# The Casebook Of Rupert Swann : Number Three



## Courtjester (Aug 10, 2016)

*THE CASEBOOK OF RUPERT SWANN
*
*The Carrington Conundrum*
​ 
It was a cold and windy Monday morning early in February. Not for the first time, Rupert Swann had been obliged to change his plan for spending a day. With no case on hand, he had intended to have a leisurely time, featuring some piano practice, a walk around the Leeds city centre, a late lunch, a session studying mathematics, an evening meal at his favourite restaurant and an hour or two at his club. He was occupied with the first of these pastimes, wrestling with a Chopin polonaise, when he was interrupted by the housekeeper, who brought an unexpected visitor to his rooms.

The caller was a tall, gaunt woman, very well dressed and with an erect, stately carriage. Swann guessed that she was probably in her middle forties. In a cultured voice, she apologised profusely for not having made an appointment, but said that circumstances had not permitted her do so.  Swann was gallant in his dealings with women and he put her at ease by assuring her that he understood. He asked her to remove her topcoat and gloves, join him by the fire and explain what had brought her to him.

“I am in a quandary, Mr Swann,” she said. “My name is Carrington. I have called concerning my husband and am doing this without his permission or knowledge, but I think you will understand when you have heard what I have to say.”

“Very well, Mrs Carrington, please take your time. I can see that you are  very disturbed.”

“Oh, is it so obvious?”

“I think so. You are clearly a lady of considerable self-possession, yet there is a tone in your voice indicating that you are being tried in some way. What you tell me will be confidential between the two of us unless you wish it to be otherwise.”

“Thank you for the assurance. My husband and I have been married for many years and as you may imagine, I am sensitive to his moods, not that he normally has any unusual ones. I sensed a short time ago that something was troubling him and it is still doing so. When I touched upon this, he made light of it, no doubt trying to avoid upsetting me. Nevertheless I knew, and I have now discovered what has caused his unease.”

“What is it?”

“It is this.” She opened a handbag, produced an envelope and handed it to Swann. There is a letter inside. Please read it.”

Swann looked at envelope, addressed to M. Carrington and posted in the United States on the 3rd of January. He extracted the single sheet of paper and read:

Hello, Carrington,

I guess you thought you’d seen and heard the last of me. Well, you haven’t.  It took a while for me to trace you, but I did it. Now it’s time to settle accounts. You should know that nobody crosses me and gets away with it. You owe me and the rest of us the $32,000 you stole, and I’m charging you another $5,000 as interest and $3,000 for my expenses in finding you. That comes to $40,000.

Don’t try to run. I sent two of the boys over and they’re watching you day and night, but you won’t spot them. And you can’t go to the police, can you? I mean, if you do, you’ll have to tell them what you did and I guess   you’re not going to confess to that.

I’ll be along soon and will let you know when I aim to call on you. Just make sure you have all the money and maybe you’ll get out of this with a whole skin, although I’m not making any promises about that. Be seeing you.  J.A.


Swann took the letter over to his front window and held it up to the light, then he put it back into the envelope, which he handed back to his visitor. “It is American paper, all right,” he said. “It has a watermark that isn’t used anywhere else.”

“I never doubted that, Mr Swann, nor do I question that it is the cause of my husband’s discomfiture. He has been in his present state since the day that message arrived, but he is very protective and I suppose that accounts for his unwillingness to discuss the matter.”

“And you cannot throw any light on it?”

Mrs Carrington shook her head. “No. We don’t know anyone in the United States. My husband is totally immersed in his business. I imagine you know Walker’s, the gentlemen’s outfitters on Boar Lane.”

Swann nodded. “Yes. A very nice place it is, too. I have patronised it several times. Do you own it?”

“My husband does. He had some inherited money and did not need to go to work but he wanted to give himself something to do that he found interesting, so he bought the shop when Mr Walker retired. In order to preserve the goodwill element, the original name was retained.”

“Has Mr Carrington any other business or financial interests?”

“Apart from watching over his investments, I do not know of any, and I cannot believe there is some matter I am unaware of, especially not one that might relate to this letter.”

