Category Archives: Arthur Conan Doyle

Still These Allergies Remain*

AllergiesAutumn (or spring, depending on which hemisphere you call home) is upon us. And that means one important thing: allergies. If you’re subject to allergy attacks, you know how miserable they can make you. Seasonal allergies can be very annoying, but some allergies are more than that: they’re deadly. Some people have such severe reactions to certain foods, stings, etc. that they are at risk for death from anaphylaxis if they come in contact with that allergen.

For a crime writer, anaphylactic shock can make for a very handy murder weapon. The killer doesn’t need a special skill, a lot of medical knowledge or a great deal of pre-planning.  Anaphylaxis is also a handy ‘cover’ for certain kinds of poisoning. There are plenty of examples of the way allergies are woven into crime fiction; here are just a few.

Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane is one of the later Holmes stories, taking place after he’s retired. In this story, he’s on a seaside holiday at Sussex when he runs into a friend Harold Stackhurst, headmaster of an exclusive preparatory school. As they’re chatting, one of Stackhurt’s employees, science master Fitzroy McPherson, staggers towards them, suddenly collapsing. The only thing he’s able to say before he dies is something about a lion’s mane. At first it makes no sense, but it’s soon suspected that McPherson was murdered. And the most likely possible culprit is mathematics master Ian Murdoch. In fact, Stackhurst fires him. But Holmes doesn’t believe that the case against Murdoch is iron-clad. For one thing, Murdoch has a solid alibi. For another, there are puzzling things about McPershon’s death that aren’t consistent with the theory that Murdoch is the killer. In the end, Holmes finds that the real murderer was a Lion’s Mane jellyfish which stung the victim and to which he had a fatal allergic reaction.

More than one of Agatha Christie’s stories feature allergies to wasps, bees and other stinging insects. For instance, in Death in the Clouds (AKA Death in the Air), a wasp is blamed for the death of Marie Morisot, who is killed on a flight from Paris to London. There is a wasp on the flight; several passengers comment on it and one kills it. There’s a small sting mark on the victim, too. So at first it looks as though she died from a severe allergic reaction to a sting. But soon enough, Hercule Poirot, who was on the same flight, discovers that the victim was poisoned. The only possible suspects are the other passengers, so Poirot and Chief Inspector Japp look among them to find out who the killer is. I know, I know, fans of And Then There Were None

Kaitlyn Dunnett’s Liss Macrimmon is a former Scottish dancer who’s had to end her career because of an injury. Now she’s returned to her hometown of Moosetookalook, Maine. In Scone Cold Dead, she learns that her former dance troupe Strathespy is on tour in the area, and arranges for them to perform at the University of Maine’s Fallstown campus. One night, she throws a party for the troupe. One of the guests is company manager Victor Owen. During the event, Owen suddenly dies after eating a scone stuffed with mushrooms, to which he was violently allergic. Macrimmon has a not-very-amicable history with the victim, and she was the one who hosted the party and arranged for the food. So as you can imagine, she falls under immediate suspicion. Determined to clear her name, she works to find out who the real murderer is. And it turns out there’s no shortage of suspects.

Susan Wittig Albert’s Chile Death also features food allergies. In that novel, herb and spice shop owner China Bayles and her police-officer partner Mike McQuaid are invited to the upcoming Cedar Choppers Chili Cook-Off. McQuaid is even persuaded to serve as one of the judges. Bayles thinks this will be a good opportunity for him to ‘rejoin the human race’ as he starts to cope with life after a devastating line-of-duty shooting. On the day of the cook-off, insurance executive Jerry Jeff Cody, who’s serving as another judge, suddenly collapses and dies. It looks at first as though he’s the victim of a sudden heart attack. But before long it’s shown that he died of anaphylactic shock brought on when someone slipped crushed peanut shells into a sample of chili he was tasting. Now Bayles works to find out who knew about Cody’s severe peanut allergy, and who would have wanted to kill him.

I’ve actually used peanut flour as a fiction murder weapon myself. In B-Very Flat, violin virtuosa Serena Brinkman is killed just after having won a major musical competition. It turns out that someone knew about her severe peanut allergy and took advantage of it. Serena’s death is devastating to her partner Patricia Stanley, so Patricia asks her academic advisor Joel Williams to help find out the truth.

