Читать книгу Ngaio Marsh: Her Life in Crime - Joanne Drayton - Страница 8

‘It started off rather grandly with a printed invitation to Grosvenor House from the Detection Club,’ Ngaio explained later. They ate in a private dining room, with the Chief Constable of Surrey as guest speaker, but the meal was prelude to a more significant event: the 1937 induction of E.C. Bentley as president of the Detection Club. The cream of crime was there: Dorothy Sayers, John Rhode, Anthony Gilbert and Freeman Wills Croft, to name a few. After the speeches, they withdrew to a private drawing room where the real business began. Dorothy Sayers was mistress of ceremonies. Her imposing figure, ‘robust, round and rubicund’, towered over her colleagues. She struck Ngaio as something of ‘a cross between a guardsman & a female don with a jolly face (garnished with pince-nez), short grey curls, & a gruff voice’. Agatha Christie was not in attendance, but she would meet with Ngaio later that evening at the Detection Club rooms in Soho. In the meantime, Ngaio and her agent were seated in two chairs against an imposing rostrum. ‘I should explain before I go any further that my agent is a man with an ironic turn of mind…& a most singularly loud laugh.’ They were left alone in the room and suddenly the lights went out and there was blackness.

A door at the far end opened (as all doors in detective novels open) slowly. In came Miss Dorothy Sayers in her academic robes lit by a single taper. She mounted the rostrum. Judge my alarm when I saw that among the folds of her gown she secreted a large automatic revolver. She lit candles on her desk &…uttered some intimidating order. In came the others in a solemn procession bearing lighted tapers & lethal instruments. There was the warden of the blunt instrument—a frightful bludgeon, the warden of the sharp instrument—I think it was a dagger—the warden of the deadly phial, & last of all John Rhode with a grinning skull on a cushion. And there, in the middle of them, looking apprehensive, as well he might, was poor Mr Bentley.

With huge solemnity, Sayers administered the Detection Club oath to Bentley who promised:

under pain of every horror that every concoctor of crime fiction has ever invented to obey the laws of detective fiction. Never to conceal a clue. Never to leave a knotty point unravelled. To place before the reader every scrap of information that is relevant to the solution…He took the oath & then close to my ear & without the slightest hint of warning, in a private drawing room at Grosvenor House at about 11 p.m. on a summer evening Miss Dorothy Sayers loosed off her six-shooter. The others uttering primitive cries, waved their instruments, blunt sharp & venomous, & John Rhode, by means of some hidden device, caused his skull to be lit up from within. And to my undying shame my agent laughed like a hyena. The ceremony was practically over, which is perhaps the reason my agent escaped with his life.

Ngaio’s writing had earned her a place in the inner sanctum of British detective fiction. Since her début with A Man Lay Dead in 1934, she had written four titles, and when she arrived in London in the spring of 1937 it was with the manuscript for her sixth, Artists in Crime. She was sufficiently esteemed to be invited to a Detection Club dinner. If she had lived in London she would have been a member, but the club requirement that members attend five or six meetings a year prevented her from joining.

She would dine out on stories of her Detection Club evening when she returned to New Zealand, giving speeches, broadcasts and press interviews, but in the meantime she savoured this and other experiences. ‘I get a feeling coming back to London which I must confess I don’t get coming back to New Zealand…something quite extraordinary happens,’ she told a BBC interviewer. ‘I always wonder perhaps it won’t this time but it always does.’ That familiar sense of ecstasy had returned and, to top it off, she discovered she was a celebrity among the many fans of crime fiction in Britain. In 1945, Edmund Wilson would write scathingly in The New Yorker of the sad addicts of crime fiction whose ‘talk about “well-written” mysteries is simply an excuse for their vice, like the reasons that the alcoholic can always produce for a drink’. In 1937, this addiction was well established in Britain and the United States, and Ngaio Marsh was now a celebrated supplier of whodunits.

