Sequence of Evil

"If you lay down with dogs, you get up with fleas."

- proverb

Genre historian and author of Masters of the "Humdrum" Mystery (2012), Curt Evans, proclaimed Harriet Rutland as "one of the Golden Age English mystery fiction's most original and interesting writers," which is a claim backed by empirical evidence – e.g. Knock, Murderer, Knock (1938) and Bleeding Hooks (1940). However, Rutland's third and final outing as a mystery novelist was something different altogether.

Blue Murder (1942) appears to have been heavily influenced by the turmoil in the author's personal life.

You'll have to read Evans' introduction for the finer details, but suffice to say that the care of an infant son and a deteriorating marriage ending in divorce, against the background of the biggest conflict this world has ever seen, ended up coloring the plot of this dark, sardonically written detective novel. It also changed the approach Rutland took in handling the plot.

Contrary to the previous two novels, Blue Murder is a character-driven mystery that's very low on (physical) detection.

The official police-investigators, Northshire's Superintendent Cheam and Scotland Yard's Chief Inspector Alan Driver, question all of the potential suspects and discuss the details of the case, but they barely have any tangible clues to work on – only the personalities and actions of the characters involved in the murders. Luckily, Rutland assembled exactly the type of characters of that could carry such a plot.

Blue Murder takes place in a small, sleepy village, called Nether Naughton, where the elderly, lecherous and sadistic Mr. Hardstaffe precedes over the village school as its hated headmaster. Hardstaffe lusts after "the youngest and prettiest of his staff," Miss Charity Fuller, but refuses to return his attention "as long as she is alive."

She is, of course, Mrs. Hardstaffe: a bothersome hypochondriac who keeps "a copy of Medical Hints under the Bible besides her bed" to "simulate new complaints" in the morning, but developing a poor health in the Hardstaffe home seems like a real possibility – especially in light of what their grown daughter's passion.

Leda Hardstaffe is a typical, English countrywoman in tweeds with a kennel of Sealyham terriers, but the little monsters have been allowed to overrun the home and they aren’t house-trained, which gave a whole new meaning to getting carpet bombed.

It doesn't appear to be a place to entertain guests for a long period of time, but they take in Arnold Smith, a scribbler of "novels of weak adventure, sugared with ladylike romance," who wanted to escape wartime atmosphere of London and work on the next chapter of his literary career: a detective novel. The idea came from his literary agent, "only thing is to turn to murder," but Smith, confessedly, knows nothing about writing detective stories and wondered how to "possibly get into the atmosphere of crime?"

Rejected cover

Well, in that regard, Nether Naughton proved to be an unexpected well of inspiration for an aspiring mystery writer: Mrs. Hardstaffe is found expired in her bed from an overdose of morphine and evidence that emerged argues against it being an accident or suicide.

The poisoning of Mrs. Hardstaffe mainly functions as a prelude to another, far more violent tragedy at the house, but also introduced a cast of new characters and potential suspects. There's the return of a prodigal son, named Stanton, who left after a fall-out with his father and brought along his wife and infant son, which was good for some friction here and there. Mr. Hardstaffe also found himself on the other end of a "threatening fist" when the father of one of his pupils, a Mr. Ramsbottom, came for an explanation for the unnecessary thrashing he gave his son with a cane, which happened earlier on in the story. Of course, Mr. Hardstaffe is remorseless and afterwards basically call parents "queer creatures" and basically compares them to wild animals with a superiority complex-by-proxy where their child is concerned.

So, as I said previously, there's a lack of physical and tangible clues, such fingerprints and blood-spatters, which were replaced by the psychological nature of the characters and how they acted upon the events they're confronted with – which is a game Rutland played very well and drew attention away from the murderer. Yes. Just like in Knock, Murderer, Knock, I pointed to the wrong person as the murderer.

