Writer and friend, Val Penny...

...makes a very welcome return to my blog this week to talk about the setting for her very intriguing books...

VP  I chose Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland, as the setting for my novels that form The Edinburgh Crime Mysteries.  Hunter's Blood is the fourth book in the series and has been published by darkstroke.  Edinburgh is a beautiful city of around half a million people.  It is situated on the south banks of the Firth of Forth.  There are some lovely views across the Forth from Edinburgh to the county of Fife on the north of the river.  There are three bridges crossing the Firth of Forth: the oldest is the Forth Rail Bridge, built in the nineteenth century, the Forth Road Bridge was built in the twentieth century and the most modern, a bridge for road traffic was completed in the early part of this century, named the Queensferry Crossing.

In the Holyrood district of Edinburgh sits the delegated parliament of Scotland, that has wide powers over how the people are governed, meets in the Scottish Parliament Building.  Following a referendum in 1997, in which the Scottish electorate voted for devolution, the current Parliament was convened by the Scotland Act of 1998 which sets out its powers as a devolved legislature.  Since September 2004, the official home of the Scottish Parliament has been a  new Scottish Parliament Building in the Holyrood area of Edinburgh.  The Scottish Parliament building was designed by Spanish architect Enric Miralles.  There was much concern at the time as the building was completed many years late and several times over budget.

The main protagonist of Hunter's Blood is Detective Inspector Hunter Wilson.  He lives in Leith, an area to the north of the City and drinks in his local pub, the Persevere Bar. His home is also close to one of the main soccer grounds in Edinburgh, the Hibernian Football Ground.  Hibernian Football Club, commonly known as Hibs, is a Scottish professional football club based in Leith.

The other main character, Detective Constable Tim Myerscough lives across the city from Hunter, in the south-west of the city.  He moves into a flat in Gillespie Crescent between Tollcross and Bruntsfield.  His local pub is the Golf Tavern, off the Bruntsfield Links.

A wonderful free activity to do all year round is to play golf on Brunstfield Links.  It is believed to be one of the oldest sites of golf as it pre-dates the seventeenth century, the short hole course was founded in 1895.  Situated south of Melville Drive, there are two courses available to play on.  A summer short 36 hole course (open end of April to September) and a 9 hole winter course (open October to end of April).

DC Tim Myerscough's father, Sir Peter Myerscough, lives even further to the south in the Morningside district of Edinburgh. From his large house he has fine views across the Pentland Hills. The Pentland hills are situated just outside of Edinburgh. The reservoirs are

picturesque and each hill is slightly different. If you are fit enough, you can go on top of all of the hills in one day.

Edinburgh is such a diverse and cultural city, home to The Edinburgh International Festivals that represent all aspects of art, three universities and several colleges and the Scottish national rugby ground at Murrayfield. It is the perfect place to situate 'Hunter's Chase' and the mysteries DI Hunter Wilson has to solve.

I hope readers will enjoy Hunter’s Blood, the most recent mystery featuring Hunter and his team.

AW  I'm sure they will, Val.  Thanks for visiting.

about the book… DI Hunter Wilson never has just one problem to solve.  He finds three elderly women he knows dead in mysterious circumstances.  A little girl is lost on a cold winter night and then his team finds cocaine hidden around the farm where she is living. Hunter is worried that he cannot keep his family safe.

Why did the women die? What did the child witness?

Hunter must find the answers to these questions to ensure his family and his city are safe.

about the author… Val Penny is an American author living in SW Scotland.  She has two adult daughters of whom she is justly proud and lives with her husband and two cats.  She has a Law degree from Edinburgh University and her MSc from Napier University.  She has had many jobs including hairdresser, waitress, lawyer, banker, azalea farmer and lecturer.  However, she has not yet achieved either of her childhood dreams of being a ballerina or owning a candy store.  Until those dreams come true, she has turned her hand to writing poetry, short stories and novels.  Her crime novels, Hunter's Chase, Hunter's Revenge, Hunter's Force and, Hunter’s Blood are set in Edinburgh, Scotland, published by Crooked Cat Books.  The fifth book in the series, Hunter's Secret, follows shortly.

