Rhys on Leaving Clues.

 RHYS BOWEN: I have been extra busy recently, firstly with the edits for my next stand alone, then helping Clare plot the next Molly book, then come up with a story suggestion for next year's stand alone while at the same time writing the twentieth Royal Spyness book.

One of the things I'm passionate about is playing fair with the reader. That means dropping subtle and appropriate clues. I've noticed that not all writers do this. Agatha Christie, for all her brilliance, did not always play fair.  Poirot says "I happen to know that she was once wardress of a prison."  Okay. We didn't know that! And the books in which the first person narrator is the killer. I have to say in Roger Ackroyd she was pretty good about leaving subtle hints, but in another, which I won't name in case it's a spoiler for those who haven't read it, the narrator says near the end that he's been getting funny black turns when he doesn't quite know what he's doing.  We did not know that before!

So what kind of clues do you appreciate? Which authors do them well?

This Royal Spyness book, that I am calling TO CROWN IT ALL, takes place at the coronation of King George and Queen Elizabeth in 1937. a group of Georgie's friends and relatives are staying at her house before the coronation, plus a German man who has escorted Mummy from Germany. Oh, and there's a village fair going on outside the house. So it's quite a challenge to drop clues without being over obvious.  I'm not normally the spent match type of cluemaker. It's usually what somebody says, or doesn't say, or reacts to a statement by someone else. 

But this time I am using fingerprints. But what if they show the wrong person? What if one of Georgie's family actually seems to be the main suspect? 

It's quite a complicated plot: one thread involving Mummy, another involving security for the coronation and the crown jewels and yet another involving poor Georgie:  here are a few tell-tale lines about that plot. Georgie has been worrying about what to wear to the coronation. Since her husband has is only Mr. O'Mara she can't wear her peeress's robes if she's to sit with him. And she has no fabulous outfits. 

Then this happens:

At that very moment I heard a telephone ringing in the front foyer. I froze.  Mrs. Holbrook appeared, looking scared. “You’re wanted on the telephone, my lady,” she said in an awed voice. “It’s the palace.”

                      I couldn’t stop my heart from racing as I went down the hallway. Was it good news or bad? What if the secretary said he was sorry but could do nothing for my mother. What then? Then I would go over and bring her back myself, I decided. It didn’t matter what Darcy or anybody said. She was my mother.

                      “Hello?” I said into the receiver, hearing my voice shake a little.

                      “Lady Georgiana?”  It was a woman’s voice, a brisk efficient sort of voice.

                      “Yes,” I said. “This is she.”

                      “I’m sorry to disturb you but this is Lady Pierpoint, telephoning on behalf of Her Majesty. We’ve had a last minute set back for the coronation ceremony. Do you happen to know Lady Veronica Featherstone-Smythe? Lord Blanchley’s daughter?”

                      “I believe we’ve met,” I said, hesitantly, wondering what on earth this had to do with me.

                      “Horse mad, of course. Rode in a point to point and broke her ankle, stupid girl.”

                      I was still completely in the dark.

                      “She was to be one of the maids of honor for the queen at the ceremony,” Lady Pierpoint went on. “ Naturally carrying a train is quite out of the question and her majesty suggested that you would be a most suitable replacement.”

                      “Me?” The word came out as a squeak.  “You want me to carry the queen’s train?”

                      “My dear, you are an obvious selection. Closely related to his majesty and both their majesties report being extremely fond of you. You were mentioned at the very start but it was considered that the words maids of honor should primarily include unmarried girls. 

But given the circumstance and the late hour it was decided you would fit the bill perfectly.”

                      I was glad she couldn’t see me blushing. “Golly,” I said. “Well, I’d be honored.”

                      “Splendid. I’ll tell their majesties.  We shall need you up in London right away for a dress fitting.  I think you’re about the same size as Lady Veronica, which is most fortunate, but small alterations will need to be made.  Then you will be required to attend several rehearsals, the first at the palace, learning the correct way to walk with the train, then in the abbey knowing the procedure of where to stand. You are free to come when summoned, I presume?”

                      “Yes, yes of course,” I said.

                      “Jolly good. Well done. Then I look forward to meeting you. Good evening.”

                      I put down the telephone and stared at the marble staircase, curving upward into darkness. What had I just agreed to? Carrying a train up steps, through the vast nave of the abbey with the whole world watching. Not dropping it, tripping up, tripping someone else. Oh golly, I said.

                      A wave of panic swept over me. I tried to remember her name. Lady Point to point?  I had to stop myself from calling the palace and telling them that I had changed my mind. But the king and queen had asked for me.  And it was a huge honor. I could hardly turn them down, could I?

Poor Georgie. You know she tends to be accident prone. Nothing could go wrong, could it?

And while we're on the subject of Royal Spyness books, then next one, FROM CRADLE TO GRAVE is published in just six days from now. I'll be holding a launch event at the POISONED PEN IN SCOTTSDALE with two other Jungle Reds, Julia, whose book is out the same day, and Jenn, whose book was out a couple of weeks ago.  It's November 18th.  Who will come to support us?