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Hello and welcome to Hear This. I'm Frances Keyland and you're listening to the Vision Australia library program. So let's just get straight into it. We've got some books to herald the beginning of the Christmas season, so bear with us and I hope you enjoy the show. Well, it's inescapable. It is December and were creeping towards Christmas. Some of us celebrate. Some of us are like, not really. Some of us wait for it to be over. But for those who like their Christmases a little dark but not too gory, there's some lovely collections of short stories to do with Christmas murders. So, as I said, nothing too gory. They're quite cozy, usually set in England, so I thought I'd start off with a couple of them.
The first one is the usual Santas, so these are 16 delightful holiday short stories by some of your favorite Soho crime authors, featuring short crime fiction by Helen Thurston, who's, um. I'm going to play a sample of her book. She's a Swedish author, and this has been translated into English. Mick Herron, Martin Lehman, Timothy Hallinan, MIT Ivy Harrison, Colin Cottrell Edlin, Stuart Neville, Todd Goldberg, Henry Cheng, James R, Ben Um, Liane Capable, and Agneta Friess, uh Gary. Corby, Kara Black, Stephanie Baron and Peter Lavezzi. This captivating collection of short mysteries and crime capers, which features New York Times best selling authors, Crime Writers Association Gold and Diamond Dagger winners and Edgar Award nominees contains laughs aplenty, the most hardboiled of holiday noir and heartwarming reminders of the spirit of the season nine shopping mall centers must find the imposter among them.
An elderly lady seeks peace from her murderously loud neighbors. At Christmas time, a young woman receives a mysterious invitation to Christmas dinner with a stranger. Niccolo Machiavelli sets out to save an Italian city. Sherlock Holmes one time nemesis, Irene Adler, finds herself in an unexpected tangle in Paris. While on a routine espionage assignment, Jane Austen searches for the Dowager Duchess of Wilbur's stolen diamonds, and other adventures will whisk readers away to Christmases around the globe, from a Korean War POW camp to a Copenhagen refugee squat, to a Thai street child's quest for the perfect gift for her friend. Let's hear a sample of the usual centers, subtitled A Collection of Soho Crime Christmas Capers. Um. They're compiled by Peter Livesey, one of the contributors, and this was published in 2021, and it has multiple narrators.
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The churchyard was silent and peaceful, so early on the morning of Christmas Eve, Maud couldn't help sighing loudly as she struggled along the snow covered path. It didn't matter because she was all alone at this time of day. There wasn't a living soul in sight and she was unlikely to disturb the others. The rubber wheels of her walker twisted sideways as it plowed through the deep snow. But eventually, after a certain amount of difficulty, she managed to park it next to the grave. She took the special grave lanterns and a box of matches out of the bag in the wheeled walkers wired basket. Two lanterns on the family grave would have to do one for her parents and one for her sister.
Such things were expensive these days. Her older sister had been named Charlotte. Maud had come along 11 years after Charlotte's birth, much to her parent's surprise and her sister's disgust. Being an only child had suited Charlotte perfectly. A little sister definitely wasn't on her wish list. Board thought back to the lavish parties her parents used to throw. She particularly remembered the big party they traditionally hosted on New Year's Eve. She recalled the delicious food, the candles burning brightly in the tall candelabras, the champagne corks popping at midnight, the hum of cheerful voices, the smell of cigars and expensive perfume, and, of course, the beautiful dresses the ladies wore.
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So that was the usual centers a collection of Soho crime Christmas capers compiled by Peter Livesey, with many, many authors in there. That book goes for 12 hours and 11 minutes and Peter Lavezzi. If you want, you can find the book by searching for the usual Santas. Or you could look under Peter Lowther. See, Peter. Is Peter along? V e s e y l o v e s e y. How about murder for Christmas by Francis Duncan. That's the next in our cozy murder mystery. Sitting in Christmas time. A classic mystery for the festive season. Mulled wine, mince pies and murder.