You can follow Val on her Website on her Facebook Page and through her Facebook Group and on Twitter

You can get the complete Edinburgh Crime series on Amazon

Come stroll with me…

…through the fabulous city of Paris…

Today, we're taking the metro to Place de la Concorde at one end of the Champs-Élysées, one of the most famous and busiest thoroughfares in the world.  Just take a look at this street.  You can stand here in the middle of the road, looking directly at the Arc de Triomphe - wanted by Napoleon Bonaparte in 1806 but finally inaugurated by the King Louis-Philippe in 1836.  Turning your back on the Arc, you face the peace and quiet of the Jardin des Tuileries with the Louvre straight ahead.  It's about a twently minute stroll from here to the Louvre and that gives me plenty of time to tell you all about Jean-Baptiste Poquelin.

In January 1622, Jean-Baptiste was born into a wealthy family, here in the city of Paris.  He was well educated, and after working for some years as an itinerant actor he began to be noticed.  I guess that, when you have such benefactors as the Duc de Orléans - Louis 14's brother - you are bound to be noticed by the King himself at some point.

Jean-Baptiste, much better known to you and I by his stage name of Molière, became the go-to scriptwriter and actor of his day.  His troupe of actors was known as the 'Troupe du Roi' and the royal patronage brought Molière a suizable pension and guaranteed him an audience.  Any of this sounding vaguely familiar yet?

As we leave the Tuileries we're going to take the rue Rivoli down to where it interescts with rue de Rohan and we'll take a left here and stroll onto avenue l'Opéra and pause for a moment.  We are now standing outside the Comédie-Française.  Founded in 1680 by Louis 14, this is one of the oldest working theatres in France.  It is also the only theatre in France that is state controlled and that has maintained a permanent troupe of actors.  The works of Molière, Racine and Corneille, and many, many others have been preformed in this building.  That's 340 years-worth of great actors' feet treading those boards!  Well, perhaps not exactly those particular pieces of wood that are currently on the stage at this moment… but you can perhaps understand my sense of wonder when I remind you that I've been treading the boards since I was a kid of 6.

But, back to Molière.  He wrote more than 30 plays and across differing genres.  His experience as an actor and his use of comic timing enlabled him to write farces and comedies that are still performed today.  He also wrote opinion pieces that got the court talking and, at times, also got him into hot water.  His plays have been translated into every major language.  His texts have been studied, crtitiqued and, are regularly quoted.  His plays are performed more often at the Comédie-Française than any other writer.

Sadly, Molière himself was not able to see his work on the stage at the Comédie as he died in 1673 on February 17th.  He suffered from TB, and having given a performance as Argan in Le Malade Imaginaire - The Hypochondriac - he suffered a fit of coughing and died shortly afterwards.

And that familiar thing?  Well, Molière was and still is, the epitome of French theatre.  So, as an actor, I've spent my life learning and reciting Shakespeare and I think I can honestly say that, had I been born in France, it would very probably have been the work of Molière that I studied instead!

Please welcome, friend and author, Miriam Drori...

...to my blog this week.  Hi Miriam, and it's great to have you make a return visit.

MM  Hello Angela, and thank you so much for having me on your blog.  When I think of you, I think of France, mystery and history.  So I thought, what if Martin, the main character in my novel Cultivating a Fuji, had been sent to France instead of Japan in 1977.  How would he have coped there...

Martin turned off the slide projector and flopped onto the chair behind him.  His presentation had been beyond awful.  If he’d been nervous before starting, and he had, that was nothing compared to the way he felt as soon as he began. Despite all his practice runs in the hotel in front of the mirror, when he tried to give a repeat performance in front of these office workers his confidence went out of the door and the words refused to form themselves properly.

