The Golden Age of Murder

Those thirty-nine men and women were as extraordinary an assortment of characters as the cast of Murder on the Orient Express. They included some of the country’s most famous authors of popular fiction: not only the creators of Hercule Poirot and Lord Peter Wimsey, but also authors better known for writing about the Scarlet Pimpernel or Winnie-the-Pooh. Detection Club members came from all walks of life. Several had fought in the First World War and suffered life-changing harm, some played a prominent part in British political life. Members ranged from right-wing Tory to red-blooded Marxist, and everything in between. The aristocracy was represented, along with the middle and working classes, and the Anglican and Catholic clergy.

The Club’s first President, G. K. Chesterton, is currently regarded as a potential candidate for canonisation by the Pope – even though today he is remembered less for his spirituality than his detective fiction. The lives of his colleagues, for all their surface respectability, were much less saintly. Several were promiscuous, two had unacknowledged children. Long before homosexual acts between men were decriminalized, there were gay and lesbian members, as well as a husband and wife literary duo – one of whom nursed a passion for a young man who eventually became leader of the Labour Party. And one cherished a secret fantasy about murdering a man who stood between him and the woman he adored.

The movers and shakers in the Detection Club were young writers who at first pretended to write according to a set of light-hearted ‘rules’. This symptomized the ‘play fever’ that swept through Britain after the First World War, when games as different as contract bridge and mah-jongg captured the popular imagination, and crossword puzzles were all the rage. After the loss of millions of lives in combat, and then during the Spanish flu epidemic, games offered escape from the horrors of wartime – as well as from the bleak realities of peace. Economic misery seemed never-ending. The national debt ballooned, and politicians imposed an age of austerity. Industrial output fell, and so did consumer spending. The cost of living soared, and so did unemployment. The threat of slashed wages for miners led to Britain’s one and only General Strike, and the ruling classes had to cling to wealth and power by their fingertips. The sun had not quite set on the British Empire, but this was the twilight of the imperial era. While Bright Young Things partied the night away, millions of ordinary people couldn’t sleep for worrying about how to pay their bills.

Detective stories offered readers pleasure at a time when they feared for the future. As the Wall Street Crash brought the Roaring Twenties to a shuddering end, writers prided themselves on coming up with fresh ways of disguising whodunit or howdunit, but the most gifted novelists itched to do more, to explore human relationships and the complications of psychology. The work of Sigmund Freud, himself a detective fiction fan, became influential. The social mores of the Thirties prevented novelists from writing graphic sex scenes, but strong sexual undercurrents are evident in many of the best detective stories of the Thirties, above all in the extraordinary final novels of Anthony Berkeley and Hugh Walpole. Increasingly, Detection Club members relished breaking the so-called ‘rules’ of their game. They experimented with the form of the novel, deploying untrustworthy narrators as well as unexpected culprits. Their books reflected social attitudes and political change, more than they intended, and more than critics have realized.

Three remarkable people became the Club’s leading lights. In the vanguard was Sayers, brilliant and idiosyncratic as any maverick detective. By her side stood Berkeley, crime fiction’s Jekyll and Hyde – suave and scintillating one minute, sardonic and sinister the next. And then there was Agatha Christie, a quiet, pleasant woman who was easy to read unless you wanted to know what was going on in her mind.

Christie’s legendary ingenuity with plot was matched by Berkeley’s biting cynicism about conventional justice and his obsession with criminal psychology. Sayers, a woman as forceful as she was erudite, believed the detective story could become something more than mere light entertainment. ‘If there is any serious aim behind the avowedly frivolous organisation of the Detection Club,’ she said shortly after its formation, ‘it is to keep the detective story up to the highest standard that its nature permits, and to free it from the bad legacy of sensationalism, clap-trap and jargon with which it was unhappily burdened in the past.’

Appearances are deceptive. When we look at pictures of Christie and Sayers today, we usually see the women in their later years: respectable, well-upholstered, grandmotherly. The few published photographs of the publicity-hating Berkeley show a dapper fellow, wearing a trim moustache in his younger days, bald and pipe-smoking in later life. How tempting to fall into the trap of dismissing them as strait-laced middle-class English people. Yet in private, they led extraordinary lives and endured disastrous marriages. All three took secrets to the grave.