Of course, allergies can serve as useful clues, too. Just ask Elizabeth Spann Craig’s sleuth, retired teacher Myrtle Clover. In Pretty is as Pretty Dies, she discovers the body of beautiful but malicious Parke Stoddard in a local church. She wants to prove, mostly to her police-chief son Red, that she’s not ready yet to be ‘put out to pasture.’ So she decides to find out who killed the victim. And in this case, an allergy gives her important information.

Whether mild or severe, allergies are a part of life for millions of people. And they’re also a very useful tool for crime writers. These are a few examples. Over to you.

 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Paul Simon’s Allergies.

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Filed under Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, Elizabeth Spann Craig, Kaitlyn Dunnett, Susan Wittig Albert

Call the Doctor*

House CallsAmong the many changes we’ve seen in the world of medicine in the last 100 years is what many people call the demise of the house call. There are still medical professionals who visit their patients (more on that in a bit). But you no longer really see the GP making the rounds as in the past. There are arguably several reasons for this. I’m no medical expert, but I would suspect that one of them is the increasing litigiousness in the medical world. Lawsuits are a very real issue for midwives, doctors, nurses and all sorts of other medical professionals; and home visits are often seen as unacceptable risks. There’s also the issue of money. Health care is expensive. No matter what sort of system your country has established for medical services, those costs have to be met. So it’s not feasible as it once was for a GP to visit patients. There are of course other reasons too.

There are plenty of crime-fictional doctors and nurses who make house calls. Those characters can be really interesting, as they see quite a lot and know many different people. Here are just a few to show you what I mean.

Perhaps the most famous is Arthur Conan Doyle’s Dr. Watson. After service in Afghanistan, Watson returns to London and sets up as a GP. It’s not easy going at first, and as we learn in A Study in Scarlet, Watson decides that the best thing to do is to share rooms with someone. That someone, of course, turns out to be Sherlock Holmes, and Watson soon begins to share in, and document, his cases. As the stories go on, Watson builds his clientele and eventually marries and moves into his own home. As fans know though, that doesn’t stop him being interested in Holmes’ doings. Although these adventures don’t generally focus on Watson and his life as a GP, there are several references to his doing rounds and visiting his patients.

Several of Agatha Christie’s novels include GPs who make house calls. In The Murder of Roger Ackroyd for instance, we are introduced to Dr. James Sheppard, who lives with his sister Caroline in the village of King’s Abbot. When Hercule Poirot retires (or so he thinks!) and moves into the house next door, Sheppard gets a chance to see the way the famous detective works. Retired business magnate Roger Ackroyd is stabbed one night in his study. The most likely suspect is Ackroyd’s stepson Captain Ralph Paton, and there’s evidence against him, too. But Paton’s fiancée Flora Ackroyd is convinced that that he is innocent. She persuades Poirot to take the case and he begins investigating. Sheppard knows everyone in the area (he was actually a friend of the victim’s), and gets involved in the investigation. I know, I know, fans of Sad Cypress.

John Bude’s The Cornish Coast Murder features a GP as one of the protagonists. Dr. Pendrill serves the community around the village of Greystokes. He’s having dinner one night with his friend Reverend Dodd when their evening is interrupted by a telephone call. Pendrill’s been summoned to Greylings, home of the Tregarthan family. Family patriarch Julius Tregarthan has been shot. By the time Dodd gets there it’s too late for him to be of any help to the patient. The police are alerted, and Inspector Bigswell and his team begin to investigate. They find that three shots were fired into the open window of the sitting room where the body was discovered. The shots came from three different angles, and the case turns out to be a bit tricky. The victim was one of Pendrill’s patients, and he’s curious anyway; so he takes an interest in finding out who the killer is, as does Dodd.

