Winning a Fictional Prize in a Fictional Contest: Chatting with Strike Characters

We here at Hogpro have been enjoying following the Twitter accounts of all the Cormoran Strike characters that have popped up recently, and speculating who might be the mastermind and whether the tweets are providing clues to The Ink Black Heart. Being a bit of a competitor, when I lucked into this post a mere hour after it went up, I couldn’t resist responding.

All it took was a quick google and I had the answer.

Now, this is clearly a potentially mixed blessing.  Given the very real possibility that Peter Gillespie killed Leda, I certainly hope all contact remains distant. However, if I do hear from him, I could try to clear up a major mystery by making some discreet inquiries about how much money is in Strike’s child support account.

And, if a Deadbeats 50th anniversary souvenir travel mug does indeed arrive in the mail, I can display it with my prize Ravenclaw water bottle.

Another arrival in the Twitter fest was the account of Robin’s furry roommate, one Wolfgang Priestwood. So far, he hasn’t said much other than, “Woof!” but he had an interesting response to Peter.

This does not bode well for Gillespie, Esquire’s innocence.

My final thought: If you look at the entire poem, it certainly seems fitting for a spooky cemetery.  Reminds me a bit of The Hunger Games’ “Hanging Tree” song.

I WAS milking in the meadow when I heard the Banshee Keening:
Little birds were in the nest, lambs were on the lea,
Upon the brow o’ the Fairy-hill a round gold moon was leaning—
She parted from the esker as the Banshee keened for me.
I was weaving by the door-post, when I heard the Death-watch beating:         5
And I signed the Cross upon me, and I spoke the Name of Three.
High and fair, through cloud and air, a silver moon was fleeting—
But the night began to darken as the Death-watch beat for me.
I was sleepless on my pillow when I heard the Dead man calling,
The Dead man that lies drowned at the bottom of the sea.         10
Down in the West, in wind and mist, a dim white moon was falling—
Now must I rise and go to him, the Dead who calls on me.


The author, Alice Furlong is a Irish poet and activist in an ultra-nationalist group.  She and Polworth ought to get along.

Happy Tweeting, everyone.




Speak Your Mind