Their novels are often sneered at as ‘cosy’, and the claim that their characters were made from cardboard has become a lazy critical cliché. The very idea that detective fiction between the wars represented a ‘Golden Age’ seems like the misty-eyed nostalgia of an aged romantic hankering after a past that never existed. Many argue that the quality of crime fiction written today matches, or surpasses, that of any other period. But today’s writers often owe something to their predecessors, and the term ‘the Golden Age of detective fiction’ was popularized, not by some genteel old lady or retired brigadier, but by John Strachey, a young Marxist who later became Minister of War in the post-war Labour government.

Strachey recognised that the best detective novels of the Thirties were exhilarating, innovative and unforgettable. They explored miscarriages of justice, forensic pathology and serial killings long before these topics became fashionable (and before the term ‘serial killer’ was invented). Many of the finest books defied stereotypes. The received wisdom is that Golden Age fiction set out to reassure readers by showing order restored to society, and plenty of orthodox novels did just that. But many of the finest bucked the trend, and ended on a note of uncertainty or paradox. In some, people were executed for crimes they did not commit; in others, murderers escaped unpunished. The climax of one of Berkeley’s novels was so shocking that when Alfred Hitchcock came to film it, even the legendary master of suspense, the man who would direct Psycho, lost his nerve. He substituted a final scene that was a feeble cop-out in comparison to Berkeley’s dark and horrific vision.

Sayers, Berkeley and Christie came to detective fiction young – in their late twenties and early thirties. All three were full of energy and imagination, fizzing with fresh ideas. Each was an obsessive risk-taker. The First World War changed them, as it changed Britain. After the bloodshed of the trenches, writers craved escapism just as much as their readers. Though their stories often seem as artificial as they are ingenious, Sayers, Christie and Berkeley were intent on transforming the genre. Along the way, they fought against personal catastrophes, and suffered spells of deep despair. The lonely nature of their work – no publicity tours, no fan conventions, no glitzy awards ceremonies – contributed to their torments. Thanks to Detection Club meetings, writers found new friends who shared their literary enthusiasms. Not only did members eat, drink and talk together – they wrote and broadcast together, raising money by collaborating on crime stories in unique cross-media initiatives. For Sayers and Christie in particular, the Detection Club became a lifeline.

Christie’s controversial eleven-day disappearance in 1926 is by far the most high profile of the numerous disasters that befell Club members, affecting their writing as well their lives. Much as they wanted to promote their books, they were determined to keep their personal lives out of the public gaze. Many hid their private agonies in a way impossible in the age of paparazzi and Press intrusion, and of blogs, Facebook and Twitter. Beneath the façade of middle class respectability lay human stories as complex and enthralling as any fiction.

Christie, Sayers and Berkeley were fascinated by murder in real life. True crime stories influenced and inspired them. And they did much more than borrow plot elements from actual cases. There is a long tradition of mystery writers undertaking detective work for themselves – from Edgar Allan Poe and Arthur Conan Doyle, to P. D. James’s re-evaluation of the murder of Julia Wallace, and Patricia Cornwell’s investment of two million dollars in her efforts to establish that Walter Sickert really was Jack the Ripper. Other than Conan Doyle, however, none have investigated real-life mysteries with the zeal of the Detection Club in the Thirties.

Anyone researching the Club must navigate a labyrinth of blind alleys and wrong turnings. The challenge is to unravel three sets of mysteries – about the books, the real-life murder puzzles, and the dark secrets of the writers’ personal lives. All are woven together in a tangled web.

The simpler riddles are literary. Who wrote the first serial killer mysteries? What game did Club members play with a superintendent from Scotland Yard? Who pioneered the novel of psychological suspense? How did Anthony Berkeley anticipate Lord of the Flies?

Trickier questions arise about real-life crimes. Did a young woman’s horrific death trigger Berkeley’s infatuation with a married magistrate? Why was Christie haunted by the drowning of the man who adapted her work for the stage? What convinced Sayers of the innocence of a man convicted of battering his wife to death with a poker? And what did she make of the blood-stained garment that supplied a vital clue in the murder investigated by the legendary Inspector Whicher?