Mordecai Tremaine, former tobacconist and perennial lover of romance novels, has been invited to spend Christmas in the sleepy village of Sherbrooke at the country retreat of one Benedict Graham. Arriving on Christmas Eve. He finds that the Revelries are in full flow, but so too are tensions amongst the assortment of guests. Midnight strikes and the partygoers discover that it's not just presents nestling under the tree, there's a dead body to a dead body that bears a striking resemblance to Father Christmas. With the snow falling and the suspicions flying, it's up to Mordecai to sniff out the culprit and prevent someone else from getting murder for Christmas. Let's hear a sample of murder for Christmas by Francis Duncan. It's part one of the Mordecai Tremain series, and it's narrated by John Curtis.
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I believe, said Dennis excitedly. It really is. From the depths of the big round backed chair facing the log fire there issued an inquiring voice. Really? Is Walt going to be an old fashioned Christmas? Dennis switched her attention from the leaden sky and gave a cry of delight as she caught sight of the first flake, revealed in its gentle descent against the dark background of the laurels flanking the drive. Here it comes. Roger. Real delicious. Sugar. Icing snow. The big chair groaned. Horrible, it stated. Wet, beastly, uncomfortable stuff. I suppose we'll have to run the gauntlet of all the uninhibited little urchins in the village. Snow balls in the back of the neck every time we step outside the grounds.
Oh! Dennis Arden laughed happily. It was a laugh that did disturbing things to Roger Winton's self-control. He was, of course, in love with her. He had been ever since. He had swung his car a little recklessly around one of the many corners in the narrow lanes that meandered through the lush countryside about the deep rooted village of Sharon, to startle her horse and become the admiring victim of her fury. That had been early in the preceding year. On a day when the roads had wrung hard under the frost, and a keen wind had whipped the roses into Dennis Arden's cheeks and tumbled her chestnut curls into an attractive confusion.
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That was murder for Christmas by Frances Duncan. Frances is Frances, Frances Duncan is Duncan Duncan. That book goes for nine hours. As I said, it's part one of the Mordecai Tremain series. There's no others in the library at present, but if you enjoyed that one, you might want to forward a suggestion to the library to get more of the Mordecai Tremain books by Frances Duncan. This novel was originally written in 1949, and it won critical praise at that time, but its publisher knew almost nothing about the author. And I'm reading from the Guardian here, and this is an article that was published in 2016. The editors at a publishing company called Vintage Books, part of the random House Group, were in the dark about this author. They could find no biographical details for Frances Duncan, and he wrote a who wrote a succession of murder mysteries in the 1930s, 40s and 50s. So an appeal went out for anyone with information about him.
But then at the time this article was written, it was revealed that the author's daughter stepped forward to let the staff at the Vintage Books know more about her late father, who had been a lecturer in economics and history, and she's quoted as saying, we didn't know the book was being republished until my brother Derek spotted a copy in his local Waterstones bookshop. Ah, said doctor Katie Brown, an art historian, when I saw the appeal I got in touch with the publishers, she adds. He stopped writing in 1953 when I was about ten, but I was well aware of it all because they used to arrive in boxes and then be displayed on the family piano. I'm sorry to say I never got around to reading them.
So after all these years, Katie Brown is now reading his books for the first time and finding much of my father in them. There's quite a lot of psychology in the detecting, as this was an age before today's detailed scientific approach to crime. They are also fairly free of violence, though someone might get bonked on the head now and then. My mother, Sylvia, typed up his books. If Frances Duncan was a conscientious objector and stretcher bearer for the Royal Army Medical Corps during the war, and his daughter can now see her father in Tremain, his gentle hero. There is a chivalrous, old fashioned attitude to women that I recognise. Quite a lot of the books also have something in them about how appalling murder is, and a discussion about how we still all find such a fascinating subject, so that lovely to have that author to be rediscovered back in 2016.
That's a little bit about Frances Duncan, the alias of William Underhill. And now to the Christmas Carol. Murder by Heather Redmond, London, December 1835 Charles and Kate are out with friends and family for a chilly night of caroling and good cheer, but their blood truly runs cold when their singing is interrupted by a body plummeting from an upper window of a house. They soon learn the dead man at their feet, his neck strangely wrapped in chains, is Jacob Hawley, the business partner of the resident of the house, an unpleasant codger who owns a counting house. One Emmanuel Screws. Ever the journalist, Charles dedicates himself to discovering who is behind the diabolical defenestration.
