John Chancellor's 'The Dark God' 1927

 

Crime-Book Society paperback edition No. 85 - 1940

John Chancellor, the pen name of Ernest Charles de Balzac Rideau (1900-1971) was the author of a series of crime and adventure novels popular in the 1920s and 1930s. He lived in Paris for a while and published an alternative guide to that city entitled How to be Happy in Paris without being Ruined! (1926) He also spent enough time in Berlin to produce a sequel, How to be Happy in Berlin (1929). The Dark God was published by Hutchinson in 1927 and by The Century Cp., New York in 1928, as sensational detective fiction with rationalised supernaturalism featuring Clawson of the Yard. It was also published in the Pulp Magazine, Detective Weekly, in several parts in 1927.

Jane Dace and her American boyfriend Dick Parmandy are walking through a dark Hyde Park, after the annual Armistice Night Ball at the Albert Hall. They are amongst returning revellers (many dressed in garish costumes) who were ghosts amongst the tall trees . Their footsteps on the damp grass were soft whispers. Little moons of powdered faces flashed by in the gloom. A crowd of people pressed past Jane. Somebody breathed in her ear: "Done!" A nervous, highly sensitive girl, orphaned at fifteen, she had become a live-in companion to her Aunt Miriam. Easily frightened, she experienced a moment of cold superstitious horror. Who had said it. A real being or a ghost? Parmandy leaves her at the block of flats in Marylebone Road, where Mrs. Miriam Dace had a five-room apartment on the first floor.

The 63-year-old aunt - a small, thin, virile woman, with fine white hair, blue wasted hands, sharp features, with an acid tongue - quizzes her niece the following morning as to whether she will marry Parmandy. All boyfriends she treated with suspicion - they only wanted the wealth she was to leave to Jane. The latter goes off to the bank where a second shock awaits: a Mr. William Jones has paid £1,000 into her account. The rest of the day passes normally, but the next morning she reads in her aunt's copy of The Times, in the Agony Column,  an announcement with a black border around it: "To J.D. - Thou fool! This night thy soul shall be required of thee."  The fear she felt was a fear more dreadful that that of a known death. It was the fear of the Unknown.

So off she goes to see her best friend, May Smith, who, although she poo poos thoughts of the supernatural, does accompany Jane to the bank. They find the depositor of the £1,000 had left a fictitious address. May agrees to spend the night at Aunt Miriam's due to Jane's increasing fears. That night Jane wakes up to see what she believes is Dick standing in the darkened bedroom. Whoever it was disappears; but, horror, Aunt Miriam has been murdered, with a knife firmly embedded in her chest. It's time for Scotland Yard's C.I.D. to appear - in the person of Superintendent Clawson, a calm, precise, thoughtful man. He was forty-two years old...his eyes were warm and dreamy - the eyes of a poet or a philosopher rather than a detective. Worse news is given to Jane - the knife is an American Army clasp knife and it has Richard Parmandy's initials engraved on it. Whilst there, Clawson is summoned by a scream to Jane's bedroom - she is standing by the bed looking at a pillow: a red fluid had been worked over it, forming the word "Dead!" Supernatural or not? 

Clawson goes to work. Although convinced that Parmandy is not the murderer, he fails to stop his arrest and incarceration. He attends Aunt Miriam's funeral and the reading of her Will. Also present are Jane, May Smith, Mrs Toyne (Mrs Dace's burly Irish helper), Pickerman (Mrs Dace's and Jane's solicitor) and an executor of the Will, Colonel Twiney. The latter was a living caricature of senility, a horrible, smirking picture of age that has outlived the decencies of humanity and become nothing but a gibbering husk. His face was grey and shrunken; the eyes were black, shining pin-points hidden in boney cavities. Wisps of white moustache, so fine that the grey flesh could be seen through them, quivered on his upper lip, which was continually twisted into an obscene grin above his toothless, champing gums. Nice. Jane has been left nearly half a million and Pickerman also says he will immediately move £63,408 into her account from a deposit in her aunt's bank.  Mmm.