“And you say he does not know you have read it?”

“That is correct. As he is usually the first to look at the post, I knew nothing of the letter. However, in view of his behaviour, I could no longer remain inactive, so I took the liberty of going into his study, where I found the envelope. Of course, I must replace it before he comes home this evening. He is a man of rigid habits, always extremely punctual, leaving the house at twenty minutes to eight in the morning and returning here at six in the evening. He goes and comes back by cab and has his lunch brought into the shop.”

Swann nodded. “I see. And is there nobody in whom you can confide your concern?”

“No. We live a somewhat secluded life and outside of my husband’s business contacts neither us has much to do with anyone.”

“What about family?”

“Our parents on both sides have been dead for some time. I never had any siblings and my husband had only one, a younger brother. The two were similar in appearance but had different attitudes to life. Michael emigrated to Australia six years ago and settled in Melbourne. We heard from him only once after he left.”

“Are you satisfied there is nothing else you can tell me that might help?”

“Yes. I realise that I have not offered you very much, Mr Swann, but for what it is worth, I do hope you will take the case and perhaps think of something we can do. I am very worried about this. I have a little money of my own, so I believe I can pay whatever your charges may be.”

“Please don’t trouble yourself about my fee. That will not be a problem. The question is whether or not I can suggest anything to alleviate your concern. I cannot do so immediately but you have given me something to think about and I shall certainly help you if I can. Now, I have your address from the letter. Is there any reason why I should not contact you by telegram or messenger while your husband is not at home, if I find that necessary?”

“No. You are welcome to do so. We did think of getting a telephone, but there are not many people connected to the service, so it seemed pointless to take the step.”

“I had the same idea a while ago and discarded it for the same reason. There was also that matter of the dispute between the National Telephone Company and Leeds Electric Tramways. You may recall that the telephone people argued in court that the trams were interfering with reception, as both organisations used the Thompson-Houston method of distributing current. I heard that the verdict favoured the tram company, so felt that my decision to postpone acquisition of a telephone was justified. But I must not babble and I won’t keep you any longer. If anything occurs to exacerbate your fear, please don’t hesitate to get in touch with me again.”

“Thank you. Simply talking with you has given me some relief.” With that, the lady stood, put on her coat and gloves and left.


Shortly after Mrs Carrington’s departure, Swann was struck by a thought that caused him to go to the telegraph office and send a cablegram. He then put the problem to the back of his mind. It did not remain there for long. The morning following their conversation, he had just finished breakfast when he received a telegram. Opening it, he read: Urgent I see you again at once. Will call noon. Please see me. Carrington

She arrived punctually at midday, clearly agitated, thanked Swann for seeing her at such short notice and handed him an envelope. “Since the letter I showed you yesterday arrived, I have been making sure that I look at the post before my husband does, though I do not disturb anything addressed to him. This came by the first delivery today. Mark said nothing to me and after he left for work, I took it from his study.”

Swann opened the envelope, took out the single sheet of paper it contained and read:

Hello again, Carrington,

Well, I’m in England now and I’ll be on my way to your place pretty soon.  The boys are still watching you, so don’t try any tricks. It’s Sunday now and you’d better have that money ready by seven-thirty Thursday evening. That’s when we’ll be calling on you. Like I said before, if you play this right, I might just let you off the hook.  J.A.

Rubbing his chin, Swann handed both letter and envelope back to the now distraught woman. “I’m not yet sure what to make of this,” he said, “but I am struck by the fact that the letter was posted in Southampton so recently. Some precautionary steps seem to be indicated. If you are returning to your house now, I think I should go with you and take a look at the locality.”

Mrs Carrington confirmed that she intended to go back to her home, so Swann escorted her across the road to the cab rank, from where the pair took a Hansom for the four-mile journey to the suburb of Seacroft. When they arrived, Swann asked the driver to wait, then he accompanied the lady to her front door, took his leave of her and spent a few minutes walking around the neighbourhood.