But before he can investigate further, Harley's corpse is stolen. Following that, Charles visited in his quarters by what appears to be Harley's ghost. Or is it merely Charles's overwrought imagination? This is all about Charles Dickens. It's part one, or it's actually part three of a series called A Dickens of a crime, featuring Charles and Kate Dickens. Let's hear a sample of Christmas Carol murder by Heather Redmond, illustrated by Tim Campbell.
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They hadn't found the body yet. Old soul was surely dead. Feathers had caught on candles igniting the blaze. May be a yipping dog. At some part in the fiery disaster, the Marchioness is advanced age. It surely contributed to the fatal misadventure. The Marquis, her son, had nearly killed himself in a futile attempt to rescue her. Charles Dickens cough forced him to set down his pen, ink dribbled from it, obscuring his last few words. He found it hard to stay seated, so he pushed his hands through his unruly dark hair, as if pressing on his sooty scalp would keep him on the pub bench only three hours of sleep, before being dragged from his bed to make the 23 mile journey from his rooms at Furnace Inn in London that morning, nervous energy alone kept his pen moving. He rubbed his eyes gritty with grime and fumes from the fire, both the massive one that had destroyed the. Smoking ruins of Hatfield House's West Wing and the much smaller one here in the taproom at eight Bell's Pub.
Some light came in from out of doors, courtesy of a quarter full moon, but the windows were small. He called for a candle and kept working. Putting the messy slip of paper aside, he dipped his pen in his inkwell. Starting again, he recalled the devastation of the scene, the remains of once noble apartments, now reduced to rubble and ash. He filled one slip after another, describing the scene, the architecture, the theories. When he ran out of words, he let his memories of massive oak and Tudor beams half burned. Heaps of bricks, lumps of metal, buckets of water, black faced people and unending catching your throat soot or the remained of 45 rooms of storied aristocratic things fade away.
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That was Christmas Carol. Murder by Heather Redmond. Heather is h e a t h e r.... h e a t h e r. Redmond is. Redmond. Redmond. There are parts one and two if you want to start on those instead of the Christmas book, of which is number three. There's a tale of two murders, again set in the winter of 1835, which introduces us to the young Charles Dickens, who's a journalist on the rise at the Evening Chronicle. Invited to dinner at the estate of the newspaper's co-editor, Charles is smitten with his boss's daughter. Vivacious, 19 year old Kate Hogarth. They are having the best of times when a scream shatters the pleasant evening. Charles, Kate and her father rushed to the neighbor's home, where Miss Christiana Lewison lies unconscious on the floor.
By morning, the poor young woman will be dead. When Charles hears from a colleague of a very similar, mysterious death a year ago to the date, also a young woman, he begins to suspect poisoning and feels compelled to investigate. The lovely Kate offers to help, using her social position to gain access to the members of the upper crust now suspects in a murder, and that's followed by grave Expectations. Number two, Christmas Carol Murder. And then number four, The Pickwick Murders and number five, A Twist of Murder. Heather Redmond is the author of the Dickens of a crime series, as well as The Journaling Mysteries and other historical and contemporary romance is written under the name Heather heist. And although her last known British ancestor departed London in the 1920s, she is a committed Anglophile, Dickens devotee and lover of all things 19th century.
I'm just going to circle back to the author Peter Livesey. He's amazingly prolific. There are so many books by him in the library, including the Peter Diamond series, of which the first one is called The Last Detective. Detective Superintendent Peter Diamond is the last detective, a genuine gumshoe committed to door stopping and deduction rather than fancy computer gadgetry. So in the naked body of a woman is found floating in the weeds in a lake near bath, with no one willing to identify her, no marks, and no murder weapon. His sleuthing abilities are tested to the limit. Struggling with a jigsaw puzzle of truant choirboys, teddy bears, a black Mercedes and Jane Austen memorabilia, diamond persists even after the powers that should be have decided there's enough evidence to make a conviction. Let's hear a sample of The Last Detective, part one in the Peter Diamond series by Peter Livesey. Um, it's narrated by Simon Prebble.