As I mentioned earlier, there are still some medical professionals who make house calls. For example, visiting nurses and midwives take medical care to their patients. We see that in crime fiction as well as in real life. In Catherine Green’s Deadly Admirer, for instance, we follow PI Kate Kinsella, who also works as an emergency room nurse. She takes on a troubling case for a client (and fellow nurse) Virginia Wootten. Wootten is a district nurse who is convinced that she’s being stalked. She isn’t certain of the stalker’s identity, but there’s no doubt in her mind that she’s a target. She doesn’t seem particularly credible, since she can’t be specific and she has a history of psychiatric problems. But Kinsella takes the case and begins asking questions. Then, one of Wootten’s patients is murdered, and a message left behind seems to implicate her. Then, there’s another murder; this time, the murderer leaves Wootten a threatening message. And that’s when Wootten herself disappears…

There’s also the recent development of what’s often called concierge medicine. In one way, it’s a return to the house call and private medical service. But there is one important (and controversial) difference. Many concierge services work in a way that’s reminiscent of having an attorney on retainer. Those with the means to do so pay a (usually large) yearly fee in order to ‘buy into’ the concierge. This gives them access to a wide variety of medical services, including home visits. There’s an argument that this means more doctors available for those with money, and far fewer for those who can’t afford the concierge fees. A lot of people see this as a real inequity, although not everyone agrees.

This is an issue that’s deal with in Robin Cook’s Crisis. In that novel, we meet Boston physician Dr. Craig Bowman. He’s gotten fed up with the pressure from insurance companies to see more and more patients and offer less and less care. So he joins an exclusive concierge group which he thinks will allow him to devote himself better to his patients. At first, all goes well. Bowman spends more time with his patients and can give them better service. And he’s earning more money, too. Then, one of his patients, Patience Stanhope, dies, and he finds himself the subject of a lawsuit. With so much at stake, Bowman’s estranged wife Angela calls on her brother Dr. Jack Stapleton for help. Stapleton is a New York City medical examiner who may be able to use his skills to show that Bowman was not responsible for what happened to the victim. Stapleton travels to Boston to help his sister, and finds himself drawn into a much deeper mystery than anyone thought. Along with the mystery that’s the main subject of the novel, there’s also a discussion of the ethics of concierge medical service.

Visiting doctors, nurses, midwives and other medical professionals have a fascinating perspective on a community. Little wonder they can make interesting fictional characters. Which ones have stayed with you?
 
 
 
*NOTE: The title of this post is the title of a song by J.J. Cale.

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Filed under Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, Catherine Green, John Bude, Robin Cook

He Does Love His Numbers*

Pi DayAs I write and post this, it’s 14 March (3.14), also known as Pi Day. Even if you hated maths in school, it’s hard to deny the importance of mathematical principles in life. They help us understand quite a lot about our universe; and we use them constantly, whether it’s following a recipe, keeping track of bank accounts, or deciding how much space we’ll need in that new place. The other thing about mathematics is that much of it is quite objective. Two of something, plus two more of that same something, equals four of that something. For those who like the objective and the clear (as opposed to the subjective and ambiguous), that can be quite refreshing.

Mathematics finds its way into just about everything, including music and poetry. So it’s little wonder we find a lot of mathematics and mathematicians in crime fiction, too. Here are just a few examples.

Fans of Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes will know that his nemesis, Professor James Moriarty, is a brilliant mathematician. Here is what Holmes says about him in The Adventure of the Final Problem:
 

‘‘He is a man of good birth and excellent education, endowed by nature with a phenomenal mathematical faculty. At the age of twenty-one he wrote a treatise upon the binomial theorem, which has had a European vogue. On the strength of it he won the mathematical chair at one of our smaller universities, and had, to all appearances, a most brilliant career before him.’’
 

As Holmes goes on to explain, though, Moriarty has a dark side and is now London’s top criminal leader. In this story, Holmes and Watson find the man such a dangerous enemy that they end up having to leave London for a time. They end up in Switzerland, where Holmes and Moriarty have a climactic meeting at the Reichenbach Falls. Of course, if you are a fan of these stories, you’ll know the saga doesn’t end there…

Plenty of the action in Agatha Christie’s Cat Among the Pigeons takes place at Meadowbank, an exclusive school for girls. The school is very capably run by Honoria Bulstrode. But she depends very much on Miss Chadwick, the mathematics mistress and the co-founder of the school. Miss Chadwick is a bit vague when she talks and she’s hardly a fashionable dresser. But she is a brilliant mathematician, and passionately devoted to the school. When games mistress Grace Springer is shot in the school’s new Sports Pavilion, Miss Chadwick is one of the two people who discover the body. Then, there’s a disappearance. And another murder. One of the pupils, Julia Upjohn, discovers an important clue to the events at the school. She visits Hercule Poirot, who knows a good friend of her mother’s, and tells him what she knows. Poirot goes back to Meadowbank with her to investigate; and in the end, he finds out the connection between the murders, the disappearance, and a revolution in a Middle East country.

