Back to the Buchan for me. I enjoy the Hannay novels greatly (dodgy Tory politics and off-colour remarks about jewish and black people aside). At his heart, Buchan is a master of plot and pacing. There is absoloutely no beating around the bush with this writer: He knows where he’s going and he never loses the reader on the way.
As with Hannay’s best stories, then, so with John Macnab. Unlike the Hannay books, the tone here is lighter by dint of a more light hearted plot. Set at the time of its writing in the 1920s, the book concerns three men (an emminent barrister, a Cabinet Minister and a City bigshot) all of whom are in their early 40s. They are rather jaded and suffering from enuui, a sense of everything being too easy in life and of nothing providing them with much of a challenge any more.
I suppose I too would be more than a little bored and on the lookout for some diversion, if I were able to do my job with my eyes closed and had no money worries whatsoever. Strictly speaking, these aren’t the most engaginng characters in the world. We have a barrister who doesn’t really care about his clients’ cases; a Cabinet Minister who feels like he’s on autopilot (at one point Buchan descrbies him giving an off-the-cuff speech which is all waffle, consisting of platitudes stiched together from previous speeches given elsewhere); and a City high flier who I can imagine being more interested in watching raindrops fall down a window pane than counting his dough). How the heart bleeds.
Nonetheless, Buchan’s storytelling skill manages to invest this upper class ragbag with enough inherent interest to keep the story going. What these three need is an escape. Together they cook up a plan based on a tale they hear, about a man who a few years previously felt rather the same way. His way out was to poach fish and deer from properties that bordered his Highland property.
Duly inspired, these three pillocks of the establishment decide they will spend the late Summer at a Scottish property belonging to a younger acquaintance. Collectively adopting the pseudonym of John Macnab, they write to the owners of three neighbouring estatyes, informing two of them that a stag will be taken on a set date, and telling the remaining one that a salmon will be taken. By giving advance notice of the date, ‘Macnab’ is giving the owners’ fair warning, thus turning the whole criminal enterprise a sporting air.
What follows is a (of course) superbly written and flowing tale that never ceases to engage. And of course this being a Buchan adventure tale, the success of the enterprise is always in doubt, the ‘will they, won’t they?’ nature of the task forming the core of the narrative.
Along the way there are a couple of comments about jews and a few asides onTory politics, but these are altogether less dodgy than the like in the Hannay books. There’s also the whole concept of huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’, things that some find distasteful but which here, of course, are discussed as if they’re as natural as making a killing in the City without one’s heart being in it, conducting court cases with one’s eyes closed, or feeling bored by one’s Cabinet level job. But then this is world Buchan knew and inhabited. Take it or leave it, we can’t change it.
All in all, then this is a classic Buchan. Read it with a sense of irony from our 21st century perspective, or just take it for what it is. Either way, if you try it you’ll more than likely enjoy it.
Thubron’s short 2011 book is an account of a trek from Nepal, through mountain passes heading north east and into Tibet. His ultimate destination is Mount Kailas, a mountain which is (according to the blurb of this book) “holy to one fifth of humanity”. The goal for pilgrims there (mainly Hindu and Bhuddist) is to circle the mountain.
I don’t think Thubron is either a Hindu or a Bhuddist, so why is he on this journey? “I am doing on account of the dead”, he writes early on. Following the death of his mother, he finds himself the last one living of his immediate family, and feels the need to go on a journey, which seems part of his way of trying to overcome (or at least come to an accommodation with) the sense of grief. Why Mount Kailas? “In the end,” he continues later in the same passage, “you come to rest at a mountain that is holy to others. The reason for this is beyond articulation. A journey is not a cure. It brings an illusion, only, of change, and becomes at best a spartan comfort.”
The book is all the better for being realtively short, I think. I found it to be at its best when he is describing the journey itself and touching on his recollections of his family. There are no very lengthy passages of autobiography in this book, however, and I think that this is something of a shame, since it is at these points that Thubron’s writing is at its most poignant and resonant. For instance, one memorable passage sees him describing going through his mother’s possessions after her death, particularly old letters. There is also a very brief passage alluding to his sister’s early death at the age of 21 which is very affecting and raw.
