The Old School Tie (Bookhounds of London)

After fooling around with modern spycraft for so long, let’s take a step back to an old favorite, Bookhounds of London.

I’ve been re-reading Graves’ Goodbye to All That and am currently going over his years at Charterhouse, one of the preeminent public schools of England. For those not familiar, a public school is a fee-charging endowed school and are "public" in the sense of being open to pupils irrespective of locality, denomination or paternal trade or profession. So long as you can pay and (in some cases at least) maintain a certain academic standard, you can attend.

The English are obsessed with public school. It encompasses a certain kind of Englishness that many aspire to, and all recognize. In much the same sense fox hunting, cosy murder mysteries in the Christie style, and bloated, feckless upper classes all represent a kind of Englishness recognized the world over. Other nations hunt foxes, but it’s the English people think of when they see pictures of fox hunting. Other nations murder, but somehow it’s just not the same if the corpse isn’t found in some English country squire’s locked library or splattered across the scones at the church fete.  

So too with public schools. Hogwarts, let’s not forget, is a public school; for all his talents Harry couldn’t attend if someone hadn’t thoughtfully left him a small fortune held by the gnomes of Gringotts. Rudyard Kipling’s most recognizable characters, Stalky and his pals, are public schoolboys. P.G. Wodehouse, the girls of St. Trinian’s, Enid Blyton – the school story is practically a cobwebbed, crumbling English institution.

That being so, it’s likely that at least one of the Bookhounds either attended public school or pretends to have attended. It’s the sort of thing that lends social cache, which can help make a sale. At least the veneer of sophistication that comes with the old school tie might impress a customer.

Things you might see at a public school:

• Cricket
• Rugby.
• The Officer’s Training Corps on parade.
• Ivy-covered buildings
• Masters in their black gowns.
• Corporal punishment.
• School newspapers.
• School societies, eg. Poetry.
• Impressive portraits and donated artworks.
• Small museums dedicated either to the school or some local monument of some kind.
• Impressive modernity, eg. a flying school.
• Crumbling history, eg. the chapel.

All of which brings me to today’s subject: The Old School Tie. 

The Hounds are likely to know a lot of people who want favors or can grant favors. This scratch-my-back economy can make the difference between a Windfall and an ordinary month, or snatch a failing store from the brink of economic crisis.  

What do they do when someone wearing that old school tie wants something, and can offer something valuable in exchange?

The Old Dumbletonian

[Source for Dumbleton school: Murder Must Advertise, Dorothy Sayers]

Everything that can go wrong has been going wrong. The council’s pressing the shop for unpaid rates (taxes). The drains are rotten. One of the shop’s most important customers has defected to another shop. The police are buzzing around like flies, certain that the shop is a front for a pornography ring. Things are looking bleak, so when a fellow you barely recognize from days gone by says he has a peculiar commission for you which will save your financial bacon, you’re all ears.

This gent, Augustus Kendall, says he attended the same school as you, Dumbleton, near Gloucester. You were several years above him, assuming he’s telling the truth. He went from the schoolroom to the trenches, caught a bad one in the right leg which left him with a limp, and spent the rest of the war in  Offizierslager Toruń on the Vistula River. Since then he’s bumbled from job to job, but he has grand prospects. His aunt, a remarkably wealthy old cat, is about to stumble off this mortal coil and he’s her only living relative.

Which would be fine, were it not for some inconvenient letters.

While at Dumbleton he fell in love with one of the younger boys, Douglas Parry. Indiscreet letters were written. Poetry. Other stuff, all of which Parry kept. Parry is now a master at Dumbleton (Greek and Latin). Parry is blackmailing Kendall, bleeding him of every cent he earns, knowing that if Aunt Belima ever sees those letters he can kiss the fortune goodbye. 

Kendall remembers the Hound as being a bit of a sharp character, an impression that is only strengthened by some of the stories Kendall has heard about the way the Hound does business. Surely for someone as resourceful as that, the retrieval of a few letters from old Dumbleton would be no great task?