The final revelation of the murderer was very well done. It was an incredibly dark, grim and gritty ending, but seemed very fitting for the seemingly never-ending darkness the world found itself in at the time.

That's something else I found noteworthy about Blue Murder: the World War II material was very interesting and places the book in the same category as such classical WWII mystery novels as Carter Dickson's Nine-and Death Makes Ten (1940), Christianna Brand's Green for Danger (1944) and Michael Gilbert's The Danger Within (1952).

The story is peppered with references of war-time England, which range from food shortages ("this meal isn't enough to feed a cat on") and a throw-away remark to a inquest on a baby ("left unattended in its gas-helmet during a mock attack") to quips about Hitler and Mussolini ("Blame Hitler. I didn't start the war").

There's also a character you won't often come across in mysteries from this era: a German-Jewish refugee, a scatter-brained maid named Frieda Braun, who's at the receiving end of the Hardstaffes casual anti-Semitism, but her most interesting contribution to the plot were her brief, contrasting memories of Germany – one which was still full of kindness and gemütlichkeit and the other the one she had flee from.

Well, I appear to have rambled on after I had already written the concluding part of this review, because I always seem to fumble the summing up part of a blog-post. So, I'll end it here by saying Blue Murder was an interesting, character-driven mystery novel with a heap of interesting WWII material and a dark, but memorable, ending. However, I still think Bleeding Hooks is the best of Rutland's trio of mystery novels. Blue Murder is good and a close second, but Bleeding Hooks is (IMHO) a genuine masterpiece. But discover Rutland and her altogether small output for yourself, because they are now available again thanks to tag-team work of our fellow "Connoisseur in Murder," Curt Evans, and the great Dean Street Press.

The Baited Hook

"Why does fate play such tricks with poor, helpless worms?"

- Sherlock Holmes (Sir Arthur C. Doyle's "The Boscombe Valley Mystery," from The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, 1891)

Last week, I wrote a fervidly enthusiastic and laudable review of Harriet Rutland's debut novel, Knock, Murderer, Knock (1938), but now I've read her second novel and fear I might have over-praised her maiden effort – because Bleeding Hooks (1940) is the real-deal.

Knock, Murderer, Knock is an odd, quirky portrayal of the closed-circle of suspects with an eccentric cast of characters and a string of bizarre, grotesque murders with knitting-needles. On the surface, it's a classically-styled detective story with a clever plot straying from the beaten track. So, in that regard, it's very satisfying and attractive book for the experienced armchair detective.

Bleeding Hooks is a brightly written, colorful story with a plot strolling along a more traditional route, which is strewn with twists and turns. The characters toddling along a beautiful, evocative drawn Welsh setting and the double-layered explanation has a last-minute with a dusting of originality.

The backdrop of the story is Aberllyn, a quaint fishing village in Wales, where a picturesque inn stands, named The Fisherman's Rest, which is a snug, cozy place that can easily compete with the larger Lakeside Hotel and often finds hotel-guests on its doorstep – to "beg for a room" no matter how "small and poorly furnished."

Only drawback for the holidaymakers is having to put with Mrs. Ruby Mumsby: a vulgar, slug-like widow who'd "ran after anything in trousers" and the dread of the local ghillies (a fishing-and hunting guide). It's a small discomfort that seemingly sorted itself out when Mrs. Mumby's body is found at the side of a lake with a salmon fly deeply embedded in her hand.

Dr. Roberts determines death was caused by a combination of poor health and shock from the deep wound, which caused her heart to give out, but a vacationing Mr. Winkley harbors suspicion of foul play and discreetly starts to investigate the sudden death – assisted by a pair of "Bright Young Things."

Pansy Partridge and Vyvyan Gunn, primarily referred to be their nicknames of "Pussy" and "Piggy," enthusiastically throw themselves into the roles of amateur sleuths, which furnished the plot with a pleasant amount of layman detection.

