Check out this blog entry from EQMM:
I actually think I’ve solved this, mostly because I once made the same mistake myself and a sharp-eyed mystery reader saved me from perpetuating it. See what you can do. I’ve submitted my entry.
Check out this blog entry from EQMM:
I actually think I’ve solved this, mostly because I once made the same mistake myself and a sharp-eyed mystery reader saved me from perpetuating it. See what you can do. I’ve submitted my entry.
“It is no easy trick to keep your characters and your story operating on a level which is understandable to the semi-literate public and at the same time give them some intellectual and artistic overtones which that public does not seek or demand or, in effect, recognize, but which somehow subconsciously it accepts and likes.”
Raymond Chandler, from an April 16, 1951 letter to Bernice Baumgarten (his editor at Brandt and Brandt Literary Agency)
The other day I was reading a blog post by a friend, JJ at his blog The Invisible Event, on the topic of how various detective stories are quite similar each to the other: the post is called “When Inspiration Becomes Theft”. JJ makes a first cut at parsing the problems involved in two kinds of similarities found in works of detective fiction. Sometimes the stories are related to real-life crimes: he mentions Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express as referencing the 1932 Lindbergh kidnapping case. And sometimes the stories are related to each other: he mentions Christie’s And Then There Were None (1939) and its similarities to the 1934 film, The Ninth Guest, based on a 1930 book, The Invisible Host (by Gwen Bristow and Bruce Manning).
As sometimes happens, JJ’s interesting discussion sent me off in a direction quite far removed from the original inspiration. This is because I’ve been doing a lot of speculation lately about a number of approaches to questions like why people read murder mysteries / detective fiction / crime fiction, what they are learning when they do it, and what is likely to happen in the future with this genre.
Here’s a word that’s been rattling around in my head for a while: intertextuality. It’s defined in various ways in various places (I suspect this is because its use was begun by semioticians in the 1960s, Kristeva and Barthes, and now it has different meanings in post-modern contexts). I have three shades of meaning for it as it applies to detective fiction, but first here’s a standard definition that will get you on the right track; thanks, as always, to Wikipedia.
Intertextuality is the shaping of a text’s meaning by another text. Intertextual figures include: allusion, quotation, calque, plagiarism, translation, pastiche and parody.
But as Wikipedia also notes, “As philosopher William Irwin wrote, the term “has come to have almost as many meanings as users, from those faithful to Kristeva’s original vision to those who simply use it as a stylish way of talking about allusion and influence.”
I’m going to use it in a particular way here to talk about detective fiction, and note that I’m making distinctions among three kinds of intertextuality.
If you think about it, this kind of self-referential intertextuality (Type 3) is peculiar to the literary tradition that started with Golden Age detective fiction, at least when you compare it to other large-scale genres. Romance stories, for instance, are quite the opposite; every story of young love exists in a kind of romantic bubble, where the young lovers — and with any luck, the reader — all exist outside real life. No other love stories are invoked. Westerns resolve into a handful of sub-types (settlers versus Indians, gunmen versus other gunmen, etc.) but there is very little intertextuality in the stories each to the other. And while the worlds of science fiction are many and all wildly different, it is an uncommon exercise for one writer to create within the universe of another, as if a Dune-ean sandworm were to attack the Los Angeles of Blade Runner. But in detective fiction, this Type 3 intertextuality of solutions is embedded at a very basic level, and in a way that no other genre of fiction either requires or displays.
Admittedly there is a kind of intertextuality that operates above the level of genre fiction. Romances don’t require you to admit the existence of any or all other romances, but if the author mentions Romeo and Juliet, it will not be misunderstood. Neither will it be misunderstood to mention the star-crossed lovers in a Western, a mystery or a science fiction novel; their intertextuality is at a scale that transcends genre. Similarly there is a kind of type 3 intertextuality that is below the level of usefulness and is generally ignored.
