Elizabeth Elwood's story "Number 10 Marlborough Place" won Best Short Story in the Crime Writers of Canada 2022 Awards of Excellence.
Remembering Charlie and Emma
On Remembrance Day, I have many people to remember, not only family members who served in the armed forces, but also a number of wonderful friends, long since passed on, that I knew during my years as a volunteer at the George Derby War Veterans’ hospital. However, the one that always comes first to mind is Charles Field, the grandfather I never met, and with him, Emma Field, the grandmother he left behind.
Charles Field was the batman to Captain Hanbury, a member of the family who had started the Allen & Hanbury pharmaceutical company. The story, as my mother told it, was that the two became good friends, and that the captain always told Charlie that if they both came through, he would see him right after the war. The two men survived together throughout the four years of the War. However, during the final Allied offensive in November 1918, both were fatally shot by a sniper towards the end of the battle.
My grandmother, Emma Field, or Pem, as the family called her, was deeply grieved over the loss of her Charlie, who was reputed to be a real sweetheart, but like most war widows, she had to struggle on alone. She got a job in a factory, and my mother and uncle became latchkey children. She was also the oldest of five children herself, and in spite of her widowhood, ended up assuming responsibility for helping her siblings and caring for elderly parents.
Many years and another World War later, my Nan continued to support the family. My father, who was in the Merchant Navy, married my mother in 1943, so they lived with Nan throughout the war. When my mother was expecting my brother, she complained that she had not known what was more dangerous: Hitler’s bombs or Nan hurling her under the table whenever the sirens went off. My mother also used to relish the tale of how Nan had kept an ‘emergency’ bottle of brandy all through the war, refusing all requests from those who wanted to sample it, only to have it stolen by a burglar who broke in after it was all over.
Our family continued to live with Nan after the war, a situation she had not invited, but had simply put up with in order to help my parents. I remember her as a rather formidable lady who liked her Guinness, had strict rules about not annoying her in her rooms, but who also took my brother and myself on lots of interesting outings. Then, in 1957, my father whisked us away to Canada, and she lost the company of her only grandchildren, though she continued to send us our British comics and write to us during the remainder of her life.
It was only after I’d grown up that I started to appreciate how much heartache she had endured, and how tough she was to maintain her resilient get-on-with-it spirit, no matter what was happening around her. Needless to say, I was delighted when a few years ago, an aunt passed on to me copies of a batch of letters that had been written by ‘Pem’ to her cousin in Australia. I was especially fascinated to see that one of these was dated 1941. Some of this is printed below: It’s a picture of Wartime England from the middle-aged widow’s perspective. Sorry I never got to meet you, Charlie Field, but you’d have been proud of the lady you left behind.
March 22, 1941
Dear Alf,
Received your letter today……. I thought perhaps the mail had gone down. As you know, Mum passed away the 12th of June. She had been very ill all winter. In fact every winter for the last six years she had to stay in her room because of her chest, but the September war was declared, on that same night we had an air raid warning. We thought we were going to be deluged with bombs, and she never really got over the shock. . . . . On Oct. 25th she had a stroke.
I nursed her for six months, and she seemed to be getting on nicely. Then the posters started about the possible invasion, and the doctor advised me to try and get her away. If it happened, she would not stand the strain. Her friend Mrs. Coburn had moved from Highbury to Ealing, so I took her there while I looked for a house; I had just got this house and was going up to see her when I had the wire asking me to come. But she did not know me. She is buried with Dad at Sutton. Perhaps it is as well she was taken before things got as bad as they are. You say the Londoners can take it. You ought to see what they have taken. Do you remember where Rose lived? It is dreadful round there. Windsor Street’s small houses, not one is standing. The turning is like a waste land. Dean Street . . . not a soul is living there. The homes just smashed up. In one turning, there are five pianos or parts of them in the debris of the different homes. Hitler’s military objective, Highbury, got it dreadful this week. It is appalling the women and children that have been killed. Also the city has been badly bombed, in some parts just ruins. . . . . Do you remember the London Hotel at the corner of Tylers Avenue. That was hit the other week and a lot of civilians killed.