The rest of the story is how Clawson slowly unpicks various clues; visits the very strange and eerie home of Colonel Twiney in Dorking; finds himself falling for the sprightly, if much younger, May Smith (luckily, it proves to be mutual); and pins down the actual murderer and his accomplices. It is, needless to say, not Parmandy. The highly unlikely ending rather spoilt things for me. Good defeated evil but in a rather fantastic way. I guessed the culprit[s] fairly early on, but that didn't preclude my enjoyment of the book.  

Sydney Horler's 'The Man from Scotland Yard' 1934

 

Crime-Book Society paperback edition No. 14 - 1936?

The title of Sidney Horler's first chapter, Dark Man - Fair Man, is apt, as we meet the villain (or one of them) and the hero within the first two pages. Diana Marsh is returning from the USA on the Mauretania and the liner is due to dock at Southampton on the morrow. Once again, she is being pestered by a cad - one Hector Graham - and, once again, she scorns him. He could have killed the little devil. Hard on his heels comes the fair man, Stephen Hurd (there was a suggestion of quiet and unsuspected strength  in young Stephen - she felt safe with him). He had been educated at Repton - bound to be a good egg, then. The ship docks; Diana looks forward to seeing her father and her pet greyhound, Lass of Fortune. Bad news awaits. Her father's kennel master, Josh Kelly, is on the quayside, but no father. That's because he had died in his sleep the previous night.

Of course, Stephen is suddenly alongside to help. Thank goodness, as she felt she wanted a man of this class to talk to. Off the three of them go to Belton Chase in the New Forest, that small Georgian mansion over which James Marsh had lavished care and money. Further bad news awaits; the family solicitor informs Diana that her father had died a poor man; the home would have to be sold.  Thus, the scene is set for Diana and Stephen to get to know more of each other and Hector to prowl. In fact, Chapter III is simply entitled The Enemy. While Diana is being shown a small cottage by her solicitor, George Smedley, a bluff northerner, a car swept by at a terrific pace - it is driven by...Hector Graham. He must not buy Belton Chase! In fact, it is purchased by a mystery bidder. Diana manages to buy back her greyhound, whilst the rest of the pack is sold to Hector. The cad also swears undying love for her, but he is more than just a harmless bounder. So much so, that Stephen, who seems to be never far away, knocks him down due to his over-familiarity towards Diana. Stephen has also given her a special telephone number - Whitehall 14000. Guess what: Stephen is The Man from Scotland Yard.

A further Chapter explains what Hector Graham is really up to. In fact, he is not 'Mr. Big'; that position is reserved for Kingfisher Dan. Captain Daniel McCorkell was a resourceful, unscrupulous, predatory master crook of Mayfair. Nicknamed for his fondness for flamboyant clothes, he was Hector's boss. It was his money which had set up Hector in the prepossessing Longmoor Grange, not too far from Diana's old home. The two crooks meet up at the Grange. The reader now finds out what nefarious business they are involved in - printing fake banknotes, for America, Europe etc.  Hector's visit to America had been to set up a link with a New York crime lord. The master forger is one James Bailey released from a seven years' stretch in Dartmoor. His whereabouts is a mystery. And Stephen Hurd is one of the ones trying to pin them all down. This criminal - detective cat and mouse game is what finds poor Diana enmeshed in.

Diana moves into Hope Cottage with Josh and her greyhound, which is being trained to run at the greyhound track (her father had been well-known there). Once again, she meets up with the unpleasant Hector. I felt that the greyhound sections of the novel possibly pandered to the author's own interests. Horler constructs a fast-paced narrative, with plenty of thrills along the way. He has Stephen Hurd and Hector Graham engage in not only verbal sparring ("I've devoured crook stories since I was a kid, and I've never yet come across a real detective"), but also fisticuffs and revolver pointing. There are dashes of humour and the usual flashes of racism from Horler (a buck n-g--r is mentioned, as is a fat, greasy Italian). It all ends well, of course. Stephen comes up trumps for the Yard - Kingfisher Dan and the forger Bailey are caught; Hector Graham can be charged with the murder of his thug henchman Cecil Kater; Diana and Stephen can get hitched and live at Belton Chase (a 'front man' had bought it for Stephen, who was very wealthy!); and Josh can sleep next door to Lass of Fortune. I enjoy a good yarn.