Yes, it is accepted intertextuality that one writer does not copy the solution of another writer’s mystery; but there are some areas of situational intertextuality that have become more like sub-genres than any kind of rule-breaking. If Chapter 2 of your mystery reveals that an elderly millionaire has invited eight of his quarrelling relatives to his snowbound country estate, changed his will, and given his staff notice, you will not be surprised when he’s murdered. But you should also not be offended by the fact that he’s been murdered with the same blunt instrument, or poison, or pistol as the last six such Golden Age mysteries you read where that situation happens. You might be surprised in Chapter 19 if the corpse has been stabbed with an icicle of frozen blood that promptly melts and confuses estimations of the time of death, but I daresay you will not be surprised to learn that that’s been done a couple of times before. If you set out to write — or deliberately set out to purchase and read — a Golden Age country house mystery, the list of reasonable methods, characters, motivations, and locations available is quite small. Mystery writers cannot help repeating them; in order to avoid suggestions of that intertextuality that is plagiarism, they generally try and make them as different each from the other as possible. Patricia Wentworth’s Wicked Uncle (1947) and Ngaio Marsh’s A Man Lay Dead (1934) are practically the same book in many, many ways, but I don’t think they support an allegation that Wentworth was in any sense trying to “copy” Marsh. They’re just both country house mysteries about the same kinds of people committing the same kind of crime in the same kind of location.
And why have I been so fascinated by all three types of intertextuality? Well, after my lengthy burbling, you may have forgotten the quotation from Raymond Chandler with which I started this post. For detective fiction, what are the “intellectual and artistic overtones which that public does not seek or demand or, in effect, recognize, but which somehow subconsciously it accepts and likes”? Based on demand, I’m going to suggest that intertextuality — at least types 2 and 3 — meets that definition. I’ll go as far to suggest that it is an important part of the reason why detective fiction continues to be published. Most readers haven’t the faintest idea of what intertextuality is, and yet subconsciously they accept it and like it.
I’ve been really digging into an old reference book, Julian Symons’ Bloody Murder, and finding that I continue to disagree with much of what he had to say about detective fiction. (I may well publish a long article in the near future called something like “Where Symons Got It Wrong”😉.) I’ve always felt there was something vaguely bogus about his contention — and if I do him wrong in summarizing it, I’m sure I’ll hear about it — that we read detective fiction because we enjoy seeing a state of peace and order being broken and then restored by authority. Honestly, I’ve been reading mysteries for 50 years and I’ve NEVER felt like that.
The two reasons that I actually DO think that people read mysteries took a long time for me to figure out; I’m not sure if they comprise a complete list, just that they seem to be characteristics that to me explain a lot of why people read mysteries. One is because they like the experience of intertextuality (all three types) and the other is because they like … a concept I’ll call indoctrination. I look forward to discussing that one at length in the near future, and I’ll merely leave the name as a hint of things to come.
WARNING: This post concerns works of detective fiction, which means that part of their potential enjoyment is based on surprising the reader. If you read this review, you are likely to find out more than you may want to know about these novels, although the identity of the murderer and many other significant details are not revealed here. If you proceed past this point, you’re on your own.
Sorry to have been absent for a while. I’m currently working on a larger piece about the nature of detective fiction … consider this your teaser preview.😉 In the meantime, here’s something that struck me this morning as I was leafing through a copy of Ellery Queen’s The Egyptian Cross Mystery (1932).
I’ve never cared much for this book … to me it’s a bit overwrought, with the dramatic cross-country chase at the end showing all the signs of being arranged by the author and not the characters. And the poor old crazy guy who thinks he’s Egyptian is more to be pitied than suspected; he’s rather been wedged in there to add a reason for the title. Nevertheless there are some lovely bits of logical detection and this book has the honour of being the only murder mystery of which I’ve ever heard that features the game of checkers (draughts). And if you re-read the page immediately before the Challenge to the Reader, you’ll find that the central clue is my very favourite type of all — something that isn’t there. Most people can draw an inference from an object that’s present, but few are equipped to realize the significance of an object that’s absent.
As I was flipping through it this morning, I realized that this book is the “opposite” of two other books that it pre-dates. The theme of the three brothers is repeated in John Dickson Carr’s The Three Coffins (1935), with a very similar backstory originating in a very similar part of the world. But the plot concerning the brothers is — well, let’s call it “turned inside out” in Carr’s novel. I won’t say more for fear of spoiling your pleasure, but if you read both novels looking for ways that families of three brothers who emigrate from the Carpathian area are similar, you’ll have the ideal “compare and contrast” essay for your English professor😉.
