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Oct. 27th, 2018 12:41 pmWhere has the year gone? And why does my diary for the rest of it resemble a map of the London underground, despite us vowing that we wouldn’t do so much this year?
News
First piece of news doesn’t concern me but my old mucker Robyn Beecroft, who has fallen under the allure of writing cosy mysteries and guested at my blog telling me about them.
Lots of things happening on the Cambridge Fellows front. Lessons in Love is on special offer, and Lessons for Survivors has been relaunched, as has Lessons for Idle Tongues! I also have the cover art for Lessons for Sleeping Dogs.
And if that isn't exciting enough, the next Cambridge Fellows novella, Lessons in Cracking the Deadly Code, is available now for pre-order.
St Bride's College is buzzing with excitement at the prospect of reviving the traditional celebration of the saint's day. When events get marred by murder it's natural that Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith will get called in to help the police with their inside knowledge. But why has somebody been crawling about on the chapel roof and who's obsessed with searching in the library out of hours?
Excerpt:
“Perhaps a profitable use of such cold days as this would be writing to authors—I suppose there must be some way of contacting them via their publishers—to point out their errors of logic.” Orlando suddenly scowled. “Or where they don’t play fair with the reader.”
Jonty, afraid that this would turn into an all the places where Doyle is less than candid with us rant, which had happened before and was probably just a cover for all the reasons why I don’t like Sherlock Holmes, said, “You should write an academic paper on the subject. Get into your study, pile the logs onto the fire, load up your pen, get out your foolscap and voila! Next thing you know it’ll be spring and the daffodils will be blooming everywhere.”
Orlando grinned. “It’s an appealing idea. Second only to spending the rest of this ghastly winter hibernating in bed with you.”
“If you were in bed with me all that time you’d not be hibernating, Dr. Insatiable Coppersmith.” Jonty yawned and stretched. “The thought alone makes me feel quite exhausted. Perhaps an early night is in order. An early night for sleeping as opposed to romping, I hasten to add. My legs ache after trudging down to the college and back.”
“You’ll need to trudge again tomorrow. Unless there’s a miraculous overnight thaw.”
“In that case I need an even earlier night to replenish my resources. It’ll be a busy day on the morrow. Dunderheads to see, essays to listen to. Preparations for St. Bride’s day to be made.”
“Ah, yes.”
St Bride’s day, February the first, was only two days hence. In the past, right through to the days of Queen Victoria, it had seen much celebrating in the college and not all of it had involved drink. Boy choristers had sung their little hearts out before the sun even peeped over the chapel, undergraduates had flung their hats in the air and cheered as the rays first struck the main gate, while fellows raised a glass of college beer and sang some obscure hymn, which was the college’s own and said to be appalling. Even the porters were rumoured to have dropped their reserve in the past and given three cheers for the college, and that sanctum of sanctums, the porters’ lodge, had been empty, as it never was otherwise. Everyone was supposed to attend, the gyps traditionally being given the task of ensuring that all their young gentlemen who weren’t in the choir turned out. Anybody failing to do so would face the wrath of the college authorities.
That had all fallen out of favour due to some misbehaviour by undergraduates, but the college’s newest don, Dr. Burns, was determined to revive the proper observation of the day and he’d been aided and abetted by a small committee, including the acting choirmaster.
“Will you be learning the all the songs?” Jonty asked, insouciantly.
“Have I any choice? Seeing as Mrs. Sheridan insists?”
“Good point. She’s very taken with all of this, isn’t she? Burns’s right-hand woman.” Which was just as well, given that she possessed all the inside knowledge of St. Bride’s that the expert in invertebrate zoology lacked. “I only hope that he doesn’t tempt her with planarian worms or tardigrades. Dr. Sheridan wouldn’t want her head turned.”
“I doubt that a million guineas and all the gems of Araby could turn that lady’s head from her true love.”
“You old softy. Appropriate that one of the traditional hymns for the celebration is Love Divine all Loves Excelling, then. Although maybe we’d be better off singing In the Bleak Midwinter given the weather. Make sure you wear two pairs of socks and your thickest underwear.” Jonty chuckled. “Let’s hope the ale turns out to be mulled. I don’t fancy a beer flavoured ice.”