Sydney Horler's 'Black Souls' 1933

 

Crime-Book Society paperback edition No. 33 - 1936?

I thought I was sitting down to another Sidney Horler rattling yarn, but was instead confronted by seventeen non-fiction shortish articles. No matter, as most of them were quite interesting. The majority dealt with cases set in 19th century Britain and were a mixture of murder cases and pecuniary dishonesty. The shortest - Dawson, The Rosy-faced Horse-Poisoner and Why Walter Watts Hanged Himself - were a mere seven pages; whilst the longest - Messalina and the Corset Salesman, The Snyder-Gray Sex-Murder Drama took fifty pages.

I rather took to The Abominable Madame Rachel, the subject of the first chapter. Born about 1806 and too ignorant to write her own name, she was sufficiently clever to extract thousands of pounds from other women who were either not content with the quota of beauty with which Providence had endowed them, or sought by artificial means to restore that which, in the ordinary course of time, had diminished. In 1863, she published a pamphlet of 24 pages, entitled 'Beautiful for Ever', in which she extolled the extraordinary properties of Magnetic Dew of Sahara and the Jordan Water'. She had apparently purchased the exclusive rights from the Government of Morocco. An officer's widow, Mrs. Borradaile, was successfully swindled out of over £5,000 over a period of years. Eventually Madame Rachel was prosecuted for conspiracy to defraud and tried at the Old Bailey in 1868. It took two trials before she was sentenced to penal servitude; after serving for four years she was liberated on a ticket-of-leave - to commit the same fraud again. This time she practised as the 'Arabian Perfumer to the queen'. Back she came to the Old Bailey in 1878. Sentenced to five year's penal servitude, she succumbed to an attack of dropsy and died in the infirmary of Woking Convict Prison in 1880. What a character!

Last of the "Resurrectionists" dealt with a little-known 'Burke and Hare' type body-snatchers in London in 1831. Prior to 1832, the only bodies legally available in England for dissection were those of criminals hanged for murder. The consequence was that the supply of 'subjects' was wholly inadequate for the requirements of surgeons. Large sums were accordingly paid for dead bodies - hence the ghouls. This tale involved three such men and a Lincolnshire boy of 14 - found to have been clearly murdered for the purpose. Amazingly, the signed statement of one of the men, John Bishop, said he had made a livelihood as a body-snatcher for 12 years, and had obtained and sold from 500 to 1,000 bodies. How did he sleep at night?

Other stories, such as that of The Reverend William Dodd dealt with forgery and general felony (Dodd was hanged in 1777 for forgery); Leopold Redpath sentenced to be transported beyond the seas for the term of your natural life in 1857; the M.P. for Lambeth, William Roupell, who forged his father's will and, in 1862, was sentenced to penal servitude for life, but was released on a ticket-of-leave after 20 years of penance; all are told with zest by Sidney Horler. The author appears to have ransacked old newspaper accounts and law courts' trials for his collection. No doubt this also helped him construct his own fictional tales.

Perhaps a more famous case (thanks nowadays to Kate Summerscale's 2008 book The Suspicions of Mr. Whicher and the subsequent ITV film of 2011) involved the murder of a nearly four-year-old infant at Rode Hill House in Wiltshire in 1860.  Only five years later, did the child's  teenage sister (as she was then) confess to the deed. Although Constance Kent was sentenced to be hanged, she was subsequently commuted to penal servitude for life, and then released after 20 years' confinement. She emigrated to Australia and lived to the grand age of 100! And they say murder doesn't pay. 