I would have liked more of these personal reflections threaded all the way through the book. However, I got the feeling that they petered out somewhat from about halfway in, as he neared Mount Kailas. I think that this makes the book is slightly uneven,since the personal angle gradually gives way to the more familiar travel writing template of quoting choice bits of conversation from people met along the way, as well as descriptions of the journey, picking a particular thing seen or told about, and then going into wider contextual detail that may touch on religion, folklore, politics, history and the like.
This is all very well, and have no doubt that Thubron is a master of this style of travel writing. However, it is (dare I say) a tad dry and journalistic compared to the more personal (and hence engaging) aspects of the book where he writes about his personal history and the complex inter-relationship this has with this particular flight into the unknown. Normally his precise descriptions and lightly-worn erudition would be more than enough on their own (see his book In Siberia for instance for a masterclass of this style of travel writing). It is just that in the case of To a Mountain in Tibet he gets onto a different level of insight altogether for my money, ironically by writing about personal matters closer to home, and juxtaposing these with the foreign physical and spiritual climes in which he finds himself.
However, this remains a very worthwhile book and one I would highly recommend.
Here’s the blurb from the back of the Penguin edition that I’ve just read. It sums up the novel well, but I will add couple of points of my own following the quotation:
J.L. Carr’s A MONTH IN THE COUNTRY, first published in 1980 is a gem of a novel which explores the power of art to heal and restore. Tom Birkin, a damaged survivor of the First World War, is spending the summer uncovering a huge medieval wall-painting in the village church of [the ficitious Yorkshire village of] Oxgodby. Joined by another veteran employed to look for a grave outside the churchyard he uncovers old secrets that bear on his experiences of conflict.
It’s not a long book. In fact it’s one of those which in a way are pretty much novella length (such as Henry James’s Daisy Miller or Conrad’s Heart of Darkness) but which get classed as novels because of the depth and scope of themes and overall ambition.
Birkin is a specialist, called in as part of the bequest of a recently deceased local woman, one Miss Hebron, charged with uncovering and restoring a wall painting in the local church. His counterpart- Moon- is an archaeologist given the job as part of the same bequest to look for “the grave of Miss Hebron’s forebear, one Piers Hebron” who died in 1373.
Art, and its capactiy to heal and restore through our own contemplation and enjoyment of it, is certainly a key theme of the novel, as the blurb writer alludes to. The steady rhythm of work certainly has a calming effect on the shellshocked Birkin. At one point he states that “this steady rhythm of living and working got into me, so that I felt part of it and had my place, a foot in both present and past; I was utterly content”.
However, it’s also about memory, and our own perceptions of certain events in our lives when we look back. It’s also about people. As the narrator, who is Tom Birkin in later life looking back, says, “God, when I think back all those years! And it’s gone. It’s gone. All the excitement and pride of that first job, Oxgodby, Kathy Ellerbeck, Alice Keach, Moon, that season of calm weather- gone as though they’d never been”.
In fact, the passage I quoted first about having a foot in both present and past see Birkin say a little later on that uncovering “a great work of art wasn’t all of it [i.e. helping to clam him and make him generally more positive]. There was this weather, this landscape, thick woods, roadsides deep in grass and wild flowers.”
And of course it’s a about the people listed above too, especially the Ellerbeck family who take a shine to Birkin, regularly having him over the Sunday lunch and getting him to help out at the Sunday school they run. And it’s also about Alice Keach, wife of the uptight vicar whose church it is that Birkin is working in. Birkin unquestionably gains much from his carefully practising his craft, which in turn uncovers the work of a great unknown artist in the church, but he also gains a lot from being immersed in a local community which accepts him. His relationship with the Vicar’s wife is altogether more problematic, but it seems even then that he comes away from this brief entangelement stronger in a way.
There’s not much in the way of out-and-out humour in the book, but I found the overall tone of it rather jaunty and matter-of-fact, straight to the point in an engaging way. In a sense this would jar with what we’d understand Birkin’s initial state of mind and general mood to have been, for not only was he shellshocked and plagued by a nervous twitch in his face as a result of his wartime experiences; it also transpires that his unfaithful wife has just run away with another man. However, it’s the old Hemingway-esque trick of making the tone and language jar with what’s being described, in order to make the reader fill in the emotional gap and make the full realisation for themselves.
