Direct vs reported speech

When to use direct speech, and when to use reported? We tend to see the former more these days because so many novel-writers take their cue from movies and television. But it would be a long book that could never draw breath to say, "He told her all about it," or words to that effect.

Brevity is not, of course, the main reason for using reported speech. A narrator character is less likely to tell us word for word what he or she said. Reported speech can help to convey states of mind like excitement or passion (precise wording can often come across as banal, even if - especially if - realistic). If used selectively, it can differentiate a character from the others in a scene.

It can also be used for comic effect, often in parallel with serving one or more of those other purposes. Notice how, in this scene from Bleak House, Dickens contrasts direct and reported speech to give us a sense of the nervously wittering Mr Guppy and the (apparently) cool, calm and collected Lady Dedlock.

"Let him come in!" 

He comes in. Holding the letter in her hand, which she has taken from the floor, she tries to collect her thoughts. In the eyes of Mr. Guppy she is the same Lady Dedlock, holding the same prepared, proud, chilling state. 

"Your Ladyship may not be at first disposed to excuse this visit from one who has never been welcome to your Ladyship"—which he don't complain of, for he is bound to confess that there never has been any particular reason on the face of things why he should be—"but I hope when I mention my motives to your Ladyship you will not find fault with me," says Mr. Guppy. 

"Do so." 

"Thank your Ladyship. I ought first to explain to your Ladyship," Mr. Guppy sits on the edge of a chair and puts his hat on the carpet at his feet, "that Miss Summerson, whose image, as I formerly mentioned to your Ladyship, was at one period of my life imprinted on my art until erased by circumstances over which I had no control, communicated to me, after I had the pleasure of waiting on your Ladyship last, that she particularly wished me to take no steps whatever in any manner at all relating to her. And Miss Summerson's wishes being to me a law (except as connected with circumstances over which I have no control), I consequently never expected to have the distinguished honour of waiting on your Ladyship again." 

And yet he is here now, Lady Dedlock moodily reminds him. 

"And yet I am here now," Mr. Guppy admits. "My object being to communicate to your Ladyship, under the seal of confidence, why I am here." 

He cannot do so, she tells him, too plainly or too briefly. 

"Nor can I," Mr. Guppy returns with a sense of injury upon him, "too particularly request your Ladyship to take particular notice that it's no personal affair of mine that brings me here. I have no interested views of my own to serve in coming here. If it was not for my promise to Miss Summerson and my keeping of it sacred—I, in point of fact, shouldn't have darkened these doors again, but should have seen 'em further first." 

Mr. Guppy considers this a favourable moment for sticking up his hair with both hands. 

"Your Ladyship will remember when I mention it that the last time I was here I run against a party very eminent in our profession and whose loss we all deplore. That party certainly did from that time apply himself to cutting in against me in a way that I will call sharp practice, and did make it, at every turn and point, extremely difficult for me to be sure that I hadn't inadvertently led up to something contrary to Miss Summerson's wishes. Self-praise is no recommendation, but I may say for myself that I am not so bad a man of business neither." 

Lady Dedlock looks at him in stern inquiry. Mr. Guppy immediately withdraws his eyes from her face and looks anywhere else. 

"Indeed, it has been made so hard," he goes on, "to have any idea what that party was up to in combination with others that until the loss which we all deplore I was gravelled—an expression which your Ladyship, moving in the higher circles, will be so good as to consider tantamount to knocked over. Small likewise—a name by which I refer to another party, a friend of mine that your Ladyship is not acquainted with—got to be so close and double-faced that at times it wasn't easy to keep one's hands off his ed. However, what with the exertion of my humble abilities, and what with the help of a mutual friend by the name of Mr. Tony Weevle (who is of a high aristocratic turn and has your Ladyship's portrait always hanging up in his room), I have now reasons for an apprehension as to which I come to put your Ladyship upon your guard. First, will your Ladyship allow me to ask you whether you have had any strange visitors this morning? I don't mean fashionable visitors, but such visitors, for instance, as Miss Barbary's old servant, or as a person without the use of his lower extremities, carried upstairs similarly to a guy?" 