And the other “opposite” book is one of Queen’s own; The Chinese Orange Mystery (1934). The linking theme is in the case of Egyptian Cross the “tau” or letter T, and in Chinese Orange it’s the idea of “reversal”. I have to admit my second “opposite” might be considered stretching things a bit; truly Cross and Orange are kind of the same plot, in that all the bizarre circumstances surrounding various corpses have actually been created for the same reason, in order to obscure something that was a necessary and revealing act of the murderer. Both use the corpses themselves as a necessary part of the dramatic surroundings. But Orange is almost delicate in its avoidance of bloodshed and inability to identify the corpse, whereas Cross contains a string of decapitations and lashings of blood and violence.
You’ll make your own mind up about whether they’re opposites … interesting to think, though, that Carr and Queen took the same plot point within two years and wrote different novels around it. I may have to do some more re-reading to see if these gentlemen overlapped ideas in other ways.
WARNING: This book is a work of detective fiction, which means that part of its potential enjoyment is based on surprising the reader. If you read this review, you are likely to find out more than you may want to know about this book, although the identity of the murderer and many other significant details are not revealed here. If you proceed past this point, you’re on your own.
“Emma Lathen” is a joint pseudonym of Mary Jane Latsis and Martha Henissart. I may refer to them here as a singular author, but I know the difference.😉
What’s this book about?
John Putnam Thatcher is senior vice-president of the third largest bank in the world, the Sloan Guaranty Trust. His corporate responsibilities include the assumption of an important seat on the board of directors of a very large philanthropic trust indeed. The Leonard Dreyer Trust is closely affiliated with the Dreyer Chocolate Company, a huge corporate presence that sells what might be a quarter of the chocolate bars in the U.S. (If you think of this company as Hershey, you won’t be far off the mark.)
Companies that manufacture chocolate bars must of necessity trade on the Cocoa Exchange, which is a high-stakes enterprise like a mini-stock market, intimately connected with predicting what the price of cocoa beans will be at various points in the future. The individuals who master such valuable skills are few and far between, and although Amory Shaw trades on behalf of Dreyer, because of his experience and brilliance, everyone sees him as the Grand Poobah of the cocoa market.
The town of Dreyer, New York is the home of both the chocolate company and a large part of the action of this novel. First a smaller-scale trader appears to have drunkenly fallen into the swimming pool at his Dreyer motel; theories of accident are soon dismissed when Amory Shaw himself staggers onto the floor of the Cocoa Exchange with a knife in his back and dies without speaking. The police investigate Shaw’s fellow traders, attendant brokers, office staff and personal relationships. Meanwhile, Dreyer has chosen this time to launch a major new product, with a huge advertising blitz for the Old Glory bar. Simultaneously, everyone is annoyed with the activities of a pompous and self-absorbed auteur filming the Cocoa Exchange for a documentary for public television. But it falls to Thatcher to take the larger-scale view of events and figure out just what happened and whodunit.
Why is this book worth your time?
I do think it is worth your time; if I can say so without angering anyone, this is a first-rate second-rate mystery, and I don’t mean that at all disparagingly. The Emma Lathen novels set out merely to entertain and divert without invoking more than glancingly any major social issues or deep characterization values. The author deliberately avoided anything that would bring this novel into the first rank, but for what it sets out to do, it does it extremely well.This is a lighthearted and wry mystery that will amuse you but never upset you.
This is the 15th outing for John Putnam Thatcher and Emma Lathen now has the recipe down pat. There are a few paragraphs at the beginning about the nature of Wall Street. We briefly meet some of the cast of continuing characters of Thatcher’s associates at the Sloan; his immediate staff, all of whom have personal characteristics that are useful when exposition is required to the reader, and/or his dunderheaded boss Bradford Withers, who is constantly involving the Sloan in projects beyond his capacity to manage that require Thatcher to step in.