Birkin’s tone as a narrator looking back is eaxctly what’s required, however, as it emphasises the distance in time and temerament from himself then as a young man in the very early 20s, to himself as an older man looking back at that healing month in the country. That month was the pivot in his life.
(The book was made into a 1987 film, which I’ve never seen, and just as you can’t judge a book by its cover, you probably can’t judge an entire film by its trailer. However, on balance I won’t bother to seek out the film. While the book’s core story is strong enough to bear a film adaptation, there is far more depth to this novel than you can really replicate on screen: inevitably too much is lost, and not enough is gained. The tone set by the trailer feels over-serious to me, wheras the book’s various moods are far more lifelike in their ebb and flow, the highs and lows and in-betweens.)
Verdict: A straightforward but very deep book that is satisfying on every level, with pitch-perfect yet uncontrived symbolism. It’s also a very quick read to boot. Perfect!
Author Eric Newby (1919- 2006) is one of the more notable twentieth english travel writers. I have long been aware of his name, but up to now I hadn’t read any of his books. When I saw a copy of A Small Place in Italy in a charity shop I bought it to see what I made of Newby.
The first point to make is that this isn’t a travel book as such, or at least it’s not an account of a journey. Instead it’s a memoir of the Italian holiday home that Newby and his wife Wanda owned between the 1960’s and the early 1990’s.
So the book is an account of life in this farmhouse that they owned, situated in the hills in the region on the Tuscan/ Ligurian border.
‘Colourful’ Italian characters and descriptions of rural life abound. Standout passages include a description of how the Newbys sought out and bought the house in the first place; an account of how they knocked the house into shape; and Newby’s account of his walk among the Appenines.
To be honest, I found that some of the longer descriptions of rural life (such as the grape harvest) were interesting enough but went on a bit too long. Indeed, the book starts of as a roughly chronological account of how they bought and did the place up in the 60s. After the first few chapters, though, that it gets more general, and the book becomes a series of vignettes and character sketches, intended no doubt to give a general flavour of what life there was like.
But the book retains its charm. I suppose it’s worth remembering the publishing context from the early 90s. Peter Mayle’s A Year in Provence was a massive publishing hit, and second home ownership among Britains looking for a place on the Continent was on the rise. Tuscany was also becoming something of a holiday magnet for the British middle class. So no doubt A Small Place in Italy was aimed at that general market.
However, it stands on its own merits as a book that would make a decent read for someone wanting to get away from it all, transported by a writer who is never less than excellent company. The final sale and taking leave of their Italian idyll was clearly a great wrench for the Newbys and so this book reads exactly as what it was: an attempt to remember and portray the good times and the good life, and a good-natured labour of love.
Verdict: Not the place to start if you’re a Newbie ‘noob’. If you want to get a feel for why he’s considered one the best English travel writers start elsewhere. Otherwise, though, this is a charming and pleasant book.
The 2015 case of a Spanish priest, who was under investigation by civil authorities for performing a series of exorcism upon a teenaged girl with anorexia, coincided with my finishing off a book by the noted author and conservative Catholic, the late Malachi Martin.
I am neither Catholic, conservative (with either a small or large C) and neither am I possessed (so far as I or others can tell). My only link to this subject is that I recently read some Dennis Wheatley novels and I have seen The Exorcist. Suuitably qualified, I dived straight in to this odd book…
The main starting point for my reading this book was, oddly enough, Youtube. we’ve all been there: you watch a particular video and then lo and behold the site suggests similar viewing material which, on the surface, has little to do with what you’ve just watched. In my case the Youtube suggestion was of a radio interview of Martin conducted in the late 1990’s by the US talk show host Art Bell.
Art Bell is pretty much unknown in the UK. US readers will probably know who he is, viz. the original host of the late night talk show Coast to Coast AM, a program which specialises in interviews with authors and investigators on the occult, conspiracies, UFOs and all other branches of the (for the mainstream) off-limits and the arcane. With the exception of one new show there is nothing really comparable on UK commercial or public service radio, although there are some podcasts that touch on these topics.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, I listened to this interview and was interested to say the least. Martin was for many years until his death at the end of the 90’s, an exorcist, an told many a story of his experiences. He was also for a long time a serving Priest, although it seems that he left the Church (in something of a huff it seems) in the mid 60’s, following the various reforms kicked off by the Second Vatican Council earlier that decade. He objected to many of the changes that took place then, which must have made Martin A VERY CONSERVATIVE CATHOLIC INDEED.