"No!" 

"Then I assure your Ladyship that such visitors have been here and have been received here. Because I saw them at the door, and waited at the corner of the square till they came out, and took half an hour's turn afterwards to avoid them." 

"What have I to do with that, or what have you? I do not understand you. What do you mean?" 

"Your Ladyship, I come to put you on your guard. There may be no occasion for it. Very well. Then I have only done my best to keep my promise to Miss Summerson. I strongly suspect (from what Small has dropped, and from what we have corkscrewed out of him) that those letters I was to have brought to your Ladyship were not destroyed when I supposed they were. That if there was anything to be blown upon, it is blown upon. That the visitors I have alluded to have been here this morning to make money of it. And that the money is made, or making." 

Mr. Guppy picks up his hat and rises. 

"Your Ladyship, you know best whether there's anything in what I say or whether there's nothing. Something or nothing, I have acted up to Miss Summerson's wishes in letting things alone and in undoing what I had begun to do, as far as possible; that's sufficient for me. In case I should be taking a liberty in putting your Ladyship on your guard when there's no necessity for it, you will endeavour, I should hope, to outlive my presumption, and I shall endeavour to outlive your disapprobation. I now take my farewell of your Ladyship, and assure you that there's no danger of your ever being waited on by me again."

Notice the impact, after we've had only Lady Dedlock's reported speech through most of the interview, of that dramatic and sudden "No!" Those are the touches that mark out Dickens as a master of his craft.

Resolution

It's been a frustrating year. My interactive reworking of Frankenstein was published to critical acclaim and won a Kirkus star, and I have now prepared Epub3 and Kindle editions for release next year. My company Fabled Lands LLP entered a joint venture with a major international publisher to reissue a back catalogue of over thirty gamebook classics by me, Jamie Thomson, Oliver Johnson and Mark Smith, in both print and digital formats. And Dark Lord: The Early Years, created by me and Jamie Thomson and brilliantly written by Jamie, won the 2012 Roald Dahl humour prize.

So why the frustration? Because what matters most to me is Mirabilis. The other things are great too, but Jack's and Estelle's story is what is dearest to my heart. And nothing has been achieved on Mirabilis since June last year. I have all of Book 3 written (the first half of Spring), a bunch of standalone stories set in the Year of Wonders, and the outline for a one-special featuring a famous fantasy personality coping with the onslaught of the unreal in 1901. But those stories all need an artist, and both Martin and Leo are now far too busy on other projects (Martin's charming picture book The Gift and Leo's Pollock Theatre style Playrama cutouts for kids).

Eighteen months is quite long enough to let things slide. Too long. A little while back, Jason Arnopp (author of A Sincere Warning About The Entity in Your Home and Beast in the Basement - both brilliant, scary works of genius; go and buy them now, then come back and read on) tweeted that you should write as though you had twelve months to live. Wow. Some advice hits you like the word of God. What if 2013 was my last year? I need to get Mirabilis moving again and it's time to start recruiting the team and raising the money to do that. I've put up the provisional opening episode for Spring, "Long Time With Wadwoes", on Freado and I'll probably put it on DriveThru too. Now I'm looking at ways to get the whole thing restarted so that 2013 can be a true year of the comet!

Look back at winter

You know how the summer holiday adverts start appearing on TV the moment the turkey and tinsel are cleared away. In the same spirit, here's an extended look at the opening of Mirabilis Season Two. The spring has sprung, the grass has ris, I wonder where Jack Ember is? Forty fathoms down, is the answer. Catch up on what's been happening to all our regular characters in the two months that Jack and Estelle have been missing on the sea bed.

