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Why Mysteries? Why Winchester? And why, for that matter, a blog at all?

I love mystery stories.  I also love history and historical novels, so it’s no surprise I now write Victorian mysteries.  Why Winchester? It’s a lovely place, the ancient capital of King Alfred’s Wessex – it’s a perfect setting for my books.

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Lost in Austen

A few years ago there was a flurry of Jane Austen films and/or television programmes – some of them were adaptations of the books, others were about Jane herself. I have them all on dvd and the only one I didn’t like much was Mansfield Park, but then it’s not a favourite novel either.

Besides this outbreak of Austiniana there was another, very different, take on her most famous novel. ‘Lost in Austen’ tells the story of a young modern woman who yearns for the manners and courtship and sheer romance of Elizabeth and Darcy’s time, a yearning that is only increased when her boyfriend proposes when he is drunk. And offers her a ring pull to seal the bargain.lostinA

Somehow, and it’s never explained how, which is probably just as well, the heroine, Amanda, (played by Jemima Rooper), discovers Lizzy Bennet in the bathroom of her Hammersmith flat. Lizzy has found a secret door that leads between the 21st century and Longbourn, the Bennet family home in Hertfordshire.

Naturally, Amanda steps through the door which Lizzy promptly closes – because she wants to explore the modern world. Amanda, meanwhile, once she’s got over the suspicion that she’s somehow fallen into a Candid Camera kind of show, is enchanted to find herself a guest in the Bennet family, and even more so when she hears there is a handsome new neighbour, Mr Bingley. It all goes horribly wrong when Bingley falls in love with Amanda and she – of course – falls for Darcy. Pic below is Mr Bingley who is sweet, but as thick as a brick!cambridgepunt

It sounds ridiculous, and of course it is, but it’s so charming and funny that you simply don’t care about the logistics, you just want it all to work out happily in the end – I think Jane Austen would have enjoyed it. Elliot Cowan’s Mr Darcy is even besotted enough to comply with her request that he should rise out of the pond in a wet shirt. ‘I’m having a post-modern moment,’ she giggles.darcywetshirtcowan

The performances are terrific, particularly Guy Henry’s utterly disgusting Mr Collins whose habits make you shudder, and who imports his own equally appalling brothers as suitors for the Bennet daughters. Best of all are Hugh Bonneville as Mr Bennet and Alex Kingston as the perpetually worried Mrs Bennet. I’ve always been sorry for her, stuck with a husband who isn’t bothered that she and the five girls will be homeless when he dies. Not only that, he makes snotty remarks about the folly of marrying a beautiful but foolish woman.

In all the Austen adaptations I’ve seen, Mrs Bennet is played as a fool and a scold and the worst example is in the Colin Firth version, where Mrs B screams all the time. She is also played by actresses who are too old whereas Mrs Bennet, whose eldest daughter is only about twenty-two, would almost certainly have been not much more than in her very early forties. The other thing about Mrs Bennet is that she can’t have been just a pretty face – she has to have been sexy, and not one of the earlier screen incarnations has indicated this.

Alex Kingston is terrific as a sexy, silly woman whose life is ruled by the fear of what is to become of her daughters when her feckless, careless husband departs this life. In ‘Lost in Austen’ Hugh Bonneville eventually realises this and there is a lovely scene after her set-to with Lady Catherine de Burgh. Mr Bennet, who has refused to sleep upstairs for some time, is delighted with his valiant wife and informs her that he will ‘sleep above stairs that night.’ Mrs Bennet’s squeal of excitement is pure delight. (I loved the series when it came out in 2008 and loved it all over again when I was given the dvd at Christmas).

 

In other news, I wondered, when David Bowie died, which well-known actor’s death would upset me as much as the Bowie fans. Should have kept my mouth shut because I found out, a couple of days later:alan rickmansheriff-of-nottingham-the-sheriff-of-nottingham-25662758-462-260

(All photos from places like Wikipaedia and film/tv sites so I hope there’s no breach of copyright!)

Christmas in a galaxy (oops, sorry) land, far, far away…

Long, long ago and in a land far, far away – Egypt, to be precise – the Slade family spent a Christmas away from home. It was – different. The Resident Engineer was working on a project there and we went along as extra baggage: wife, eight-year old, six-year old and 12 month-old. It was fun and weird and unforgettable. (Pic is of us in front of the Step Pyramid at Sakkara)110-img692

Initially it was only supposed to be for six months but we ended up living there for almost a year, long enough for the Big Two to go to the Cairo American College, which was also unforgettable. They both acquired Deep South accents as most of their classmates were ‘oilies’, in other words, the offspring of oil executives from Mississipi and Alabama and places like that. There weren’t that many Brits there so it was a truly international world of new friends for all of us.