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Shirley said bitterly, I don't believe it. What time is it? Her husband's side, swung his legs off the sofa, got up and looked out of the window. Some woman, he couldn't see much in the porch light. He recognized the caller when he opened the door. Miss Trenchard Smith, who lived alone in one of the older houses at the far end of the village, an upright 70 year old, never seen without her Tyrolean hat, which over the years had faded in color from a severe brown to a shade that was starting to fit in with the deep pink of the local stone. I hesitate to disturb you so late, officer. She said as her eyes traveled over his shorts and singlet in a series of rapid jerks. However, I think you will agree that what I found is sufficiently serious to justify this intrusion. Her great English genteel accent articulated the words with self-importance. She may have lived in the village since the war, but she would never pass as a local and probably didn't care to. PC Sedgemore said with indulgence.
What might that be, Mr. Goldsmith? A dead body. A body. He fingered the tip of his chin and tried to appear unperturbed, but his pulses throbbed. After six months in the force, he had yet to be called to a corpse. Miss Trenchard Smith continued with her explanation. I was walking my cats by the lake. People don't believe that cats like to be taken for walks, but mine do. Every evening about this time, they insist on it. They won't let me sleep if I haven't taken them out. A human body, you mean? Well, of course, a woman, not a stitch of clothing on her. Poor creature.
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Peter Elvis's Last Detective is a police procedural series in the tradition of Colin Dexter, John Harvey, or Ian Rankin. First Peter Diamond book was published in 1991, and as of 2022, there are 20 titles in the Peter Diamond series, and I'm reading from Publishers Weekly here who describe Peter Diamond as irascible, corpulent and cynical, who attributes Britain's decline as a world power to the abolition of capital punishment in 1964. Lavezzi has won a Silver Dagger award and a Golden Dagger award. He uses bath as a setting for his Peter Diamond books, and they're all whodunits, so you don't guess you're not meant to guess who it is. There's always supposed to be a twist. He's not averse to using classic mystery tactics like The Locked Room and other seemingly seemingly unsolvable mysteries, and he also writes some historical detective fiction as well.
This features sergeant crib. Sergeant crib novels are set in Victorian times. Now for a complete change of scenery, let's go to Iceland in the 10th century with the sorrow Stone. This is by Carrie Gislason, and the synopsis is after committing an audacious act of revenge for her brother's murder, Dessa flees with her son Sindri through the fields of Iceland. She has already endured the death of her loved ones. Now she must run to save her son and her honour. In a society where betrayals and revenge killings are rife, all Dessa has is her pride and her courage. Will it be enough for her and her son to escape retribution? Let's hear a sample of The Sorrow Stone by Carrie Gislason. It's narrated by Victoria Fox.
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I touch Cindy's cheek to make sure it's warm and he's alive. I tried to stay awake, but I slept until my back ached with the cold and bruises and the pain woke me. My arms hurt from falling in the fight. I can't move them, but the wind's dropped and the snowstorm is far out to sea. We made it through the night. There's enough light to start again. The water in the bay is the color of dark steel. A flock of Ida come around the headland and paddle in our direction until they see me. And then they turn away and press onto the other end of the beach, where they shake their wings dry and begin to forage in the shallows. I don't want to wake Sindri, but we should get moving now that it's nearly dawn. The men will ride out. They'll be searching for our bodies in the snow. They don't get that joy.
Wake, I tell him. I kiss his red hair, but he hums and turns and doesn't want to open his eyes. I'm too soft. And I let him sleep. At least while the wind's down and it's still dark. Inside our shelter under the shield. He brushes his face like he's pushing something away. The night what I did is somewhere behind his closed eyes. I tell myself it happened because it feels impossible to me as well. I aimed for Alf's fat stomach. When I tripped, I landed on his knee that was covered in mud, but I had enough time to reach up and stick the blade in his thigh. I wanted to kill him. I wanted it so badly that I was stronger and faster, too fast for him. His screaming was wordless. He wanted to escape, but I'd done it and it was too late. He waved his arms and I didn't know what to do.