The annoying thing for me personally is that this one episode is the sum total of all I have to show for 2012. There's much more written, but the past year turned out to be a damp squib as far as actually getting anything out goes. So I'm currently re-evaluating how to make sure that Mirabilis steams ahead in the New Year. That will involve a lot of big changes. More on that next time.

Sherlock Holmes's Christmas adventure

FARADAY'S GHOST

IT WAS LATE in the afternoon of Wednesday, 24th December in the year 1890. The sky had been steely grey since dawn and, as the hansom cab carrying myself and Sherlock Holmes turned off Piccadilly into Albemarle Street, a fine cold drizzle began to fall.

‘Ah, Watson,’ my friend remarked as the cab drew to a halt, ‘this is most suitable weather for the occasion, is it not?’

I fear that I gave a somewhat bad‑tempered grunt in reply. At that moment I would rather have been sitting beside the fire in Holmes’ lodgings in Baker Street than shivering outside the portals of the Royal Institution. I clambered down and clapped my hands together for warmth while Holmes paid the driver.

‘In all honesty, Holmes,’ I ventured as we made our way into that august building, ‘l cannot see why you agreed to this farrago. As I understand, we are here to witness the evocation of a departed spirit. The whole business seems fanciful beyond the bounds of belief-- and, I must add, in rather poor taste.’

‘My dear Watson, you are bounding ahead of the facts, as usual. We have been invited here by the Members of this venerable society to witness a demonstration by a man named Huygens, who claims to have developed a scientific device capable of summoning a ghost. The task ahead is to establish whether Huygens is a charlatan, or whether his invention is truly capable of doing what he claims. If it is, then his wish to gain the recognition of the Royal Institution can hardly be denied.’

The doors swung to behind us, shutting out the solstitial wind. We handed our coats to the porter and crossed the marble hallway. For some reason I felt an urge to whisper; the place had the feel of a cathedral. ‘Be that as it may,’ I persisted, ‘why have they asked you? You have had no dealings with the supernatural.’

Holmes raised his eyebrows. ‘The supernatural? It is my belief, Watson, that any phenomenon that it is possible to observe must of necessity be allowed by natural law. However, you need not look very far for the reason I have been asked to look into this matter. It is simply that my brother Mycroft has been mentioning the case of the Baskerville Hound in his clubland cir­cles, and no doubt the Members of the Institution, having come to hear of it, believe I have some experience with the so-called supernatural.’

At that moment a group of elderly gentlemen emerged from a door at the back of the hall and approached us. The man at their head shook our hands firmly and introduced himself as Sir Albert Dud­ley, whose letter had brought us there. ‘We are very pleased to have the renowned intellect of Sherlock Holmes assisting us,’ he said in a jovial booming voice.

It was not in Holmes’s nature to be self-deprecating. He shook hands with the other Members and we were con­ducted upstairs, through a well-stocked library and into a lobby. Holmes looked around. ‘And where is Mr Huygens with his miraculous machine?’

Sir Albert gestured towards a set of oak doors. ‘The man’s been setting things up in our lecture theatre all after­noon.’ He consulted his pocket watch. ‘He should just be making the finishing touches about now, I expect.’

As the others dispersed into groups to discuss their own theories about   the impending demonstration, Holmes drew Sir Albert and myself to one side. ‘Do your respected members not suspect a hoax, Sir Albert?’ inquired my friend.

Sir Albert stroked his luxuriant mous­tache pensively. ‘You and I may smell a rat in such mumbo-jumbo claims, Holmes; but others among the Members give more credence to Huygens. Many of the great minds of Europe are now starting to take a keen interest in such "para-psychical" research.’

Holmes nodded. ‘Very well, then. For the time being we must keep an open mind – Ah! Here, if I am not mistaken is the gentleman in question.’

The double doors to the lecture theatre had opened and a thin ginger-haired man in a grey suit stepped out. He stood in the doorway for a moment, blinking at the assembled gathering through thick glasses, then hurried over to us.