When it came to choosing a school we could have sent them to a British one in Cairo itself but the problem there was that the school week was Monday to Friday, while the Engineer worked six days a week with Friday off. Cue the American school that fitted in with the local custom and whose week went Sunday to Thursday, so we had a 3rd Grader and a 1st Grader and we spent far more time around the school than we’d expected. The reason was that it acted as a centre for the expat community and held film viewings under a tented canopy and, best of all, parents were allowed access to the school library.

We had arrived in August when the heat was so intense I thought they’d left the engine running on the plane because the air was thrumming and by Christmas we were happily involved with various activities. The company paid for a maid(!) in the mornings and she taught the baby to speak Arabic, with the result that we’d be surrounded by laughing Egyptians when they chucked her under the chin and were squeaked at indignantly – in Arabic.

There had been anxious questions (from the 6 year old but not so many from her worldly-wise older brother) about whether Father Christmas would find us and whether he would cope with a flat roof on a block of flats and no chimney. He did, of course, though some of his presents had a distinctly local flavour, notably the sit-on camel that the baby received.97-img797

I rode my bike down to the village to look at Christmas trees (baby strapped in her wicker baby chair on the back)136-img841and found a man proudly selling trees made from a broom handle with green fuzzy spikes sticking out at the sides. I was quite taken with the idea but an American neighbour had a spare fake tree which she insisted we should keep and which did sterling service for years until the daughters made me chuck it out. Christmas pudding was easy, I’d packed one when we set out, but the rest of Christmas dinner was an improvised meal, shared by an American family and one of the Engineer’s colleagues, a young bachelor. (Pic is NIcky and two little girls at the Papyrus Institute in Cairo – always dragging the poor kids out to educational things and never been allowed to forget it!)124-img829

A month or so earlier we’d had a dinner party and served duck, which had proved slightly traumatic. It had come as a shock to find that we had to choose our ducks from a quacking flock and by Christmas the eight-year old hadn’t forgiven me for not letting him see the ducks being  – er ‘prepared’ in the market by their vendor wielding an axe. When it came to turkeys I was ready and made sure the dear, blood-thirsty little hooligan was out of the way.

The least welcome present we had that Christmas was chicken-pox, brought home from school by the eldest and generously donated to his sisters by New Year’s Eve. Luckily the friends who shared Christmas dinner with us had either had it (the adults) or in the case of the two visiting children, were probably going to get it anyway.

It was a strange and wonderful interlude in our lives and the elder children remember it quite clearly. Sadly, the youngest only remembers odd snippets – like the kitchen doors being blue, and nothing at all about being carried up inside the Great Pyramid by her father. (I disgraced myself that time by becoming claustrophobic in there and making a break for freedom!) We’ve never been back, though the eldest went to Egypt on his honeymoon and the middle one did a trip almost twenty years ago. I’d like to think we’d go back but probably not while that part of the world is still in turmoil, sadly.

Anyway, in other news: my most recent publisher, Robert Hale Ltd, has ceased trading as a publisher so my agent has just taken my latest book and plans to look for a home for it in the new year. If nobody wants it, I suspect I’ll think about self-publishing, but it’s in the lap of the gods for the moment.

Have a great Christmas and a Happy New Year with love from Nicky and the Engineer! (And the scary-looking Brady Bunch-style kids with a giant doll and chicken pox spots to match Liv’s rose-dotted pyjamas)139-img855

The Happiest Days…?

Look at that! Nearly three months since I last threw some words at this blog. There’s no excuse except that I’ve been busy writing. The trouble is, though, I’ve been writing TWO books at once – admittedly for the past couple of years – and although they’re nearly done, they’re not quite done. If that wasn’t enough, I’ve started a third book which is something I sneak off and play with, just for fun, but it all tends to put a stop to serious thoughts about actually getting something published.

I must say that the third book is fun to write. My younger daughter calls it my doll’s house and the friend who has read it complained loudly when she reached the end of the pitiful fifteen thousand word total. I hope to finish it sometime but there’s no hurry; it’s set in 1918 and there are three girls, one still at school; a dead (they hope) father; a distant mother who is a suffragette who writes racy novels under a pseudonym; a grandmother who failed dismally as a debutante by being sick all over Queen Victoria’s satin-clad feet, and a houseful of wounded officers in the small stately home next-door.Red Cross Hospital

Recently, I was having a discussion with some other writers about what, if any, encouragement we were given at school. The answer seems to have been, Not Much, for most of them, and school was often a barely-tolerated cross to bear. Not for me though. I loved school. When my mother put my name down at the small primary school down the road – the one that was built from Nissen huts left over from the First World War and were so fragile that a boy once punched a hole through the cardboard wall – she was told in no uncertain terms that she Must Not Teach Me To Read. So she didn’t and as the annual intake happened in the September after your fifth birthday I turned up on my first day aged 5 years and 9 months, unable to read (though not bothered about it). Alone out of the other forty-nine wailing children, I, (horribly precocious), informed the harassed teacher that I wasn’t supposed to be at her school. ‘Oh? Where should you be then?’ ‘I’m going to the grammar school,’ I announced. To which she replied, ‘I’m sure you will, eventually, Nicola. Now you’re here though, perhaps you’d help me with some of these children who are crying?’