A ‘fuddy-duddy old Priest’ is how he described himself at one point in an interview with Bell, and he certainly was an old-school Catholic. This is a man for whom the traditional teachings and beliefs of the Catholic Church carried weight over and above any other moral and religious teaching. It’s a mindset closer to the ‘fire and brimstone’ view of the world and of spirituality, a world away from-say- the modern Church of England with its women Priests, women Bishops, widespread grassroots support of Gay marriage (despite dissenting conservatives in the ranks) and the recent talk about dropping references to the Devil in the Baptismal services.
No. For a mind like Martin’s the Devil is real, evil is a distinct entity, demons exist and possession is a fact.
So far, so intriguing. The book “Hostage to the Devil” is artfully crafted and very well written. I do wonder the extent to whcih you could bracket it (in terms of style and form) with the ‘non-fiction novel’ approach popularised by Truman Capote in a book like In Cold Blood. There are in Martin’s book several novelistic touches. His four case studies as presented in this book read like stories in themselves.
Even if not all of them are all 100% factually true, they are still scary. I think overall, however, this is a book written not to shock or titilate, but to warn. The overall tone is one of warning and admonition. All four of the people who Martin claims were possessed all in some way deviated from the moral path as outlined by the Church. Only the Church is capable, in martin’s view, or truly saving them. Ostensibly, then, the book is an in-depth look into the work of an Exorcist. Deep down, however, it’s a cautionary tale and an attempt to affirm the superiority of the Catholic Church.
Verdict: This is a very well written book. You may take some bits with a pinch of salt, but that probably won’t stop you from wanting to sleep with the lights on.
It’s not what you know but who you know, as the old phrase goes, and it’s an annoying fact that in modern-day Britain the old boys’ network is as strong as ever. But what are the people like who attempt to form the hearts and minds of these old boys when they are still schoolboys?
Two books which give a little insight into the policies, prodecdures and the very general ethos of two of Britian’s ‘great public schools’ are The Old Boys’Network by the late John Rae, Headmaster of Westminster School in the 70s and 80s; and the more recently published An Intelligent Person’s Guide to Education by the former Head of Eton, Tony Little.
Rae’s book is an slection of diary entries written when he was head of one Britain’s most prestigious schools, Westminster in Central London, hard by Westminster Abbey. Personally speaking, I’ve always been somewhat suspicious of Head Teachers, whether they are worknig in the state or private sectors. They always strike me as being- by and large- a melancholy mixture of salesperson, chief constable and chief exectutive. If you rund a boarding school, then add prison warder to the list. Pedagogy is the last thing they seem to be concerned about.
While a lot of Rae’s book is concerned with promoting and developing his School and maintaining discipline (mainly through cracking down on illegal drug use in Westminster) to his credit he did actually balance leadership duties with some actual classroom teaching. How many secondary school heads could one say of this today? Most of them give one the impression that they are Heads precisely BECAUSE they couldn’t wait to get out the classroom. Rae, by contrast, gives me the impression that he was a very good teacher first and foremost, and it was teaching and learning that concerned him most. Everything stemmed from that.
Rae it seems to me was also somewhat out of step with the private school ethos of the time. When it comes down to it, private schools are businesses: If they don’t attract enough fee paying parents then they fold. He was an opponent of the ‘Assisted Places Scheme’ a Thatcherite policy that gave financial assistance to parents who wanted their children to goto a fee paying school. This opposition it seems made him unpopular with many of his colleagues in the Headmaster’s conference.
That said, while he was something of a political liberal, he defended to the hilt the right of public schools to exist. In one passage that sticks in my mind, he describes going to a meeting where he defended schools of Westminster’s ilk, by saying that the only sure fire way to cut the public schools down to size was for state schools to get better.
Of course this is easier said than done. One could be the Head of the best performing state school in the country. But would that give one licence to, when presented with a child of middling ability who failed to get into the Oxford College of his choice, then phone round other Colleges until a place was found? Would it also give one licence to, when a boy tells you he quite fancies a career in political journalism, pop round for tea with the editor of The Times with the young man to discuss such a career? Both things Rae did, and both were thanks to the status of Westminster as a school and the old boys’ network.