‘Mr Sherlock Holmes, Dr John Wat­son,’ said Sir Albert. ‘may I present Dr Dirk Huygens.’

‘Dr Huygens,’ said Holmes after a momentary pause, ‘I perceive your field to be chemistry.’

‘I hope you will not give Holmes the opportunity of talking shop, Doctor,’ I put in. ‘Chemistry is one of his favourite pas­times also.’

‘But you are mistaken, sir,’ said Huy­gens, squinting like an owl behind his bottle-glass lenses. ‘My interest lies only in the sphere of occult manifestations.’

Holmes gave a slight cough, raising his right hand apologetically to his lips. ‘My error, Herr Doctor I must be thinking of the work of a countryman of yours.’

‘It is a common name in Holland,’ said Huygens, somewhat impatiently to my mind. ‘One of my ancestors worked in optics, as you may know.’ He turned to Sir Albert. ‘I am now ready to demon­strate my invention. The psychic forces are at their peak. Would you please be so kind as to have your Members go in?’

We filed through into a large, high semicircular auditorium lit by gas lamps. The upper regions of the room were all but lost in gloom, but strong lights directed at the demonstration table at the front illuminated a bizarre piece of apparatus. The rear of the table was covered in black material, while various tubes and cables surrounded it and connected it to a large cabinet at the back of the auditorium. The whole arrangement gave the impression – to my untutored eye, at least – more of a theatrical production than of a serious scientific experiment.

Holmes and I were shown to seats at the front beside Sir Albert. Once the few Members permitted to observe had come in, an attendant closed the doors and turned down the lights.

‘I am nonplussed, Holmes,’ I admitted in a discreet whisper. ‘What was that business about the chap being a chemist? I have never known you to be wrong before.’

Holmes nodded. `When I observed Huygens’ fingers, I noticed some staining and evidence of acid burns. This could be ascribed to several professions, but I discounted the more common ones – silver polisher, watchmaker or pharmacist – as being incompatible with Huygens’ supposed academic background.’

I surveyed the array of paraphernalia on the stage before us. ‘Possibly he uses some chemicals in the course of his work...’ I ventured.

‘I am sure he must. He seemed at pains to deny it, however, particu­larly after you mentioned that I am something of an amateur chemist myself My initial theory is that he want­ed to avoid any further discussion on the matter that might reveal his ignorance. Also, I was surprised to hear him refer to Christiaan Huygens as having done "some" work in optics. In that branch of physics, few names are as revered.’

‘An affectation of modesty, surely, Holmes,’ I replied.

‘One further point aroused my suspi­cions. I deliberately raised my hand so that he could see my ring with the Dutch crest. You will recall, Watson, that I received this after the help I gave the royal family of the Netherlands. Either Huygens is a remarkably cold fish, or he does not recognize his own country’s insignia.’

I shrugged and, seeing that Huygens was ready to begin, finished with: ‘So far the evidence against him is solely circumstantial, however.’

‘Indeed it is,’ agreed Holmes. ‘Let us keep our eyes peeled for something more conclusive.’

Huygens watched us, lips pursed as he impatiently waited for our whispering to die down. ‘Gentlemen,’ he announced in a surprisingly strong voice, ‘for cen­turies man has speculated about the greatest of all mysteries: what happens to the soul after death. The recorded sightings of, and encounters with, the shades of the dead are literally numberless, and yet the study of the occult has been shunned by conventional scientists. Until today, that is to say. I propose to demonstrate to this select audi­ence my astounding new invention which proves the existence of the afterlife.’

‘Harrumph!’ said Sir Albert, leaning over to Holmes. ‘This fellow lays it on a bit thick, wouldn’t you say?’

Unfortunately Sir Albert’s basso pro­fundo tones were not best suited to a whisper; Huygens may well have heard him. At least, he favoured the old gentle­man with a gimlet stare of his bespectacled eyes before continuing. ‘I call the device an Umbric Resonator. It captures the essence of aura from a departed shade and returns the individu­al to this world for a short time. I shall demonstrate this in a few moments, and you will be able to question the shade.’

