktop version only), or click on the link here. You will receive a confirmation email in your inbox (or possibly your junk folder). Once you click to confirm your email address you will receive an email notification whenever a new blog post goes up. And, of course, you can unsubscribe at any time. Feel free to email me if you have any trouble subscribing, or if you just want to chat about books. I would love to hear from you! Whether you subscribe or not, I’m thankful you are here.***

This blog post contains affiliate links for Blackwell’s. As a Blackwell’s Affiliate, I may receive a small commission, at no additional cost to you, if you decide to make a purchase through one of the links on my website. I recommend Blackwell’s because I use them myself. This helps support me in sharing—what I hope is—valuable content. Thank you for your support!

Fear Stalks the Village by Ethel Lina White

Ethel Lina White’s The Wheel Spins is one of my favourite British Library Crime Classics, second only to London Particular by Christianna Brand. I was very excited to get my hands on another of her books. Don’t let the autumnal colours of its cover mislead you, White’s 1932 novel, Fear Stalks the Village, is set at the beginning of summer in an idyllic English village. But like The Wheel Spins, White manages to wreak havoc amongst the peace and tranquility. This one is dripping with atmosphere and it is just so well executed. 

The village was beautiful. It was enfolded in a hollow of the Downs, and wrapped up snugly— first, in a floral shawl of gardens, and then, in a great green shawl of fields. Lilies and lavender grew in abundance. Bees clustered over sweet-scented herbs with the hum of a myriad spinning-wheels. (13)

The village sounds aesthetically pleasing, but what of its residents?

[T]here was no poverty or unemployment in the village. The ladies had not to grapple with a servant problem, which oiled the wheels of hospitality. If family feuds existed, they were not advertised, and private lives were shielded by drawn blinds. Consequently, the social tone was fragrant as rosemary, and scandal nearly as rare as a unicorn. (13)

With no railway station, and a London bus that does not stop in the village, but outside it, it is not surprising the place gets few visitors. The birthrate is stagnant and apparently no one dies there, either. No one leaves, and no one comes. It is an extremely close knit community. Which is why when the villagers get inundated with a slew of poison pen letters, it is so very unnerving. The thought that it must be one of their own sending the letters turns neighbour against neighbour. Trust is broken. No longer is the village a place of hospitality and friendliness. Because how can you feel safe inviting your neighbours into your home when you can’t be sure a traitor isn't among them?

The heart of the village is sick and everything that has made this place special is at stake. Despite the idyllic appearance of the village, everyone in it has a secret they would rather keep hidden. And when the shame of having your darkest secrets revealed becomes too much, people are bound to get desperate. With one person dead under mysterious circumstances, the body count is only going to increase as the tension is ratcheted up and up, until it reaches the breaking point.

Everyone from the “queen of the village”, Miss Decima Asprey, the to the local gentry, the Scudamores, to the Rector are sucked into the drama. When things get too unbearable to go on, the Rector gives a thundering sermon, denouncing the secret enemy, but seeing the sermon has had no effect—besides an increase in donations—he goes to visit the Squire. 

The two men consider consulting with local police, essentially Sergeant James. But as the poisoned pen writer may very well be a woman, as the Squire says, “Probably is. The place is stiff with them” and both the Rector and the Squire do not like the idea of a woman getting arrested, the Rector makes an alternative suggestion.

“I have a friend, Ignatius Brown, one of the idle rich. He rather fancies himself as Sherlock Holmes. He’s not so clever as he thinks he is, but he’s keen, and he should be more than a match for anyone here. Shall I ask him down?”

“No,” said the Squire. “We don’t want any amateurs. I’ll instruct James.” As he spoke, he caught his wife’s eye. Her lips were pursed and she first nodded violently and then shook her head vehemently.

The Squire knew, from experience, how to interpret these conflicting signals, for, suddenly he changed his mind. (127)

Even in this serious moment, we see White’s wonderful sense of humour.

When the Rector had gone, the Squire turned to his wife. Although he usually bullied her, there were times when he followed her advice; for, if the Squire had no positive virtues, he had some rather good faults. (128)

The village is full of interesting characters. There is Joan Brook, who is a companion to Lady D’Arcy, and lives about a mile outside the village with her. We meet Joan at the very start of the book as she entertains her friend, a novelist visiting from London, with a walk through the village. As they take a leisurely stroll through the village, the friend comes up with salacious stories about each of the villagers that are directly contradictory to the people that Joan knows them to be. For example, “the highly respectable married couple […] are not really married to each other, but living in sin”, the Rector throws “bottle-and-pyjama parties with some very hot ladies from town”, the doctor is poisoning his wife, and the tea-totalling local novelist, Miss Julia Corner, is a secret drinker (18, 19, 21). 