The Carrington residence was a detached one, built of red brick in the Georgian style and much like the two flanking it. The garden was bordered front, left and right by a dense privet hedge, four feet high, broken only by an iron gate which opened to a path that led to the door then divided to run completely around the house. The property directly opposite the Carrington one was almost a replica of it in structure and garden layout.

Having seen enough, Swann boarded the Hansom and returned to his rooms. Shortly after reaching them, he received a reply to the cablegram he had sent after Mrs Carrington had left him at the end of her first visit. The message caused his eyebrows to rise and impelled him to send another cable, this time to a different destination. That done, he occupied himself with the piano practice and mathematical studies he had interrupted the previous day.

Just as he was finishing breakfast on the Wednesday, Swann received a reply to his second wire. What it contained prompted him to walk to the telegraph office and send a message to Mrs Carrington, informing her that he intended to call on her at three that afternoon unless she responded that she would not be available. He then took his usual daily walk, consumed a pint of beer and a meat pie at Whitelock’s, the oldest public house in the city and his usual lunchtime haunt He arrived back at his lodgings shortly before two o’clock, smoked a pipe for a few minutes then, as there was no answer from Mrs Carrington, he crossed the road to the cab rank and took a Hansom to her home.

The lady was controlling herself with great difficulty, the edge to her voice even more pronounced than when she had visited Swann earlier. She led the way to the sitting room and motioned him to take one of the two chairs by the hearth, occupying the other herself. With no time to waste, Swann asked whether she had taxed her husband about the two letters.

“Not yet,” she replied, “but I cannot tolerate any more of this. There is a limit to the extent to which I will allow him to shield me from whatever is happening, if indeed that is what he is doing. Come what may, I intend to confront him when he comes home this evening.”

“I think you should. Unless I am much mistaken, there is serious potential danger to your husband and perhaps to you.”

“Mr Swann, if you know anything more than I do, I wish you would tell me what it is.”

“Calm yourself, Mrs Carrington. I am not entirely certain about what is likely to occur, but I am taking steps to deal with any contingency. The second letter expressed the writer’s intention to call on you at seven-thirty tomorrow evening. It is extremely important that the two of you be in situ here at least an hour before that time. I will join you then and we shall see what happens. Please rest assured that the measures I have in mind will protect you from harm.”

“Hearing those words is a great relief to me. I am not given to displays of emotion or to getting involved in domestic arguments, but perhaps it would be better if I had not let matters go as far as they have done.”

“Don’t distress yourself any further. Do what you must do this evening and I promise that I shall be with you tomorrow in time for us to face what I believe is a real threat, although I shall see that it is not put into practice.”

After leaving the Carrington house, Swann spent two hours making the arrangements he felt necessary. He then returned to his piano practice, followed by an evening meal at Powolny’s restaurant and two hours at his club, where he played a long game of billiards, losing to a wily old fellow he had never managed to beat. Back in his rooms, he smoked his last pipe of the day and went to bed at midnight.

Other than the Carrington case, no professional matter had arisen during the week, so Swann spent much of Thursday studying calculus. At five in the evening, he emerged from his lodgings, checked that the plans he had laid were ready for execution, then took a cab to the Carrington residence. He arrived there at six-fifteen and was admitted by the lady, who ushered   him into the sitting room and introduced him to her husband.

Carrington was a tall man of medium build, with a full head of hair, black apart from traces of grey at the temples. He confirmed immediately that his wife had been right in thinking that he had concealed the two threatening letters from her, adding sheepishly that he should have known better but had thought and hoped that the whole episode was a prank.

Swann shook his head. “I don’t think this a joking matter, Mr Carrington. Perhaps as a single man I should not be offering advice on marital affairs, but you would have done better had you confided in your wife. I think   that her independent action will prove fortunate for both of you. I am convinced that an hour from now there will be developments which might have proved very serious if I had not been consulted.”

“But what is the meaning of this, Mr Swann? If you know, please tell us.”

“All in good time, sir. You must allow me a little dramatic licence here. Let us be patient and await what comes. I will go into the details later. In the meantime, I think we might soothe ourselves with a warm drink, if you would be so kind.”