Was he wrong for doing these things? I say not. But is it wrong that such a state of affairs exitsted then and still existed now? Of course it bloody well is. Several times in the book Rae acknowledges the contradiction between wanting to do his best by the children in his care, while knowing that it is merely reenforcing the old boys’ network.
An Intelligent Person’s Guide to Education (despite the rather pompous title which is no fault of Little’s, the book being published as part of a series of “Intelligent Person’s” guides) is a decent read. Now while I see Eton as one of the very bastions of cronyism in this country, Little has some commonsense ideas about education. While one could take issue with some of what he says, the passages dealing with the practical changes he’d like to make to the general education system in this country in particular make for very interesting reading. It’s rather sad that some of them- like students applying for university AFTER they have their A Level results- are sensible ideas of the kind that Governments neither deabte not propose.
Indeed, the last two (Coalition and Conservative) adminsitrations have been notably guilty of imposing wholesale changes to curriculum and school administration, and fallen into the trap of overloading teachers and pupils with too much, too soon. Perhaps it is the fact that by and large they remain largely aloof from all this meddling and attempts to reinvent the pedagogical wheel, that ensures the strongest fee-paying schools are able to focus squarely on securing the best advantages for their pupils. Largely untouched, they can concentrate on doing what they are paid to do: grinding out the results and greasing the wheels of the Old Boys’ Network.
The Riddle of the Sands is something of a landmark in English fiction. Of its wider significance I will speak later. To start, however, here’s a brief summary of the book.
It concerns a young English Civil Servant, Carruthers, who out of the blue at the beginning of Autumn, one afternoon in the early years of the twentieth century, receives a telegram from an old acquaintance called Davies. Davies requests Carruthers’s company on his boat which is currently on the German coast of the Baltic Sea. Not having anything better to do, and despite his initial misgivings, Carruthers agrees to go and see Davies.
Initially Carruthers feels that his worst fears have come to pass. He hates Davies’s boat, feels like he’s wasting his time, and what’s more Davies seems to be acting rather strange and distant.
Tensions build until they finally come to a head, when Carruthers gets his friend to come clean about what’s on his mind and affecting his behaviour. It is then that Davies tells his tale and the story really starts.
Davies tells of a chance encounter when he was sailing his boat, the Dulcibella, along and around the German North Sea coast. There he met a German called Dollmann. One day when they were out sailing in bad weather, Dollmann said hat he would take Carruthers through a short cut among the coastal islands and islets, in order to take him to the nearest safe haven. Davies soon gets into trouble and loses sight of Dollmann’s boat, however, and he is convinced that Dollmann in fact was trying to get him killed through capsizing or being run aground.
Piecing things together for Carruthers’s benefit, Davies theorises that Dollmann wanted him out of the way because, as an Englishman, it would be dangerous for him to gain so much knowledge about how to safely navigate the German North Sea coast. Furhtermore, Davies’s belief that Dollmann wished him fatal harm at sea fuels the Englishman’s sense that something suspicious may be going on along the North Sea coast. When pressed on this, Davies admits to Carruthers that he fears there may be some kind of build up of forces or long term planning for a possible attack on the English coast. He even suggests (and remember that this book was published some eleven years before World War 1) that an all-out confrontation between the two nations may be a distinct possibility one day.
Gradually Carrathers starts to see things from Davies’s point of view, and the rest of the book becomes the account of how the two attempt to unravel the ‘riddle of the sands’, a title which can be taken on at least three levels: Who is Dollmann and what is he up to? What is the true nature of this unique and difficult-to navigate coastline? And is there any substance to Davies’s fears of a German naval build up in the area?
As a tale, Childers’s story is engaging and plausible, while as a piece of descriptive writing it brings to life this fascinating part of the world. Subtitled “A Record of Secret Service”, the book also has claim to being one of the very first of the modern spy stories. Apparently it was a favourite of John Buchan, and a close reading if Chapter One of the The Riddle of the Sands illustrates the clear general resemblance between Carruthers and Buchan’s famous hero Richard Hannay as that character describes himself in Chapter One of the great story The Thirty Nine Steps. Both are rather jaded and cynical young men-about-town going somewhat stale in London, and who reveal better aspects of their respective natures once pressed into vital- if wholly unexpected and unlooked for- work that turns out to be of national importance.