As it happens Gaudy night is coming up, which means the Hound can probably wangle an invitation to Dumbleton for the festivities on the strength of the old school tie. There’s a fair amount of money on offer, and Kendall is likely to be worth a bob or two when Aunt Belima leaves us …

The Awful Truth

Kendall is a would-be member of the Keirecheires (cults, main book p65). He’s been on the fringes of the cult for some time, but never managed to secure an invitation to join that hedonistic group. He knows Parry is a member and guesses, correctly, that Parry keeps some very indiscreet literature at his rooms at Dumbleton. Kendall reasons that, if he gets hold of those letters and poems, he can use them to blackmail Parry into letting him into Keirecheires.

The problem is, Parry’s been working on a particularly complicated ritual which he intended to present to his fellow enthusiasts at the next orgy. It was to be a summoning, something suitably vile and entertaining for their group activities. However, in creating (and writing down) this hideous ritual, Parry has managed to summon up something particularly ruthless that he’s having some trouble dealing with. Hounds with Mythos might notice some of the precautions he’s been taking, signs of which can be seen at his rooms as well as in his behavior. The chapel at Dumbleton is particularly tainted by Parry’s researches. 

All of which would be fine – up to a point – were it not for some meddlesome Hounds stealing his notes and researches along with the grab-bag of letters and poems.

Once up to their neck in it the Hounds will have to dodge vengeful Keirecheires as well as the whatever-it-is Parry has summoned up.

Good luck with that. The old school tie won’t help the Hounds now …

A Twist?

Augustus Kendall is dead and has been for years. 

He died during the War and over time became a Crawling One, an undead nightmare that lives half in the Dreamlands and half in the waking world, a thing of maggots and decay that can disguise itself as a living man through dubious sorceries. It was he, not Parry, who was a member of Keirecheires, albeit a very junior member at the time of his death. Parry obtained Kendall’s letters and poems through dubious means and is trying to use them to ease his way into Keirecheires. Kendall is furious at the very idea, but Parry’s been able to block him so far. Kendall’s decided to use the Hounds as catspaws, hoping that their efforts will dislodge Parry’s defenses and give Kendall a chance to strike.

That’s it for this week. Enjoy!

For The Sound of His Horn (Ravenloft)

British Movietone Newsreel (1937)

D'Ye Ken John Peel

I don't often self-promote here, but as I'm getting close to completion on one of the two Ravenloft titles I'm working on I thought I'd tell you a bit about it.

The people of Oaksey, a small village in Mordent, once were part of the Huntingtower estate, now defunct. Oaksey’s alderman, Sanders Murdoch, suffered a near-fatal hunting accident in pursuit of his favorite prey, the fox. Sanders suspects foul play and promises to severely punish whoever is behind the attacks. Some say what happened to Sanders isn’t natural, and they’re right. The hunter’s horn has wakened something best left sleeping ...

Fox hunting's a major story element. I've never been on a hunt but I've known several who did, and I've spent a fair amount of time out in the countryside where fox hunts were common, back in the day. 

The English have a peculiar attachment to fox hunting. Despite the 2005 ban the issue comes up again and again, a kind of political totem for the traditionalist right-wing. The last time it came to a vote, in 2015, the Conservatives under David Cameron were soundly whipped by Nicola Sturgeon's SNP. The Scots didn't give much of a damn about fox hunting, and in fact the hunt is still legal in Scotland. The SNP just wanted to give the Tories a bloody nose, and they succeeded.

Mind you, two anemic girl scouts and a Luigi cosplayer could have whipped David Cameron, but all power to the SNP. 

Some activists claim fox hunting persists in England despite the ban. So-called trail-hunts, sending hounds after a pre-laid scent, are allegedly just cover for the old sniff-it-out-and-kill-it fox hunts. Or that illegal hunts carry on despite the ban, since enforcement is next to nil.

Labour traditionally claims to be the anti-hunt party, probably because Tony Blair's government banned it the first time round and Labour feels obliged to stick to its past, but there's never been any enthusiasm for it on Labour's side beyond some dedicated animal rights campaigners and ancient holdovers from the 1980s. Tony Blair himself said he regretted passing the bill. 

Meanwhile the Tories come back to it every once in a while, but beyond using it as a stick to beat Labour and the lefties with there's not a whole lot of enthusiasm there either. Possibly because wrapping yourself in the Union Jack and blootering on about traditional values is best left to ardent Brexiteers and other gammons. 