As a very senior executive with a taste for detection, Thatcher involves himself in the murder-related business affairs of such things as a chain of take-out chicken restaurants (Murder To Go), biotechnology companies (Green Grow the Dollars), and professional hockey teams (Murder Without Icing). And since he is required to do so without necessarily knowing anything about things like the Winter Olympics (Going for the Gold) or Persian carpets (By Hook or by Crook), the book’s characters are required quite naturally to explain themselves and their industry to Thatcher and hence to to the reader. It all works really well to produce what I’ve called an “information mystery”, where the reader is given a behind-the-scenes look at an unusual background in the course of solving a mystery.
The authors comprising Emma Lathen are a lawyer and an economist, and they definitely seem to know what they’re talking about in business terms. Their mastery of each industry depicted, including here the Cocoa Exchange, seems extensive and they have the knack of making it clear to you without resorting to huge blasts of information. Things come to the reader naturally by seeing the characters doing things and having them explained to Thatcher. Lathen also has the knack of creating simple characters with only a few traits or drives, but ones which the reader grasps immediately. There is also a strong overtone of, “Well, he may ably run a multi-million dollar chocolate company but he’s a nitwit in this particular respect,” and most readers will find this charming and humanizing.
This particular volume is merely the one that was at the top of my Lathen stacks; there are 24 novels in total, from 1961 to 1997. Some are better than others. A couple of my favourites are Murder To Go and Green Grow the Dollars, partly for personal reasons; both books have the ring of truth from my personal experience, and if you can find one that overlaps your own employment history you will enjoy it very much indeed, I’m sure. Lathen is at her best when she is discussing industry, and so ones like Ashes to Ashes, where the focus is on personalities, aren’t as enjoyable for me.
One more subtle problem is found in this book as well as a couple of others. Occasionally Lathen takes on a large industry and wants to show the reader the full supply chain, as it were; this book has a time-wasting narrative thread about people who actually sell chocolate bars for a living, and it has nothing to do with the murder. It veers dangerously close to the author wanting you to “walk out humming the research,” always a dangerous tendency. Lathen is at her best when she’s got a small cast of characters who are at the heart of the action.
Finally, she’s generally referred to as a “witty” writer and I have to agree. Her ability to sketch ridiculous characters is excellent; they’re nonsensical and simplified, but believable. She also has the knack of submerging her writing style to the exigencies of the narrative — avoiding the trap of “look at me, I’m writing!” that I find so difficult when, say, P.D. James goes off on the landscape for a page or two — except every once in a while she lets off a line that is wickedly bitter and funny. She lets you find out that characters are funny by what they say and do, rather than by being told that they are funny, and that’s the most enjoyable way to do it for the reader. Overall her writing style is gentle and intelligent.
This is as good a place to start with John Putnam Thatcher as any; if you enjoy your first one, all of them will be worth your time. I’ve enjoyed them all, and they stand up to re-reading.
My favourite edition
Really, Emma Lathen has not been well served by book designers. The Canadian Pocket edition shown at the top of this post (and which I used for this review) is one of a uniform edition that is relentlessly banal. The US Pocket edition manages to get across “business” and “murder” but avoids “chocolate”, which is a keyword for this book. The first US edition from simon & Shuster, depicted here, manages to get across “chocolate” and a little bit of violence, and the typography is very attractive; I’ll say that’s my favourite, but it’s the best of a bad lot. You can have a reasonable copy of it for US$60, which is perhaps a bit high. The UK first from Gollancz, with an overcomplicated ampersand that makes the reader think the title might be “Sweet So Low”, is about US$20.
There are two versions of the UK Penguin cover depicted here; I haven’t held this book to be sure, but I suspect that the minimalist version that has the chocolate bar coyly peeping out to the left of a white field has the same photograph of the smashed chocolate bar but continued over on the back of the volume. Really a very poor idea — wraparound covers have definitely got a place in paperback design but the whole idea is that you have to be able to tell what you’re looking at from a moment’s glance on the shelves of a bookstore.
There’s definitely room in the publishing world for a uniform edition of this intelligent author and I hope someone reprints her work with some considered design work.