I think White is a great writer. She draws complex characters, creates a tightly woven plot that centres around a compelling mystery, and takes “a perfect spot” and turns it into a prison (13). All of this she manages, while writing genre fiction that is also literary. For example, one would take for granted that the title Fear Stalks the Village is figurative, instead White turns fear into a physical presence that lurks in the shadows, that enters gardens, and rooms, when least expected. I found it to be an unexpected technique, but effective. After all, fear is a visceral reaction felt in the body, why not give imbue it with life by giving the bodily presence it already has?

[P]oor Miss Corner unconsciously applied the match which blew up her party.

[…]

“Well, Decima, anything fresh about your anonymous letter?”

Miss Asprey raised her heavy ivory lids.

“No,” she replied. “It is best forgotten.”

“No idea as to who wrote it?” went on Miss Corner, unabashed.

“No.”

Miss Corner suddenly exploded into a fit of laughter. “Perhaps I could make a guess,” she said.

As though her words were a signal, the dark blotch, huddled in a corner of the garden, quivered into hideous life and mingled with the other guests.

With the entry of Fear, Miss Corner’s party was practically killed, for its spirit had soured and died. The continual hum of conversation was now broken by sudden awkward pauses. Immaculate men and elegant ladies stood in the usual little clusters, but each one gave the impression of whispering to his friend, while he tried to overhear his neighbour. For the same thought was in every mind.

‘There is someone here who has slandered a good woman. I may be the next victim.’ (79-80)

Miss Corner, the local novelist, may have “applied the match”, but Fear, “the unbidden outsider” had “slunk outside the gate, awaiting its opportunity to steal inside” (79, 71). I think this image of a “dark blotch” which “quivered into hideous life and mingled with the other guests” is so visceral. There is more than one traitor amongst these people, and the invisible one may be even more dangerous. After all, they can close their doors to their neighbours, but Fear is able to slip in unnoticed.

If you have visited this blog before, you know I love reading mysteries. But I really struggle with how much to share in my reviews. I don’t want to say too much, and I definitely do not want to spoil anything for anyone who has not yet read the book. But I also really want to dish! Especially when it’s a book I really appreciated, by an author that deserves all the praise she can get. Just know that I want to tell you everything about this book. I want to discuss it in depth. But I won’t. It wouldn’t be fair to you, the person who, I hope, is going to be inspired to go out and get your hands on a copy of this book.

After reading, and now reviewing this book, I feel I need to reassess my list of favourite British Library Crime Classics. This one may not have knocked London Particular out of first place, but I fear it will knock another title out of my top five.

Thank you to British Library Publishing for kindly sending me a copy of Fear Stalks the Village for review. As always, all opinions on the book are my own.

***If you got something out of this post, please consider subscribing to my blog. You can find the email sign up on the right hand side at the top of this page (on desktop version only), or click on the link here. You will receive a confirmation email in your inbox (or possibly your junk folder). Once you click to confirm your email address you will receive an email notification whenever a new blog post goes up. And, of course, you can unsubscribe at any time. Feel free to email me if you have any trouble subscribing, or if you just want to chat about books. I would love to hear from you! Whether you subscribe or not, I’m thankful you are here.***

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Scandalize My Name by Fiona Sinclair

This Sunday, 3 August is the 105th anniversary of the birth of mystery writer, P.D. James. Her writing is known for being in the style of Golden Age mysteries, but with a darker tone, which I think is fitting to the 1960s when the early Adam Dalgliesh books were published. I love her books for exactly this reason. It’s like reading a novel from the first half of the 20th century with the gloss of nostalgia removed. So when I noticed the back cover of Scandalize My Name called the “high-quality mysteries” of Fiona Sinclair “similar in style and tone to those of P.D. James”, I was skeptical. “Fiona,” I thought, “is going to have a lot to live up to.”