A wizened old fellow with a bald head raised his hand. Our necks craned round so we could hear his question: ‘Whose ghost do you purport to be summoning, Dr Huygens?’

‘None other than Michael Faraday, sir, the distinguished scientist and former Professor of the Royal Institution. Once you have witnessed the Umbric Res­onator in action, I daresay there will not be one dissenting voice among you to oppose my election to this establish­ment.’

Huygens pointedly fixed Holmes with a glare at this point. The very fact that he saw my friend as an opponent argued against him in my book. I am certainly no match for Holmes in the arts of ratiocina­tion (indeed, I fancy that no living man is) but I have learned to trust my instincts, and I have often observed that crooks and charlatans immediately sense that Holmes is their adversary.

We sat quietly as Huygens connected a few more wires to his device and made some last-minute adjustments. Then, standing between the table and the cabi­net, he called for the lamps to be turned down still further until the auditorium was in near darkness. As he moved a lever beside him, a hum filled the air.

Then, quite suddenly, a flicker of light came from high up in the room. I heard a gasp from Sir Albert and turned to look, and it was all I could do to credit the evi­dence of my senses - for there, hovering above us, was a glowing disembodied head It was all of one colour, a kind of pallid greenish glow; and, though it shone clearly, it cast no illumination on the ceiling that must have been adjacent to where it hung suspended in the air. Then a feeling of recognition came over me, tingling the hairs of my scalp like the ghost ride at a fun-fair, as I saw that the serene features were identical to those of a statue I had seen outside in the entrance hall. With a chill, I at last began to believe that I was gazing on the shade of the late Michael Faraday.

‘Gentlemen,’ Huygens’ voice broke through the tense darkness, ‘you may pose questions if you wish.’

Sir Albert was the first to recover his composure sufficiently as to be able to speak. ‘Er...whoever you may be...’ he began, ‘...that is, if you are indeed Faraday, where were you born?’

The apparition’s voice was soft and lilting, like one speaking under the effects of mesmerism. I noticed also that its lips did not move, its waxy face remaining set in the same impassive expression. ‘In Newington Butts,’ it intoned, ‘on the 22nd of September in the Year of Our Lord Seventeen Hundred and Ninety-One.’

‘And how did you come to join the Royal Institution?’ called out another of the Members.

‘I began as Mr Humphry Davy’s laboratory assistant,’ replied the spectre, ‘although he later opposed my election as a Fellow of the Royal Society. I trust you will not be so short-sighted in considering the application of the enterprising Dutch gentleman who has summoned me here tonight.’

More questions followed, all answered in the same eerie tone. Becoming surprised that Holmes had nothing to offer, I turned and, my eyes now somewhat adjusted to the dark, perceived that he was cupping first one ear and then the other, turning his head to and fro each time the apparition spoke.

The apparition having apparently answered their questions satisfactorily, the Members now commenced a hushed but excited confabulation. Suddenly Holmes’ strong voice rang out. ‘And could you, Mr Faraday, explain your theories of electric and magnetic fields? In particular, ray propagation.’

There was a long pause. ‘It is not easy… there is so little time,’ the voice replied at last. I noticed that the image that we could see had by now faded and was becoming oddly indistinct.

Holmes was undeterred. ‘Just the rudimentary basis will do, I fancy. Would you say that radiation consists of a flow of particles, for example, or a vibration in empty space?’

I was quite astounded by all this, since it had never occurred to me that Holmes had even the most basic grounding in theoretical physics. The apparition, too, seemed nonplussed. ‘I have passed beyond such concepts now,’ it maintained. ‘Here in the afterlife, the sum total of scientific knowledge is no more than a bubble in the ectoplasmic ether.’

There was another pause, then Huygens spoke up: ‘The Resonator is losing power now. Soon contact will be broken. Farewell, great sage of the past.’