As a hobby, it stopped being a countryside pursuit long ago. Reading old manuals and memorials published in the 1920s and 1930s it's easy to see why. Even then they complained that stockbrokers from London and day trippers were ruining the hobby. Now it's an excuse for tourists to come on a gallop, an excellent moneymaker but hardly a community event. Siegfried Sassoon wouldn't recognize it.

I'm mildly surprised there hasn't been a murder mystery with the John Peel title or theme. I understand there's a 1935 film with that title - never seen it, and don't know anything about it other than the IMDB plot synopsis which suggests it has nothing to do with fox hunting. I vaguely remember a Rumpole of the Bailey short about fox hunting, and no doubt there are other UK cop dramas that have dipped into it now and again. Most likely in the 1980s and 90s, when the ban was still a political issue. Google tells me there's an American detective series about fox hunting in the Virginia mountains but to my knowledge there's not an English equivalent.

Which is perhaps a little odd. If fox hunting was integral to the English character you'd think it'd have had a Carry On film by now. Or some not-quite-Belgian with little grey cells a-quiver would have made the theme his own, rather than stick to nursery rhymes about clocks and mice. 

Not even comedians will touch it. Oscar Wilde made the oft-repeated observation that fox hunting is the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable, but Wilde's been dead and dust for years. I don't see Dara O'Briain sketching any side-splitters on this topic any time soon. Tweets, yes, but those aren't going to make their way into his act.

Anyway, I came to this to talk about the scenario and I suppose I ought to be getting on with my self-appointed task.

The story is set in Mordent, which is Ravenloft's answer to M.R. James and E.G. Swain. Ghosts-a-plenty, in a countryside designed to feel a little like Dartmoor and a little like Cornwall. In Mordent, nobody ever dies - not entirely. They return, whether to plague the living, beg forgiveness or for some other purpose. There are those who claim the mysterious Apparatus, built for reasons unknown, is the cause of it all. 

In my own little corner of Ravenloft the Huntingtower family, dead and gone, is the ultimate cause of the problem the PCs face. The last Huntingtower, Gelbert, committed an unspeakable crime and now Oaksey is cursed to repeat his follies. Desire a thing too much, and what starts as longing becomes obsession. Obsession is a dangerous thing ...

The scenario's intended for PCs from level 1 to 3, and could be an introductory scenario either to the setting or the game itself. Like many other D&D writers I've found Challenge Ratings a bit tricky to handle, but don't worry - I'm sure some of the PCs will survive.

Unlike Cthulhu there isn't a Sanity mechanic but there is a Fear and Stress mechanic, which I'm finding very useful. Mind you, fail too many Stress tests and that old bugbear Challenge Rating will become even more difficult to manage. Still, I'm sure those resourceful PCs will solve that problem - or die trying.

Its climactic moment takes place at the Meet, when Oaksey sets off in pursuit of the fox once more. If the PCs haven't got a solution to the problem by then, things are likely to get very messy ...

The other scenario, The Three Crows, is still in production so I shan't say much about it, except to hint that if you like slasher films set in vampire country, have I got the scenario for you!

Anyway, that's it for this week. Next week, back to the usual weirdness! 

Tally O: Fox Hunting (Bookhounds of London, Trail of Cthulhu)

If your campaign is set in the British Isles you're probably mainlining television programs like Downton Abbey, seeking inspiration. What did people look like, think like, want to be like? What sets a British location apart from, say, a French one, or a German? What habits, sports, hobbies are quintessentially British?

In that spirit, this time I'm going to talk about fox hunting. Most of the information I have comes from D.W.E. Brock's 1936 book, The ABC of Fox Hunting. He's writing at a time when the hunt, as he knew it, is already on its way into the history books. You can tell by the way he gnashes his teeth that he's well aware of this, and bitterly resents the influx of City men and other London fools who barely know how to ride, let alone what to do on the field.

In his day the hunts are organized by the Masters of Foxhounds Association, which lays down the boundaries of the hunt. The Edwardians would have run the hunt themselves, with the Master owning and funding the hounds; indeed, the whole shebang. In Brock's time the hunt is run more along Club lines, with Secretaries and Committees. The Master is appointed by the Club, and runs the pack accordingly. That, in fact, is one of the Club's chief troubles; it's no joke housing and feeding all those hounds, and finding a suitable Master is no easy task. If you, as an ordinary person, intend to ride with the hunt, you pay for your membership; or, if you're a guest, you pay a daily fee, sometimes called a cap. Collecting that cap is the bane of the Master's life, as it's very easy to ride off and not pay, a tactic that may appeal to some Bookhounds.