It was with some trepidation, therefore, that she contemplated a love interest for Alleyn. She had a winning formula with her monkish, bookish, aesthetic detective, and romance was a controversial issue among commentators. In 1928, S.S. Van Dine, writing under his real name of Willard Huntington Wright, had cautioned writers against involving their series detectives in romance. ‘There must be no love interest,’ he wrote in his list of ‘Twenty rules for writing detective stories’. ‘The business in hand is to bring a criminal to the bar of justice, not to bring a lovelorn couple to the hymeneal altar.’ Perhaps as a consequence of this, when Dorothy Sayers introduced her sexually active Harriet Vane to Lord Peter Wimsey in Strong Poison in 1930, a critical outcry ensued. There was something not quite dependable about a detective who could be distracted from his crusade against crime by the sins of the flesh. Then there was reader distraction from the central problem of solving the murder, and the fact that detection was deemed a masculine pursuit. How could the puzzle be unravelled cleanly and fairly by a detective who was making romantic overtures to the opposite sex? Rationality must be ascendant in a genre with mind games at its core.

Ngaio’s agent was dubious about her marrying Alleyn off. But there was a dilemma. Nigel Bathgate was young and shallow, and as a confidant he had worn thin; and Inspector Fox was like a huge, comfortable, slightly shabby armchair—just part of the furniture. Ngaio knew a wife would expose aspects of her detective that the men in his life could not. Marriage seemed the next logical step in his emotional development.

On the voyage from New Zealand to England, Ngaio had mixed the ingredients of romance. Initially they had fizzed and popped and threatened to separate, like two incompatible substances in a beaker. At the beginning of Artists in Crime, Roderick Alleyn is on board the Niagara, making the same trip back to England as Ngaio. It could almost be Ngaio whom he sees on deck when he looks up, startled by a female voice.

‘Damn, damn, damn! Oh blast!‘…

Sitting on the canvas cover of one of the [life] boats was a woman. She seemed to be dabbing at something. She stood up and he saw that she wore a pair of exceedingly grubby flannel trousers, and a short grey overall. In her hand was a long brush. Her face was disfigured by a smudge of green paint, and her short hair stood up in a worried shock, as though she had run her hands through it. She was very thin and dark…A small canvas was propped up in the lid of an open paint-box. Alleyn drew in his breath sharply.

Her canvas is a simplified, magnificent rendering of the wharf they have just left at Suva. Alleyn finds the sketch almost too painful to behold. Its creator, who is less sacrosanct about it, stares dispassionately at the work with an unlit cigarette between her lips. A distracted search through her trouser pockets for a match reveals only an old paint-smeared handkerchief. She runs her fingers through her hair in frustration.

‘Blast!’ she repeated, and took the unlit cigarette from her lips.

‘Match?’ said Alleyn.

[And with that…] She started, lost her balance, and sat down abruptly.

Agatha Troy’s first encounter with her future husband is a bruising collision of egos. He is being his usual polite, slightly supercilious self, and she is being a professional painter with all the frustration and anxiety that this entails (and no one knew this better than her creator).

The view of the Suva wharf Troy is painting was a vision Ngaio had savoured on her return voyage to New Zealand on the Niagara in 1932. She treasured her impressions: the sultry day; the acid green of the banana leaves; the mop of dyed, ‘screaming magenta’ hair on the tall Fijian; and the brilliant sari of an Indian woman. She had wanted to paint them, but felt too inadequate. ‘It was this feeling of unfullfilment [sic] that led me to put another painter on another boat-deck,’ wrote Ngaio in her ‘Portrait of Troy’ for Dilys Winn’s Murderess Ink. ‘She made a much better job of it than I ever would have done.’

The naming of Troy seemed a more casual process than the naming of Alleyn. Ngaio wanted a plain, down-to-earth name, and thought of Agatha, and then the rather unusual surname of Troy. She signs her paintings ‘Troy’ and is known as Troy. Ngaio said there was no link between Agatha Troy and Agatha Christie.

