Charlie's latest newsletter
We’ve had snow! OK, it was barely an inch and it didn’t stay but I was like a child with excitement, out scrunching around in my snow boots and making snow-frogs.
News
Portsmouth Book Fest is about to launch online. Don’t forget to grab a place at some of the excellent sessions, especially as this may be a unique opportunity to attend if you’re not in the Portsmouth area. I’m doing two events:
February 17th 7pm GMT I’m with Liam Livings, Clare London and Sue Brown talking about helping you to finish your book and know what to do with it. Helping you finish your book & know what to do with it! | Portsmouth Library and Archive Service (spydus.co.uk)
Do you have a half-completed novel you’d love to finish? Or a finished novel that you’re not sure what to do with? Let us help you take the next step along the road to watching that novel leave the nest. In this panel we’ll cover: Ways to get that unfinished manuscript over the line, without it fizzling out. The common mistakes that authors make in their first—and subsequent!—drafts and how to rectify these. What options you have when your story is complete and next steps for making the most of them. We’ve considerable experience to offer, not just as published authors (traditionally, Indie and self-published): among us we’ve been on acquisition teams for anthologies, read and assessed manuscripts for the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s New Writers Scheme and have led many panels and training events for writers.
February 24th 7pm GMT I’m putting on my mystery hat to discuss forgotten fictional detectives. Forgotten Fictional Detectives | Portsmouth Library and Archive Service (spydus.co.uk)
This panel will introduce five fictional detectives who have slipped out of public notice. They will range from the first Victorian lady detective written by a woman; an Artificial Intelligence Personality living near Washington DC; a multi-talented detective who rarely sleeps; and the father and son detectives that Ellis Peters abandoned when Brother Cadfael took over her life.
I’ve started work on the next Lindenshaw book at last, having dithered about having to tackle “it”. I know I’m not the only author who’s been loathe to write about the present situation but I suddenly decided that I couldn’t keep pretending the world is anything different to what it is. I have to say, it’s proving really enjoyable. Lot’s of possibilities within a lockdown world and I’ve been doing lots of practical experiments on plot points. Mainly, so far, involving electric blinds. Don’t ask.
I’m also just about finished the first “good” draft of the next Toby and Alasdair story, which started off as a case of poison pen letters but quickly grew into a hunt for a mass murderer! If you’ve not come across this pair before, they’re actor laddies from just post-WWII, who don’t just play Holmes and Watson onscreen. Here’s a little reminder of the last one of their cases, from “An Act of Detection” which features two of their investigations.
Stars of the silver screen Alasdair Hamilton and Toby Bowe wow the post WWII audiences with their performances. But when they depict Holmes and Watson life starts to imitate art. They get asked in by a friend to investigate a mysterious disappearance only to find a series of threatening letters—and an unwanted suitor—make real life very different from the movies. Then there's an unpleasant co-star who's found murdered during an opening night. Surely detection can’t be that hard?
Excerpt
“Hello sailor!” Toby Bowe’s cheery tones came down the telephone line.
Alasdair Hamilton groaned. “I knew you were going to say that. Sir Ian’s been in touch with your agent, then?”
“Of course he has. Contract’s signed, sealed and delivered. I don’t know why they bother to keep up the pretence of talking to our agents individually rather than saving both time and effort and nabbing us both together.”
“You know exactly why they do that. More important to save scandal than save time.”
What would the British cinema-going public say if it knew its favourite leading men—the pride of Sir Ian Sheringham and his studio, Landseer—continued their love scenes in the privacy of their own homes? And without the participation of Fiona Marsden, who’d been their perennial leading lady.
Hamilton, Bowe and Marsden. The British public adored the special chemistry the trio displayed on screen, one that made every scene appear real rather than acted. Although given the true situation, then Toby and Alasdair’s acting skills surely surpassed those of even Olivier and Gielgud, so convincingly did they both display their adoration of Fiona on celluloid. Still, hadn’t many an actor or actress being doing exactly the same thing over the years? Alasdair and Toby weren’t unique in finding their own sex more attractive than the opposite one.
“Are you looking forward to lunch?” Toby asked.
Alasdair snorted. “The food, yes. Not necessarily the rest of it.”
“Landseer always does put out a good nosebag. I wonder if they’ll be supplying us with faux girlfriends to add to the illusion?”
“Not today, I’d guess.” And thank God for that. Part of the smokescreen that helped maintain the actors’ reputation was their being seen in public with beautiful young women. Rarely the same ones twice, though, because Landseer didn’t want the young ladies becoming suspicious about why their charms appeared to be having no effect.
“I suppose that when Fiona’s about they like her to shine like a diamond on a coal heap. No other lovelies to risk detracting attention.” Toby chuckled. “They could give us plain starlets to squire on these occasions. No, belay that. They’d not let us be seen with anyone too mousey.”
“I don’t suppose it would go with the image. The studio powers that be think the public would expect only the most attractive women to be draped on our arms.”
“Hm. I bet it’s more subtle than that. A beautiful woman, and a different one each time, implies a series of flirtations. Were she homely it might suggest we’d found true love. And what would your adoring fans say if they believed you were at risk of being taken out of the marriage market permanently?”
“Less of the adoring fans nonsense, you cheeky bugger.” Alasdair snorted. “And the same would apply to you. Just as well we held those negotiations directly with Sir Ian.”
At the point they’d become the hottest properties in British cinema, rather than holding out for everything in terms of film deals or size and luxuriousness of dressing room, they’d made it plain to the boss that while they’d wine and dine whichever young lady Landseer felt needed a leg up on the ladder to stardom, they would draw a line at even the suggestion of undergoing sham marriages. That both maintained their reputation as playboys and enhanced their standing as being easy to work with and highly professional.
“And what’s all this belay rubbish you were spouting earlier?” Alasdair added.
“Got to get in character for the new role, Admiral. Splice the main brace, twelve at the grating and whatnot.”
And finally
The snow made me think of our trip to Norway two years ago and the wonderful church at Alta, whose design is based on the Northern Lights. 
Charlie