Well! I cannot tell you how relieved I am to report that, in my option, Martin Edwards and British Library Publishing are spot on the money with their comparison. In defence of my skepticism, I find a lot of author comparisons on the back of books to be a bit of a disappointment. Many a time I felt that if I had not been expecting to be reading something akin to one of my favourite authors, I would have enjoyed the book more. But I digress… Let’s talk about Fiona Sinclair’s fabulous 1960 novel, Scandalize My Name.

In an almost 300-year-old house on a hill in north London, the Southey’s are holding a grand 21st birthday party for Elaine Southey. Little do the guests know that while they are enjoying the festivities, a corpse lies in the basement below. Although, the Southey’s are not close with him, their basement tenant, Ivan Sweet, has been invited to the party as well. When he fails to arrive, his brother, also in attendance at the party, goes looking for him. 

Known to be a charmer, a manipulator, a blackmailer, and worse, it’s no wonder Superintendent Paul Grainger finds himself wishing he was hunting Ivan Sweet, instead of the man’s murderer.

Grainger, who has bad posture and spectacles, looks more like a don than a police officer. The 39-year-old was widowed during the Second World War not long after he was married. We get to see him in his home, at his work, and at times we are privy to his inner thoughts. When Sergeant McGregor was first paired up with Grainger, he didn’t think much of Grainger, but in their ten years working together he has come to trust that Grainger’s seeming intuitions are based on careful thought and observation. The two make an interesting pair, and like the best partners they both contrast and complement each other. 

At the outset of the case, Grainger and McGregor travel to the scene of the crime, Magnolia House. Driving through London, Grainger vocalises his opinion about the start of the case being “‘the best part, just a nice clean sheet, no personalities mixed up in it yet, just an interesting puzzle that’s got to be solved’” (44). Meanwhile, McGregor is thinking about his partner.

[Sergeant McGregor] was remembering in a ruminative, amused sort of way, what a highfalutin’ fool he had considered the superior officer to whom he had been allotted ten years ago. Been up at Oxford, someone told him, taking a lot of exams in philosophy, of all unsuitable subjects for a member of the ‘Force’. He’d done his time as a ‘gentstable’ of course. McGregor suddenly smiled to himself, Sakes, but I’d like to ha’ seen him, he thought now, squinting sideways at the superintendent’s lean aristocratic figure with its scholar’s stoop and clever-looking eyes. Course he wouldna’ have had the gig-lamps then, he thought, but still! Man, though, he was a fine fellow to work for. Got right into the middle of a case while the rest were still sniffing round the edges. And methodical! Somehow he hadn't expected that; the case built up piece by piece like a jigsaw puzzle. Gave you a kick to listen to him doing it even if his lingo did take a bit of getting used to. Gave you plenty to do, too, and let you have your head. Sergeant McGregor had been won over a long time ago. (44-45)

There is a lot about the way Grainger is described, that calls to mind James’s detective Adam Dalgleish, not so much physically, but in personality. At the outset, I mentioned that James’ books harken back to Golden Age detective fiction, but are a bit darker, a bit grittier. There is no better example of this in Sinclair’s work as the scene in chapter three where an autopsy is described. Sinclair’s description is not gory, but methodical, and is unlike anything I have come across before. It comes as no surprise that Sinclair’s husband, Michael Peters, was a pathologist. I’m sure I’ve read books with autopsy’s being preformed previous to this, but the sheer matter of factness of it with specific details I have not read before made me pause to appreciate the scene. Clearly, I’m not particularly squeamish, but if you are, you may want to skip from the third paragraph on page 39 to the last paragraph on page 42. As I said, it’s not gory and Sinclair in no way glorifies what would naturally be a gruesome scene, but the writing is shocking in its plainness and may be a bit much for some. 

I think it bears mentioning that quite a few characters are introduced in the first chapter. All of the party-goers do come up again in the book, so it is worth paying attention. However! I did something I almost never do, and that is to start this reading book outside in a park. If I, who has the attention span of a new puppy out on its first walk, can manage to get through that first chapter and glean enough information to carry me through the rest of the book without confusion, and without turning back to refresh my memory, I feel sure you can too. With many characters, you had better believe there are a number with secrets they would rather keep hidden. A well-stocked larder of goodies for a blackmailer to root around in, for sure. And some of those secrets are real doozies, I can tell you!

This book struck a good balance of tension and atmosphere, which Sinclair captures by showing us how the events and the setting affects the characters. Set in August, this book has all the heat and intrigue of the summer season captured amid its last gasp before the autumn. Will the end of summer be the precursor to a literal death, as well? You’ll just have to read this one to find out! Let me warn you, the conclusion is tense. I recommend reading it without distractions, if possible.