And finally – it’s that time of year...all our own work
Charlie
News
First piece of news doesn’t concern me but my old mucker Robyn Beecroft, who has fallen under the allure of writing cosy mysteries and guested at my blog telling me about them.
Lots of things happening on the Cambridge Fellows front. Lessons in Love is on special offer, and Lessons for Survivors has been relaunched, as has Lessons for Idle Tongues! I also have the cover art for Lessons for Sleeping Dogs.
And if that isn't exciting enough, the next Cambridge Fellows novella, Lessons in Cracking the Deadly Code, is available now for pre-order.
St Bride's College is buzzing with excitement at the prospect of reviving the traditional celebration of the saint's day. When events get marred by murder it's natural that Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith will get called in to help the police with their inside knowledge. But why has somebody been crawling about on the chapel roof and who's obsessed with searching in the library out of hours?
Excerpt:
“Perhaps a profitable use of such cold days as this would be writing to authors—I suppose there must be some way of contacting them via their publishers—to point out their errors of logic.” Orlando suddenly scowled. “Or where they don’t play fair with the reader.”
Jonty, afraid that this would turn into an all the places where Doyle is less than candid with us rant, which had happened before and was probably just a cover for all the reasons why I don’t like Sherlock Holmes, said, “You should write an academic paper on the subject. Get into your study, pile the logs onto the fire, load up your pen, get out your foolscap and voila! Next thing you know it’ll be spring and the daffodils will be blooming everywhere.”
Orlando grinned. “It’s an appealing idea. Second only to spending the rest of this ghastly winter hibernating in bed with you.”
“If you were in bed with me all that time you’d not be hibernating, Dr. Insatiable Coppersmith.” Jonty yawned and stretched. “The thought alone makes me feel quite exhausted. Perhaps an early night is in order. An early night for sleeping as opposed to romping, I hasten to add. My legs ache after trudging down to the college and back.”
“You’ll need to trudge again tomorrow. Unless there’s a miraculous overnight thaw.”
“In that case I need an even earlier night to replenish my resources. It’ll be a busy day on the morrow. Dunderheads to see, essays to listen to. Preparations for St. Bride’s day to be made.”
“Ah, yes.”
St Bride’s day, February the first, was only two days hence. In the past, right through to the days of Queen Victoria, it had seen much celebrating in the college and not all of it had involved drink. Boy choristers had sung their little hearts out before the sun even peeped over the chapel, undergraduates had flung their hats in the air and cheered as the rays first struck the main gate, while fellows raised a glass of college beer and sang some obscure hymn, which was the college’s own and said to be appalling. Even the porters were rumoured to have dropped their reserve in the past and given three cheers for the college, and that sanctum of sanctums, the porters’ lodge, had been empty, as it never was otherwise. Everyone was supposed to attend, the gyps traditionally being given the task of ensuring that all their young gentlemen who weren’t in the choir turned out. Anybody failing to do so would face the wrath of the college authorities.
That had all fallen out of favour due to some misbehaviour by undergraduates, but the college’s newest don, Dr. Burns, was determined to revive the proper observation of the day and he’d been aided and abetted by a small committee, including the acting choirmaster.
“Will you be learning the all the songs?” Jonty asked, insouciantly.
“Have I any choice? Seeing as Mrs. Sheridan insists?”
“Good point. She’s very taken with all of this, isn’t she? Burns’s right-hand woman.” Which was just as well, given that she possessed all the inside knowledge of St. Bride’s that the expert in invertebrate zoology lacked. “I only hope that he doesn’t tempt her with planarian worms or tardigrades. Dr. Sheridan wouldn’t want her head turned.”
“I doubt that a million guineas and all the gems of Araby could turn that lady’s head from her true love.”
“You old softy. Appropriate that one of the traditional hymns for the celebration is Love Divine all Loves Excelling, then. Although maybe we’d be better off singing In the Bleak Midwinter given the weather. Make sure you wear two pairs of socks and your thickest underwear.” Jonty chuckled. “Let’s hope the ale turns out to be mulled. I don’t fancy a beer flavoured ice.”
And finally – it’s that time of year...all our own work
Charlie