I must first apologize to my friend and fellow Golden Age mystery blogger Moira Redmond, whose blog, Clothes in Books, is the pre-eminent source for all topics that combine Golden Age mysteries and the clothing therein. This is your turf and not mine, Moira, and I shouldn’t be trespassing, but I had what a ditzy character in an old Rex Stout novel calls an “ungovernment impulse”. If you are interested in this sort of thing, you’ll find Moira’s blog fascinating, as I do. In the future, I don’t expect to talk about clothes often, but this one topic got me going …
Miss Silver is the detective protagonist of 32 books written by Patricia Wentworth; she is an elderly lady who had a career as a governess before becoming a private investigator. Yes, seriously. Here and more recently here, I have commented upon my admiration for her works. But one thing I mentioned casually in the latest post has been stuck in my mind, and I had to do a little research to settle my thoughts — so I thought I would share the results.
One of the things about the Miss Silver books, as I note elsewhere, is that they talk about the same things over and over again. And this absolutely includes Miss Silver’s clothing, a constant source of paragraphs of narrative. We see her in a series of apparently very drab and out-of-date dresses. Here’s a fairly representative description from 1943’s The Chinese Shawl:
Miss Silver, like Cousin Lucy, wore glacé shoes with bows, and strange thick stockings. She was dressed in one of those flowered garments which saleswomen press upon unresisting elderly ladies for summer wear. In Miss Silver’s case it consisted of a dark green dress lavishly patterned with a kind of Morse code of dots and dashes in orange, magenta, and green. The accompanying coatee was mercifully of a plain dark green. The collarless neck had been filled in with a twist of cotton lace, and was fastened by a heavy oval gold locket-brooch bearing in seed pearls the entwined initials of Miss Silver’s father and mother, now some forty years deceased.
Now, I think this is wonderfully descriptive. We see that brooch in many, many books. Certainly we can see that fabric in our mind’s eye, and the writer’s feeling about it may have been summed up by the word “mercifully” in the next sentence. I suspect that the dark green dress ends just above the glacé shoes with bows. Glacé shoes, incidentally, have a smooth and highly polished surface, and I was delighted to find a picture that pretty much sums them up, although the bows are not what one might wish. The experienced mystery reader will hearken back to the Agatha Christie title, 1940’s One, Two, Buckle My Shoe, in which a pair of glacé shoes with bows plays an important role.
This is pretty much how Miss Silver is described as being clothed in each of the 32 books, with changes here and there — for instance, when she is in a draught-ridden country house, she relies upon a shabby black velvet coatee to keep her warm in the evenings, and at dinner she changes the locket-brooch for “a brooch of Irish bog-oak in the form of a rose with a large pale pearl in the middle of it”.
For years, I have been taking three words/phrases for granted that Wentworth uses and re-uses to describe Miss Silver’s clothing, book after book after book, without ever bothering to confirm my impression of what they were. The other day I thought, “Damnit, I should really know what a coatee is, since I go on about it so much.” I’ve just done some research, and I thought I would share the results.
Years ago I used to think Miss Silver’s black velvet coatee was a strange old-maidish garment that merely covered one’s shoulders and tied at the neck; sort of like a scarf with a closure. I was unable to find a picture on the internet that showed such a thing, probably because as near as I can tell, no such garment exists. It would have been pretty useless anyway. No, a coatee is — well, okay, let’s call it what it is, a little coat or jacket. I note that it doesn’t have to have sleeves, although I suspect Miss Silver’s did, since she relied on it for warmth. The part that surprised me is that a variant of the coatee is worn by men, frequently with an outfit that includes a kilt.
The ways of the coatee are seemingly various; the closure may be diagonal or vertical, and the shoulders may be puffed or flat. And I will add that no power on earth could compel me to wear those plaid trousers, with or without the formal coatee, even in my own family’s tartan.
The lace fichu
Miss Silver is often said to wear a lace fichu; I had merely consigned that odd word to a category of “women’s clothing names I’ll never need to understand” but now, as I said, I’m curious.
A fichu proves to be “a small triangular shawl worn around a woman’s shoulders and neck”, according to the internet, and meant to fill in the low neckline of a bodice. This certainly seems to go well with the generally out-of-date aspect of Miss Silver’s accoutrements. It’s pronounced fee-SHOO.
The bog-oak brooch
Bog-oak is “an ancient oak tree that has been preserved in a black state in peat”. I understand this as the very early stages of a fossilisation process whereby the wood reacts with the water and turns brown or black and hard to the touch. It was used for jewelry in the 18th and 19th centuries, although not so much today (it’s still used to make carved tobacco pipes).
