#1937Club: Two Golden Age Crime Novels

The 1930s were of course the hey-day of the so-called Golden Age crime novels, and both of the authors below were prolific during this period, so little wonder that I managed to find a book each of them published that year.

Ngaio Marsh: Vintage Murder

This is the fifth novel to feature Scotland Yard detective Roderick Alleyn, but the first to be set in the author’s home country of New Zealand. Alleyn is on a prolonged holiday in that country, recovering from surgery. On the train he meets a British theatre company currently touring New Zealand. Although he tries to keep his identity as a policeman a secret, he gets tangentially involved when there is a case of theft on the train and the impresario/director Alfred Meyer of the company claims someone nearly pushed him off the train.

Once they arrive at their destination, he not only gets to see the acting troupe perform but is also invited to the birthday party of the charismatic leading lady Carolyn Dacres, who also happens to be the wife of the director. Meyer has planned an elaborate contraption with a magnum champagne bottle descending from the ceiling. However, in spite of numerous successful rehearsals beforehand, the champagne bottle falls down on Meyer and kills him. So the good inspector has to step up and help his NZ colleagues to solve the murder.

Marsh was passionate about theatre and had personal experience of touring companies as an actress in her youth, so she fills this book with a lot of technical theatrical terms, as well as all the ‘types’ of actors you might find in a professional company: the bitter older comedian, the young ingenue who’s there largely because of nepotism, the motherly character actress, and even the hangers-on. While some of the characters feel a little thin, and the discussions of the props and balancing of the weights a bit too detailed, this is very much in keeping with the writing of the time (think Dorothy Sayers and bell-ringing, Agatha Christie and poisons) – and perhaps with readers’ patience and expectations of a crime novel, rather than the present-day obligatory corpse on the first page (or at the very least the first chapter).

While the puzzle is quite intricate, and there are added psychological complications with a leading man who is in love with the beautiful Carolyn – and Alleyn too succumbing to her charms, what I found particularly interesting was the introduction of Maori elements to the story. There is a Maori doctor (educated in Britain) who plays a significant part, and a Maori fertility pendant that is given to Carolyn as a present. There are some openly racist remarks from certain characters in the book, and we are supposed to feel indignant about those, no doubt. However, even Alleyn musing about cultural differences can skirt dangerously closely to ‘noble but dangerous savages’ territory:

His fingers encountered the box that held the tiki. He took the squat little monster out.

‘This is the right setting for you, only you should hang on a flaxen cord against a thick brown skin like Te Pokiha’s. No voluptuous whiteness for you, under black lace, against a jolting heart… Sweaty dark breasts for you, dark fingers, dark savages in a heavy green forest. You’ve seen a thing or two in your day. Last night was not your first taste of blood, I’ll be bound.’

Nevertheless, Doctor Te Pokiha makes some very interesting and far more nuanced observations about colonialism, which must have been quite forward-thinking at the time:

The pakeha [white man] has altered everything, of course. We have been unable to survive the fierce white light of his civilisation. In trying to follow his example we have forgotten many of our own customs and have been unable wisely to assimilate his… Most of my people are well content, but I see the passing of old things with a kind of nostalgia. The pakeha give their children Maori christian names because they sound pretty. They call their ships and their houses by Maori names. It is perhaps a charming compliment, but to me it seems a little strange. We have become a side-show in a tourist bureau – our dances – our art – everything.

Another interesting element is the weight of the year 1936 (when the action takes place). There are some troubling clouds on the horizon, after all Hitler and Mussolini were already in power, and the Spanish Civil War had started. Although Europe must have felt remote to New Zealanders, the memories of the First World War are not too far away:

‘What do you think, Mr Alleyn? If there’s another war will the young chaps come at it, same as we did, thinking it’s great? Some party! And get the same jolt? What do you reckon?’

Agatha Christie: Dumb Witness

There is far less political and social topicality in Christie’s novel published that same year: this is mostly a family drama about inheritance, extravagance, domestic rivalries and guilt. I’m not entirely sure to what extent the title is ironic: it refers to the dog Bob, who is witness to a possible murder but cannot talk. I’m not sure to what extent ‘dumb’ was also used to mean ‘stupid’ at the time in Britain. Certainly, the Americans opted for a different title that same year: Poirot Loses a Client (although this might have more to do with selling it as a Poirot novel). Aside from the problematic title, reviews at the time concluded that ‘it’s not Mrs Christie’s best’ but still above average. I have to agree with that – it’s not particularly memorable, but a fun read.

Wealthy spinster Emily Arundell writes to Hercule Poirot in the firm belief she’s been the victim of an attempted murder after falling down the stairs in her house. By the time Poirot actually receives the letter, however, she has indeed died, apparently of natural causes. The only problem is that her nephew and nieces, who expected to be her heirs, have been thwarted, as she left her fortune to her lady’s companion, Minnie Lawson. Is that an indication that the second attempt at murder was successful and that she was pointing the finger of suspicion at her family? Or is Minnie a far more scheming and devious creature than she appears at first sight?

Poirot feels guilty that he was unable to prevent her death, so he sets off to investigate, initially pretending to be a possible buyer for Emily’s house in the countryside. He proves to be willing to deceive people in his attempt to discover what’s going on, which shocks the strait-laced Hastings. However, I did enjoy the interaction between them in this book, it feels like they are growing to be more serious partners, rather than Hastings being the ‘dumb’ foil for Poirot’s brilliance. And the interactions with the dog are utterly delightful – Christie clearly loved her dogs, and it’s in fact a portrait of her own dog, Peter, on the cover ‘who disclaims any connection with the events of the tale’.