Most of the stories are set in the 19th century, but two are set less than a decade before Horler's own collection. The splendidly-named Messalina and the Corset Salesman...chapter addressed a murder in a suburb of New York on 20th March 1927. Albert Snyder was the Art Editor of the Hearst Sports Magazine called Motor Boating. Held in the highest esteem by his colleagues, it was his misfortune to have married an attractive blonde, Ruth, who became known afterwards as "The Granite Woman". In 50 pages, Horler  constructs the time-line and motives for Albert's murder in what he calls this triangle of sex. Henry Judd Gray  a diminutive traveller in corsets was arraigned with Ruth for the crime and both were executed in Sing-Sing's Electric Chair. It was a drama of the middle-classes - a tragedy worked out amid the quietude of peace-loving suburbia. What at first sight appeared to be a burglary gone wrong, with Ruth tied up upstairs soon proved, by too many unlikelihoods, to be a tissue of lies. She said she had been knocked out, but no bruise or lump was found on her head; valuable silver and jewellery had been left untouched. None of her articles had been disarranged, unlike her dead husband's. An illicit love affair was established between Ruth and Judd Gray; the latter had a seemingly cast-iron alibi for being far from the scene. However, a railway ticket found in a waste paper basket in his hotel room proved otherwise. Eventually, they both confessed and suffered the extreme penalty. A reporter smuggled a tiny camera attached to his leg into the Death House and actually took a photograph of Ruth whilst she was being electrocuted. It is on the internet and I have seen it. Ugh. 

Crab-Apple Tree Murders, the second longest and final story in Horler's collection, occurred twelve years' earlier, in September 1922, on the outskirts of New Brunswick, New Jersey. The bodies of Rev. Dr. Edward W. Hall and Mrs. Eleanor Mills, with whom it was known he was carrying on an affair, were found lying side by side beneath a crab-apple tree in a deserted lane well known as a trysting-place for lovers. His wife of eleven years, Frances, was connected with a very rich and powerful family in New Jersey. An ageing spinster, she had leapt at the chance of marriage to this attractive man. He had married for position and luxuries, not love. A young girl, extremely attractive and married to an uncouth husband, James Mills, was in the choir of Edward Hall's Church of St. John the Evangelist. Two and two did make four. They began an affair. After the murder, detectives quickly cast their net over the widowed Eleanor Hall and her brothers. Henry Hewgill and William Carpenter Mills. Although a witness, named Jane Gibson, swore she had witnessed the murder scene and testified in court that Eleanor was there, the three wealthy defendants got off. The "Billion-Dollar Defence" had triumphed. At the time of Horler's publication he could write - there are some people in America who still believe that, one day, this dark sinister secret will be solved.

Andrew Soutar's 'The Devil's Triangle' 1931

 

Crime-Book Society paperback edition No. 29 - 1936?

It's less than a month since I read my last Andrew Soutar novel (see my Blog 16th January), which I found unusual but nevertheless quite enjoyed. The Devil's Triangle is again written from a slightly different angle and the strong narrative drive kept me reading so that I finished it in one day (unlike the last book). Sir Maxwell Deane, K.C., M.P., - aged forty, was handsome, alert, gifted with eloquence, shrewdness, and tremendous ambition - is sent out to Moscow to confer with representatives of the Soviet on matters affecting trade and certain concessions.  As he leaves the train, a young lady breaks away from a group of delegates and rushes towards him. With eyes that penetrated and, in penetrating, inspired!... the woman throws her arms around his neck and kisses him, first on the cheek and then the lips. She whispers quickly in his ear: "For God's sake, say I'm your wife!"  Being alert, he goes along with it. It helps that he knows her slightly - she is Anita Lavering, in her early twenties, and the daughter of Sir Douglas Lavering of Dunmore Square, an acquaintance of Maxwell's. They had briefly met once at a party at the Laverings.

The Soviets, seemingly satisfied, deposit the 'husband and wife' at an unpretentious hotel, prior to the conference Maxwell is to attend. Anita explains that she has been in Russia for six months and has been helping certain people get out of the country. She is in danger, hence her subterfuge. The ruse succeeds, as the two are able to get back, via Riga, Archangel and Murmansk, to London. However, the Soviets are so delighted with the story Anita spins them of a secret marriage in Paris, that they publish it in their newspapers. Inevitably, it is picked up by the London Press - to the great surprise of Anita's parents and everyone else. Back in London, Maxwell, who by now has fallen for Anita, suggests they actually get married to support the sham. She turns him down. Why? "I am already married." Moreover, she and her real husband parted less than ten minutes after they left a Paris registry office. She has not seen him since.