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That was the sorrow Stone by Carrie Gislason. Carrie is spelt Carrie. Carrie um Gislason is Gislason. Gislason. That book goes for seven hours and 20 minutes. Carrie is Lassen in this novel? And I'm reading here from the Newtown Review of Books. And this is from the 31st of March 2022, and a review by an okay. Carrie Gislason is the author that co-authored Saga Land, Richard Fidler book about the ancient Icelandic sagas. And in this novel, he's undertaken the Icelandic saga known as the Saga of Guiseley and given Grizzlies sister Dessa a voice of her own in this review. It says Icelandic song is a complicated tales of rivalry, love, jealousy, killing and revenge. Women play small part in them, but Dessa shows how they too were part of the story, how they too had powers and rights and could make choices which at times changed the course of events. But it's not just a myth or a saga.
The Sorrow Stone is based on fact thoughts or. Dessa was born in Arsenal in western Norway in the mid 10th century, and her son Snorri Sindri in the book became one of the most influential figures in Icelandic history and played a major role in the country's Christianisation. Dessa was sadly judged very harshly by those who knew her in Sorrow Stone. Kory Gislason redeems her and shows her human frailties, her loyalty, and her courage in the face of violence through which she live. So that is a little bit about The Sorrow Stone. Now, I think I've got time for one more sample. This is Midnight at Malabar House by Hussein Khan. As India celebrates the arrival of a momentous new decade. 1949 Inspector Persis Wadia stands vigil in the basement of Malabar House, home to the city's most unwanted unit of police officers.
Six months after joining the force, she remains India's first female detective. She's mistrusted, sidelined and now consigned to the midnight shift. And so when the phone rings to report the murder of a prominent English diplomat, Sir James Herriot, the country's most sensational case falls into her lap as 1950 dawns and India prepares to become the world's largest republic. Persis, accompanied by Scotland Yard criminalist Archie Black Finch, finds herself investigating a case that is becoming more political by the second letter, a sample of Midnight at Malabar House by Wasim Khan. And I'm sorry, I don't have the narrator's details.
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Laburnum House, a two storey Cubist monstrosity splashed in virulent shades of imperial maroon and beige and imprinted from top to bottom with Art Deco motifs, including two startling elephant heads adorning the sea facing main gates. She was met at the front door by a house servant, a hand wringing native with the look of an overdressed coolie. The man led her swiftly through a shimmering reception hall, an expanse of white marble from the center of which sprouted a bronze of Prometheus. Some wag had stuck a turban on the Greek titan's skull, imparting an air of noble sanctimony. She was ushered into a drawing room where the man who had summoned her rose in greeting from a tan leather Chesterfield.
His name was mother in law Sir James Herriot's chief aide. A slender figure immaculate in herringbone tweed. He wasn't quite tall enough to pull off the high waisted trousers, but there was a smartness to him that signalled a sense of self-assurance. He held out a hand. Inspector. Thank you for getting here so quickly. She noted the manicure, the clean shaven cheeks, the black hair oiled back in a perfect widow's peak, round steel frame spectacles gave him the look of a bookkeeper or an insurance broker. All in all, an attractive man if one liked them a little on the well pressed side. It struck her that Lale, in his urbanity, was the very image of a modern civil servant.
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And that was midnight at Malabar House by Hussein Khan. FaceMe is Vasyl MVS VM and Khan is Kayhan. That book come was the winner of the CWA Crime Writers Association Historical Dagger, and also nominated for the Sexton's Crime Novel of the year. Thank you for joining us on here this today. Thank you to everybody that listens to the show. I really appreciate the support and always happy with any suggestions that you send through our way. If you would like to contact the library, the library number is 1300 654 656. That's 1300 654 656. Or you can email library at Vision Australia. Org. That's library-at-visionaustralia-dot-org. Have a lovely week and we'll be back next week with more Hear This.
