Lord Lucky

Lord Lucky

Lord Lucky, by a curious fluke,

Became a most important duke.

From living in a vile Hotel

A long way east of Camberwell

He rose, in less than half an hour,

To riches, dignity, and power.

It happened in the following way:

The Real Duke went out one day

To shoot with several people, one

Of whom had never used a gun.

This gentleman (a Mr Meyer

Of Rabley Abbey, Rutlandshire),

As he was scrambling through the brake,

Discharged his weapon by mistake,

And plugged about an ounce of lead

Piff-bang into his Grace's Head--

Who naturally fell down dead.

His Heir, Lord Ugly, roared, 'You Brute!

Take that to teach you how to shoot!'

Whereat he volleyed, left and right;

But being somewhat short of sight,

His right-hand barrel only got

The second heir, Lord Poddleplot;

The while the left-hand charge (or choke)

Accounted for another bloke,

Who stood with an astounded air

Bewildered by the whole affair

--And was the third remaining heir.

After the Execution (which

Is something rare among the Rich)

Lord Lucky, while of course he needed

Some help to prove his claim, succeeded.

--But after his succession, though

All this was over years ago,

He only once indulged his whim

Of asking Meyer to lunch with him.

 

-Hilaire Belloc

 

The poem is mostly written in iambic tetrameter couplets, but two of the three deaths get a third rhyme. Poor Lord Poddleplot doesn't even get that third rhyme.

Whenever I think of this poem I'm always reminded of Kind Hearts and Coronets, though Lord Lucky is lucky in ways the Alec Guinness character--in any of his shapes--is distinctly not...

 

 

 

van de Wetering's Tumbleweed

"Have you noticed that nothing ever happens in Amsterdam?"

Doesn't that just tell you something's about to happen?

The beautiful Maria van Buren is found murdered on her houseboat when a neighbour becomes worried about her cat, who doesn't seem to be getting food at home.

It's Grijpstra and de Gier, Amsterdam detectives, hanging around, bored at the office, who catch the case when the request comes to check up on von Braun. That's Grijpstra complaining above.

But they'd already been keeping an eye on the von Braun houseboat since the Dutch Secret Service had asked them to. So they arrive with a warrant, break a window, and discover the dead woman with a British commando knife that has been thrown, not plunged, into Maria von Braun's back. 

Maria von Braun had her luxurious houseboat because she was sleeping with three well-to-do men, a senior American Army officer, a Belgian diplomat, and a Dutch industrialist. That combination was why the Secret Service was interested. She was estranged from her family in Dutch Curaçao who disapproved of her lifestyle. And she was engaged in sorcery.

All that provides a decently satisfying list of suspects. Who wanted to do it? Who has an alibi? Who had access to a commando knife and knew how to throw it?

Grijpstra and de Gier are protagonists of a series of fourteen novels, plus a volume of short stories, by Janwillem van de Wetering. De Gier is the bachelor who likes motorcycles and has a cat of his own; Grijpstra is the married one, a bit more sensible, though now running to fat. They make a good team. The Commisaris (which, I assume, is Dutch for commissioner) who is their boss, has a significant part in this one. He's never given a name, but he's a likeable character. This is the second in the series and dates from 1976. It was a strong entry, I thought, and may be the best of the ones I've read. I'd say the series is more about mood than particularly tricky or thrilling plots, though this had both some trickiness and thrills.

I haven't been reviewing many books lately (though reading lots) and need to knock off a few for my European Reading Challenge:

Hadn't been to the Netherlands yet this year, but now I have!

 

Sportif

Scottie is glowing with excitement.

 

Sportif

Prescott, press my Ascot waistcoat--

Let's not risk it

Just to whisk it:

Yes, my Ascot waistcoat, Prescott.

Worn sub-fusc, it's

Cool and dusk: it

Might be grass-cut

But it's Ascot,

And it fits me like a gasket--

Ascot is the waistcoat, Prescott! 

Please get

Off the spot of grease. Get

Going, Prescott--

Where's that waistcoat?

It's no task at

All, an Ascot:

Easy as to clean a musket

Or to dust an ivory tusk. It

Doesn't take a lot of fuss. Get

To it, Prescott,

Since I ask it:

We can't risk it--

Let's not whisk it.

That's the waistcoat;

Thank you, Prescott.

 

-David McCord

 

There was a comment  on my blog the other day that referenced the Library of America Poetry Project volume American Wits, edited by John Hollander, and I thought there's a book I haven't looked at in a while. (Twenty years ago, says the database.) I nearly read it through again tonight. Lots of fun stuff.

 

You'll have to decide how Prescott should be pronounced. Among other things it's a town in Arizona. I can only note that, after my parents retired there in '95, I told a colleague at work (who was from Arizona) that they'd moved to Press-cot, and he told me they'd actually moved to Press-kit. And it's quite possible our servant is, at least some of the time, Press-coat.