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When participants gather at a poetry workshop in rural Kent they are looking forward to a preview of a collection of posthumously discovered unpublished poems by the admired and much-missed poet Eric Jessop. Within a few days however tensions have arisen between members of the group—not least over doubts about the collection’s authenticity. When a very public confrontation is followed by two sudden and mysterious deaths will poetic sensibility prove to be of any use in determining what really happened?
ARRANGEMENT FOR STRINGS Jazz and puppetry, she says are twins. She’s right: harmonic lines allow as little freedom as a finger up the spine or wires through wrists that push or pull you into false positions. I’m a home-made marionette. She holds the strings. Come here, she calls, pretending that she doesn’t; next she’ll brush me with a kiss or with a lash. I won’t ask which until I close the door. Should she cut me loose I’d slump, a bundle of discordant limbs. Puppetry and jazz run risks: alfresco melodies