In Peter Høeg’s Smilla’s Sense of Snow (AKA Miss Smilla’s Feeling For Snow), we are introduced to Smilla Jaspersen. She’s half-Inuit and half-Danish, but was originally raised among her mother’s people on Greenland. She’s since moved to Copenhagen and, after a troubled childhood and adolescence, has become a mathematician and scientist. She forms a friendship with a young boy Isaiah Christiansen, who lives in the same building and is also a Greenlander. When Isaiah falls (or jumps, or is pushed) from the roof of the building, Smilla takes a special interest in his death. The police account is that the boy was playing on the roof and accidentally fell. But that’s not what the snow patterns say. So Smilla begins to ask some questions. The trail leads back to Greenland and to a particular expedition there. And it’s mathematics, science and a deep knowledge of snow and ice that give Smilla the answers.

Keigo Higashino also uses mathematics in his series featuring physicist/mathematician Dr. Manabu ‘Galileo’ Yukawa. In The Devotion of Suspect X, Tokyo police officer Shunpei Kasanagi investigates the murder of Shinji Togashi. The victim’s ex-wife Yasuko Hanaoka comes under suspicion, but Kasanagi can’t find any really good evidence to connect her with the crime. So he brings in Galileo to consult on the case. It’s not long before Galileo sees that he is up against a formidable opponent (and former college mate) Tetsuya Ishigami, a mathematics teacher who lives in the same building as Yasuko Hanaoka. Ishigami has fallen in love with her and would do anything to protect her. In this case, mathematics and physics are woven throughout the novel.

There are also mathematics-related mysteries intended for younger readers. For instance, Leith Hathout’s Crimes and Mathdemeanors is a collection of stories featuring fourteen-year-old Ravi, a math genius who helps the local police solve crimes. Readers who remember the Encyclopedia Brown mysteries will find this a similar sort of context. What’s interesting in this collection is that mathematics principles are used to solve the cases.

There are even crime writers who are mathematicians. For instance, fans of the Michael Stanley writing duo’s Detective David ‘Kubu’ Bengu series may know that one half of that duo, Michael Sears, is a mathematician. His specialty was applied mathematics (e.g. image analysis and ecological modeling).

So you see? Mathematics is everywhere, including crime fiction. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll have a piece of π.

 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Kate Bush’s π.

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Filed under Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, Keigo Higashino, Leith Hathout, Michael Sears, Michael Stanley, Peter Høeg

I Love it When You Read to Me*

Small ReadersAs I post this, it’s World Book Day. It’s a time to celebrate the joy of books and reading and (at least for me) particularly, a day to share that joy with children. All of the research I know anything about suggests strongly that children who grow up in a print-rich environment are more likely to become lifelong readers themselves. And that makes sense.

Of course, I’m sure I don’t have to convince you of the value of reading with children and pre-teens. You probably do that already if you have children and/or grandchildren. And I’ll bet you remember what it was like to be introduced to reading when you were young.

There are of course many timeless books out there, and lots of them are mysteries. I’ll just mention Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Hound of the Baskervilles as one example. This story of a supposed family curse and the way Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson solve a puzzling set of mysteries and murder has been immensely popular with readers for more than a hundred years. There’s one major challenge with such books, though: they sometimes contain language that young readers find very difficult. There’s nothing wrong with children being a bit challenged when they read. In fact, research suggests that reading something that makes you think actually improves reading skills. But that said, some passages of those great novels we’ve loved can be demanding. Here’s just one example from The Hound of the Baskervilles:
 

‘…several people had seen a creature upon the moor which corresponds with this Baskerville demon, and which could not possibly be any animal known to science. They all agreed that it was a huge creature, luminous, ghastly, and spectral. I have cross-examined these men, one of them a hard-headed countryman, one a farrier, and one a moorland farmer, who all tell the same story of this dreadful apparition…’ 
 

Even a motivated young reader might not know several of these words, and that can be discouraging.