Mrs Carrington produced tea and biscuits and Swann, refusing to be drawn with regard to his intentions, would talk only about mundane matters until seven-fifteen. The sitting room lamp had already been lit and Swann asked Carrington to light those in the hall and the dining room, so that there would be illumination behind the door and at both sides of it. He then excused himself from the lady and trotted upstairs and peered out at the street from the still-dark landing.

Five minutes later, Swann reappeared in the sitting room, where the Carringtons were standing by the fire, looking mystified. “The performance will begin shortly,” he said. “Your callers are very punctual. Two of them climbed out of a cab fifty yards away and the third arrived on foot a minute later. They are on the garden path. The darkness and the strong wind will be a great help to us, though we could manage anyway. Now, Mrs Carrington, I’d be obliged if you would stay here, keep away from the window and be ready to draw open the curtains the instant your hear me shout ‘lights, please.’ He then turned to the husband. “And you, sir, please go into the dining room and prepare to do the same. We shall leave the hall light on and I will wait there.”

The Carringtons complied. About a minute later, there was a loud rap at the door. Swann opened it to see the man who had knocked taking three or four steps backwards to a position between his two companions. The man, middling in height and build, with a dark complexion and craggy face scowled. “Who the hell are you?” he barked.

“My name is Rupert Swann and I believe yours is Arvin.”

“Yeah, I’m Joe Arvin. Where’s Carrington?”

“In the house. For the moment, you may consider me his representative.”

“I don’t aim to deal with anybody but him, mister. If you don’t get out of my way, you’ll have about ten seconds to live.” He pulled a revolver from a coat pocket and his two companions followed suit. Swann held up a hand. “Please don’t be hasty,” he said. “You are already in trouble for menacing behaviour and trespassing. It would be unfortunate for you if you were to add murder to your misconduct. Furthermore, you are greatly outnumbered.”

“Outnumbered? How’s that?”

Instead of replying to Arvin directly, Swann called out: “Lights, please.” The Carringtons opened their curtains in the front rooms. At the same time, there was a rustling at both sides of the three callers and behind them, followed by a brief clatter, as the shutters of dark lanterns were opened.  While the startled visitors looked around them, seeing shadowy figures behind the hedges, two men emerged, one from either end of the house. Swann smiled and raised his voice again. “Thank you, Nicholson. I think it’s your turn now.”

The man who had appeared at Swann’s right took two paces towards the stunned trio. He was unarmed but that did not seem to trouble him.   “Arvin,” he snapped, “I am Inspector Ronald Nicholson of the Leeds City Police. You and your accomplices are surrounded and there are nine revolvers pointing at you, all held by trained marksmen. Kindly drop your guns now. If you attempt to do anything else with them, you will be shot dead at once.”

The three men looked left and right, then behind them. The light was uneven, but they could see shadowy figures with arms held out straight, each hand holding a gun. For a moment they seemed to be thinking of staging a battle, then Arvin shook his head. “Well, boys,” he said, “I guess they got us this time. I don’t intend to get cut down just yet. Better do as he says.”

The three men let their weapons fall to the ground and the inspector strode up to them. “I’m glad you had the sense to avoid bloodshed,” he said. “You are in enough trouble already, without adding gunfire to your wrongdoing.” He waved to his companions. “All right, men. Come into the garden. Bradley and Shaw, you are to stay here. You also, Mr Arvin.  The rest of you officers pick up those three guns and take these other two fellows to the station. When I return there we shall draw up a list of charges.”

A police wagon drawn by two horses came out of a side street where it had been waiting and stopped at the Carrington house. As the prisoners were bundled into the carriage, the inspector joined Swann. “I think we could call that workmanlike job all round,” he said.

“I agree, Nicholson. Please forgive the drama, but I had to be sure those men were really coming and that they were ready to use violence. By the way, I’m sorry that you had to bustle around to scrape up those firearms.”

The inspector grinned. “Yes, it was quite a job to amass them. As you well know, we rarely issue guns to our men. Incidentally, my officers are by no means trained marksmen. Frankly, I doubt that any of them could hit this house from across the road. They are just brave fellows who were prepared to come forward when I explained what was afoot and asked for volunteers. Now, I think we might go into the house and you can tell all of us the full story.”