Anita desperately argues there must be some means of escape from the awful predicament in which we find ourselves. Alas, fate was not disposed to allow of any such escape. In fact, worse is to come. Maxwell's butler announces there is a very cultured gentleman to see him. A perfect stranger is ushered in - he was tall, alert, perfectly groomed - and introduces himself: Charles Pringle. My address until quite recently was Broadmoor Asylum. And he says his wife is...Anita Lavering! The reader is only on page 29, but they are now in for a further exciting 233 pages.  Pringle explains that he left Anita in Paris as he had to travel to South Africa and then South America, where he had big business interests. Moreover, after returning to England, he had been prosecuted by none other than Maxwell for murder. Maxwell  had argued for the death  penalty, but Pringle had been sent to Broadmoor as insane. Now he had escaped and where better to hide, whilst settling his financial affairs and escaping to South America. than at the home of the counsel who had prosecuted him! Anita has to be told: "My God!" said Maxwell, "If you're not insane, you're the most callous devil that ever lived."

The blow had come for Anita and Maxwell. Either, to Society, they were living in sin or she was a bigamist. As the pages are turned, the reader experiences the couple's desperate attempts to escape from this predicament. Kill Pringle? He says he has left a letter to be produced if he dies, stating his (legal) marriage in Paris. The author is good at gradually unravelling the psychology of Pringle. Behind the smooth exterior is a troubled mind, calculating but insecure. He can tease Anita, browbeat Maxwell, fool the older Laverings, but quiver when a warder from Broadmoor half-recognises him. To outsiders he calls himself Capristi - including Detective Slante of the Yard, who is searching for the escaped Pringle. He meets Pringle/Capristi at Maxwell's - does he recognise him? We shall find out towards the end of the tale.

To give any more details away would be a major 'spoiler alert'. Good does win out in the end, but not before another woman (Mariette Dubique) whom Pringle met in Paris is killed by him in her flat. I found that unnecessary for the plot, but I suppose it meant Pringle had to sever this mortal coil too. Soutar kept the narrative flowing, engaged the reader successfully with the main characters, who were all believable, and produced a compelling tale. As the Daily Sketch two-word quotation pithily says on the front cover: "Fine Thriller."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I read, a couple of days ago, an article by Clarissa Heard, entitled The Problem with 'diversifying' English literature. I quote - 

Lit in Colour, a campaign launched by Penguin and the Runnymede Trust to diversify English literature, has recently released its five-year progress report. 'Diversity' for this campaign doesn't mean diversity of thought, style, genre, poetic form or historical period, however. It refers to promoting writers on the basis of their BAME (Black, Asian, and Minority Ethnic) credentials while insisting that English Literature - cumulatively one of the most staggering achievements in Western civilisation - is too white for the modern classroom.

Simply, Bah! Thank goodness, one still can choose what one reads. For me (as shown by my Blogs) it means mainly pre-1960s novels (there are a few exceptions - Scott Mariani, Nicola Upson, C.J. Sansom) and certainly not BAME material. The rest of Clarissa Heard's article is too depressing to copy out. What is positive about the 21st century - apart from our grandchildren?

Grierson Dickson's 'Gun Business' 1935

 

Crime-Book Society paperback edition No. 28 - 1936?

This is only the second Grierson Dickson novel I have read, the first being Soho Racket (see my Blog of 23rd July 2025). I found the latter rather claustrophobic (sticking very much to the area of its title), but it was tightly controlled and there was a certain narrative drive to it. Gun Business I am not so sure about.  It starts well - It was only a few hours before she was murdered that Marie Morgeuil bought the scarlet silk pyjamas in which she died - but it never really lives up to that early promise. We learn very little about her in the next two pages of the Prologue; apart from a predilection for red - very red pyjamas because I am a brunette, we know she is South American, likes expensive Brazilian coffee and (much later in the story) works as a spy for her government - that of San Vallo.