I felt fortunate to find two pieces of bog-oak jewelry, either of which could be a match for Miss Silver’s constant companion; neither, alas, features the large pale pearl. I’m not sure why the brooch is silvery; some bog-oak jewelry is said to be lighter in colour, depending upon how long the oak was submerged, etc.
And finally, in an attempt
to see what wonders the internet can sometimes generate at random, I tried a number of Google searches to see if I could find what Google thinks of “dark green dress lavishly patterned with a kind of Morse code of dots and dashes in orange, magenta, and green”. Nothing came very close, but I couldn’t resist sharing this exceptionally … vivid fabric with you. It rather reminded me of a brilliantly graphic coat fabric that Wentworth describes in 1956’s The Silent Pool: “bold squares of black and white with an emerald strip”. The internet is visually silent on that point, and possibly rightly so, since the coat proves fatal to its wearer. I’m sure Miss Silver’s sartorial taste would never run to such garments that would draw attention to oneself, but she does solve the mystery.
The other day I saw an episode of the Father Brown TV programme from the BBC entitled “The Rod of Asclepius” — the central premise of which is taken directly from Christianna Brand’s Green for Danger. I looked quite carefully and could not see anything in the credits in which they acknowledged this. My knowledge of the British legal system is not what it should be, but if I were administering Christianna Brand’s literary estate, I’d be calling my lawyer to get a lawsuit started.
Did they think nobody would notice?
WARNING: This book is a classic work of detective fiction, which means that part of its potential enjoyment is based on surprising the reader. If you read this review, you are likely to find out more than you may want to know about this book, although the identity of the murderer and many other significant details are not revealed here. I will come quite close below to the solution but, frankly, it will have been fairly obvious to the modern reader anyway. If you proceed past this point, you’re on your own.
What’s this book about?
Amabel Grey decides that she must do whatever it takes to get her daughter Daphne to vacation in Egypt with her wealthy boyfriend so that he has the chance to pop the question uninterrupted. In order to come up with the requisite £200, she takes advantage of some frankly preposterous circumstances and agrees to spend six months in a seemingly haunted Dower House. She’s being paid in order to demonstrate that all the people who left the house in the past few years, swearing it was haunted, are just a big coincidence, and so the owner stumps up precisely the fare to Egypt in advance, in cash. Quelle coincidence. But all that was just to get the ball rolling; Daphne disappears, never to be seen again in the novel except via letters from Egypt, and Amabel is left in possession of the Dower House and some increasingly complicated circumstances.
Mrs. Brown, the elderly and bedridden family nurse, comes as part of the house’s appurtenances, along with her moody daughter Jenny as her attendant: Mrs. Grey herself brings along the faithful and truculent Ellen to see to her needs (and those of her dachshund Marmaduke) and to provide light comedy. Amabel soon becomes involved — or re-involved — with her former suitor Julian Forsham and some local aristos, since the Dower House is of course a subsidiary building on the estate of the squire, Airedale breeder Mr. Bronson and his family. Amabel, being an elegant and nearly perfect lady in every respect, is immediately afforded the entree to the entirety of local society at its highest levels; Ellen turns out to be related by marriage to some of the locals as well, and thus the household becomes immediately entrenched. Amabel gives every prospect of wanting to rekindle her youthful amours with Julian Forsham, but she cannot leave the Dower House for six months without returning the £200, and she can’t afford it.
Spooky goings-on, of course, start slowly and build in intensity, as does the general air of creepiness among the supporting cast. Amabel must stick it out with a stiff upper lip. Luckily Julian appears to wish to rekindle their romance as well, and they investigate the spooky goings-on together. There’s an episode with a remarkably talented medium, the dachsie vanishes and reappears, and doors keep opening and shutting themselves. The astute — or perhaps even merely competent — reader will have isolated a remark about someone in the neighbourhood forging banknotes and combined it with a knowledge of the plot of any episode of Scooby-Doo to realize that something is Going On in the cellars of the Dower House. The chief villain arranges a murderous plot that has Amabel writing her own suicide note without knowing it, then vanishing. But the villain’s subordinate female associate betrays the villain and saves Amabel from death, in an exciting climax.