The Carringtons, Swann, the inspector and Arvin gathered in the sitting room. Constables Bradley and Shaw stood guard outside the closed door. Mark Carrington looked like a man in a trance. His wife asked Swann to clarify everything.

Taking two papers from a pocket, Swann smiled at her. “You put me on the right track during our first talk,” he said.

“How?”

“You remarked that your husband had a younger brother who was similar to him in appearance but different in character. You then remarked that the brother had emigrated to Australia, specifically Melbourne, and you also told me his name, Michael. You later said that your husband’s name is Mark. When I saw the letter addressed to M. Carrington, I began to wonder whether we might be dealing with a case of mistaken identity. I put this information together with your description of your husband and yourself as largely stay-at-home types and the fact that Michael was clearly more adventurous.

“After cogitating briefly, I sent a cable to the chief of police in Melbourne, asking whether he could tell me anything about Michael Carrington. I have here his reply. It reads: Rogue. Left for USA 1894. Good riddance.

Swann put that message aside, opened the other paper and went on: “I have an acquaintance in the New York Police Department, so I sent him a cable asking whether he could give me any information about Michael Carrington. This is his answer: Armed. Dangerous. At large. Member Arvin  robbery gang. Seen Baltimore late December.

Returning both papers to his pocket, Swann continued: “I had heard of Joe Arvin’s band and I had no doubt that I had been right in thinking that they were pursuing the wrong man. I understood from your wife that you are a man of habit and that you always leave here and return at the same times and in the same way. It did not take much imagination to grasp that the gang leader’s two accomplices must have watched you come and go and that they had to do so from a distance. They would have seen you only emerging from the house to board your cab, returning and alighting from the vehicle and – though I felt this unlikely – following you to your place of business. There they would have seen you only entering or leaving, very briefly at that and in poor light.

“When I noted that the second letter addressed to you had been posted in Southampton only a short time before the threatened visit to you, I saw that the matter was very serious. I explained the position to Inspector Nicholson. We carried out a reconnaissance of the area and devised a plan. As we were taking tea and biscuits, six of Inspector Nicholson’s men secreted themselves in the back garden here and two others behind the privets of the house facing yours. I kept Mr Arvin talking to allow the inspector and his officers to encircle the three men. As I mentioned earlier, the darkness and wind noise helped us but we could have used another version of our scheme which would have worked had the conditions been less favourable.

“All that remains now is for Mr Arvin to tell us how Michael Carrington came to owe him such a lot of money.” Swann turned to the bandit. “Would you be so kind, Mr Arvin?”

The desperado gave a rueful smile. “Well, I guess I’m bound for the calaboose anyway, so it won’t do any harm to give you the details. We did a big railroad job last year and got away with the thirty-two thousand dollars I mentioned in my first letter to Carrington. He was holding the money when we split up, which was how we’d arranged things. The idea was for us to gather at a hideout the following day. Carrington never turned up. We soon found out from newspaper reports that he’d got away all right and been spotted in one or two places but hadn’t been caught. I’d no doubt that he’d swindled us, so I set about tracking him.

“We guessed that Carrington had made his way back to the old country. He was always talking about doing that eventually, and we knew he’d lived in Leeds. I sent those two boys of mine over to track him down and when they found that a fellow named M. Carrington lived at this house, they kept watch on it but didn’t risk getting too close for fear that he’d be on his guard and spot them. Well, with the poor light you spoke about, and what we thought was our man going and coming only by cab and looking so similar to Mike, my boys let me know that they’d done their work. I told them to keep watch and wait for me to get here, so I could look the louse in the eye and get the money back. That’s about all there is to it. Now, what about those charges? We haven’t done much yet.”

The inspector grinned. “Oh, there will be list of them. Threatening conduct and carrying arms with intent to inflict violence will do for the moment.” He called in his two constables,  instructed them to take charge of Arvin and said he would join them outside in a few minutes. They handcuffed the prisoner and walked out. Nicholson congratulated Swann on his part in the proceedings, told him and the Carringtons that he would need statements from all of them, then he left.