I don’t remember learning to read but by my sixth birthday, on Christmas Eve, I could read fluently and was put up a year – the  downside of that being that I was too shy to ask where the girls’ loos were with the inevitable puddle as a result. (The answer was out in the arctic playground, with no glass in the windows, and a long way to walk (run) if it was raining.)

So – school was fine and I had no problems – apart from the entirely ludicrous requirement that had nine-year old girls (don’t know what the boys did) knitting. Not simple knitting though. I was presented with needles and wool and presumably a pattern and told to knit a pair of gloves. With fingers. After a month of hideous nights rent with screams and nightmares – and more puddles – I was a nervous wreck and my mother demanded that they set me to knit a plain scarf.

The grammar school was fine too – Parkstone Girls’ Grammar School – which, after I left school, was transferred to a modern building. (I bet it wasn’t as much fun as when we poked about in one of the old the attics and found a tiger skin rug complete with glass eyes and fearsome teeth!) We weren’t actively encouraged to write fiction as essays on dull topics were the order of the day but there was always an expectation that you could do anything you set your mind to and I did get a couple of poems in the school magazine. It was only after O Levels that I disliked school: not the lessons but the wasted hours doing games and PE, civics, music (which seems, at this distance, to have consisted of learning to sing ‘Who is Sylvia?’ for a whole term!) I should mention games, something I loathed with a passion and to this day the only sport I follow is tennis. (That’s probably because of the Australians of the day, with their long bronzed legs and tiny shorts – step forward John Newcome. Sigh…) My school consisted of several large Victorian and Edwardian houses scattered around a couple of acres. img783The art department was in another house, Torvaine, about half a mile up the road and the hockey field was just beyond that. To my eternal gratitude this field was low-lying and often flooded but we didn’t get away that easily. A little farther down the road was Poole Park with its football and hockey pitches. That was all right, the walk took time out of the lesson, but best of all were the times when our school field was flooded and the pitches in the park were already booked. That meant we had to walk towards Sandbanks (the millionaire’s paradise where, incidentally, my grandfather was offered the chance to buy an acre of land in about 1900 for the princely sum of £5! He couldn’t afford it and as my mother was the fifth child, I doubt if I’d have benefited even if he had.) Once we arrived at the Whitecliff playing field we had to pick up for teams. Naturally I’d made sure nobody ever picked me, though I could run pretty fast if I wanted to. The leftovers were told to play a scratch game out of the way and this is where it was fun. It takes a perverted kind of skill to hit a hockey ball on to the shore just far enough so you all have to clamber down to the beach to retrieve it, and not so far that the ball gets lost in the sea. Much more fun than running up and down after a ball with the hockey mistress (short hair held back by a Kirby grip, aertex shirt, and shorts that were known as ‘divided skirts’) shouting, ‘Where’s the left-wing? Oh – it’s you, Nicola.’

Enjoying school as I did it’s no wonder that I was an avid reader of stories of boarding schools, many of them dating back to the late nineteenth century – these, of course, are the inspiration for my pet project, the WW1 book. I have an awful lot of them, some ludicrous and some so beloved that I read them annually and sometimes more often. There are also modern stories set in schools I’d have given my eye-teeth to attend: Diana Wynne Jones’s ‘Witch Week’ school; Terry Pratchett’s ‘Assassin’s Guild’; Miss Cackle’s Academy and, of course, Hogwarts.

To this catalogue I can now add, ‘The Secrets of Drearcliff Grange School’ by Kim Newman. Set in a gloomy boarding-school not long after World War I, this is a school story written by a writer of horror stories! He’s certainly done his research into the genre and it’s great fun to spot all the usual situations but the horrors creep in and it gets extremely scary!drearcliff

The Chronicles of St. Mary’s, the fabulous series written by Jodi Taylor, isn’t on the face of it, a school story, featuring as it does time travel, history, death, murder, mystery, comedy and lashings and lashings of margaritas, beer and head-banging sex. However, the setting is an historic stately home, everyone lives-in at their workplace, discipline is strict (most of the time) and when summoned to the Director’s office, the historians are as nervous as any third-former at the Chalet School.one damned thing