The size of the hunt depends on how often it intends to hunt. The fewer the days in the week that the hunt meets, the smaller the hunt, so there can be two, three, or four day hunts. Any one hunt is strictly forbidden from drawing a fox in any territory other than its own.

The character of the hunt will depend on its territory. A grassland hunt, pleasant to ride over, is the kind that most people are familiar with from books and television. There are also hunts on the moors, which involve smaller packs because of the difficulty of the ground. Hilly or mountainous terrain means no horses, but there's still a pack of hounds, with the huntsmen following on foot.

A hunt is something that requires a great deal of preparation. A hunt doesn't just blindly ride out and hope for the best; instead, over the course of the year, the Master and his people look for where the foxes are, and mark out their earths. There's a Damage Fund set aside for farmers, to bribe them and hopefully prevent them from shooting or poisoning animals who might raid their farms. In fact, farmers are encouraged to leave food out for foxes, when their holes are spotted.

'Anyone knowing of the the existence of a litter of cubs,' says Brock, 'will be doing the vixen a kindness by leaving food, such as rabbits, rats or the cleanings of poultry, somewhere about a hundred yards from her earth. On no account should butchers' meat be given, for, though the cubs will eat it readily enough, it is very liable to give them mange.'

Come the day, the huntsmen set out the night before to find the fox's earth, and any other hole it might use as a hiding place. Foxes are nocturnal, and prefer to be underground during the day, so by stopping up their holes at night the huntsmen are forcing the fox to remain above ground during the hunt. Then the business begins in earnest.

The hounds are carefully looked after, in preparation for this moment; indeed, a hound's age is expressed from the first time hound meets fox. So a 1932 dog wasn't born in 1932; it first hunted in that year . The hounds are all tattooed in the ear with a simple cypher, say BV VI. The first letters refer to the hunt, so BV might be Blackmore Vale. The numbers refer to the litter, so VI means that this dog is from litter number 6. Each hound will have a name based on its litter, so that litter 6 might have dogs called Whirligig, Whale, Walpole, Wrale and so on, all beginning with W.

These most definitely are not indoor pets, and want nothing more than to run like a brainless maniac all the live-long day. They love to eat raw meat, and are typically fed an entire carcass, which the pack devours whole. 'In a very short time the whole pack is covered from head to stern with blood.' The pack size is expressed in  couples, each couple being two hounds, so a pack size of 30 is actually 60 animals. Imagine having to care for that many crazy, hyper-energetic, bloodthirsty hounds. It's no wonder Clubs had difficulty finding Masters.

The hunt has a very idiosyncratic dress, which you may think you're familiar with, even if you're not. The typical Ratcatcher style used by ordinary members of most Clubs includes a bowler hat, strengthened for resisting blows to the head, a white hunting stock or neckerchief, a tweet sports coat (the Ratcatcher of the title), and breeches of almost any color except white. The overall aesthetic is plain and sober.

There are variations on that theme. The Black Coat is much like the Ratcatcher, except you wear a top hat, a black or dark grey cloth coat, and white or colored breeches. The Scarlet Coat, which is the style everyone recognizes, is much as the Ratcatcher, except the coat is red cloth, with brass buttons. Depending on the Hunt, these variant costumes may be insignia of rank.

You address a professional huntsman by their last name, so Harry Flashman would be just Flashman. If, on the other hand, you're addressing a whipper-in, you use their Christian name, so in this case, Harry. The whipper-in is the huntsman's assistant and has two very specific tasks. The first whipper-in opens gates, removes slip rails, stops road traffic and generally ensures that nothing interferes with the pack. The second whipper-in keeps track of the pack, hunts down strays, and when otherwise not needed will keep an eye out for that tricky fox.

When out in the field, the Master always goes first. The Master directs the hunt, so he has to be in a position to see everything that's going on. For everyone else, there's an etiquette system. When in with the field, you're never to ride too close behind someone else. You're supposed to shout Ware Hole! if you see something a horse might stumble over. You take your time at a fence or gap in the hedge, and on no account make the attempt if there's someone ahead of you; wait until that person is clear before trying the jump.