He wasn’t helped by the smirks he saw planted on every face in the audience. Couldn’t they have shown a little understanding?  Apparently not.

Now they were talking amongst themselves, the discussion becoming quite heated and so fast that Martin’s schoolboy French didn’t help at all.  In fact, he wondered whether, in their rush to talk, they were really listening to each other.  Through it all, the smirks remained, becoming especially pronounced at the word rosbif.  He doubted they were planning lunch, which had to mean they were referring to him and his compatriots.  Did it show their disdain for everything English?  Did they think all English people were like him?

Finally, they turned back to Martin and one of them spoke. 

  “Thank you for this… presentation.”  He spat out the last word, as if he thought any similarity between Martin’s performance and a real presentation was minimal.  “We have decided we will not buy your system.”

  “But you haven’t seen the demonstration yet!” The shock made Martin forget to be his usual quiet, enclosed self.

  “What we saw and heard, it is sufficient.”

By the time Martin was again soaring through the clouds on the short hop back to Heathrow Airport, he’d assigned this trip to the weighty sack of failures he’d collected over the past twenty-four years, wishing the first one had never happened.  Why had he been born?

MM  I assure you I have nothing against French people, in general, but I do think Martin wouldn’t have fared nearly as well in France as he did in Japan.

AW  What a great post, Miriam, and thank you.

about the book… Convinced that his imperfect, solitary existence is the best it will ever be, Martin unexpectedly finds himself being sent to represent his company in Japan.  His colleagues think it’s a joke; his bosses are certain he will fail.  What does Martin think?  He simply does what he’s told.  That’s how he’s survived up to now – by hiding his feelings.

Amazingly, in the land of strange rituals, sweet and juicy apples, and too much saké, Martin flourishes and achieves the impossible.  But that’s only the beginning.  Keeping up the momentum for change proves futile.  So, too, is a return to what he had before.  Is there a way forward, or should he put an end to the search now?

Gradually, as you’ll see when Martin looks back from near the end of his journey, life improves.  There’s even a woman, Fiona, who brings her own baggage to the relationship, but brightens Martin’s days.  And just when you think there can be no more surprises, another one pops up.

Throughout his life, people have laughed at ‘weirdo’ Martin; and you, as you read, will have plenty of opportunity to laugh, too.  Go ahead, laugh away, but you’ll find that there’s also a serious side to all this…

You can get the book from Amazon.

You can follow Miriam on Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, Pinterest, Instagram, Wattpad and on her website/blog and social anxiety blog

Another year...

Image by Pezibear from Pixabay 

…the decorations are neatly stored, the Christmas tree is back in its box, and the cards are on their way to be recycled. Yes, Christmas might be done for 2019, but there are now only 354 days left before next Christmas!

And just think about the opportunities that those 354 days can offer. Here on the blog, we will be kicking the New Year off with a return visit from a great friend and fellow writer, Miriam Drori. There will be other authors visiting too. I will be heading to London for some fabulous exhibitions, and I will tell you all about those as they come along.

If you haven't picked up on this already, 2020 is the 100th anniversary of the publication of 'The Mysterious Affair at Styles', by Agatha Christie - the very first book that featured my favourite detective, Hercule Poirot. This year is also the 130th anniversary of Dame Agatha's birth. As I grew up on her stories, I thought that now would be an appropriate time for a trip to Torquay. The hotel is booked, and my train tickets are waiting at the station to be collected. I'll be telling you all about that little adventure here on the blog in a few weeks.

As for Monsieur Jacques Forêt, well, I will be catching up with him much later in the year. In the meantime, if you have a craving for France, perhaps you could accompany me as I meander along the canals of Burgundy. I can promise fabulous views, interesting and historic chateaux along with gorgeous little villages that lie hidden and away from the tourist trails.

I hope you can join me…

Happy New Year...

Just because it's Twixmas...

...Part 2 of the Tale of Santa's Trousers follows and you can find Part 1 here ...