Reading, writing and faffing about

It’s been a bitty kind of summer so far: some writing, some travelling, some visitors, some visiting and lots and lots of reading. When Kindles first appeared I didn’t think I’d bother to buy one. Our house groans under the combined tonnage of books and bookshelves and when we travelled I would normally trawl round the charity shops for a handful of fat paperbacks, leaving them in hotels or even in restaurants as we went. This wasn’t always successful as lots of hotels, etc, have shelves for guests to browse and to take and leave books so I’d often arrive home with more books than I started.

bookpileOur first trip to Sydney to see the family changed all that when I realised I wouldn’t be able to carry enough books to last me a couple of long-distance flights, let alone nearly six weeks away from home, so I obviously needed a Kindle. And what a godsend it was – once I’d worked out that the battery would need charging occasionally. That was more than three years ago and we’ve been on several more long trips since, always with my sanity intact courtesy of my Kindle. This year, however, I decided I needed a tablet too, so to reduce the stress levels of Nicky learning new technology I bought a Kindle Fire HDX and that’s even better. I can read in bed without putting the light on!

It’s all about the reading. Some people can’t function without a cigarette or a drink or chocolate, I can’t function without something to read and this year I’ve discovered some fabulous books. (Chocolate is always welcome though…and a drink, too)

No.1 in the list of Books I’m Glad I Found is ‘One Damned Thing After Another’ by Jodi Taylor, the first book in The Chronicles of St. Mary’s. A couple of friends insisted that I’d love this book – which is usually enough to make me sure that I won’t – but they were right. I bought it, read it, loved it, and on the spot bought everything else she had written, something I’ve never done in a long, long history of loving books. one damned thing after another coverI won’t give away too many clues about St Mary’s, it’s better to fall into it unawares, but the books are clever, funny, wicked, tragic, sexy and totally addictive. I’ve cried with laughter and I’ve cried at the tragedies and there aren’t that many series I can say that about. (If you haven’t come across Jodi Taylor’s books, do take a look but be warned, there’s a porn-writer of the same name!)

Next on the list is ‘A Man of Some Repute’ by Elizabeth Edmondson. This is a cosy mystery set in the early 1950s, with all the ingredients you could possibly need: a handsome, damaged hero with a mysterious past; a castle; a village; an intriguing heroine; a missing aristocrat; and sundry townsfolk, policemen, villains, and so on. And even better news is that there’s a new book out soon in this series.)a man of some reputeMy latest find is a very old book, now republished as an ebook. ‘Old Friends & New Fancies’ by Sybil Brinton, was published in 1914 and is the first known sequel to Pride & Prejudice. oldfriends and new fanciesIt’s certainly the best I’ve read. We meet the Darcys, of course, a few years after their marriage, but to my delight we also go to parties where we encounter Mr & Mrs George Knightley, with Emma still matchmaking. Best of all, we discover Captain Wentworth and his quiet, elegant wife and for me the icing on the cake is that they’re living in Winchester, just down the road from me. (I bought another Austen sequel, written in the late 1940s, ‘Pemberley Shades’ by D A Bonavia-Hunt – also out as an ebook. It’s also excellent.)pemberley shades Besides reading I’ve been house-spotting, a favourite pastime. One of the books I’m currently revising has an early Tudor house at its heart so I’ve been taking photos of likely-looking places wherever I find them. It helps me sort out the geography of the rooms. I’ve also kept an eye out for sacred or healing springs and was glad to find a Roman well at Rockbourne Roman villa. Some time or other I’ll actually finish the book and see what my agent thinks of it – it’s historical and not a mystery but there are dead bodies in it.

Finally, I bravely set up a brief Amazon free promotion for Scuba Dancing last week. kindlecoverScuba_PFM_5JI know some authors who are marvellous at promotion but although I admire them, I’m rubbish at it. I cringe at idea of asking people to Buy My Book and do an Amazon review, but sadly it’s the way to go these days. Anyway, I dipped a tentative toe in the water and friends were  lovely about spreading the word. Now it’s over I’ve had a few people tell me they’ve now bought the mysteries too. As one reader put it, ‘I’ve spent real money!’ For which I thank her very much.

Size matters – when it comes to Sicily

The thing you have to remember about Sicily is that it’s BIG. Much, much bigger than you imagine. When we first went there in 2002 I found a farm that had been converted into a hotel/holiday accommodation. It was bang in the middle and with breath-taking ignorance I decided we’d be able to visit the rest of the island in day trips. This was based on my mistaken belief that Sicily is about the size of the Isle of Wight.  It isn’t, it really, really isn’t.

Anyway, as you can imagine, there were bits of Sicily (quite a few, actually) that we didn’t see, as well as some we wanted to revisit, so this year, Sicily was the place to go. As I’ve said before, everyone assumes that our predilection for railway trips is based on the Engineer’s passion for preserved railways, but it’s not. I like trains too so I came up with the bright idea of going to Sicily by train – all the way. (You can even stay in the train when it goes on to the ferry across to Messina.) WP_000286The original plan was to fly home but while we were planning the trip there was a particularly nasty plane crash (yes, I know they all are, but that one was wicked). I’m more a resigned air passenger than a frightened one but when I cunningly suggested we should travel both ways, the idea went down very well.

