I’ve been playing with covers…
what do you think?
These are the photographs taken on our visit to the disused station at Aldwych. Of course, I wasn’t there for the history. I was there to check I’d got the description right.
From top to bottom they show:
1. The unfinished lift shafts 2. A very substantial door 3. Condensation and damp on the passenger tunnels 4. Platform one – which was used until its closure in 1994 (although notice only part of the station ceiling was tiled). 5. The never used second platform 6. Tiling patterns – tested at Aldwych before being rolled out elsewhere on the underground 7. The Grade One Listed tracks ( in a Grade Two Listed building) 8. The unused staircase from the unused platform to the lists. 9. The train tunnels 10. Concourse/passenger tunnels 11. Wartime posters courtesy of every film company ever to have filmed in Aldwych 🙂
Helen (the station ghost) refused to put in an appearance, as did Lucy, Mark and -thank heavens – the distortion.
If you get a chance to visit the station the next time it’s open, then do. It was a fabulous hour. And though I say so myself, I do think I got the description right 🙂
I have made a decision, my gentleman detective needs a dressing gown.
Well, you’d have thought I’d have asked the Pope to change religion!
You see, if I wanted an Arthur Dent style dressing gown, I’d have been fine. Not only could I have sourced one for Symington at the start of the 20th century, but I could get one for OH from Ebay…
But a man’s dressing gown? Very limited stock indeed from which to choose.
See what I mean?
Now Symington is a man of taste, suaveness and sophistication. I can’t see him in any of the above.
Well possibly the last one but in black and gold…
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Typical researcher that I am, I’m afraid I have been dipping in and out of this book to find out what it was like to be in the East End during the 1880s. But incomplete as my reading is, I have decided to review Drew D. Gray’s book. You see, this it well written an well researched – in a word it is a joy.
Most books that deal with this period of London’s history are sensationalist, focussing on the Ripper and his activities rather than looking at the context of the murder, the state of the East End; the ethnic mix, the geographical complexity of the situation. And for me, this is why this book scores highly.
Yes, the Whitechapel murders are the focal point of this book. It was the biggest “thing” to happen in the East End after all. And yet, through this book, I have learned about: the increasing professionalism of the police and the work of the courts; as well as what drove the women of whitechapel to prostitution and the desperate poverty and disease that was endemic in the area.
To be honest, this is one of the best books I have read about Victorian London in a a long time. If you want to know about the London underbelly you cannot go far wrong by reading this book.
Crime Fiction would be lost without the detective, whether it be the hard-nosed kind found in American crime novels – like Mike Hammer and Philip Marlowe, or their British counterparts – Sherlock Holmes, Lord Peter Whimsey and Hercule Poirot.
European fiction tends to favour a gentleman detective; who comes from the educated classes; is at home in a world that we like to think existed in the years prior to the Great War and ended just after the Second World War, and who has an unusual (if not downright eccentric) manner. They are gentleman if not by birth, certainly in the way they behave; and they are members of what the Georgian world called the Ton (the top 100 families). Their detecting takes place in a cozy world – known as the locked room; their suspects are all flawed and ( for the Marxist among you) degenerate representatives of a dying and parasitic class. Not only does the detective battle against a closed society; they also clash with the professional police who are presented as dim witted, lower class fools. This is apparently a backlash against the bungled investigation into the Ripper Murders of 1888, and the popular misconception that the police were incapable of detecting crime because they were not intelligent or educated enough.
Each detective is accompanied by a companion – usually male – who acts as a sounding board. They are not always from the same social class, but their skills complement or even augment the central character.
Bizarrely the first Gentleman detective was not British – but French – and created by an American, albeit an anglophile. This detective was Edgar Allen Poe’s C. Auguste Dupin. Making his appearance in 1841, in the Murders in the Rue Morgue (the first of three cases) Dupin was not an immediate success and underwent quite a few changes in his modus operandi. But he was a Chevalier in the Legion D’honneur, and he was obsessed with collecting books. He started out as an amateur detective who would visit the crime scene and take an active part in the investigation – but only when called upon by the authorities. In book two, he had become introverted rarely leaving his rooms – the epitome of the armchair detective, and only after appalling reviews (for this second book – The Mystery of Marie Roget -1842) did Poe make the changes allowing Dupin to become what readers would now recognise as the gentleman detective (The Purloined letter (1844).
Intriguingly, Poe did not believe his character to be successful and moved away from crime fiction. Yet, Poe’s initial concept blossomed in English literature. The first English Amateur detective (Franklin Blake) appeared in 1866 – in what aficionados of this genre regard as the first English Crime Story – The Moonstone. He was followed by a character whose name is synonymous with crime fiction: Sherlock Holmes. And should you care to compare Dupin and Holmes closely, you will see why it is possible to argue that Doyle did not create his detective, he simply lifted him from Paris and planted him in London. In temperament, intelligence and bravery he is the equal if not the mirror image of Dupin.
After that the floodgates open: Wimsey, Campion, Alleyn, Poirot and Marple (from the Golden Age); with Dalgleish, Lynley, Makepeace (of Dempsy and Makepeace fame) Jonathon Creek and even -possibly – Professor Layton representing the modern era.
Until Marple – society would have us believe that women detectives were conspicuous by their absence, and yet, the first female detective, Mrs Gladden, appeared in 1864 some 23 years before Holmes. In many respects her techniques are those of Holmes. She is an active detective: visiting the crime scene, using disguise to protect herself from discovery by the criminal classes, as well as treating the police with the correct level of disdain.
Given the public’s insatiable appetite for the detective it is probably that had she been male her fame would have been equal to (if not greater than that of Holmes). But female detectives – while not isolated – were not the staple of popular fiction.
According to Dorothy L Sayers it is because they are so “irritatingly intuitive as to destroy that quiet enjoyment of the logical which we look for in our detective reading.” Sayer’s main complaint, however, is that the female detective “tends to be too young, too beautiful and too interested in marriage.” In addition, her “propensity” to “walk” into “dangerous situations” interrupts the male ability to “solve crimes.” She may have a point: until Marple – female detectives were 40 or younger. Mrs Paschell who works for Colonel Warner is 40 and in need of a job; Hilda Serene is 25, while Kate Goelet is only 23.
Perhaps another reason for the failure of the female detective is the fact that they were all created by male writers. Indeed, it was not until 1897 that Amelia Butterworth was created by Anna Katharine Green.
The development of the proto feminist movement of the 1890’s, with its focus on the idea that women could be financially independent of men, allowed more female detectives to come to the fore. Dora Myrl, the Lady Detective (1900) is the daughter of a Cambridge Don; Joan Mar, Detective (1910) created by Marie Connor Leighton is the first female for whom marriage is not a consideration. However, even at this time, these female detectives were expected to conform to the stereotype. Indeed Molly Kingsley in Hazel Campbell’s Olga Knaresbrook, Detective (1933) eschews the life of the detective upon marriage.
And so to Miss Marple – who first appeared in 1930 – a woman who remained 65 for the fifty years she appeared in print. Returning to Sayer’s condemnation of the female detective ( intriguingly forgotten when she came to write about Harriet Vane), it is possible to argue that Miss Marple’s success resulted not from her age, but from the fact that she while she had a phenomenal intelligence, it came from the observation of the world around her – in a homespun, almost absent minded way.