...Lifting her head Esme sniffed the air and stepped onto the tail of a wind.  Moments later her tiny form hovered above the hearth of number 52.

“Hmm, it's very quiet here,” murmured Esme as she let herself drift gently onto the brass fire surround.  She glanced around the room.  In the large bay window was an empty pot, but no tree or lights.  The boxes of decorations were stacked unopened on the floor around it.  Raising herself and hovering above the coffee table she saw some cards haphazardly discarded.  She turned and looked up, the corners of the room held no decorations.  The only display of Christmas was the red and white shine of the foil uniforms of a few of the chocolate soldiers that had spilled from the open box on the windowsill.  Esme frowned and decided to investigate further.

Wishing herself dust she disappeared under the door and into the hallway.  There were no signs of Christmas there either, just the sobbing of the mother in the kitchen and disregarded mail on the doormat.  Esme caught a draught of air from the front door that took her upstairs.  Crouched outside the child's bedroom door was the fully-grown Labrador.  The dog opened one eye and stared.  Esme retreated to the room downstairs.

“Mrs Claus,” she whispered up the chimney.  “Mrs Claus, there's something so very wrong here.”

“Look to the future, Esme,” came the echo of the reply.

Esme circled her finger in the air and watched as images moved across the space.  At the final picture tears welled in her eyes and she batted the circle away.  As dust she willed herself out of the room, the house and on to the forests of Norway.

“I need one of you to sacrifice yourselves for a little girl who is very ill.”  On again to a goose farm.  “I need your feathers,” she said.  “For a very good cause.”  On and on she travelled until she arrived safely at number 52 and slipped down the chimney again.

Exhausted, Esme rested for a few moments on the cold marble of the hearth.  The clock on the mantelpiece struck four.  Esme started at the sound.

“Oh no!”  She jumped up.  “There's so little time!”  She upended her rucksack and emptied the contents.  A wave of her finger and the Norwegian spruce settled itself in the container in the centre of the bay window.

“Lieutenant Sweeting,” she shouted.  “Get all of your men out of that box and get that tree decorated.  I've got Santa's trousers to mend.”  A rustle of card and a soldier hopped down.

Raising his hand to his forehead, “Yes Ma’m,” he said.  “Platoon, arise!”  The small army of red and white clad soldiers marched out of the box, down the wall and across to the pile of decorations.  Esme smiled.  They'll be done in no time, she thought.

With a sigh she pulled out Santa's trousers and looked at the damage.  “If it was just the seam, this would be easy.”  Her brow furrowed as she examined the extent of the damage to the torn material.  “I’m going to need a rather large patch to cover that!”  A wave of her finger and her workbox slid across the marble to her side and opened.  Esme searched through the contents.  Sequins were chucked onto the hearth, red material, green ribbons, white lace, pink chiffon… soon the white marble hearth was a rainbow of colour and Esme was intent on her task to repair Santa's trousers.

“Excuse me Ma’m,” said Lieutenant Sweeting as he saluted and presented the fairy for Esme to see.  “I think this is a problem that needs your expertise.”

Esme took the doll from him.  “Oh yes,” she said as she fingered the clumsily attached crepe paper that had been used as a replacement skirt the year before.  “That will never do.”  Esme ripped the crumpled paper from the fairy's body and threw it into the cold and lifeless fireplace.

“And that's something else we need, Lieutenant Sweeting,” she nodded at the empty grate.  “Wood and a warm fire.”  The soldier saluted, turned and marshalled his men.

Alone with her task Esme cut away great swathes of red cloth, fixed the patch and, completed the repair.  Satisfied with her handiwork she then began sorting through the pile of fabrics and haberdashery on the hearth.

“Perfect!  That is absolutely perfect,” she said handling a piece of white satin which she set against some gold coloured lace and the red cloth cut from Santa’s trousers.  Grabbing some white netting she laid everything out on the floor.  A wave of her finger and the scissors began cutting and shaping as Esme threaded her needle with gold coloured cotton and started to sew.

