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Living in the same town as Marian there was a little girl called Gwendolen. Marian didn’t know her very well, though they went to the same school and sometimes smiled at each other in church. Her father and mother were always climbing mountains and lecturing about them afterward, so Gwendolen had to live with her aunt, who was very rich and wore a lot of rings. In many ways Gwendolen was a nice girl, but she had an exceptionally large tummy. Some people said that it was her own fault, because she was always sitting about eating marzipan. But some people said that she couldn’t help her tummy, and had to eat a lot to keep it full. There were also people who said that her aunt spoiled her, being so greedy herself and always eating buttered toast…

The name of the town doesn’t really matter; but it was a big town in the middle of the country; and the first of these adventures happened to a little girl whose name was Marian. She was only seven when it happened to her, so that it was rather a young sort of adventure; but the older ones happened later on, and this is the best, perhaps, to begin with. Marian’s house was in a street called Peter Street, because there was a church in it called St Peter’s Church; and some people liked this church, because it had a great spire soaring up into the sky. But Marian’s daddy didn’t like spires, because they were so sharp and so slippery. He liked towers better, because the old church towers, he said, were like little laps, ready to catch God’s blessing. But Marian’s daddy was a queer sort of man, and nobody took much notice of what he said…

The story opens with Harry our story teller speaking at his retirement do: Alright, alright, I’ll just say a few words because convention says that I must at a retirement do. As most of you know, at Streatham nick, on the first floor is the Detective Inspector’s office, it’s always been there and many have occupied it and I’ve seen plenty come and go. In 1922, the man that had that office was as straight as an arrow, a bit of a legend, and the story he told me has haunted me, for thirty years. It’s so long ago now, I’m sure the people concerned are no longer with us. His story starts on a cold wintery night in December 1922 and it’s about six o’clock in the evening in the snug lounge of the Volunteer Inn. The pub is on the outskirts of a village called Finsey by the north Norfolk coast. On the back wall between the bar and the door is an old glass fronted display case, in it there is an old flintlock pistol and below it a Victoria Cross medal on a ribbon with a small card citation...

The story is based on a series of eight letters written by a young woman to her friend whom she tells of her life as a blind woman protected from the world by her parents and how she meets and falls in love with a sighted man whom she marries and her reaction to not being able to see her child...

Theatrical Knights is about the complex relationship between Sir Tom Seymour (Scriptwriter) and Sir Tony Randolph (Actor) and the extremes Tom is willing to go to, to brighten up his boring life. Our story takes place on a warm afternoon in the summer of 2016 in the converted stable building at the back of a large detached Victorian house in Primrose Hill, London. It is the den of the writer Sir Thomas Seymour. The walls are covered with photographs and certificates and props and memorabilia from various theatrical productions including handguns, knives and masks. There is a chess table with a game in progress. There is a desk with an old fashioned typewriter on it, a telephone and a door entry system with an intercom. To the side of the desk is a waste paper basket half-full of screwed up pieces of paper each with five or so words typed on them. The phone is ringing, much to Sir Tom’s annoyance as he tries to outmanoeuvre his mythical chess opponent…