Ngaio wove her whodunits out of the fabric of her own life. ‘I always tried to keep the settings of my books as far as possible within the confines of my own experience.’ For the make-up of her leading characters she looked to people she knew, and to herself.

If Alleyn reflected the almost fussily feminine, cultured, reserved side of Ngaio, then Troy was a projection of her truculently masculine, untamed artistic self. She was the painter in fiction that Ngaio longed to be in life. Ngaio could write about Troy’s genius and her cleverly spontaneous response to the visual world, but seldom achieved this same untrammelled brilliance in her own canvases. In her painting, as in her detective writing, Ngaio looked for the golden section—for the perfect measure of ordered form, for the formula that made sense of the world and what she did. She wrote tellingly of her days at art school in Christchurch: ‘I wanted to be told flatly whether things I had drawn were too big or too small, too busy or too empty. I wanted to know, when I failed completely, exactly where I had gone wrong and how I might have avoided doing so.’ Ngaio could never be the wild soul she created for Troy. She was too busy searching for the rules to realize her own vision. ‘It seems to me, now, that I never drew or painted in the way that was really my way: that somehow I failed to get on terms with myself.’

The parallels between Ngaio and her Pygmalion did not end there. They were uncannily alike in appearance. As the ship moved away, Agatha Troy ‘stood for a moment staring back at Fiji’.

Her hands gripped the shoulder-straps of her paint-box. The light breeze whipped back her short dark hair, revealing the contour of the skull and the delicate bones of the face. The temples were slightly hollow, the cheek-bones showed, the dark-blue eyes were deep-set under the thin ridge of the brows. The sun caught the olive skin with its smudge of green paint, and gave it warmth. There was a kind of spare gallantry about her.

Ngaio and Troy were alike in their ‘spare gallantry’, cherishing good manners and discretion with a kind of masculine valour. They were hugely protective of their careers. They were self-contained, yet also shy and socially reticent. They shared the same mannerisms: the same boyishness; the same worried tousling of the hair; the same ‘gruff stand-offish voice’; the same natural inclination to curl up their long legs and sit on the ground; the same addiction to smoking; the same long-fingered, tremulous hands…and the list could go on. Troy was made according to Ngaio’s pattern.

Even in love, their paths were similarly rocky. The painter in Troy cannot resist Alleyn’s good bones. She has to take his likeness. ‘The subject,’ she confesses in a letter to her artist friend Katti Bostock, in England, ‘is a detective and looks like a grandee. Sounds like it, too—very old-world and chivalrous and so on…I’m rather on the defensive about this Sleuth—I was so filthy rude to him, and he took it like a gent and made me feel like a bounder. Very awkward.’

Alleyn finds it equally difficult: ‘She bridles like a hedgehog…whenever I approach her’. And when she paints his portrait: ‘it’s a rum sensation when they get to the eyes; such a searching impersonal sort of glare they give you. She even comes close sometimes and peers into the pupils. Rather humiliating, it is. I try to return a stare every bit as impersonal, and find it tricky.’ It is Troy’s penetrating gaze that makes Alleyn self-reflective. In previous books he has openly regretted and loathed the more distasteful, invasive aspects of his job—the searching through ‘under-garment drawers for incriminating correspondence’, the opening up of private lives to public scrutiny.

He also abhors the carrying of guns and capital punishment. Fox says to him in Death in Ecstasy: ‘I know how you feel about homicide cases. I’d put it down to your imagination…I’m not at all fanciful, myself, but it does seem queer to me sometimes, how calm-like we get to work…and all the time there’s a trap and a rope and a broken neck at the end if we do our job properly.’

Alleyn is haunted by the consequences of a good result, but it is love, not death, that makes him really question his job. When they leave the ship at Southampton and find themselves tied up in the same murder case, with Troy as a suspect, Alleyn is full of qualms. He realizes she is appalled by the very aspects of his work that disturb him. Troy is running a small residential painting school at her home at Tatler’s End when, in full view of the class, the life model is dramatically impaled on a dagger, wedged through the back of the wooden throne. Only one of Troy’s pupils has pushed the model down onto the dagger, but everyone in the studio has a motive to kill her. The invasion of Troy’s privacy and that of her pupils, when Alleyn begins his investigation, makes Troy angry, and she challenges him:

‘Do you want to search our rooms for something? Is that it?’