In his introduction for the Dean Street Press edition, Curt Evans likened Pussy and Piggy to Tommy and Tuppence from such Agatha Christie novels as The Secret Adversary (1922) and Partners in Crime (1929). Which is a fair comparison. However, they reminded me of two other partners in mischief, namely Vanya and Lucinda, from Helen McCloy's marvelous Mr. Splitfoot (1968) with a dash of Kelley Roos' Jeff and Haila Troy.

Well, they go about their self-imposed task with the zest and zeal befitting of a pair of amateur detectives, but their poking around and questioning aren't making them exactly popular with their fellow guests – which eventually results in an attempt on the life of Pussy.

The cast of potential killers, by the way, consists of the owners of the inn, Mr. and Mrs. Evans. Mrs. Mumsby long-suffering ghillie, John Jones. A veteran of the Great War, Sir General Courtney Haddox and his spinster sister, Ethel, who behaved suspiciously when the body was discovered. Pussy's mother, Mrs. Partridge. A couple, Mr. and Mrs. Pindar, who are affectionately referred to as the Pandas by Pussy. A prattling sport fisher, Major Jeans, who prefers to make his own fish flies and frequently utters "bleeding hooks," which gave the book its title. Mr. Weston and his young son, Claude, who's promising music-hall performer and quickly became my favorite character in the story, because I love magician-characters and magic-acts in detective stories.

So, while Piggy and Pussy are antagonizing or annoying everyone around them, Winkley has been far more subtle, which eventually gives him the opportunity to bait a hook, cast a line and patiently wait for a nibble – before reeling in the murderer. And it's quite a catch!

I also feel redeemed for having spotted the murderer and the motive, because in Knock, Murderer, Knock I only managed to get hold of a bunch of red herrings. However, Rutland did include a final pull of the rug that surprised both me and Mr. Winkley. I agree with John Norris, who reviewed the book under its US title, The Poison Fly Murder, that this final revelation makes the book somewhat of a minor masterpiece.

There's literally nothing I did not like about Bleeding Hooks, which is rare, because I can usually find something to nitpick about. But this one of those rare mysteries in which every aspect of the story seemed to co-exist in perfect harmony with one another. The plot, characters, background and atmosphere as well as the small, but interesting, tidbits about fly fishing and everything surrounding it made this easily (one of) the best reads of 2015.

I sincerely hope Rutland's third and final mystery novel, Blue Murder (1942), is able to hold itself up against its predecessor, because Bleeding Hooks is a tough act to follow. 

Needled to Death

"When people say things behind your back there is nothing you can refute or deny, and the rumors go on growing and growing, and no one can stop them."

- Miss Marple (Agatha Christie's "The Thumb Mark of St. Peter," from The Tuesday Club Murders, 1928)

Genre historian Curt Evans, author of Masters of the "Humdrum" Mystery (2012), and Rupert Heath of the Dean Street Press are promptly becoming the usual suspects in the revival of obscure, long-forgotten mystery writers – having already brought E.R. Punshon, Ianthe Jerrold and Annie Hayes back into the fray.

The next name on their hit list is "Harriet Rutland," whose real name was Olive Shimwell, and wrote "three of the most unjustly neglected English mysteries from the Golden Age of detective fiction." It's an opinion echoed by John Norris in his reviews of Knock, Murderer, Knock (1938) and Bleeding Hooks (1940). So that was all the encouragement I needed to pounce on Rutland's debut novel!

Knock, Murderer, Knock takes place at a hydro-hotel, called Presteignton Hydro, perked above a private beach in Devonshire Bay and the sprawling building provided a home to "a collection of oddities" – most of whom are permanent resident patients of the place.

Rutland succeeded in coating her satirical illustrations of this cast of gossiping gargoyles with a layer of gravity, which complemented the equally unusual plot.

Personally, I was very fond of Mrs. Dawson, who had failed to find a publisher for the thriller novels she had written and sniped at the reader by observing how "the reading public nowadays is never satisfied with only one murder" and there needed to be "two or three, at least." Which would become prophetic!