Not everyone would imagine their trip from London to Sicily would include stops in Paris and Milan, as well as a return journey via Rome, Milan, Switzerland, Amsterdam and Harwich, but then, not everyone would have crossed the Alps in the scenic Bernina Express, but it was a fabulous trip.

We stayed in Catania on the east coast and concentrated our six night visit on the south-eastern corner of Sicily. On our first visit we went to the astonishing Roman villa at Piazza Armerina, (this is the famous mosaic of female athletes in leather bikinis)

WP_000300a place I really wanted to revisit. It was just as fabulous the second time around and as a Unesco World Heritage site, it’s beautifully looked after. The other reason for choosing that area was none other than Il Commissario Montalbano, who lives there in the fictitious town of Vigata. We both love the tv series although I get fed up with the cavalier way they treat evidence and the way that Inspector Montalbano gets his kit off in every episode and sleeps with suspects, murderers, mourners, anything with a pulse really. (I like his sidekick Augello, though and Fazio who does all the work).

You can do Montalbano tours and visit the locations, either the ones Camilleri used in the books, or the television locations. With this in mind we headed for Montalbano’s house, which turns out to be a B&B. We had lunch nearby, though not overlooking the beach where he found a dead horse.WP_000306 The town of Ragusa doubles on TV as Vigata and looks amazing from the opposite hill, where you get the full impact of the old town.WP_000443

I thought about this Literary Tourism last week when a friend asked me to show her where I murdered somebody in Winchester. Cue startled shop assistant nearby. I fantasise about readers pottering round the cathedral looking for the exact seat in the side chapel where one of my characters is murdered in ‘A Crowded Coffin’, and standing in the Crypt (as did Sam Hathaway in ‘Murder Fortissimo’, while another man stared at the statue by Antony Gormley.)Presentation4a One day…

A bit of welcome praise and an afternoon pretending I was Harriet Vane let loose in Oxford.

Time I remembered I’ve got a blog, particularly as I’ve received a real boost to the ego in the shape of a spot in a new book, ‘How to Write Crime by Sarah Williams, published by Constable Robinson. Unusually, Sarah tackles the How To… rather differently from other books on the subject. What she does is divide the book into chapters, each dealing with a particular type of crime novel: the cosy, the consulting detective, hard-boiled crime, and so on. Each chapter then takes one novel by a particular author and discusses how it is written and why it works.

So far so good, but what is it to do with me? Because Sarah Williams has chose‘Murder Fortissimo’, my first Harriet Quigley contemporary mystery as the model for The Cosy Mystery chapter, that’s why! I’m extremely flattered and slightly stunned to see that I somehow did the right thing when I wrote it, even though I had no idea I was doing it, and what reduced me to tears was this:

‘Before looking in detail at the passage from Nicola Slade, perhaps one of the foremost contemporary practitioners of the form…’

Now, I should probably be exhorting people to buy Sarah’s book, and I do and I thank her very much for her kind words, but even more urgently, I’d like to encourage people to buy my book! (available from Amazon et al)

MFcoverfinal_originalAs for the trip to Oxford, this was with my Deadly Dames hat on. Last June I did a talk at Abingdon library which was well-attended and which I really enjoyed. Chatting to the librarian, Lynne Moores, I happened to mention that I was a member of a discussion panel, the Deadly Dames, composed of mystery writers and that we were, as our standard joke has it, available for Weddings, Funerals and Bar Mitzvahs. Lynne told the organisers of the Bookcrossing Convention about us and we were delighted to receive an invitation to perform at St Hilda’s College on Saturday, 11th April. We were very glad to welcome again our adopted Dame, Peter Tickler, whose crime novels are set in Oxford and he was introduced as a Chevalier. (Find out about Bookcrossing – http://www.bookcrossing.com/)
We had a large and enthusiastic audience and enjoyed ourselves immensely – and hope to be invited again sometime, particularly as their conferences are international ones. We’ll travel…

DeadlyDamesOxfordApril2015

Here we are, doing our Deadly Thing: L to R Charlie Cochrane, Peter Tickler, Carol Westron, Eileen Robertson and me (for once looking slightly less fierce than usual)

As for Harriet Vane – well, Dorothy L Sayers was actually at Somerville, rather than St Hilda’s, but it was good enough and I secretly pretended I was at Shrewsbury College, and that Lord Peter Wimsey would turn up any time soon.