‘Not for anything specific. I feel we should just—’ He stopped short. ‘I detest my job,’ he said; ‘for the first time I despise and detest it.’

And if this is not disquieting enough for Alleyn, Troy is also worried about losing her independence and identity as a painter. He can see how she shies away whenever she imagines herself becoming subsumed by his job and their relationship. Through Troy, Ngaio communicates a modern woman’s reluctance to sacrifice her career and her individuality to marriage; through Alleyn, she traces a modern man’s waking comprehension of this. Theirs will be a marriage of equality, but getting to the altar will be fraught.

Not many of Ngaio’s books are more biographically poignant than Artists in Crime. She knew the workings of the life room by heart. ‘I enjoyed best the nights when we made time studies from the nude,’ she wrote in Black Beech.

The model…was Miss Carter, a dictatorial but good-tempered girl who had come to us from show business…She was a big fair creature. If a twist of the torso or pelvis was asked of her she would grumble professionally and then grin. The gas heaters roared and the great lamp above the throne held the motionless figure in a pool of light. When the door was opened the students hurried in to manoeuvre for places. In a semi-circle round the throne sat people on ‘donkeys’ and behind them easels jockeyed for vantage points. ‘Have you see [sic] it from over there?’ Mr Wallwork would mutter, with a jerk of his head and one would hurriedly shift into the gap he indicated. The room looked like a drawing from Trilby: timeless, oddly dramatic, sweltering-hot and alive with concentration.

Richard Wallwork took life classes at Canterbury College in the best of a very academic and staid tradition. But his talented students, and his inspiration as a teacher, made up for many of the progressive ideas that were missing. One of his cleverest students was Olivia Spencer Bower, a young woman freshly back, in 1919, from art school in Britain. She began classes at the end of Ngaio’s time at Canterbury College. One day she remembered that ‘the model hadn’t turned up & Ngaio was doing the job’.

Mr Wallwork was pushing her around on the Throne mid gales of laughter. It was the personality which intrigues. Then one day I met her outside a painting shop in Colombo Street. She had on an enormous camel hair coat with high collar & great wide shoulders. I came home in rather shocked surprise & said to my mother—do you know she’s beautiful.

Ngaio sat for her artist friends formally and informally. She knew what it was like to be manhandled by someone setting a pose. She could imagine the consequences of a dagger jammed through the back of the bench.

The tempestuous courtship of Alleyn and Troy continues unresolved through Artists in Crime, paralleling the police investigation, and just when the momentum of both is about to founder there is another murder, more hideous and haunting than any before. In Golden Age detective fiction, the horror of decay was usually mitigated by the narrow timeframe, and by makeshift shrouds and the sterile formality of mortuary vans, autopsy tables and coroner’s inquests. But this body, that of free-living artist Garcia, waits days to be discovered, in a dusty garret-like studio in a semi-derelict warehouse in the East End of London. You can almost smell his putrefying corpse in the words she uses. Troy has warned Garcia about his lifestyle. ‘While you’re here you’ve got to behave yourself. You know what I mean?…I won’t have any bogus Bohemianism, or free love, or mere promiscuity at Tatler’s End. It shocks the servants, and it’s messy. All right?’ But Garcia cannot contain himself, and pays for his drug addiction and womanizing with his life.

Troy takes an orthodox stand on an issue Ngaio knew plenty about. Art studio life in Christchurch was bohemian. A sense of sexual freedom and fluidity reigned, and this was the milieu she sought out before and after her trip to England. But this repressed provincial bohemianism had to be circumspect to survive. Through the bedrock of Christchurch ran seams of liberalism, sexual licence, homosexuality and just plain eccentricity, which were known about but not usually discussed. Troy does not judge Garcia’s behaviour; she merely tells him to keep it out of sight.