Most importantly, you have a duty to farmers. 'Always remember you are a guest of every single farmer whose land you cross. Do not willfully damage crops or ride over greens, cricket pitches, football grounds. Do not frighten their stock. Do not leave fences open.' This is the point at which, I strongly suspect, Brock was writing with gritted teeth, and breaking the point of his pen on every second word.

So what's likely to happen during a hunt? Here's some examples to lend flavor to a scene:

1. A dog may be kicked and killed by an inexperienced horse, or rider.
2. The hounds may find another fox and set out on a false line, or kill the fox too early.
3. The hunt takes too long without result, and the hunters get bored.
4. The field (riders) scatters or gets in the way of the hounds.
5. The fox hides in unstopped ground.
6. The fox takes the hunt near a scent spoiler (eg cattle) or near road, or rail.
7. The hunt encounters a wire fence.
8. A horse falls, or encounters a difficult ditch.
9. The pack splits into two or more groups, or is lost from the Huntsman.
10. The fox hides up a tree, curled on a branch, or somewhere else high, like a rooftop.
11. The fox hides under a haystack. Remember, you're not supposed to inconvenience farmers.
12. The fox hides in the furrow of a ploughed field.
13. The fox hides in exposed drains, especially in a dry season. 
14. Fox hides in marsh or bog, knowing that the hounds don't like going near water.
15. The fox puts the hounds on the scent of another fox.
16. The fox doubles back, and dodges straight through the hounds.

Brock estimates that in a typical hunt the fox is killed one time in five, and that, in its lifetime, the fox is far more likely to die by poison, gun or trap than by hounds.

In a GUMSHOE game, a hunt is probably best expressed as a Thrilling Chase, as per Night's Black Agents. However if you're not comfortable with that, a simple Fleeing vs Athletics or Riding contest will do as well. The Fox should get a large Fleeing pool, representing not so much its natural athletic ability as its raw cunning and trickery. Its stats ought to be based on the Wolf, so:

Abilities: Athletics 9, Fleeing 14/18/12 (young/mature/old) Health 3, Scuffling 8
Hit Threshold: 5 (Athletics plus small and fast)
Alertness: +3
Weapon: -1 (bite)

So why will your players get involved in a hunt? Well, in Bookhounds, it's most likely to be a social class issue. The characters are always scheming to increase their Credit Rating, to get more patrons, to rise up in the world. How better to express their social importance than by riding to hounds with the Blankshires? Plus, it's an excellent way to toady to your social betters, thus worming your way into the confidence of future patrons. London is remarkably close to the countryside at time of writing; in the 1930s country lanes and open fields would have been almost on the protagonists' doorstep. (That was the whole point of Metro-Land, after all). One quick road or rail journey, and they can be riding to hounds over the weekend.

In Trail, a hunt is an excellent way to set the scene. It gives the characters a grand overview of the area they're in, and also offers a brilliant chance to get the characters lost in some kind of ancient and long-forgotten wood, or near some evocative, haunting ruins. If the characters have somehow annoyed the local cultists, it's also a good way to maneuver them into an ambush. Finally it can be a dramatic means of introducing some kind of challenge or event, say, if the hunt were to encounter a mangled body, or signs of otherworldly activity. Imagine a hunt, for example, that finds itself within the sphere of influence of a Color Out Of Space.Wandering into that blighted landscape unexpected could lead to all sorts of complications ...

To close out, a bit of hunting slang to add flavor to a scene:

Babbler: A dog who 'talks' too much.
Blind (country): Before winter; that is, with the leaves still on the trees. This is a dangerous time to hunt, as accidents are more likely with decreased visibility.
Blow Away: The horn sounds to get the hounds out on the trail. This is a quick, pulsating noise.
Blow Out: The horn sounds to call the hounds back. This is a long and mournful call.
Check: The hounds are said to check when they temporarily lose the scent.
Covert: Woods.
Drag: The line of the fox, leading to his lair.
Feather: The dog raises stern and shows tail, suggesting it is on the scent.
Huic Holloa: A cheer.
Tally O!: I have seen the fox.
Tally Over!: I have seen the fox cross this ride.

I hope this was useful! Enjoy.