Ah, but there are more personages of interest: Colonel Simcox, a sock-knitting veteran of the Great War and a working class aristocrat, Lady Warme, who inherited her title from her green-grocer, philanthropic husband, but that's a private-embarrassment. There's also a pious Miss Astill and a batty Mrs. Napier, among others, who are overseen by a staff and a professional nurse under the guidance of Dr. Williams – owner of the resort.

None of these characters or their behavior can be easily pigeonholed as typical, stock-in-trade clichés of the genre, which can be considered as a triumph of characterization. They're all a bit daft or eccentric, which can be an object of fun, but it's their buggy behavior that makes the story swing between satire and brooding seriousness.

But, enough about the characters, lets shift the focus of this review to the plot. A plot with no less than three murders knitted in its design and the first body is that of the beautiful, evocative Miss Kane, who turned the heads of the men and scandalized the women, found slumped on a settee in the lounge – a knitting-needle jammed into the base of her neck.

A 25-cent Dutch edition Knock, Murderer, Knock

Inspector Palk is saddled with the responsibility of ferreting out the murderer and is assisted by Sergeant Jago, who laments that the "craze for detective fiction" gives "the general public too much information about finger-prints and police procedure." Of course, the sergeant loves reading thrillers, but it's all right for him because it's his job. Needless to say, I took as much of a liking to sergeant as I did to Mrs. Dawson.

Anyhow, Palk struck me as a poor man's Inspector Roderick Alleyn. At the end of a series of interviews, Palk does make an arrest and assumes the murder is solved, but, "before the week ended," he and his "band of constables" would be back – to resume those "grueling hours of police questioning" after someone else got poked with a knitting-needle. 

In his introduction, Evans compares Knock, Murderer, Knock to the works of some of Rutland's "Great British Crime Queen Contemporaries," which has all the familiar names, but neglects to mention Christianna Brand and Gladys Mitchell.

The book reminded me the most of a combination of both their works. The relationship between the first victim and the rest of the cast reminded me of London Particular (1952), in which an outsider is murdered within a close-knit group of people and it doesn't seem to matter – until another murder strikes a lot closer to home. It's even pointed out that Miss Blake and the assumed murderer "had been like visitants from some other world whose actions left them entirely unaffected" and how the situation "might have been different if any of the older residents had been involved in the murder."

Of course, the main difference is that people in Brand's closed group of insiders genuine cared for each other, but that lack of humanity and mental quips would've been food for Mitchell's Mrs. Bradley. Who's not unfamiliar elements of abnormal psychology in her murder cases.

Well, Palk seems insistent on flubbing the case by looking for a copycat-killer the second time around, but soon finds himself in the company of a mysterious guest at the hotel, Mr. Winkley, who swiftly acquired a reputation as a crime-fiction enthusiast. Initially, Winkley seems to be playing a poor man's Roger Sharingham, but there's a clever mind behind his fumbling and bumbling, which succeeded in drawing out the murderer and the explanation was very much in line with the psychological nature of the story.

The only disappointment was how very, very wrong my own solution was. I had dumped all of my eggs into one basket and was wrong on every count, which revolved around a description of one of the woman at the resort: described as a big woman with "large, capable hands" and "exquisitely corseted," but the "illusion of femininity" was marred by the "masculine tones of a deep, resonant voice." Nurse Hawkins had mentioned once or twice how the Victorian-minded patients "don’t like to be naked altogether," which would be a perfect cover for something that was very not done during the 1930s and the people who stumbled to this secret ended up with knitting-needle in their neck.

I was so sure I had figured it all out, but the actual solution and motivation was slightly more conventional and less modern than that. 

However, Knock, Murderer, Knock is a very good, well-written story and one that'll be especially appreciated by seasoned mystery readers, because it's something off the beaten track. Definitely recommended!