Another Cathedral and Eighty People with Murder on their Minds

lincoln cathedral

I’ve just been to Lincoln for the 2015 Crime Writers’ Association annual conference. The only previous one I’ve attended was just down the road in Southampton in 2012 so Lincoln was much more of an adventure. I intended to go by train but when the Resident Engineer decided he’d like a trip to Lincoln too I was happy to let him drive. It would have taken about three changes by train and probably a week to get there if I’d had to drive as I hate motorways and would have pootled cross-country getting side-tracked by pretty villages and stately homes and panicking at sight of a dual-carriageway.

Lincoln is one of those cathedral cities that we do so well in this country –  two thousand years of history under your foot, under your nose and in front of your eyes. I love it and if it happened to be in Hampshire I’d move there like a shot and buy one of the wonderful historic houses in the Cathedral Quarter. (Millionaire budget allowing, of course.) I cantered (it’s hard to do otherwise) down Steep Hill and staggered up again, stopping for a cup of tea on the way to get my breath back.The Steep

Anyway, the conference. While the Engineer drove round Lincolnshire in search of things that float his boat – a foundry, a watermill, some canals, an RAF museum and a WW2 airfield where a kindly volunteer helper forced him to eat ham rolls and apple pie because none of the usual male volunteers had turned up for lunch and she was clearly pining to feed someone – I was enjoying the lectures at the conference.

It was enlightening to hear  how the ‘New Tricks’ teams really work on cold cases, and entertaining (in a slightly gruesome way) to be conducted through a couple of real-life cases involving missing persons and murder. Made me glad I mostly write Victorian mysteries where forensic science and even fingerprints aren’t part of an investigation into murder.

With about eighty other writers present it’s not the done thing to plug one’s own books but I did manage to mention that my books are all out as e-books which is great, and one person (of impeccable taste)  said she loved my books and told me she would be checking out the e-books. Also, not many people realised that my publisher, Robert Hale, now has a paperback imprint called Buried River Press. So far it’s only for new submissions but one day I’d love to get my books into paperback. We’ll see…

Another talk was by an e-book-only publisher. I was interested to find out what he does in the way of promoting his authors and not surprised to find that essentially he does what they all do: tweets, Facebook, internet promotions, etc. This led on to a discussion about self-published authors and publicity, etc. which rammed home the fact (which I knew anyway) that a self-publisher has to become a publisher him- or herself and work at it! I’m all admiration for those self-publishers who dedicate themselves to what was described frankly as the ‘drudgery’ of promotion and publicity. As my only self-published e-book, Scuba Dancing, (originally published by Transita Ltd) sells intermittently, sometimes with an encouraging spike but also – occasionally – with a grand monthly sales total of five copies – it’s probably time to pull my socks up and do something about it!

Finally, it’s always interesting to meet and talk to writers whose books you don’t happen to have come across and I’m certainly going to investigate books by Shetland author Marsali Taylor and Devonshire-based writer Margaret Duffy. Keeping me company during the talks was fellow Deadly Dame, Eileen Robertson, who writes excellent cosy mysteries ‘with an edge to them’!

NB To become a member of the Crime Writers’ Association you have to have had a crime novel published by a ‘traditional’ publisher.

(The photos of Lincoln are from Wikipedia)

Hibernation, Saxon jewels, a cathedral, and some welcome praise.

 I seem to have been hibernating since Christmas, partly because I picked up a graveyard cough – the one that half the population seems to have suffered from – and it took weeks to get over it. I swear that at times I’d wake in the night to see Burke & Hare looking impatiently at their watches and hefting their shovels while I hacked away.

The other reason for the Groundhog retreat is that it’s been really cold – not by most people’s standards, but we live in a sheltered spot in England’s Deep South, where primroses bloom at Christmas but where I’ve never, ever seen snow on Christmas Day, and it’s been really, really chilly. Anyway, the daffodils and primroses are out now, the crocuses are all over the lawn, including some in places I certainly didn’t plant, and the birds and the squirrels are chasing each other all through the wood at the bottom of the garden. So I might actually perk up a bit!

Despite barking like a seal for weeks, I broke cover for one or two things, one of which was a trip to Somerset and while there we saw the fabulous King Alfred Jewel in the Taunton Museum, on a brief visit from its usual home at the Ashmolean in Oxford.Alfred_Jewel_Ashmolean_2014

In my second contemporary mystery, ‘A Crowded Coffin’, there is mention of a wonderful Saxon jewel that, while nothing like the King Alfred one, was certainly inspired by it, so it was great to see it.   Read all about it here:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred_Jewel

I love Winchester Cathedral (as I may have mentioned previously) so I was happy to do a tour a few weeks ago, with a bunch of bookish friends. Every February they take out all the chairs and leave the floor bare, as it would have been before the Reformation when the congregation stood. A guide told us that the chairs came in when Protestant clergymen began to preach very long sermons, sometimes more than two hours long.
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There’s also a tiny, secret carving of a snail amid a spray of roses (start at the bottom of the carving and go up a bit – it’s very small). This is on the Bishop Waynflete chantry.

