PAUL TEMPLE.....
Is a fictional character created by English writer Francis Durbridge. Temple is a professional author of crime fiction and an amateur private detective. With his wife Louise, affectionately known as 'Steve' in reference to her journalistic pen name 'Steve Trent', he solves whodunnit crimes through subtle, humorously articulated deduction. And always the gentleman.
Created for the BBC radio serial Send for Paul Temple in 1938, the Temples featured in more than thirty BBC radio dramas, twelve serials for German radio, four British feature films, a dozen novels, and a BBC television series. A Paul Temple daily newspaper strip ran in the London Evening News for two decades.
Paul Temple was a professional novelist. While he possessed no formal training as a detective, his background in constructing crime plots for his novels enabled him to apply deductive reasoning to solve cases whose solution had eluded Scotland Yard. Over the course of each case, Temple eschewed formal interviews or other police techniques, in favour of casual conversations with suspects and witnesses. Yet even this informal style of investigation invariably precipitated attempts by the suspects to hamper him, through traps, ambushes, even assassination attempts. Surviving these, Temple would arrange a cocktail party or similar social event at which he unmasked the perpetrator.
At the end of each tale, Paul, Steve and Sir Graham Forbes held a post mortem. Here, Paul explained why certain events in the serial took place, which of these had been red herrings, and which had been genuine clues. Some elements of the plot had already been explained during the serial, while others were occasionally never fully explained, due to limitations of time.
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The BBC radio programs are good but this is better. Crisper and funnier. And the BBC radio program too often has exchanges like this "Jenny's at home". "At home?". I suppose it keeps listeners on track but gets repetitive. I love the line "He died of a broken neck".
A Room with a Past Now first, as I shut the door, I was alone In the new house; and the wind Began to moan. Old at once was the house, And I was old; My ears were teased with the dread Of what was foretold, Nights of storm, days of mists, without end; Sad days when the sun Shone in vain: old griefs and griefs Not yet begun. All was foretold me; naught Could I foresee; But I learned how the wind would sound After these things should be.
Wonderful
Thanks so much for posting
Excellent narration.
First