Julian and Amabel get to appreciate each others’ virtues gradually as the case unfolds, and in the final chapter after Julian has popped the question, Amabel learns that Daphne’s boyfriend has similarly come through. Ellen approves comedically and Amabel romantically, and there is a happy ending.
Why is this book worth your time?
I have to confess, there is likely to be only a limited market for this book. I enjoyed the hell out of this, and I earnestly recommend it if you like this sort of thing, but I am sure that this will not be to everyone’s taste.
Elsewhere I have talked about my fondness for the 32 volumes about the elderly governess/private investigator Miss Maud Silver, written by Patricia Wentworth between 1928 and 1961. I’m very familiar with all those books and have read them numerous times. However, over the years, the 33 volumes by Wentworth that were not Miss Silver mysteries have, by and large, escaped me. Only a handful were ever printed in paperback and, while I was grateful for the chance to appreciate them, I felt that they were really only suitable for Wentworth completists, as it were. (Oh, sorry, I did promise you “no more Mr. Nice Blogger,” didn’t I? The few I read were tedious and melodramatic, a deadly combination.) I had not felt compelled to seek out the expensive and scarce remainder until recently, when a large number of them became available as e-books. My appreciation for Wentworth’s plotting craftsmanship and clear-spoken writing skills has deepened over the years, and I thought I would pick up a couple of these and give them a try, to see if my potential enjoyment had deepened. It had indeed; I loved this book. Here’s why.
I mentioned in the blog post linked above that one of the pleasant parts about the Miss Silver narrative is the way in which every novel is linked to every other novel with repetitive elements. Miss Silver’s home furnishings, the excellent culinary skills of her faithful servant Hannah, and the details of her clothing and jewelry (there’s a black velvet coatee mentioned a number of times that led to my instruction in a whole new area of women’s clothing) are constantly mentioned, as are the progressively more complex lives of her nieces and the three daughters of Inspector Lamb of Scotland Yard.
Obviously that is pretty much entirely absent here, since Miss Silver wasn’t yet invented when this was written. But Wentworth’s instinct even back so far as this, her fifth book, was to begin to accrete characters and ideas into a backdrop that would continue from book to book. If you have a good close look at the illustration of the first edition’s jacket at the head of this post, you will note the back-cover blurb making quite a thing of this; as near as I can tell, two of the characters are from 1923’s The Astonishing Adventure of Jane Smith and the third is from a book I haven’t yet encountered. Their part in the narrative is minimal, and truthfully is rather wedged in, but … that’s the way Wentworth instinctively builds a series novel, and I found it fascinating.
The other thing that Wentworth does so well is on full display here, and that is the creation of a plot and characters that have a pleasant air of familiarity and yet are quite different. The author doesn’t have to go into great detail because she has the knack of creating one-note characters, and furnishing a room in the reader’s mind by focusing on a couple of well-chosen objects. You understand what the function of the character is; one unpleasant young woman is there pretty much entirely to be disliked by readers and for us to admire the forbearance of Amabel in dealing with her (because Amabel is clearly a lady to her fingertips).
It’s as though this novel was a rough draft or prefiguring of bits of quite a few of the Miss Silver novels. There’s a sturdy and doughty (servant class) housekeeper who is fiercely devoted to her female employer and who will do anything to protect her (this translates as, once per book she initiates a red herring that confuses the issue for a few chapters). There is a faithful dachshund. There is the idea that well-born families’ daughters must marry well, and that this is crucial to the family’s continuance. There is the idea that dangerous and illegal things happen in bricked-up cellars with secret means of access (this one carries through right to The Girl in the Cellar from 1961). The heroine is a kind of amalgam of many other Wentworth heroines; plucky, upper-class, broke, resourceful, and about to fall in love.