Finally, I’ve had some lovely reviews recently – and several people have told me that they cried at the end of the most recent Charlotte Richmond book, ‘The Dead Queen’s Garden’.This is music to my ears, it’s great to know you can move readers to laughter and tears.I’m enormously grateful to these readers for posting such terrific reviews, it makes it all worth while.

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‘It’s always refreshing to find a historical fiction heroine who you would dearly like to meet in real life – or to find somewhere in your family tree. Charlotte Richmond is just such a character. If she seems a little too good to be true, that’s because of the facade which she has put up herself, to disguise a decidedly unorthodox past, but she is well on the way to re-inventing herself and the reader wishes her every success and the comfortable, family-orientated life for which she yearns. But, in both this book and the two sequels which follow it, murder is never far away and threatens to unsettle everything for her… Highly recommended – the best historical whodunnits I’ve read in a long while!’

 ‘Victorian era books aren’t really my thing, but I’ve read Nicola’s other books and I should have known it wasn’t going to be dull and uptight. It is a well written book with interesting characters who are multi-faceted. Charlotte is a lively character with an interesting past and an astute eye. The murder is indeed most welcome as the victim is an unpleasant character and I was very glad to finally see the back of him.’

 Having devoured the first in the series, the second was equally fascinating. Murder, a bit of European history and a different look at Bath. There were some great characters in this specific book and I loved Nicola’s characterisation of the young girl, but her development of both Charlotte and Elaine was what really interested me. It is a book with many threads and you may not realise the relevance of tiny details until the murderer is revealed. It might be a Victorian murder mystery but it’s modern and humorous and much recommended

 ‘Nicola Slade has done it again. The third instalment of her ‘Charlotte’ series was as good as her first and the whole series is multifaceted and marvellous. You get absorbed and don’t realise you are learning things you never knew, whether that is historical, literary or just who murdered who. This Victorian Murder Mystery series is witty, lively and engaging. Nicola’s writing reminds me of Cold Comfort Farm and I mean that as a compliment as she sees, through her heroine, the faults of the time. She did, however, make me cry with this book, a sub-plot came to fruition and I had missed her signposting, mostly cos I was engrossed in the whodunnit element. I can’t wait for the next book.’

‘Should never have relied on the satnav to guide us to Bethlehem…’

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This unfinished picture – and goodness knows why I decided to paint a polar bear, but never mind that now – was going to be this year’s Christmas card, with the addition of a tasteful star in the top left-hand corner. However, as we only arrived home three weeks ago after our trip to Australia and New Zealand, and the Resident Engineer had a hip replacement operation just over a week ago, the painting remains unfinished and the cards I eventually sent are in aid of the National Autistic Society.

Had the card made it to the print shop, I’d have had to choose a title for the picture, or perhaps a greeting inside. I mulled over the one at the top of this post but decided it didn’t make sense and the alternative, ‘I didn’t expect Bethlehem to be this cold’ seemed a touch irreverent, while ‘Follow the Star’ just seemed bonkers. Still, it might well be next year’s card, so I’m holding it in abeyance.

So – Christmas. If you’re feeling hard-done by when you’re unwrapping a lovely hand-knitted vest or a woolly hat that looks like a tea-cosy but sadly isn’t, it could be worse. Think of the present I received one year from an elderly relative. The card said, Happy Christmas, Birthday (24th Dec) & Wedding Present (13th Jan)! All in one.

And just thank your lucky stars you’re unlikely to be given any of the books advertised at the back of some of my vast collection of Victorian, Edwardian and Twenties & Thirties novels, for instance:

Living & Loving’ by Virginia Townsend – “A collection of beautiful sketches which evince all the vigour, freshness, and attractiveness so peculiar to this popular authoress, and which are highly instructive.”

Or this:

Villa of Dreams’ by Ethel C Nicol – (A Sea Adventure off Monaco).  “Armand de Brussac, victim of an uncontrolled passion, kidnaps Daphne Howard and carries her aboard his yacht.His accomplices are misinformed that the girl is his wife, that her reason has been affected by disease, and that no account is to be taken of any words that she may utter.

The plot, however, is suspected by Major James Truesdale, an Englishman, who pursues the vessel by means of a hydroplane. Throughout an adventurous series of incidents the Author has never wandered from realism, or suffered herself to be betrayed into those impossibilities and absurdities which are so often to be found in tales of peril and dare-devilry.”

One more, which sounds even more of a barrel of laughs:

‘Nightfall’ by Mrs Keith Murray   –   “A story in which the heroine, wife of a dissolute opera-producer, determines to win her freedom. During her husband’s absence in America she again meets the man whom she now realizes to be her affinity; but, after some days spent innocently in his company, a tragedy supervenes which requires prompt action.