Artists in Crime was Ngaio’s last title published with Geoffrey Bles. Her agent Edmund Cork negotiated a more favourable contract with Collins, who was also Agatha Christie’s publisher. She left the company that launched her career with reluctance, but the advantages were undeniable. For the next four titles, she would receive an advance of £250 and 15 per cent royalties. From 1940 her American publisher would be Boston-based Little, Brown. In the meantime, Collins was wonderfully convenient because she was there in England to confirm arrangements and sign papers. Over the years, Ngaio established a close friendship with publishing magnate William (Billy) Collins, who in many ways resembled her dapper, well-mannered, well-meaning detective. Things were good for Ngaio. She was in a more lucrative stable with the promise of financial security, and England was an exciting place to be.

She began writing for New Zealand syndicated newspapers under the pen name ‘The Canterbury Pilgrim Again’. Her exhilaration was clear in descriptions of her arrival in spring, which had more significance than New Zealand’s. ‘Here the trees are so long asleep, the fields hard with frost or sodden with the cold winter rains.’ The English countryside was awakening, and she was thrilled to see ‘the pricking of young buds’, the soft blades of new grass like ‘fine hair on the firm margins of hills’, and yellow flowers in cottage gardens and cowslips in the hedgerows.

Her excitement was also there in descriptions of events leading up to the coronation of King George VI in May 1937. ‘On the road outside Camberley we passed troops on their way up to London,’ she told readers. ‘When at last the roads turned finally into streets and scarlet buses joined the thickening stream of traffic, we saw banners hung out from all the windows.’ London was alive with festive buzz and ‘Hyde Park…turned into an enormous camp, with horse lines, tank lines, and rows and rows and rows of army tents’. Hazardous scaffolding was erected to clean huge civic monuments. ‘All that strange bronze and marble population of London will be smartened for the Coronation,’ she wrote. ‘Only the rabbits and mice round Peter Pan’s pedestal in Kensington Gardens have no need of spring cleaning, for they are polished…by small fat hands in woolly gloves…London, like a grand old dowager, puts on her royal colours with an air and prepares to welcome a king.’ Set against this canvas of pomp and ceremony was her private pleasure at meeting the Rhodes family again. It was not long before their lives became enmeshed in the delights of London’s debutante season.

Nelly Rhodes’s daughter Maureen was presented, and Ngaio was invited to ‘coming out’ events that included a Royal Garden Party in June. These occasions provided fascinating slices of upper-class and aristocratic society. She sat with her friend in the chaperones’ corner, a ‘looker-on’, and what she saw became material for another book. ‘For NELLY to whom this book owes its existence,’ she wrote in the dedication to Death in a White Tie, one of her most superbly crafted classic English whodunits. The flurry of debutante parties was a perfect setting for blackmail and high-society murder. Greed mixed with jealousy and aristocratic indulgence could conceivably transform the rituals of the mating game into the rituals of a murder game. And in London it could plausibly involve a small, overbred group. With Nelly, Ngaio heard the snatches of society gossip and learned the debutante rules, which were strict and established, but the idea for the murder had another source.

‘The facts of the case are simply these,’ wrote Fergus Hume in the opening chapter of The Mystery of a Hansom Cab. ‘On the twenty-seventh day of July, at the hour of twenty minutes to two o’ clock in the morning, a hansom cab drove up to the police station, in Grey Street, St Kilda, and the driver made the startling statement that his cab contained the body of a man whom he had reason to believe had been murdered.’ The murderer wore an overcoat over his evening dress and a large soft felt hat that concealed his face. These clothes were identical to those of the victim. At the coroner’s inquest, an expert witness confirmed that the victim had died from the inhalation of chloroform from a handkerchief held over his mouth. The victim’s heart was flaccid with a ‘tendency to fatty degeneration’, and that accelerated the fatal result.

