Stars of the silver screen Alasdair Hamilton and Toby Bowe wow the post WWII audiences with their performances. But when they depict Holmes and Watson life starts to imitate art. They get asked in by a friend to investigate a mysterious disappearance only to find a series of threatening letters—and an unwanted suitor—make real life very different from the movies.Then there's an unpleasant co-star who's found murdered during an opening night. Surely detection can’t be that hard?
The Case of the Overprotective Ass
This pair was just as fun and fascinating to read as they were the first time around in the author's Home Fires Burning duo. I loved reacquainting myself with the boys and although I recalled the outcome, I was never bored or put off having remembered the ending. Sometimes mysteries just cannot be revisited, knowing the whos and whats and whys just don't make it fun but not Charlie Cochrane's mysteries, I can reread them for years to come.
The Case of the Undesirable Actor
When I originally read Alistair and Toby in another of the author's collections I knew I wanted more. Now we got it. I won't speak for the mystery as I don't want to give anything away but there are plenty of twists and turns to keep you guessing right up to the reveal. As for the boys themselves, there are no doubts whatsoever how they feel about one another and though they can't love openly in 1950s England they can do so behind closed doors and that's enough for them. The friendships, the bickering, the romance, the banter, all blended with mayhem make this an absolute reading gem.
Overall Duet Review:
Let's face it, on the surface the idea that two actors playing Holmes and Watson trying their hands at a little real life detecting sounds like a cliche joke but it is really a perfect setup. Character driven fun mixed with loads of mayhem and set in a pretty accurate historical setting(I can't speak from personal knowledge that this is how the acting community behaved in 1950s London but knowing the author's love of history I'm willing to accept this as spot on) just makes her stories a joy to lose yourself in. Rom Com + Romantic Suspense = You Can't Put It Down.
Original Review February 2015:
Both tales are amazing. It's the simplest and easiest way to describe it. In This Ground Which Was Secured At Great Expense, you can't help but feel what Nicholas is going through. Not only is he dealing with the heartaches of war but he's also has his heart set on a man he didn't reveal his feelings for before leaving. He's given a chance at exploring physical love when he has a new tent mate in Nicholas. In The Case of the Overprotective Ass, we see 2 actors entertaining post WW2 audiences with Sherlock & Holmes but they are given a chance to play detectives for real. Alastair and Toby share similarities with Miss Cochrane's famed Orlando and Jonty from her Cambridge Fellows series, but they are definitely their own pair. Both tales, although shorter than what I would like, are most enjoyable and very entertaining reads.
RATING:
Whitlock hadn’t exaggerated.
George Howell was far beyond the help of medical aid, with what appeared to Toby’s untutored eyes to be a stab wound plumb in the left side of his chest, the blood massing on his crisp white dinner shirt. The actor was lying in an alcove off one of the corridors back of house, just around a corner from the office where Toby had made his telephone call. Most likely George had been lying there already dead while Phyllis was being contacted, although why had nobody noticed him before?
“Nobody ever comes along here,” Whitlock said, his thoughts clearly going down the same lines. “I only went to investigate because…” He turned a ghastly greenish shade, as though about to decorate the carpet with his stomach contents.
“Steady on. Let’s go back around the corner where we can’t see him. There’s nothing we can do to help the chap now, except keep gawkers away. Mr. O’Connor will have ensured the police are on their way.”
They’d encountered the doorman in the corridor, Whitlock asking him to contact the authorities as a matter of urgency. And to ensure all the external doors were locked and kept locked after he’s done so.
Once they’d got safely out of sight, Toby halted. “You were saying?”
“What? Oh, yes. Nobody would usually be going to that part of the building at this time of day. Haunt of cleaners and the like. I only went to investigate because of the theatre cat. He’s black and white you see, only when he came round the corner and trotted towards me I noticed that the white bits were—” Whitlock paled again.
“Yes, I get the drift.” Like the old joke, black and white and red all over. “It might be an idea to see if we can locate the cat before he’s had the chance to clean himself. He could be carrying vital evidence.” As would the killer themselves, given how far the blood had spread, although the moggy might have had something to do with that aspect. The soiled murder weapon would be tricky to hide, especially to smuggle out of the building—why had the killer not left it there in an attempt to make it look like an unusual suicide? Although the killer could be long gone by now, those locked theatre doors having been locked too late to prevent the horse bolting.
The sound of Alasdair’s voice, in conversation with Sir Ian, floated up the stairs. Toby sprang to head them off. “I’m afraid it’s definitely George. Stabbed to death by the look of it. Mr. Whitlock’s in a fair state about the situation.”
