I have to give Agatha Christie a lot of credit for being able to write in such a way that she somehow manages to conceal her clues in plain sight. This is a quick story and very simple in outline and I went in to it figuring I’d catch her out. But I must have been half asleep because she gives it away right in the title, and with a ridiculously conspicuous clue in the middle of the story that Miss Marple herself points to.

I remember years ago reading an analysis of Christie’s writing that showed how it had measurable soporific qualities. So maybe I was half asleep. It’s the only explanation I can come up with. Yes, there is some misdirection, but even that’s pretty obvious. And it’s not like we’re provided with all the information Miss Marple has. But we do get enough to finger the guilty party. I failed, and have no excuse.

Adding to my collection of Britishisms, I was surprised at the use of the word “tweeny” to describe a member of the household staff. I thought the girl in question might have been quite young and what was meant was that she was a “tween,” which is a term sometimes used to describe kids aged 8-14. But I looked into it and in fact it has (or had) a more specific meaning: a maid who assists both cook and housemaid. Since most households these days don’t have regular cooks and housemaids, I imagine “tweeny” in this sense has pretty much gone out of use as well.

Marple index

Not every word I pull a blank on is some obscure, archaic, or technical term that I feel no shame in not knowing. Sometimes I’m baffled by a fairly common or everyday word that I’ve just never heard before. Ignorance may be embarrassing to admit, but we can’t grow our vocabulary through shame. In that spirit . . .

I was recently re-reading Ross Macdonald’s first Lew Archer novel. The Moving Target, and in the final pages came across a description of a young lady sitting in a living room, “hugging her legs on a hassock beside the fireplace.”

Hassock? I was reaching for a dictionary.

Here’s what I learned. The word “hassock” has its origin in the Old English hasec, which means a clump of grass. And in some dictionaries it still has that secondary meaning. Which is apparently the same as “tussock,” another word I never use though one I have at least heard of.

From being a clump of grass the use of hassock was transferred to something soft to either sit or kneel upon. Specifically, it was used to describe the cushioned rest that you kneel on when praying in church. These are also called “kneelers.” I’ve never heard them referred to as hassocks, but then I don’t spend a lot of time in church.

More commonly though, a hassock is a large thick cushion used either as a seat or for resting your feet on. This is how it is used in The Moving Target. I would just call it a footstool or ottoman, and have never heard the word hassock before. At leat that I can remember. I’d read The Moving Target before but I guess I just skipped over it.

If you go online you will find that there is a distinction that’s made between ottomans and hassocks. Here’s how one website put it: “Ottomans are versatile and multifunctional, working as footrests, extra seating, coffee tables, or storage. They often have a flat, sturdy surface, perfect for holding items. Hassocks, on the other hand, are all about simplicity and comfort. They’re smaller, often cushioned all around, and mainly used as footrests.”

The key distinction is that ottomans have storage space while hassocks do not. This surprised me, as I wouldn’t have thought of ottomans as storing anything. I just thought they were cushioned footrests. Like hassocks. Except hassock is a word I’ve never used.

From my readings I think it’s clear that the word hassock isn’t used a lot by anyone anymore, and no longer serves much of a function since ottoman and footstool or footrest basically mean the same thing now.

Words, words, words

Halloween is coming up this week. These inflatable lawn decorations seem to be all the rage.  I did a post on one of the more excessive last year. Here are a couple of others I saw yesterday morning. I like the pirate ship with the skeletons overboard. (You can click on the pics to make them bigger.)

When it comes to mystery and detective fiction I’ll confess I subscribe to the “fair play” doctrine. This is the principle, which some authors make expressly, that the reader gets all the same clues as the detective. What this avoids is a situation where the detective just pulls a rabbit out of a hat at the end, explaining the mystery by way of some evidence that we haven’t been told about. Sure you can still have a great mystery that doesn’t play by these rules, but I appreciate it when the author sets a fair challenge.

Sherlock Holmes seems to have felt the same way, as we learn when he upbraids Watson at the beginning of “The Crooked Man.” It’s a point he makes just after remarking on how Watson has had a busy day. Watson doesn’t know how he managed to deduce this and so Holmes explains:

“I have the advantage of knowing your habits, my dear Watson,” said he. “When your round is a short one you walk, and when it is a long one you use a hansom. As I perceive that your boots, although used, are by no means dirty, I cannot doubt that you are at present busy enough to justify the hansom.”

“Excellent!” I cried.

“Elementary,” said he. “It is one of those instances where the reasoner can produce an effect which seems remarkable to his neighbor, because the latter has missed the one little point which is the basis of the deduction. The same may be said, my dear fellow, for the effect of some of these little sketches of yours, which is entirely meretricious, depending as it does upon your retaining in your own hands some factors in the problem which are never imparted to the reader.”

That said, the effect here is again at least mostly meretricious, as Holmes basically just walks back the events of the night Colonel Barclay dies until he comes to their source in the titular crooked man, who quickly spills the beans. There are red herrings, like the footprints made by a small animal, but little in the way of clues. Even the use of the name “David” is an allusion that ties into an exotic backstory that Holmes had no way of knowing anything about until Harry Wood told him what happened back in India during the days of the Mutiny.

As a bonus, Holmes never says “Elementary, my dear Watson” anywhere in the canon. What he says in the passage quoted above is as close as he ever comes to that famous line. That kind of thing happens more than you might think. Bogart, for example, never says “Play it again, Sam” in Casablanca.

Holmes index