It was a brilliant concept—a hansom cab was so public and yet so private. Hume understood that it was the perfect place for a murder because the crime could be concealed from the driver seated outside, who was the only witness. Ngaio realized that a horseless cab driven in London in 1937 could be equally secluded. Lord Robert Gospell, known to his friends as Bunchy, is doing undercover work for Roderick Alleyn. Bunchy, an effete, aging, aristocratic party animal who minces his way unremarkably through London’s upper echelons, has worked for Scotland Yard before. He is an ideal plant to bust a blackmail ring, and a personal friend of Alleyn’s, so when he is discovered dead in a London taxi it gives the detective a terrible jolt.

Ring, ring, ring goes the telephone. He wakes up with a start. It is four o’clock in the morning and Alleyn has nodded off in his room at the Yard. He picks up the receiver and a disembodied voice says: ‘There’s a case come in, sir. I thought I’d better report to you at once. Taxi with a fare. Says the fare’s been murdered and has driven straight here with the body.’ Alleyn goes downstairs, thinking all the time of Bunchy and his blackmail ring. He cannot understand it: Bunchy was supposed to telephone and report in. Alleyn is greeted at the entrance by the uniformed sergeant on duty. ‘Funny sort of business, Mr Alleyn…The cabby insists it was murder and won’t say a word till he sees you.’ Alleyn opens the door of the cab, turns on the dim roof light, and there is Bunchy, dead.

Alleyn reels in shock. When he recovers a little, he asks the cabby why he is so sure it was murder.

‘Gorblimy, governor,’ said the driver, ‘ain’t I seen wiv me own eyes ‘ow the ovver bloke gets in wiv ‘im, and ain’t I seen wiv me own eyes ‘ow the ovver bloke gets out at ‘is lordship’s ‘ouse dressed up in ‘is lordship’s cloak and ‘at and squeaks at me in a rum little voice same as ‘is lordship.’

Bunchy has been asphyxiated with his cloak, and a consultation with Bunchy’s doctor, Sir Daniel Davidson, confirms that Bunchy was ill: a healthy man might die in about four minutes, a man with a heart condition could take less than two, and Bunchy possibly died almost immediately.

The parallels between Ngaio’s and Hume’s murders are obvious, but beyond the basic framework of the killings, the stories develop differently. Hume’s novel predated Conan Doyle’s first Sherlock mystery by a year, and Simon Caterson, in his introduction to The Mystery of a Hansom Cab, argues that they spearheaded two very different directions in crime fiction. ‘Where Conan Doyle concentrates on the establishing of the character of his protagonist, Hume’s detectives Gorby and Kilsip are merely two players within an ensemble of actors.’ Hume used his mystery to explore the world in which his characters lived rather than developing any one of them into a super-sleuth.

The Queens of Golden Age crime wrote in the Conan Doyle tradition, but in Death in a White Tie Ngaio broke away from the conventional model. This mystery was much more a commentary on human behaviour and social mores. It had a super-sleuth at its centre, but also a flavour of what Hume achieved with his anatomizing vision of society. Ngaio’s criticism of the rhetorical aspects of the class system and her latent cynicism about the debutante process pushed boundaries. One of the most frequently made, and perhaps most valid, criticisms of Golden Age crime fiction was its class-consciousness and cultural bias. There can be no denying the fact that Death in a White Tie was a highly Anglo-centric detective novel, but it was also critical of the hierarchies that support class difference. Ngaio’s attitude to snobbery was clear—she disliked it. Her least appealing characters are the most pretentious. General Halcut-Hackett is classic regiment. To meet him, Alleyn ‘walked through a hall which, though it had no tongue, yet it did speak of the most expensive and most fashionable house decorator in London’. Halcut-Hackett’s study is permeated by the smell of leather and cigars; his face is ‘terra-cotta, his moustache formidable, his eyes china blue. He was the original ramrod brass-hat, the subject of all army jokes kindly or malicious. It was impossible to believe his mind was as blank as his face would seem to confess.’ But of course it is.