In the introduction, Martin Edwards mentions that Fiona Sinclair published five novels in total, between 1960 and 1965, Scandalize My Name being the first among these to be published. I am very much hoping that the British Library plans to bring out the remaining four, because Scandalize My Name has been added to my top five favourite British Library Crime Classics. If her other books are anything like this first one, they are much deserving of being brought back to life. 

Thank you to British Library Publishing for republishing this truly wonderful title and for kindly sending me a copy of Scandalize My Name for review. As always, all opinions on the book are my own. 

***If you got something out of this post, please consider subscribing to my blog. You can find the email sign up on the right hand side at the top of this page (on desktop version only), or click on the link here. You will receive a confirmation email in your inbox (or possibly your junk folder). Once you click to confirm your email address you will receive an email notification whenever a new blog post goes up. And, of course, you can unsubscribe at any time. Whether you subscribe or not, I’m thankful you are here.***

This blog post contains affiliate links for Blackwell’s. As a Blackwell’s Affiliate, I may receive a small commission, at no additional cost to you, if you decide to make a purchase through one of the links on my website. I recommend Blackwell’s because I use them myself. This helps support me in sharing—what I hope is—valuable content. Thank you for your support!

Two-Way Murder by E.C.R. Lorac

It was not until I had finished E.C.R. Lorac’s Two-Way Murder and was reading Martin Edwards’ introduction that I learned this was a previously unpublished book. I am putting that at the start of this post because if you are a fan of Edith Caroline Rivett’s writing and had reservations about this one being not as good as her others due to it being published posthumously, fear not! I enjoyed this one perhaps even more than Murder in Vienna, and I did love that one. (You can read my review of that one here.)

On a foggy night in January, just about everyone across the countryside near Fordings is heading to the Prince’s Hall for the annual Hollydown Hunt Ball. Commander Nicholas Brent has offered a ride to Ian Macbane, who is in the area visiting his aunt and uncle. As they pass Hollydown Manor, which was recently sold, the subject of the daughter of the house comes up. Rosemary Reeve disappeared on the evening of last year’s ball and she has not been seen or heard from since. The subject quickly shifts to lighter subjects, including the young women likely to be in attendance. It becomes clear that most of the young men in the area are interested in the young and beautiful Dilys Maine.

Lucky for them, Dilys manages to put in an appearance at the ball. Although she had to sneak out of her father’s house to be there, and must get home before Alice, the family’s loyal and well-meaning servant, gets home. Alice wouldn’t mind her having a bit of fun, but Dilys thoughtfully does not want to put Alice in the position of having to lie to her overbearing and hard to mange employer. Thankfully, Nick Brent has obligingly offered to get her back in good time, and they leave the ball around midnight, setting out on the low road where the fog is not as bad. But the best laid plans do have a way of going wrong, and when Nick and Dilys come upon a corpse that is quite literally blocking the narrow road, things start to go very wrong indeed.

Quick thinker that he is, Nick suggests Dilys head home on foot, while he walks to the nearest house to call the police. Michael Reeve’s place is the closest, but upon arrival Nick realises that Michael must still be at the ball. He gains entry through a kitchen window, and calls the police to report the body. But just as he is hanging up the phone, he hears someone inside the house. He drops his torch in surprise, and just after Nick announces himself, he is set upon. After a violent struggle, his attacker leaves him knocked out and buried under a fallen bookcase.

Sometime before one o’clock, Ian Macbane gets a ride home with Tom Hudson. They too end up taking the lower road because of the fog and come upon Nick’s empty vehicle. They see the body in the road and ascertain the person is dead, when the police arrive. 

Meanwhile, Dilys who has cut across the fields at a run with her dress bundled in her arms, has arrived home safe and sound. She is just getting ready for bed when the phone rings. It’s Alice saying she won’t be able to make it back tonight as another accident is blocking her route. While Dilys is on the phone her father, Mr. Maine, arrives home unexpectedly—he was supposed to be away for the night—looking “not only tired” but “gaunt and strained and dirty” with “a stain down one side of his face” and collar “crumpled and awry” (37). He is angry that Alice isn’t there with Dilys, and he says something about how Alice should have called earlier. Mr. Maine tells her to go to bed as it’s almost midnight. But Dilys knows it must be almost half past one at this point. She also knows her father wears a watch and is always aware of the time. Why would he want her to think he had arrived home earlier than he did? 