Some publishers have addressed this issue by rewriting some of the classics in easier and more modern language, so that young readers can more easily immerse themselves in the story. Here, for example, is the same passage with more updated and simplified language (This is from Oxford University Press’ Oxford Bookworm series):
 

‘Several people have seen an animal on the moor that looks like an enormous hound. They all agree that it was a huge creature, which shone with a strange light like a ghost. I have questioned these’ people carefully. They are all sensible people. They all tell the same story. Although they have only seen the creature far away, it is exactly like the hell-hound of the Baskerville story.’ 
 

As you can see, the message is virtually the same (although we could debate about whether it really is the same!), but the language is simplified.

There are other publishers who’ve adapted this story (and others) as graphic novels, again with the goal of introducing young readers to Conan Doyle’s work without the barrier of difficult or outdated language. There’s even one publisher, Hicklebee’s, which has adapted some of this novel as a picture book with one or two words on each page, to help the youngest readers learn how words correspond with sounds. One page, for instance, says Gates, and includes a simple illustration of an old gate. The next page has the word Screech. You can well imagine how appealing this adaptation was for me when I was looking for a book to read with the youngest reader in my family…

There are many other examples of books, such as this one, that have been adapted with different, more contemporary language, or with easier synonyms. Some people argue that any time one changes the language of a story, one also changes the message. And there’s truth to that. There are subtle shades of meaning that really can be lost if words are changed. That’s why, for instance, translation can be a challenge.

Others argue though that the whole point of adaptations for young readers is introducing them to the joy of books. Stories that are written in clear, simple language are more likely to attract young readers, who will then develop reading fluency and (more importantly) interest in reading.

What do you think about adapting classics such as The Hound of the Baskervilles for young readers? If you have children or grandchildren, do you read adapted stories with them? Do they read them?

One final point is in order here, I think. We can debate about adapting books. There’s a lot of rich ‘food for thought’ there. But one thing seems certain. The more we read to and with children, the more likely they are to become lifelong readers themselves. And in case you were wondering, those benefits start pretty much from birth. So even parents of the very youngest infants are helping their newborns ‘hook into’ reading when they read aloud. What’s more, reading together gives young people a reading role model, and that’s extremely valuable. And reading together helps cement family bonds. But I probably don’t have to convince you of that.

So today, I invite you to share your love of reading with young readers. There are lots of ways to do that, even if you don’t have children or grandchildren. I’d love to hear your ‘reading together’ stories.

 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Peter Gabriel’s Book of Love.

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Filed under Arthur Conan Doyle

And I Have My Say and I Draw Conclusions*

Conclusions and EvidenceMost of us make sense of what we see and draw conclusions from it without even being aware of what we’re doing. For instance, suppose you don’t see your car keys where you usually leave them. You look out the window and your car’s still there, so you conclude that no-one stole your car, and your keys must be in the house somewhere. Then you use evidence (e.g. what rooms you were in the last time you had your keys, which trousers you were wearing), and usually, you track them down. You may not be consciously aware that you’re drawing conclusions as you go, but you are.

Evidence and conclusions play huge roles in crime fiction for obvious reasons. Skilled sleuths pay attention to the evidence and use it as best they can to draw reasonable conclusions. Even more skilled sleuths know that evidence can be faked, so they look for more than just what’s obvious. And one of the biggest mistakes sleuths make is to draw conclusions that are too hasty, because they haven’t paid attention to the evidence.

The way sleuths draw conclusions is central to court cases too, since evidence is key to either prosecuting or defending an accused person. ‘S/he did it – I know it!’ simply isn’t enough for a conviction. And there are a lot of crime novels where original investigators didn’t do a good job with the evidence, so the case is re-opened.

Using that connection between evidence and conclusions as a plot point can be risky. A sleuth who doesn’t pay attention to the evidence or who draws all of the wrong conclusions can come off as bumbling, and that’s off-putting. On the other hand, a sleuth who never has to puzzle over what conclusions to draw can come off as not very credible.

Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes is one of the most famous fictional users of evidence to draw conclusions and make deductions. Here, for instance, is his commentary on Dr. Watson when they first meet in A Study in Scarlet:
 

‘I knew you came from Afghanistan. From long habit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind, that I arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of intermediate steps. There were such steps, however. The train of reasoning ran, ‘Here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for his face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner. Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.’ The whole train of thought did not occupy a second. I then remarked that you came from Afghanistan, and you were astonished.’
 

In fact, Holmes and his creator had little patience for sudden flashes of intuition.

Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot is very interested in psychology, and draws conclusions from psychological evidence as well as physical evidence. And it’s interesting to see how he draws conclusions when the physical and psychological evidence are at odds. That’s what happens, for instance in Dead Man’s Mirror. Poirot is summoned to the home of Sir Gervase Chevenix-Gore, who believes he’s being cheated by someone in his inner circle. Very shortly after Poirot arrives, Chevenix-Gore is dead, apparently by suicide (there’s even a suicide note). And at first, that’s what everyone believes, since the physical evidence (locked study door, etc.) suggest it. But to Poirot, someone as self-important as Gervase Chevenix-Gore would simply not believe that the world could get along without him. He wouldn’t commit suicide. So Poirot looks more carefully at the physical evidence and discovers that there are some pieces that don’t add up to suicide either. And that’s how he draws the conclusion that Chevenix-Gore was murdered.

In Adrian Hyland’s Gunshot Road, Aboriginal Community Police Officer (ACPO) Emily Tempest is part of a team that investigates the murder of geologist/prospector Albert ‘Doc’ Ozolins. He was stabbed in his hut not very long after a drunken pub quarrel with John ‘Wireless’ Petherbridge. And the obvious evidence is very strong that Wireless is the killer. So Tempest’s boss Bruce Cockburn draws the very reasonable conclusion that Wireless is the man they want, and is ready to wrap up the case quickly. Tempest notices other evidence though – evidence from nature – and begins to suspect that Wireless may be innocent. So she begins to ask questions. In this novel, there’s an interesting debate between the evidence that comes from things such as bloodstains, wounds and so on, and the evidence that’s more psychological and intuitive. And as it turns out, depending on just the one or the other leads to the wrong conclusions. Fans of Arthur Upfield’s Napoleon ‘Bony’ Bonaparte will know that he too relies on ‘the Book of the Bush’ – evidence from nature – to draw conclusions, and that he often looks beyond the actual physical evidence that he sees.

Sometimes, it’s hard to draw solid conclusions at first, because a fictional death looks so much like a suicide or accident. For example, in Angela Savage’s The Dying Beach, Bangkok-based PI Jayne Keeney and her partner Rajiv Patel are taking a much-needed getaway break at Krabi, on the Thai coast. During their visit, they take a tour that’s led by a guide named Pla. That personal connection is one reason why both are very upset when they learn that Pla’s body has been found washed up in a cave. They decide to take a few extra days to see if they can find out what happened to her. The police report suggests that the victim died by accident or perhaps committed suicide by drowning. It’s not an unreasonable conclusion, and there isn’t very much physical evidence to suggest otherwise. But Keeney isn’t so sure. For one thing, she knows that Pla was an expert swimmer. So although it’s not impossible, an accident is unlikely. And nothing she learns suggests that Pla was despondent enough to kill herself. So Keeney starts asking questions. In the end, she finds that the truth is very different to what it seems on the surface. But at the same time, it’s easy to see why the police would draw the conclusions they did. If you don’t pay attention to those small bits of evidence, it’s very hard to work out whether someone drowned by accident, suicide or murder.

In Helene Tursten’s Detective Inspector Huss, Göteborg police inspector Irene Huss and the other members of the Violent Crimes Unit are faced with a puzzling case. Successful entrepreneur Richard von Knecht jumps from the balcony of the penthouse where he and his wife Sylvia live. At first the case looks very much like a suicide. It’s a reasonable conclusion, and anyone might have a hidden motive for that. But the police pay attention to other pieces of evidence that suggest otherwise. For one thing, the victim had acrophobia. If he was going to kill himself, it seems odd that he’d have chosen that method. For another, there is some forensic evidence that points to murder. So the team has to look at this case in an entirely new way.

And that’s the thing about drawing crime-fictional conclusions. It’s natural and human to draw conclusions from what we see. That’s how we make sense of our world. And those details and pieces of evidence that sleuths see are critical to drawing conclusions. That’s not always as easy to do as it seems, but the way sleuths go from details/evidence to conclusions is an important part of an investigation.

ps. Just to see how this works, what conclusions do you draw from the evidence in the ‘photo? ;-)

 
 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Billy Joel’s Blonde Over Blue.

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Filed under Adrian Hyland, Agatha Christie, Angela Savage, Arthur Conan Doyle, Arthur Upfield, Helene Tursten