Mark Carrington was effusive in his thanks to Swann. He was clearly  embarrassed by his failure to take his wife into his confidence. Swann did not wish to play any part in the familial scene. He left the house, walked to the main road, found a cab, returned to the city centre and enjoyed an evening meal, once again at his favourite restaurant, Powolny’s, after which he spent two hours at his club in Cookridge Street, satisfied that he had done a good job, albeit with a somewhat theatrical touch.

* * *
​


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## Jay Greenstein (Aug 10, 2016)

> It was a cold and windy Monday morning early in February.


Never start with a weather report. An editor, on seeing this, would react about the same as if it said, "It was a dark and stormy night," and would probably reach for the rejection slip. (if you're unfamiliar with why, google the phrase)

In this case, the weather has nothing to do with the scene, so talking about it serves only to delay the actual opening of the story. The rest of the paragraph talks about the things he won't do because of his visitor. Why would a reader want to know what he won't do? In short, start your story with story, not history, because your reader is seeking to be entertained. History seldom entertains.

The primary problem I see is that the prose a transcription of the narrator talking to the reader—_telling them_ the story. To see why that can't work, I strongly suggest that you have your computer read the story to you, to hear what a reader gets as they read. It's not at all like what you hear as you read, because you, knowing the characters and their mood, read with the same emotion in your voice that  you would tell the reader the story with.

Added to that, were you personally telling the story, your performance would carry the emotional part of the story in how you performed. Voice, movement, expression, gesture, and more, matters a great deal, but none of that makes it to the page, leaving only the words, and what the punctuation and wording suggest to that reader.

Not only that, you know what a given line will say before you gread it, so you know_ how_ to read it. But the reader doesn't know what the line says till _after_ they read it, so they can only guess at the emotion.

The problem is that our medium won't support either sound or vision, so the techniques of storytelling, which requires both, can't be used.

The solution is simplicity, though not easy. All you need do is pick up a few of the tricks the pros favor and make them yours. One such, a way of presenting a strong character viewpoint, is here. There are lots of articles on the specialized tricks of the trade available online, by lots of people, even me. And the local library system's fiction writing section is a huge resource. And free is always good. I would personally recommend seeking the names, Dwight Swain, Jack Bickham, or Debra Dixon on the cover.

So why did I say the solution was simple but not easy? Because your current writing skills have been practiced for more than a decade, till they feel intuitive. To make use of the new information you acquire with the same ease, you will not only have to know them well, you will have to convince your current set to stop shouting, "No, that's wrong!" And I can tell you from experience that it's not easy. But when you master them you'll wonder why you didn't see it for yourself.

Hang in there, and keep on writing.


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## Courtjester (Aug 11, 2016)

I am greatly flattered to receive so much attention from so eminent an authority.


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## Grub-r (Oct 12, 2016)

I might be nitpicking here but, to me the letters read more like dialogue then how an actual letter might read. 

I noticed the words the vocabulary changed for the letter writer, so maybe this was on purpose?


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## Courtjester (Oct 13, 2016)

Thank you for the comment. Yes, the style in the part you mention was intentional. Best wishes for your own work. Cj


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## plawrence (Apr 5, 2017)

This is the second of yours that I've read.  I hope you won't think me unkind if I comment on my reaction to it.

The first thing I noticed was that your protagonist began the exact same way as your fourth one.  He had nothing to do because he had no case, so he made plans to do various things throughout the day.  I think it's easy to fall into the trap of beginning the same way every time, but to the reader it seems hackneyed.



> he was interrupted by the housekeeper, who brought an unexpected visitor to his rooms


When I read this I immediately thought "rooms?  How can he be in two places at once?"  It's a small detail, but they add up and disappoint the reader.



> “I had the same idea a while ago and discarded it for the same reason. There was also that matter of the dispute between the National Telephone Company and Leeds Electric Tramways. You may recall that the telephone people argued in court that the trams were interfering with reception, as both organisations used the Thompson-Houston method of distributing current. I heard that the verdict favoured the tram company, so felt that my decision to postpone acquisition of a telephone was justified. But I must not babble and I won’t keep you any longer. If anything occurs to exacerbate your fear, please don’t hesitate to get in touch with me again.”