Alasdair gave him a brief are-you-all-right glance, to which Toby nodded. He’d seen much worse during the war, and among men he’d liked better. Alasdair turned to O’Connor, who had followed them, a few steps behind. “Best take Mr. Whitlock downstairs to the green room and get a sweet tea into him if somebody will rustle one up.”
“Oh, God,” Sir Ian groaned, when they’d taken him to view the body. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.” He eyed the corpse again, then ran his hands through what little hair still adorned his pate. “This is terrible, and not just for him. You’ll think me hard-hearted, but what about the publicity? For the theatre and for the studio.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that.” Alasdair’s stern tones were evidently as clipped as he dared when addressing somebody who had such power over his career. “It’s the sort of sensation that will make people flock to his last film, anyway. The man plying the murderer is himself murdered.”
Toby nodded. A cynical viewpoint, admittedly, but probably an entirely realistic assessment of the situation.
“I’m not thinking of that, so much as…” Sir Ian appeared to be struggling for words, even though he’d have seen men killed much more brutally the best part of forty years previously. “There were plenty of Landseer people here tonight. What if one of them killed Howell? A viper in our midst.”
That was a scenario that even Alasdair’s finest raising of the insured eyebrow wouldn’t have been expressive enough to remark upon.
George Howell was far beyond the help of medical aid, with what appeared to Toby’s untutored eyes to be a stab wound plumb in the left side of his chest, the blood massing on his crisp white dinner shirt. The actor was lying in an alcove off one of the corridors back of house, just around a corner from the office where Toby had made his telephone call. Most likely George had been lying there already dead while Phyllis was being contacted, although why had nobody noticed him before?
“Nobody ever comes along here,” Whitlock said, his thoughts clearly going down the same lines. “I only went to investigate because…” He turned a ghastly greenish shade, as though about to decorate the carpet with his stomach contents.
“Steady on. Let’s go back around the corner where we can’t see him. There’s nothing we can do to help the chap now, except keep gawkers away. Mr. O’Connor will have ensured the police are on their way.”
They’d encountered the doorman in the corridor, Whitlock asking him to contact the authorities as a matter of urgency. And to ensure all the external doors were locked and kept locked after he’s done so.
Once they’d got safely out of sight, Toby halted. “You were saying?”
“What? Oh, yes. Nobody would usually be going to that part of the building at this time of day. Haunt of cleaners and the like. I only went to investigate because of the theatre cat. He’s black and white you see, only when he came round the corner and trotted towards me I noticed that the white bits were—” Whitlock paled again.
“Yes, I get the drift.” Like the old joke, black and white and red all over. “It might be an idea to see if we can locate the cat before he’s had the chance to clean himself. He could be carrying vital evidence.” As would the killer themselves, given how far the blood had spread, although the moggy might have had something to do with that aspect. The soiled murder weapon would be tricky to hide, especially to smuggle out of the building—why had the killer not left it there in an attempt to make it look like an unusual suicide? Although the killer could be long gone by now, those locked theatre doors having been locked too late to prevent the horse bolting.
The sound of Alasdair’s voice, in conversation with Sir Ian, floated up the stairs. Toby sprang to head them off. “I’m afraid it’s definitely George. Stabbed to death by the look of it. Mr. Whitlock’s in a fair state about the situation.”
Alasdair gave him a brief are-you-all-right glance, to which Toby nodded. He’d seen much worse during the war, and among men he’d liked better. Alasdair turned to O’Connor, who had followed them, a few steps behind. “Best take Mr. Whitlock downstairs to the green room and get a sweet tea into him if somebody will rustle one up.”
“Oh, God,” Sir Ian groaned, when they’d taken him to view the body. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.” He eyed the corpse again, then ran his hands through what little hair still adorned his pate. “This is terrible, and not just for him. You’ll think me hard-hearted, but what about the publicity? For the theatre and for the studio.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that.” Alasdair’s stern tones were evidently as clipped as he dared when addressing somebody who had such power over his career. “It’s the sort of sensation that will make people flock to his last film, anyway. The man plying the murderer is himself murdered.”
Toby nodded. A cynical viewpoint, admittedly, but probably an entirely realistic assessment of the situation.
“I’m not thinking of that, so much as…” Sir Ian appeared to be struggling for words, even though he’d have seen men killed much more brutally the best part of forty years previously. “There were plenty of Landseer people here tonight. What if one of them killed Howell? A viper in our midst.”
That was a scenario that even Alasdair’s finest raising of the insured eyebrow wouldn’t have been expressive enough to remark upon.
Author Bio:
As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.
Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.
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EMAIL: cochrane.charlie2@googlemail.com