Speaking of the Maines, I love their servant, Alice. She is smart, methodical, speaks her mind, and looks out for Dilys as a mother or older sister would. She is certainly more effective in influencing Dilys than her father. A day or two after the incident, Nick calls up Dilys and asks if she would like a cocker spaniel from his dog’s litter, even offering to pick her up, and save her a cold walk over the downs. Dilys tells Alice about the phone call and Alice’s reply is classic her. 

“Has he indeed? Those pups are worth a lot of money—no end of prizes that bitch of his has won. They say he knows more about dogs than any of the vets do.” She looked at Dilys with her shrewd blue eyes. “All the same, maybe it’d be better not to go traipsing over there just yet. If he’s promised you a pup, he’ll keep it for you, all right. Wait a week or so, until there’s not so much backchat being handed round.” (115)

Alice suggests Dilys wait a bit to get the dog, cites the reason behind her thinking, but allows Dilys to come to her own decision. Seeing the logic behind Alice’s thinking, Dilys agrees with her. Alice is a smart woman, smarter than she lets on. This isn’t the only moment that she says a partial truth for a desired result where the full truth might have the opposite effect. 

Inspector Waring from the County C.I.D. is tasked with investigating the case. I believe Waring’s Divisional Detective Inspector, Thorn, comparison of Waring with the other officer investigating the case could equally apply to Alice.

Turner, routine-minded, concrete, his feet firmly on the ground, his method based on the ascertainable details of police evidence—times, places, prints, and all the rest of it: the methods which, admittedly, had been the foundation of police work since the force was inaugurated. And Waring— imaginative, aware, sensitive: able, by some odd quirk of his lively mind, to obtain confidences and acquire impressions which were beyond Turner’s scope. Thorn had to admit, from past experience, that Waring had a lively and unexpectedly sound judgement over people of whom his observation had been of the slightest: when Waring had said, “Seems to me there’s a connection somehow; so-and-so was being cagey…” it had often proved that there was a connection, and later in the case Waring had produced some unexpected observation which showed that his logical powers had not been in abeyance while he soaked in awareness of human nature.

“Makes you wonder what is the basis of detection, after all,” pondered Thorn. “Timetables or human nature? After all, criminals are human and maybe young Waring’s getting back to basic detection. They ought to make a good pair, Turner with his conscientious routine, Waring with his awareness of humanity.” (112-13)

And the two do make a good team. Waring reminded me a bit of the detectives in Anthony Berkeley’s Not to be Taken. Lorac does not turn her detective into a figure of fun, but Waring does seem to have a way of making people feel comfortable. Like Alice, Waring has the talent for knowing how to get the result he wants from people. But unlike Alice, Waring is a detective and most people do not offer up information to him, whereas people actively seek Alice out to share a gossip. 

I had such a great time with this one. Getting to read Martin Edwards’ introduction afterwards was an added treat.

The writing is crisp, despite the fact that editing must have been minimal. The author’s name on the cover sheet is “Mary Le Bourne”—evidently a pun on “Marylebone”—and the police detectives in the story are not the investigators familiar from the Lorac and Carnac series. The setting on the south coast of England is also something of a departure from the backgrounds to most of her post-war novels. Was she trying to write a different type of detective story? Might she have had in mind a distinct series featuring Waring, the likeable police officer who solves the puzzle? The answer to both questions may well be yes. (vii)

The British Library did not have a copy of the manuscript of Two-Way Murder because it had not been published. If it was not for the typescript copy supplied by James M. Pickard, this novel could very well be undiscovered still. 

I highly recommend this one to fans of classic crime with a rural setting. It would make a perfect winter read. Though, I must admit, it’s one I would welcome rereading at any time of year.

(I just wanted to note that I have linked to the UK edition of Two-Way Murder, which is published by British Library Publishing, not the American edition by Poisoned Pen Press, which is the one that I borrowed from my library and is pictured in these photos. The editions are slightly different sizes and the covers have different textures, but the contents are the same.)

This blog post contains affiliate links for Blackwell’s. As a Blackwell’s Affiliate, I may receive a small commission, at no additional cost to you, if you decide to make a purchase through one of the links on my website. I recommend Blackwell’s because I use them myself. This helps support me in sharing—what I hope is—valuable content. Thank you for your support!