Childers’s book in my view still stands up in purely narrative and literary terms. Yet its significance goes far further. From its first publication, this was a book that changed minds and had significance: one could say even genuine political influence. In its description of the potential German threat to a British coast that was relatively weakly defended (at a time when Britannia still ruled the World’s waves, but to the relative neglect of its own shoreline) Childers’s book turned heads among the powers that be. It partly helped inspire the construction of new naval bases along the east coast as well as the bolstering of the North Sea Fleet, all of which played an important part in naval engagements during World War One.
Yet arguably even more intriguing than the riddle posed by this evocative novel, is that which stands front and centre in Childers’s own life. Clearly this was a man who loved his country and its Empire so much that he wanted to warn people about what he perceived to be a threat on its own doorstep. And yet he ended his life embroiled in Irish Nationalist politics and executed in that country by the Free State in the early 20s.
Just riddle me that.
I can’t give you snow-white cherry blossoms this morning, but I can offer this picture of pinkish blossoms in full bloom outside my house this fine, clear April morning.
Which brings me to AE Housman again, who despite sounding a typically mournful note in this poem from A Shropshire Lad, still (perhaps) manages to keep it upbeat enough for Spring. It’s not Eastertime today either, but I can only assume it was an Easter later in April which Housman imagined…
Still, whatever the more maudlin traits if this poem, one of its strands remain clear: enjoy
the blossoms while you can.
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
From the 1930s right through to the 1970s, Dennis Wheatley was one of the best-selling authors in the United Kingdom and in the english speaking world. While his books remain in print (I understand for example that they’ve just been relaunched in e-book ‘editions’) his profile is nowhere near as high as it was in his heyday.
This is a shame, for like other writers who wrote well, were prolific and much loved in their day (John Buchan is another who springs to mind) Wheatley is in danger of not enjoying the audience that his talents deserve.
I can’t claim to have read much of his very large output, but I’ll try to summarise it thus: he wrote mainly thrillers, and these sometimes had an historical setting. He also made use of recurring characters. Unlike some authors who are famous for one main character (e.g. James Bond, Harry Potter and so on) Wheatley had numerous popular protagonists in his stable. Among these are the adventurer Gregory Sallust, Roger Brook, and the magnificent character of the Duke de Richleau.
One of Wheatley’s continuing claims to fame are his occult novels, which are all excellent, page0turning thrillers which combine the usual thrills and spills of the genre with a heavy dose of the macabre, the darker side of the Occult and satanism.
The book which set the tone for this aspect of the author’s output is the truly magnificent The Devil Rides Out. Featuring a cast of characters headed up by the Duke de Richleau, a French aristocrat exiled in England, is is a true battle of god against evil. It sees the Duke and his close circle of friends literally battling to save the soul of their friend Simon Aron, a man who it turns out has extraordinary psychic powers which are of use to a highly sinister magus (who, it is widely believed, is probably a thinly veiled portrait of Aleister Crowley, a man personally known to Wheatley, and who advised the author on various- shall we say- technical details). This is kind of rollicking thriller that is so well written that it makes its three hundred odd pages fly by as if there were only thirty. It’s all magnificently over the top, with a plot as tight as anything you’ll encounter anywhere.
Ultimately whether you think the black magic elements are rubbish, there can’t be any denying of the tightness and excitement of the plot, and ultimately what we are left with is a throughly entertaining read. Another of Wheatley’s occult novels, The Haunting of Toby Jugg, was filmed as The Haunted Airman in the last decade. The Devil Rides out was filmed by Hammer studios in the 1960s. While that film still stands up today (and gets the hairs on the back of your neck to stand up too), it’s such a strong story that it would surely be box office gold in the right hands. So long as the producers did the decent thing and stayed true to Wheatley’s original plot. The term ‘master storyteller’ is perhaps too much the stuff of publishing cliche, but in Wheatley’s case it’s perfectly true.
There’s no question in my mind that he stands with Conan Doyle, the aforementioned Buchan, Agatha Christie and Ian Fleming, to name but a few, in the great tradition of British mystery/ thriller writers.