‘Farewell, all of you,’ said the eerie voice. ‘Consider this man’s request to continue his work in my laboratory; I consider him most eminently suitable…’

As we watched, the face hovering above us began to shimmer and literally melt away, dissolving into nothingness. A moment later, Huygens called for the lamps to be turned up and we were left – a rather pale and shaken company, I must say – to reflect on what we had witnessed.

I say that we were shaken, but I must exclude Holmes from that. The moment that the gas lamps were up, he leapt energetically from his seat and began to pace up and down in front of the table. To the disgust of many present, he also took out his pipe and stuffed it with quantities of his abominable tobacco. Within minutes, the front of the auditorium was overhung by a vile-smelling blue haze of smoke.

We all soon gathered around Huygens’ apparatus, and a couple of the Members went so far as to shake the man’s hand. The bald old gentleman who had been so sceptical earlier now changed his tune: ‘A capital demonstration, Dr Huygens! You must let me know all about your remarkable device.’

I sidled over to Holmes, who had followed a few cursory glances at the main apparatus with a close examination of the black-covered table itself, lifting the material and peering beneath. ‘Look at this, Watson,’ he said, indicating a number of large wooden boxes wired together. ‘Those are electric accumulator cells, used for storing electric energy. That may explain the burns on Huygens’ fingers, at least.’

‘Holmes, really, I feel that you have been holding out on me, my dear fellow. Where did you pick up such knowledge of Faraday’s work?’

He fixed me with an amused gaze. ‘Bluff, Watson, all bluff. I know almost nothing of such matters, but I thought that somebody should ask the apparition a question that involved more than the mundane knowledge that anyone could answer given a good memory and a biography of Faraday. I was not especially impressed by his reply, were you?’

As he spoke, he was tracing the wires back beneath the table, He stooped and pulled into view a pincer-like device which I recognized as a small arc‑lamp, of the type used for theatrical lighting, The only other item by the table was a tray of whitish looking material on a small platform.

Seeing what he was doing, Huygens broke away from the group of Members talking to him and started to hurry over. ‘Mr Holmes! Mr Holmes!’ he objected. ‘Please stand away from there. The equipment is most delicate.’

Holmes contrived to ignore this in his customary patrician way, ‘What is this tray?’ he enquired, pointing behind the table. ‘It appears to be filled with hot melted wax.’

‘That is ectoplasmic residue,’ declared Huygens. ‘It is a side effect of the apparatus.’

I saw Holmes dip his finger into the wax, then cup his hands around it and bend down so as to inspect it in the darkness beneath the cloth-covered table. Sucking thoughtful­ly on his pipe, he rose to his feet.

‘Well?’ demanded Huygens, muster­ing a show of bravado. ‘Admit it, you can detect no fraud.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Holmes, ‘it is really a very simple matter, I am sorry to say. No more than a one-pipe problem.’

He pointed to the upper reaches of the auditorium, where the light of the gas lamps hardly penetrated. Everyone looked up. Rather surprisingly, we could discern that the smoke of his pipe was not rising vertically. Instead, it seemed to be sliding laterally along an invisible bar­rier set at forty-five degrees to the wall.

‘A case of laminar flow,’ explained Holmes. ‘Sir Albert, if you have one of your attendants fetch a ladder, then I think you will discover a thin sheet of glass which Mr Huygens mounted up there earlier. The gloom makes it all but invisible from down here on the floor.’

While Huygens spluttered in an attempt at explanation, I stepped forward. ‘Confound it, Holmes, will you explain what has been going on here?’

‘It is very simple,’ declared Holmes. ‘I think that Mr Huygens - or whatever his name is – must have hoped that the recognition of the Royal Institution would have done wonders for his con­juring act. He is a conjurer, of course, as his stage manner alone would reveal. Since I made sure to ascertain where the voice we heard was coming from, I can also state that he is an accomplished ventriloquist.’