The reader is then quickly introduced to the characters who will figure throughout the book. Victor Lyne, an armaments salesman. He had type of face which appeals more to women than to men - pale, with blue veins showing at the temples, blue eyes half-hidden by dropping lids, small black moustache above sensual lips. It was the sort of face which thrilled thousands of young girls nightly at the cinemas, which had in it something of the weakling, a touch of effeminacy and a trace of the beast. It still appealed to his wife, Lydia, even though their marriage had been a business deal. Victor had invested some of the profits of Flecker-Bastin, the firm of armament dealers he virtually controlled, in providing for Lydia. In return, he had acquired a share of the goodwill of her influential relations. What was the problem? Lydia thought Marie was one of his 'young girls'  

Lyne has a secretary, Janet Gale, who works for him at his office in New Oxford Street. She is presently compiling the formidable list of instruments of death which would be shortly on their way to the unhappy republic of San Vallo. The armaments would go not to the latter's government, but to rebels. This was being engineered by a treacherous member of the government, General Floriano Carrenza. Carrenza turns up at the office; Janet is not keen on him, partly because of his hands - brown and claw-like, and disfigured on the back by black hair. Not a typical white man, then. To add to the mix is the fact that a fat American, Berriman Lee, is working on behalf of his armaments company, Diamond Steelworks of Ohio, to steal the armament contract from Lyne. Strangely, Lee is boarding at the very place Janet has her 'digs'. When one adds the German master crook, Eitel  - cropped-haired, blond and solemn - who we have already met in the author's Soho Racket; an Italian-American Angelo Miglia; and a little cockney crook Pipey Hanna; we have the full cast of characters, who may or not be involved in Marie's murder.

We meet the famous Superintendent "Cissie" Marlow at his office in New Scotland Yard at the start of Chapter III. He is with his faithful side-kick, Sergeant Brodie, a heavily built, solemn-looking man and a persistent hypochondriac. One of the aspects of the novel that did not catch on for me was the banter that went on between these two. It appeared a trifle forced and eventually grated. They are sent to investigate Marie Morgeuil's death. Victor Lyne is soon under their forensic microscope; Lydia gets drawn in. Eitel, Angelo and Pipey are clearly working for someone in relation to the armaments deal; Carrenza and Lyne act increasingly suspiciously. One final character, Janet's potential boyfriend, Bryan Daly (who lives at the same lodgings in Mansfield Road) becomes involved. By this time, I thought that the author had lost the narrative thread; seemingly not sure which part of the story to concentrate on. The denouement bordered on the silly. It involved a light aeroplane flying low over London, tracking a carrier pigeon to a deserted house near Ham Common, where a kidnapped boy was held.

Perhaps the problem was that I kept putting the book down - Six Nations Rugby called as well as my regular Saturday morning breakfast group (we model ourselves after The Last of the Summer Wine but call ourselves The First of the Winter Plonk). However, I found it rather 'bitty' anyway. None of the  characters really caught on with me; perhaps Janet and Brian were the most sympathetic. There was too much of a Ruritanian aspect to San Vallo; Eitel got away yet again, which was a pity as he is an uninspiring character to read about. If Soho Racket was a B+, then I am afraid this novel was a B-.

Edgar Wallace's 'The Lady of Ascot' 1930

 

Crime-Book Society paperback edition  No. 27 - 1936?

The Lady of Ascot was a loose novelisation of Edgar Wallace's play M'Lady, which ran for a mere twenty-three performances in 1921 at the Playhouse Theatre in the West End. Apparently, it was panned by theatre critics! Well, I liked the novel - what one might call a rattling good yarn.