***

In the twinkle of the lights on the tree and the warm orange glow of the last embers of the fire Esme heard the rustle of a fall of soot onto the hearth.  A moment later a large red sack landed followed by Santa still sporting his hairy legs.  Esme let the wings she had made from the goose feathers carry her from the top of the tree to the hearth.

“My trousers, are they ready?”

“Yes,” said Esme pulling the garment from behind the fire irons where she had hidden it from human view.

“Marvellous!” Santa grabbed the trousers and turned them round.  His face fell as he saw the repair.  “What is the meaning of this?”

Esme hung her head.  At that moment, her newly stitched white satin slippers peeping out from under the gold lace edge of her newly created fairy dress were of more interest.

“Esme,” bellowed Santa.

Esme straightened her shoulders and ran her hands down the soft bright red overdress she had made.  “I’m sorry Santa,” she said.  “But making Christmas the best ever here at number 52 was my only thought,” she blurted out the flurry of words.  “And the gash in your trousers was so big and ragged I had to cut away more to make a patch possible and it seemed such a shame not to use the extra material and the fairy for the tree was in such a state and—”

“Enough,” said Santa.  The old man pulled at his beard as he cast his eyes over the patch.  “The stitching is of your finest, Esme.  As I would expect, but Lurex?  Did you really have to use purple Lurex for the patch?”

“It was the only piece I had that was big enough.”

Santa, hands behind his back, paced the hearth.  “I see,” he said.  “Misappropriating company property for your own personal use is a very serious matter, Esme.  I shall have to consult Mrs C about this.”

“But the little girl—”

Santa held up his hand.  “I know you did this with the best of intentions, but misappropriation is still misappropriation.  I cannot ignore it.  As for the little girl, she needs a miracle of medical science.  We can’t help with that, so you must make sure tomorrow is a very special time for this family.”

“Yes, Mr C.”

Santa nodded and stacked the presents under the tree.  Still in his shorts, but wearing his displeasure on his face, the old man disappeared up the chimney.  Esme smiled and took her place at the top of the tree with her heart torn and a tear in her eye.

Just because it's Twixmas...

... I have a little story for you.  This first appeared on the Facebook page of the UK Crime Book Club on December 21st.  Read on...

The Tale of Santa's Trousers

Once upon a time, in a place so very far north from here, there was a large house made of ice that was owned by Mr and Mrs Claus.  The house had stables, a workshop and acres and acres of rooms.  Many people, throughout the whole of history, have tried to find the Claus’ house and workshop, but have failed.  Even great explorers like Ross, Scott and Shackleton failed in their quests to find the Claus' address.  And, to cover their own embarrassment, said they were looking for the North Pole instead.  Of course, I can’t let you know where the Claus’ live... that would be telling.  But I can say that there is something a little magical about Mr and Mrs Claus and their army of helpers.  Just like there is something a bit magical about their house.

Recently, when Mr and Mrs Claus were preparing for the culmination of the year’s work on Christmas Eve, one particular helper called Esme decided she needed a change.  Threading her needle, Esme applied the last of the sequins to the dress and carefully stitched it in place.  Tying off the golden coloured cotton, she smoothed out the full-length copy of a Givenchy gown and reached for the doll.  Pulling the dress over the inanimate body, Esme tugged at the tiny zip and then placed the toy on the stand in the box and sealed it.

“Wish I could have a dress like that,” she said to no one in particular.  Her co-helpers were equally busy with the rest of the wardrobe for the very last doll required for the night’s delivery.  Esme stretched and then rubbed her aching back. Getting up from her workbench, she waved her forefinger in a circle.  Her scissors, needles, and pins danced across to her workbox and settled into their appropriate trays.  The remnants of cotton, material, and sequins tidied themselves away, and, with a final flourish of red ribbon, the workbox lid slowly closed and the bow at the front tied itself.