Sooner, however, than shatter her present dream she gambles with her life for the sake of his love.

The characterisation is drawn with unusual power, while the narrative is extremely interesting.”

After all this travelling and playing at being Florence Nightingale (or more likely Nurse Ratchett) I’m planning to get back to revising my current work-in-progress soon. Christmas Day seems a good time to start – the better the day, the better the deed, as the saying goes.

Have a good one, from Nicky and the Resident Engineer.

Where do the characters come from?

Now I’ve recovered from jet-lag I was going to blog about our recent trip (nearly six weeks) to Australia and New Zealand, and the stopovers in Dubai and Kuala Lumpur. I was going to talk about how on our last trip (2012) I had been conscious almost all the time in Australia, and particularly in Tasmania, of my Victorian sleuth’s presence. Charlotte was just out of my vision all the time, but I knew she was there, even to the faintest flutter of a crinoline rounding a corner. She didn’t put in a single appearance during the latest trip though I did catch a fleeting glimpse of her charming but erratic stepfather, Will, so I expect I’ll use that in a later book.

However, instead of writing about the Australian odyssey I’ve been diverted by a comment from a friend who said that if someone wrote a Little Miss book about me, it would be Little Miss Acerbic. How right she is – it’s the family’s default position – and it made me think about some of the questions readers always ask:

‘Do you put real people in your books?’ The answer to that is (a) No, of course not and (b) Sometimes, but only bits of them, ie interesting characteristics and odds and ends that make up a patchwork.

Then there’s the other frequently asked question: ‘Are your characters based on you?’ And the answer to that is: Yes, and No. Obviously any character an author creates is going to be mined from inside to some extent but I like to make a conscious effort not to make a carbon copy, which would be pretty boring anyway. So my two sleuths, Charlotte Richmond and Harriet Quigley do share some traits with me, but they’re sufficiently different from me and from each other to stand alone.

Young Australian widow, Charlotte, is a child of her time – the mid-nineteenth century – she’s not a rebel and because of her insecure and shady upbringing, she is desperate to blend in with her wealthy English in-laws, so she’s always on the alert for danger, ready to disappear at a moment’s notice. Charlotte’s instinct when trouble looms, is to run away. In appearance Charlotte is tall and slim, dark-haired and hazel-eyed and despite her erratic childhood, she’s had a widely eclectic education, mainly courtesy of her godmother, the unusually generous (in several ways), Lady Meg, who taught her all kinds of things, including appreciation of Miss Austen’s work, fluent French and how to set up a smokescreen as a blameless bluestocking by being knowledgeable about architecture, art, etc. Charlotte is clever and resourceful, kind and lonely.

Harriet Quigley, however, is very different and is rarely lonely. I’ve always been fascinated by the few people I’ve met who are completely confident in their own skin so I decided to create a character like that. Harriet is tall and slim and clever, rather posh, privately-educated and comfortably off, and she’s always done the right thing. A highly-respected headmistress she is upright and law-abiding and generally an admirable creature but she’s saved from priggishness by the kindness of her heart and a couple of traits she’s slightly ashamed of: she’s a bit vain, she’s squeamish about hospitals (not an advantage in ‘Murder Fortissimo’)MFcoverfinal_originaland she’s terrified of heights (which is a bit of a drawback in her second adventure ‘A Crowded Coffin’).ACrowdedCoffincoverWhen trouble threatens Harriet’s instinct is to tackle it head-on and wallop it into submission!

Interestingly I’ve had several readers tell me how much they love Sam, Harriet’s clergyman cousin which is rather nice. The Resident Engineer, when I told him this, was inclined to be smug, assuming that Sam is based on him, to which I said, ‘No, he’s much nicer than you!’ (Though I have given Sam a few similarities: the passion for steam trains, the engineering background and – I hope! the devotion to his wife.)

So, do my heroines share anything with me? I’m tall, though Harriet is taller still; they’re both slim (which I used to be!) and they both devour books. Charlotte’s favourite Jane Austen book is  ‘Emma’ (as is mine), and Harriet collects Edwardian books for girls, as I do, though her dolls’ house collection is borrowed from a friend. Both ladies are far cleverer than I am and much braver though they do have the same tendency to see the funny side of things at entirely the wrong moment. And they’re much, much nicer than I am!

Going back to the comment that kicked off this blog post, I have to admit that Harriet is definitely Little Miss Acerbic and that I know exactly where she gets it from!

As for the amazing and marvellous creatures we spotted on our recent marathon trip to the other side of the world, not one of them was as wonderful as these three, L to R: Joe (12), Jack (9) & Jim (nearly 11).WP_000314