My daughter does nursing all night once a week in a shelter in the city. I do fire watching once a week. I have a tin hat and a whistle to blow should an incendiary bomb drop in our turning. We do different turns all through the night starting at 10 pm until 6 am. . . . . . . . One thing we have to be thankful for is that we have not been really short of food. We don’t get a lot of meat, but the fat ration is very generous really. We have plenty of veg, bread and flour and if people spend a bit more time at their stoves, they can make some real good meals. It means a little more trouble but it is worth it and all helps to win the war, besides helping to keep the nation fit. . . . .
Rents went up very high after the last war, but food and clothes got very reasonable the last ten years. Now we are at war again and everything is sky high again, but why worry? Just live from day to day, get what pleasure you can, and try to be just to all. I hope this reaches you. Wishing you and yours all the best.
Pem.
What a joy it was to write a story set on British Columbia’s beautiful Sunshine Coast. King tides and a raging storm provided the inspiration for my latest mystery tale: 
During a Royal visit in March of 1998, it was announced that Prince (now King) Charles, Prince William and Prince Harry would make a visit to Burnaby South High School. Katie, then fourteen, naturally shared the worldwide crush teenage girls had for the young princes, and she and her friends were desperate to snatch their chance to meet the royals. However, the royal visit was scheduled during the school day, and Katie’s school was in East Burnaby. She begged me to let her have the day off, but given the mobs that were predicted, I pointed out that she would never be able to get close to the princes and flatly refused to give her permission to skip school. She was most annoyed with me, but sulkily acceded and set off for school in the morning. When she returned home that afternoon, she looked smug and was unusually quiet. Nothing more was said and I assumed I was forgiven for being the world’s meanest mother. However, when the two local papers were delivered later that week, I realized why my daughter had looked so pleased with herself. There she was, all smiles, on the front page of both papers, along with the headline, “Burnaby Teens Love the Prince”.
Katie was only momentarily abashed to find out that she hadn’t got away with her escapade. However, far from being contrite when I waved the newspaper in front of her face, she was jubilant about her triumph and pleased as punch that she’d been proved right. In spite of the crowds, she had succeeded in talking with all three Royals. Charles, she giggled, had a twinkle in his eye, probably because one of her friends had cheekily handed him a slip of paper with her phone number and asked him to give it to Prince William. Having chuckled and told them they were naughty girls, the future king moved on and left the two young princes to shake hands with and charm the girls. A triumph for the teenagers indeed.
When Grannie Forbes falls face first into the Christmas pudding, no one in the family is particularly sorry, but soon the questions begin. Did someone take a hand to ensure that this was her last Noel? It was wickedly fun to write this one! Read it at: 
I couldn’t resist answering the call to write a story inspired by one of Alfred Hitchcock’s movies. Being a long-time fan of Daphne du Maurier’s novel, Rebecca, and having enjoyed the film he made of the book, this seemed the perfect choice. But how to write a story that referenced the film, and yet still stood independently – that was the challenge. The solution came to me when I remembered that there had also been a play of Rebecca. I had seen a production of the play when Vagabond Players produced it some years ago and had found it disappointing, for the constrictions of live theatre prevented the playscript from having the dramatic impact that Hitchcock recreated so effectively on film. However, the existence of the play gave me my independent plot. My characters were actors who had starred in the play, and although Rebecca played a strong influence in their lives, their story led in a totally different direction. All the same, I think I managed a Hitchcockian twist at the end. “Rebecca Redux” was great fun to write. I hope readers of the anthology will have as much fun reading it.
Please join me on Wednesday, October 19, at 5:30 p.m. Pacific time for the official launch of Crime Wave: Women of a Certain Age.
I spent many years recording soundtracks for Elwoodettes Marionettes when I lived in town, but since moving to the coast and having the pandemic put an end to performing, my recording equipment has remained idle. Therefore, I was delighted to receive an invitation to record one of my stories for EQMM’s mystery podcast. This was a wonderful opportunity to re-set up my studio for a new and different challenge. The story, which tells how a light on a lagoon provides the clue that a murder has been committed, can be read in the September/October 2022 issue of EQMM. Alternately, you can listen to it at: 
When I researched these events, I saw that the train crash had occurred in October of 1952, only two months before the Great London Smog, and the discoveries at 10 Rillington Place had burst onto the news in March of 1953. Having realized that there had been three dramatic incidents, all through one winter, lurking in the background of my family’s everyday life, I decided to weave a mystery combining those events with my other childhood memories.