He turned to Huygens. ‘The acoustics of this large hall helped you in that, sir, but while all others had their eyes on the apparition, I chose to use my ears to investigate the voice.’

Huygens drew breath, as if preparing for an argument. Then, resignedly, he shrugged and pulled off his glasses. ‘I suppose the game is up,’ he said with a sigh. ‘You are right, sir, I am a conjuror – Riemann is my name. I am due to start a series of performances here in London in the New Year, and the sort of free publicity I might have gained from my little trick here would have helped very well.’

‘The trick in question was of course Pepper’s Ghost,’ Holmes explained. ‘A very old trick indeed, certainly used by conjurors at least forty years ago but in fact based on the work done by Baptista Porta in the sixteenth century. A wax image of Faraday’s head was mounted upside-down beneath the table. This wax was dusted with phosphorescent material, as I discovered a few moments ago. It is well known that this fascinating material will glow for a while after being illuminated by a strong light. I have seen such a demonstration in this very room. You will find such a lamp beneath the table. Prior to our admittance, the lamp had been shining on the phosphorescent material. After the lamps were turned down, our eyes could pick up its glow. We could not see this directly, since the table concealed it. We did see its translu­cent reflection on the pane of glass mounted above, however. I suspected it was a reflected image and no true manifes­tation when I saw that its glow did not in fact illuminate the ceiling.’

‘But surely, Holmes,’ I interjected, ‘there is no sign of any face. And what is the reason for this elaborate apparatus which we have been examining?’

My friend smiled. ‘The illusion would have been obvious even to you if the face were still to be seen after the demonstration. I fancy that you will find this is a heated plate, which eventually melted the wax, as we saw when the image shimmered and lost its form. As for the rest of the apparatus, you should know that a good conjuror always makes sure that his audience are led astray. It is there merely to distract you from the trickery.’

‘This is an outrage!’ thundered Sir Albert at Riemann. ‘Have you any conception of what you have attempted, sir? Why, you tried to perpetrate a heinous hoax on the Members of the Royal Institution of Great Britain! I have a good mind to have you arrested!’

Holmes touched my sleeve and indicated we should be going. ‘Try to look on the bright side, Sir Albert,’ he remarked. ‘You surely don’t want to involve the gentlemen of the press, and if Mr Riemann had charged you the usual fee for his conjuring act, it would have cost you half a crown at least. Therefore God rest ye merry, gentlemen, for it is the season of good will to all men. Goodnight.’

The marvellous, the mysterious and the spiritually peculiar

I'm just back from a week in Cornwall where Roz and I stayed in the Egyptian House, the first of many Landmark Trust properties that we've visited over the last 18 years.

Among many nice surprises, my greatest delight came in discovering that Harris's restaurant on New Street is still there. Normally if I like a meal the place is doomed to shut down inside a week, but the distance between London and Penzance must have attenuated the hex power. This time we both had the lobster - sweet and succulent, as fine a dining experience as you will find anywhere in England, so if you are looking for an reason to go to Penzance, there's one right there.

It was disappointing to miss the Ogden Sisters, latest incarnation of Trifle Gathering Productions, whose performance of "A Curious Evening of Trance and Rap" was scheduled for a few days after we left. Yes, I said trance and rap. Think black lace and ectoplasm, not the KLF and Dr Dre. I mention it here because of the recent posts about "Ghostly Goings-On". If you're in Penzance on Thursday, the show is at the Acorn Arts Centre and starts at 8pm. And when you come out there'll be time to nip around the corner to Harris's for a bite - with a glance down the street at the Egyptian House on your way.

Hello again, you spooky people

I'd hoped to have some really big news by now, but it turns out it's bigger than I thought, and will require Leo to dust off his copy of Adobe Acrobat to get some PDF/X-1a files converted to X-1a: 2001. Sorry you asked, I expect. Oh, you didn't. Anyway, not long now, hopefully, and then I'll be able to announce a whopping great Mirabilis book with all-new material.