John Morlay, is a private 'detective' dealing only with the commercial credit of people. He is the remaining grandson of one of the Morlay Brothers, a reputable firm in London confining themselves to that lucrative and usually colourless branch of criminal detection. The reader first meets him peering through the trim box-hedge of Little Lodge, a pseudo-Queen Anne manor at Ascot, so small that it might have been built by some plutocrat to give his young and pampered daughter the joys of a practicable doll's house. Morlay meets up with a Scotland Yard friend, sub-inspector Pickles, who informs him the new occupant of the manor will be Countess Marie Fioli - "she's a schoolgirl - leavin' in the middle of term, which is bad. She's comin' up next week - her guardian or something has bought the house". Back in his London office, Morlay receives a visit from an acquaintance, Julian Lester, who was a little too tailor-made, his manners a trifle too precious...Morlay hated his jewelled sleeve-links and his pearl tiepin...Julian came in, looking as though he had stepped out of the proverbial bandbox. Now for one of those coincidences which keep most detective/thriller tales going. Lester has his eyes fixed on the eighteen-year-old Countess Fioli - he thinks there is money to be had from a matrimonial link up. He explains the importance of a Mrs Carawood - nineteen years ago Mrs Carawood was a nursemaid in the employ of the Countess Fioli, a widow who had a house at Bournmouth, and who was, I know, a member of a very noble family. The Countess died, leaving no will but a baby, whom she asked Mrs. Carawood to care for. Mrs Carawood became a wealthy woman - through opening eventually a chain of shops, which were bringing in, so Lester surmises, a considerable sum of money. Marie Fioli is now attending the prestigious, and expensive, Cheltenham Ladies' College. Good for Mrs C. But Lester thinks she has used the dead Countess' money for her own ends. He will investigate!

Morlay's interest is aroused; he visits Mrs Carawood's main store in Penton Street, Pimlico. He talks to the shop assistant - a tall, lank youth wearing a green-baize apron. His red hair was long and untidy, and a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles gave him an appearance of comic ferocity. Mrs C. is not there, but has gone to Cheltenham to see Marie. Morlay then did a thing which was more inexplicable to himself. He takes a train to Cheltenham! From then on it is a, surprisingly sentimental, roller coaster. Morlay meets up with Mrs C. - in the region of fifty, swarthy of face and yet not unpleasant to look upon. There was something of the gipsy in the romantic Mrs Carawood; then Marie - there were harmony and grace in her movements...the gaucherie of childhood had come to be a rhythm; the round, firm cheeks had delicate shadows. To Morlay, she is simply beautiful! Mrs C is agitated when she hears Morlay is a 'detective' and, determined to get him onside, visits him in his office and tries to employ him to  watch Marie's interests. Although, refusing payment, Morlay agrees to act in an honorary capacity.

Morlay and Marie get to know each other; Lester tries to find out more about Mrs. C - there is clearly a mystery about her relationship with 'the  Countess'. A further mystery occurs when a down-and-out man called Mr Hoad (he was a man whom Morlay met at the start of the tale at the Little Lodge - another coincidence) gives a message marked Urjent to Marie for Mrs C.  Clearly, something in Mrs C's past needs sorting. A Father Benito, of the Franciscan Church in Mayfair, goes to see Morlay and made a statement which brought John Morlay to his feet, wide-eyed. There are another hundred pages to go, but the reader begins to see a glimmer of light - it was here I began to guess the probable outcome. In other words, who Mrs Carawood really was; who the ex-Dartmoor lag Hoad was; and, in particular, who exactly was the young Countess of Fioli. Wallace holds our attention to the end, skilfully linking up Lester with the above threesome, as well as unveiling Lester's own proclivities. More must not be given away, except to admit that Marie and Morlay are going to live happily ever after. I repeat - I enjoyed the novel.

Eden Phillpotts' 'Bred in the Bone' 1933

Crime-Book Society paperback edition No. 26 - 1936?

Unlike the last few Crime-Book Society books I have read, this felt like a 'proper' novel, as opposed to a well-knit story. As much a psychological study as a thriller or detective yarn, it needs the reader to concentrate far more. The first five chapters have as their titles the names of the main participants. The first deals with Peter Bryden - the face of Peter Bryden presented a clash of qualities, so that any student of character, observing obvious traits tending to exclude each other, was concerned with the question of what sap and kernel remained, the process of elimination ended. He was handsome, with the old-fashioned, large-moulded distinction of an earlier age than our own - the solid and massive dignity that stares from the faces of early Georgian portraits...purpose marked Bryden's square features, and the countenance as a whole spoke of a self-controlled and continent but very strong-willed man. He now runs North Wood farm on the edge of Dartmoor. His father has been dead ten years and his elder brother, Lawrence, after making a poor show of running the steading, has handed over everything and left for Canada. More than that, Peter has also 'inherited' Lawrence's girl, Avis Ullathorne (sounds like a Hardy or Trollope surname!). Peter had triumphed, and the love of the woman was responsible for all that he had done since he first met her.