This entire paragraph seems superfluous.  Only the last sentence really moves the story along.



> Just as he was finishing breakfast on the Wednesday, Swann received a reply to his second wire. What it contained prompted him to walk to the telegraph office and send a message to Mrs Carrington, informing her that he intended to call on her at three that afternoon unless she responded that she would not be available.


This irritated me.  I wasn't bothered not knowing the contents of the original telegram or its response, but doing this twice was just irritating.  Why are you hiding things from the reader?  It's like you and Swann are insiders, and you'll be damned if you'll let me, the reader, in on the secret.  I get that Carrington doesn't need to know it, but I want to know.

Now, if for plot reasons you don't want me to understand what it means, that's fine.  Make the contents cryptic.  But dammit, show them to me.



> After leaving the Carrington house, Swann spent two hours making the arrangements he felt necessary. He then returned to his piano practice, followed by an evening meal at Powolny’s restaurant and two hours at his club, where he played a long game of billiards, losing to a wily old fellow he had never managed to beat. Back in his rooms, he smoked his last pipe of the day and went to bed at midnight.



As a reader, why do I care about this?  It adds nothing to the story except to promote the idea that he must be independently wealthy.



> Other than the Carrington case, no professional matter had arisen during the week, so Swann spent much of Thursday studying calculus.



For some odd reason you seem to want your protagonist to be (apparently) a man of leisure who occasionally has his life interrupted by people who need his help solving conundrums.  I don't know if that's what you intend, but I wanted you to know what I was getting out of your writing.  It's a little fantastical.  Either this guy is independently wealthy or he charges a fortune for the cases that happen to dribble in.  I'm not sure which.  But I can't make sense out of why he exists.

Are you trying to make him like Sherlock Holmes?


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## Courtjester (Apr 6, 2017)

I don't have much time to comment at the moment. Sorry you did not like this tale as much as the fourth one. As for the presentation, the first story informs readers that Swann wrote these accounts himself, using the third person because he preferred that method, and naturally he did this in the style of his time - late nineteenth century. With regard to the Sherlock Holmes allusion, the first story states at some length that Swann was indeed the Leeds-based counterpart of the great Baker Street sleuth. That is the main point of the series.
Regards, Cj


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## plawrence (Apr 6, 2017)

Perhaps I shouldn't read them in reverse order.


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## violinguy (Apr 12, 2017)

> he was interrupted by the housekeeper, who brought an unexpected visitor to his rooms
> 
> When I read this I immediately thought "rooms?  How can he be in  two places at once?"  It's a small detail, but they add up and  disappoint the reader.



I enjoyed the tale, but someone already took my first correction.  I would have put something like, "The housekeeper interrupted my polonaise by bringing an unexpected visitor into my music room."  Or some other name for it.  Studio, practice room, etc.


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## plawrence (Apr 12, 2017)

Courtjester said:


> I don't have much time to comment at the moment. Sorry you did not like this tale as much as the fourth one. As for the presentation, the first story informs readers that Swann wrote these accounts himself, using the third person because he preferred that method, and naturally he did this in the style of his time - late nineteenth century. With regard to the Sherlock Holmes allusion, the first story states at some length that Swann was indeed the Leeds-based counterpart of the great Baker Street sleuth. That is the main point of the series.
> Regards, Cj


At first I decided not to respond to this, but now I think I should

My desire was not to communicate that I didn't like it.  I was trying to provide constructive criticism from the reader's perspective.  If that's not what you're seeking, please say so and I will refrain from commenting in that way.


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## Courtjester (Apr 13, 2017)

Owing to the time constraint already mentioned, I get little opportunity to revisit my pieces. After the initial drafting and several bouts of editing, I post them with whatever warts they may have, in the hope that they will find favour with enough people to justify the effort entailed in their production. I appreciate that we all have our own styles and that none of us can please everybody. Cj


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