In the meantime, here's another mini-instalment of Ghostly Goings-On. (For those tuning in from overseas, the rather forced tone of music hall humour is an intentional pastiche of radio in the UK, where laughter is still rationed under the 1948 Wartime Leisure Pursuits and Public Disturbances Act.)

In the picture getting rather cold bums are (left to right) me, my wife Roz, Aimee Quickfall and Martin "Quatermass" McKenna, on a ghost-hunting jaunt to Chillingham Castle, one of Britain's most ectoplasmic piles. Oh dear, it's terribly easy to slip into Round the Horne mode, isn't it. Bona nochy, dally coves.

*  *  *

Sound of bustling train platform. A whistle, "All aboard!", etc

Sound of compartment door sliding back.

HECTOR: Ah, here are some empty seats. Do you need any help with your bags, Madame Blavatsky?

MADAME B: Eees pretty 'eavy, I won't-a say no.

HECTOR: Manny?

MANNY sighs, grunts as he hefts the bag up onto the rack.

MANNY: Blimey, did you pack the kitchen sink?

MADAME B: I thought you say thees castle 'ave da modern conveniences!

HECTOR: It's just an expression. What have you got in there?

MADAME B: Ees my spirits. I jus' gotta check 'em. Hieronymous, knock if you een there...

A knock echoes inside the case.

MADAME B: An' Thumper, you give mamma a knock too?

Another knock.

MADAME B: Gaga? You know-a da drill...

Another knock.

MADAME B: All there, good. I can't-a go nowhere widout my knockers.

Sound of compartment door opening.

CONDUCTOR: Tickets, please.

MANNY: Ah yes, we'll take three.

HECTOR: And a choc ice.

CONDUCTOR: No choc ices. What about a drawing of a sumptuous banquet?

HECTOR (pause) Oh, all right.

Sound of furious scribbling.

CONDUCTOR: That'll have to do. I'm in my pointillist phase but it's murder on the pencil.

Sound of sheet of paper being handed over.

MANNY: Oh, very good. Hang on, what's this supposed to be? Is it a spotted dick?

CONDUCTOR: Huh? Oh that, no, that's King George III stuffing his mouth.

Silence.

CONDUCTOR: Look, I was trying something, okay? Apparently it didn't work. Let's move on. Where are you folks headed?

HECTOR: Three for Chillingham Castle please.

A gasp. A clatter as the ticket machine hits the floor.

MANNY: You've gone as white as a vanilla blancmange that's just been told it's pregnant.

HECTOR: Also you dropped your - Wait a minute. This isn't a ticket machine. It's a camera!

MADAME B: What you' game? Pinch-a his nipples, Manny.

MANNY: I'll have this false beard, first.

CONDUCTOR: No, wait!

Very loud and drawn-out sound of painful tearing.

MANNY: Oh, sorry.

CONDUCTOR: Ow.

HECTOR: Even without the beard, I recognize him. It's Sam Serif of the Daily Bother, isn't it. Better come clean, chum.

SAM: Okay, but it's a long story...

Fade out. Sense of time passing. Fade in to the steady clack of train wheels, their journey now under way.

HECTOR (irritably): We're still waiting.

SAM: Oh, I assumed you weren't interested. I've started doing the crossword now.

MANNY: That's the sudoku.

SAM: I thought there were a few too many 9 downs.

Mirabilis on Kindle!

You'll be forgiven for a sense of déjà vu. Hot on the digital heels of our NOOK release, the first eight issues of Mirabilis are now on Kindle. Admittedly, you're going to need a tablet. I don't think the regular old black-and-white Kindle is going to do them justice. But iOS, Android, take your pick. 

Here are the links (colour-coded for US and UK sites - don't say we don't spoil you) and yes, the first issue really is just 77p.

 Oh, and this isn't the really BIG news we've got in store. Just wait and see what the green comet brings in a few short weeks...