Esme grinned, smoothed down her green pinafore dress, rolled down the sleeves of her white blouse, and collected her little red pompom hat.  It would never do to be improperly dressed when reporting to Mrs Claus.  As she walked the length of the workshop she glanced left and right, her fellow helpers were all busily working at their allotted tasks.  Esme tapped on the door of the office and waited.

“Come in dear,” said a voice from inside the room.  As Esme entered, Mrs Claus removed her spectacles to reveal bright blue eyes that were overshadowed by an unruly shock of thick white hair around a kind face.  Mrs Claus peered over her desk.  “Esme, well done.  Yet again you are one of the first to complete your—”

“Mrs C!”  Came a loud and frantic cry from the room next door.  Recognising the voice, Esme wondered if she should leave.  Just as she was about to step towards the open door, Mr Claus appeared, his broad shoulders and wide girth completely filling the doorway.

“Mrs C,” he whined.  “Look!  Look at my trousers!  They have split,” he said thrusting the offending garment at his wife, and, in his haste, almost knocking Esme to the ground.“My trousers! What about my trousers?”

His bleating temporarily abated, Mr Claus slumped on to an inadequately small stool in front of his wife's desk.  Esme turned away and covered her eyes.  Santa Claus in his bright red boxer shorts, his hairy white legs beneath, was not a sight often seen in the very far north.  Mrs Claus, lips pursed, stared at her husband.

“Shorts,” she intoned with an edge to her voice as she pulled the pile of red cloth towards her.  “Wear your shorts,” she said, her annoyance rising.  “And do not come into my office inappropriately dressed again.”

Santa frowned.  “Shorts... do I still have some of those?”

“Yes, you do.  Bottom drawer on the right.”  Mrs Claus donned her spectacles and began to examine the tear in the trousers.

“Oh, right.”  Santa paused in thought.  “But will they still fit?”

Mrs Claus sighed.  “Unlikely,” she said.  “Highly unlikely considering your year on year expanding waistline.  But it’s all you’ve got.”

“Oh.” At the door he turned.  “And my trousers will be ready for the evening deliveries won’t they, my dear?”

“We’ll do our best.”

Esme remained quite still close to the wall with her hands across her face.

“He's gone, my dear.  Now, where were we?”

When Esme stepped towards the desk Mrs Claus was examining her papers.

“Ah, yes,” she said.  “Your family are going to be the same as last year.”

“What?”  Esme flounced down on the stool.  “But last year you promised me a new family.”

Mrs Claus consulted her list.  “Hmm, yes I'm aware of that.  But, when they took down their tree last year, although they decided to buy a new fairy and some new decorations they haven't done so.  Number 52, it is for you.”

Esme crossed her arms and glared.  “Have they still got that damn puppy?”

“Yes dear, but it won't be quite as boisterous as last year, though.”

“Good.  That tree and me were crashed onto that cold hardwood floor three times on Christmas day alone.  My imitation fairy wings were all bent out of shape, my fairy crown fell into the fire and was thrown out, and my dress was chewed beyond recognition.  It was bloody cold at the top of that tree for half of Christmas last year.”

Mrs Claus nodded.  “I know dear, but you are just what this family needs and you can mend Mr C's trousers whilst you are there.”

The piercing stare that Esme felt running through her was enough.  There would be no point in presenting any further arguments for change.  She jumped off the stool, grabbed the clothes, collected a bale of hay from the pile in the corner and a bag of carrots and left the room.  Head bowed she trudged through the workroom until she reached her workspace.

“I’m heading back to number 52,” she said to her colleague across the bench.

“Have fun,” came the half-hearted reply.  Esme sighed and toed her battered rucksack out from under the bench.  A wave of her finger and the carrots and hay concertina'd themselves into the small space inside the backpack with Santa's trousers following neatly behind.  Hat firmly pulled over her ears Esme made her way through the workshop, down the stairs and out into the northern ice and snow.  The large ice door slipped shut behind her.  

Lifting her head Esme sniffed the air and stepped onto the tail of a wind...

...you can read the final part of the story here ...