Then had come the woman, upset all his values and challenged his quality. She had probed unsuspected depths and revealed possibilities that Peter himself never guessed at..."'Till I met you, Avis, I just calculated the chances and didn't feel no very tremendous pull to living; and I certainly never guessed that love of a woman could turn the scales so sharp."...a contract existed between Avis and Peter Bryden: that they should never speak of incidents concerned with the past, either to other people or themselves. It soon becomes clear why this is so.

Into this seemingly idyllic position comes the sound of a motor-car... There appeared a man of forty years old, who looked younger He was neat and trim, rather under-sized and thin, but firmly knit. He is looking for Lawrence Bryden and his name is Midwinter. Greatly surprised to hear the latter has sailed for Canada, he is slightly rebuffed when he asks for more details; but Peter suggests he goes on to the nearby little hamlet of Little Silver and talk to a friend of the Brydens, a publican John White who runs the Woolpack Inn. So, off Midwinter goes and learns far more detail about Noah Bryden, the father, and his two very different sons. "Neither boy was quite the man their father was, yet both had character...but, though a likeable enough chap, Lawrence always had a screw loose on the matter of farming." Silly mistakes were made and Peter left in despair. He only returned when Lawrence sent a frantic message that, if he didn't come home, all was lost. When he returned, it was to find Avis and her widowed mother ensconced in a cottage on the farm land. "And then a fearful thing fell out, for Peter found himself struck to the heart with Avis Ullathorne". After initially deciding he would help Peter go to Canada, Lawrence changes his mind and decides to emigrate himself. So, that's the official story Midwinter hears down at the pub.

Then all hell breaks loose. Billy Archer, who resembled a large and shabby, but acute and active rat, had been about to steal watercress on the other side of the Moor to sell in Plymouth. From the midst of the growing stuff an unexpected object confronted him. It was a solitary human hand...a strong male hand, lacerated from some cause, but still intact. I immediately guessed it would be Lawrence on the end of the hand. And so it proved to be. The local lord, then the police (Inspector Budlake etc.) sprang into action. And so did Vincent Midwinter. And that is why he has visited Peter and Avis - telling them of Lawrence's demise only after listening to their tale of his departure for Canada -  and set up base at the Woolpack. It soon becomes obvious that Midwinter increasingly suspects the two of them. At one stage, I thought it was beginning to read like a typical Lieutenant Columbo - "Just one more thing..." - as Midwinter knew they had done the murder and they knew he knew etc. However, although he gets close, he can't actually pin anything on them and Chapter XIV is headed Exit Midwinter. The detective returns to London, admitting failure.

However, the 'meat' of a compelling story is just about to begin. Not for nothing is the next chapter entitled The Rift. Over the next ninety-odd pages the two very different characters of Peter and Avis ensure an unravelling of their seeming success. The rational, atheistic wife is simply unable to stem her husband's growing unease and feelings of guilt. Page after page deals with the disintegration of the man's character, even his soul. He starts to attend church with her mother and the awfulness of what he has done (he had, with Avis, poisoned his brother) sinks in, deeper and deeper. Avis, on a very different character and mental plane, realises she cannot stop this. Chapter XXI Death of Peter, however, shows how he has retained enough sense to ensure his end looks like a horrific accident. Avis has long realised his death would be best for both of them; even for their yet-to-be-born child. The final chapter, The Fisherman, sees Midwinter return (I hadn't seen that coming) to fish and meet up with Avis, who confesses the whole story. She leaves her fate in his hands. Two months after the day on which Vincent Midwinter left Avis Bryden, a more vital problem than she challenged him, and there opened the Great War. He fell in France before the year was ended.

Eden Phillpotts (1862-1960)