Most crucially, there is romance and marriage. Marriage, indeed, is the sub-theme of this book. A “dower house” is of course the home of the widow of the estate-owner, after the estate has passed to his son. I don’t think it’s entirely an accident that the blameless widow Amabel is brought to the Dower House to restore its reputation; she is focused on marrying off her daughter and a quarter of the book is devoted to her (rather charming) love affair with her former beau. In symbolic terms, she redeems this house of failed marriages and makes it fecund again. Amabel’s first husband — well, the story is only sketched in, but she made the error of not marrying Julian for love, apparently by marrying an older man of whom her parents approved. Her second marriage shall redeem her first; similarly her daughter is enjoined to marry for love, although Amabel sensibly does nothing to discourage her flighty daughter’s attention from remaining upon the wealthy youngster whom she believes she loves. Amabel’s sister Agatha is said to have married a “little worm” who merely wanted to be comfortably provided for for life and thus urges Amabel to marry for love. Even the housekeeper Ellen’s marital relations figure in the story.
And the ultimate reference to marriage is so melodramatic, it’s actually hilarious. Unfortunately I have to give away some of the plot to share it with you, so you may skip the rest of this paragraph if you feel strongly about that. One of the evil gang is the long-lost twin sister Annie of the elderly nurse’s daughter who lives in the house (don’t worry, this is completely obvious in the book’s context). This is also a repeating theme in the Miss Silver novels; a lower-class woman who marries a villain and is forced to assist him in committing crimes, much to her distress. Annie disappeared years ago because she fell in love with the villain and ran away with him but — and this is apparently crucial — he married her. (“He married me to have a hold on me.”) How we know this is crucial is that at the end, when the villainous plot is coming to its climax, Annie betrays her husband to save Amabel’s life and, as the police are closing in, has an intense scene with her mother whom she hasn’t seen in decades.
“Her husband?” she said in a new voice. “Annie, ha’ you got a husband? Tell me the truth, my girl. Are you a lawful married woman? Have you got your lines?”
Annie lifted her wet face and met her mother’s eyes.
“I’ve got to go to prison, Mother,” she sobbed. “I’ve got to go to prison—there’s no one can save me from going to prison. But I’ve got my marriage lines.”
“The Lord be praised for all His mercies!” said Mrs. Brown.
Praise the Lord indeed. Attempted murder, personation, forgery, a prison term, pfft. But living in sin, now, THAT is a crime. I roared with laughter at this point, although I doubt I was meant to.
As I’ve said before, I do enjoy seeing thematic reverberations (all the references to marriage for nearly every character) in a book like this, and honestly I’m a little surprised to find something this professional in a work of this age, so early in the career of this writer. I found it a pleasant experience to notice that this is what she was doing — I’m not fond of deeply buried themes that make me work like a grad student to tease meaning out of them — and to trace the evolution of this concept through all the sub-plots and characters. So this is why, as I say, I enjoyed the hell out of this book. But then, I have a great fondness for Patricia Wentworth novels because I like the way they make me feel while reading them; as though I am in a kinder, gentler world where class differences are sharply marked but accepted by all as appropriate, where the continuation of the social system is of the utmost importance, and where bad people who commit murders are caught and punished, and order is restored. To have that feeling, I’m apparently prepared to sacrifice depth of characterization and believable plot structures; had I been the typical mystery reader of 1925, I doubt I would have missed them for a moment. As always, your mileage may vary.
Notes on social history
My first instinct was to think that £200 was a fairly small sum, but then I got curious since my touchstone, also from a mystery of this vintage, is that an upper-class unmarried woman could scrape by on £50 a year if she got bought a lot of dinners by young men. I did a little research and found out that if I wanted to pay the equivalent for a trip to Egypt today, the buying power in 2016 Canadian dollars of that £200 is approximately $20,000. There are a number of ways of doing this translation, so I may have misinterpreted, but it gave me a way to appreciate what the heroine gains by agreeing to spend six months in a “haunted house”. What is singularly impossible to believe is why anyone would pay that sum to achieve the result, but there you go, without it there would be no novel.
What are marriage “lines”? Find out here.
Notes on publishing history
You can obtain here the electronic copy of this book from Amazon, which today is selling it for CDN$3.86 with free shipping. I note the trade paperback edition exists as well, for an average of about CDN$20. No copies are today available on AbeBooks but I see a shabby-looking jacket-less first edition on eBay for about CDN$475 with postage. This seems expensive to me, but perhaps scarcity has a great deal to do with it. To my knowledge, there has never been another paperback edition before this year’s and I do not remember seeing or holding a physical copy in 45+ years.