Finally, there is the annual Bodies from the Library conference, held each year since 2015 at the British Library in London and attracting an audience from around the world. The event brings together writers, readers and academics to consider and discuss the themes and character of the books of the Golden Age and to focus on particular authors or publishers and their unique contributions. Among other topics, the conference has highlighted the existence of a frustratingly large number of uncollected short stories, forgotten radio and stage plays, and even unpublished material by some of the best-remembered writers of the period. For most of the individual writers concerned there are insufficient stories to assemble new dedicated collections, but there is ample material for volumes such as this, bringing together lost works by different writers for their keenest admirers as well as for collectors and new readers who have an insatiable appetite for murder and the innocent amusement of a bygone age.
The Golden Age is dead; long live the Golden Age!
Tony Medawar
April 2018
BEFORE INSULIN J. J. Connington
Id more than the fishing in my mind when I asked you over for the weekend, Wendover confessed. Fact is, Clinton, somethings turned up and Id like your advice.
Sir Clinton Driffield, Chief Constable of the county, glanced quizzically at his old friend.
If youve murdered anyone, Squire, my advice is: Keep it dark and leave the country. If its merely breach of promise, or anything of that sort, Im at your disposal.
Its not breach of promise, Wendover assured him with the complacency of a hardened bachelor. Its a matter of an estate for which I happen to be sole trustee, worse luck. The other two have died since the will was made. Ill tell you about it.
Wendover prided himself on his power of lucid exposition. He settled himself in his chair and began.
Youve heard me speak of old John Ashby, the iron-master? He died fifteen years back, worth £53,000; and he made his son, his daughter-in-law, and myself executors of his will. The son, James Ashby, was to have the life-rent of the estate; and on his death the capital was to be handed over to his offspring when the youngest of them came of age. As it happened, there was only one child, young Robin Ashby. James Ashby and his wife were killed in a railway accident some years ago; so the whole £53,000, less two estate duties, was secured to young Robin if he lived to come of age.
And if he didnt? queried Sir Clinton.
Then the money went to a lot of charities, Wendover explained. Thats just the trouble, as youll see. Three years ago, young Robin took diabetes, a bad case, poor fellow. We did what we could for him, naturally. All the specialists had a turn, without improvement. Then we sent him over to Neuenahr, to some institute run by a German who specialised in diabetes. No good. I went over to see the poor boy, and he was worn to a shadow, simply skin and bone and hardly able to walk with weakness. Obviously it was a mere matter of time.
Hard lines on the youngster, Sir Clinton commented soberly.
Very hard, said Wendover with a gesture of pity. Now as it happened, at Neuenahr he scraped acquaintance with a French doctor. I saw him when I was there: about thirty, black torpedo beard, very brisk and well-got-up, with any amount of belief in himself. He spoke English fluently, which gave him a pull with Robin, out there among foreigners; and he persuaded the boy that he could cure him if he would put himself in his charge. Well, by that time, it seemed that any chance was worth taking, so I agreed. After all, the boy was dying by inches. So off he went to the south of France, where this manPrevost, his name washad a nursing home of his own. I saw the place: well-kept affair though small. And he had an English nurse, which was lucky for Robin. Pretty girl she was: chestnut hair, creamy skin, supple figure, neat hands and feet. A lady, too.
Oh, any pretty girl can get round you, interjected Sir Clinton. Get on with the tale.
Well, it was all no good, Wendover went on, hastily. The poor boy went downhill in spite of all the Frenchmans talk; and, to cut a long story short, he died a fortnight ago, on the very day when he came of age.
Oh, so he lived long enough to inherit?
By the skin of his teeth, Wendover agreed. Thats where the trouble begins. Before that day, of course, he could make no valid will. But now a claimant, one Sydney Eastcote, turns up with the claim that Robin made a will the morning of the day he died, and by this will this Eastcote scoops the whole estate. All I know of it is from a letter this Eastcote wrote to me giving the facts. I referred him to the lawyer for the estate and told the lawyerHarringays his nameto bring the claimant here this afternoon. Theyre due now. Id like you to look him over, Clinton. Im not quite satised about this will.
The Chief Constable pondered for a moment or two.
Very well, he agreed. But youd better not introduce me as Sir Clinton Driffield, Chief Constable, etc. Id better be Mr Clinton, I think. It sounds better for a private confabulation.