Detection Club members seldom confessed to writing about themselves, or the increasingly fragile social order to which they belonged. Yet they scattered hints throughout their writing, just as their fictional culprits made mistakes that gave away their clever schemes. We can deduce more from reading between the lines of the books than the authors realized.

Which novelist wrote a secret diary in an unbreakable code? How did two famous writers conduct a forbidden love affair through hidden messages in their stories? Why did Sayers and Berkeley suddenly abandon detective fiction at the height of their fame? Clues, outlandish as any ever picked up by Poirot, lurk in the unlikeliest settings – an inscribed first edition, a unique form of shorthand, a murderous fantasy transformed into fiction, even the abdication of a king.

Christie once hinted she was guilty of ‘crimes unsuspected, not detected.’ Sayers found herself confronting a blackmailer. And Berkeley fantasized about murdering the man who stood between him and happiness. Searching for the truth about this gifted trio is as enthralling as any hunt for fictional culprits.

After a series of economic earthquakes on a scale not seen for generations, uncanny parallels exist between our time and the years between the wars. This is the perfect moment for a cold case review of the Detection Club: to unmask the Golden Age writers and their work, against the backdrop of the extraordinary times in which they lived.

Notes to Chapter 1

In one account, she identified the setting for the ritual as Grosvenor House; in her biography, written in old age, she said it was the Dorchester.

The former version of events, referred to by Joanne Drayton, in Ngaio Marsh: Her Life in Crime, seems more reliable than Marsh’s later recollection in Black Beech and Honeydew. The ritual has been held at a variety of prestigious venues in central London over the years. By coincidence, it currently takes place at the Dorchester.

Sigmund Freud, himself a detective fiction fan

Freud ‘relished in particular Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express’: Paul Roazen, ‘Orwell, Freud and 1984’, Virginia Quarterly Review, Autumn 1978.

‘If there is any serious aim behind the avowedly frivolous organisation of the Detection Club,’ she said

In Christianna Brand’s Introduction to the 1979 edition of Sayers’ The Floating Admiral.

the term ‘the Golden Age of detective fiction’ was popularised … by John Strachey

The first use of the term seems to be in Strachey’s ‘The Golden Age of Detective Fiction’, The Saturday Review, 7 January 1939. Another Marxist critic, Ernest Mandel, echoed Strachey forty-five years later in Delightful Murder: ‘The inter-war period was the golden age of the detective story.’ Over the years, there has been extensive debate about the distinction between ‘detective stories’, ‘crime novels’, and ‘mysteries’, but precise and satisfactory definitions of the differences between them have remained elusive. For the sake of simplicity, the terms are treated broadly as synonyms in this book.

2

A Bitter Sin

One dark November day in 1923, Dorothy Leigh Sayers sat in her London office, rehearsing a lie until it sounded like the unvarnished truth. She excelled at playing with words, and making things up, whether in advertising copy or detective fiction. Now her imagination faced its sternest challenge. The daughter of a vicar and a devout Christian, she possessed fierce moral principles and an acute sense of sin, but she felt afraid and alone, and saw no alternative to deceiving the people she worked with. She hated what she was doing, but desperation drove her to bury her scruples.

She had invented a mysterious illness to justify taking eight weeks off work, hoping none of the men she reported to would enquire too closely into the medical problems of a valued female member of staff. This was the first step in an elaborate charade, designed with the same attention to detail she lavished on her fictional mysteries. Family and friends must be fooled as well.

Sayers worked for S. H. Benson Ltd, an advertising agency based in Kingsway Hall, close to the newspapers of Fleet Street, and ten minutes from her flat in Great James Street. Her room sat at the top of a steep and slippery spiral staircase made of iron which looked stylish, but was a death-trap for anyone unlucky enough to lose her footing. One day, she would turn that staircase into a fictional murder scene. Benson’s boasted an eclectic roster of clients, and had been quick to adopt fashionable American methods of ‘psychological’ and ‘scientific’ advertising. In her first published piece of copy, which she admitted was ‘a tissue of exaggeration’, Sayers extolled the virtues of ‘Sailor Savouries’. Soon she was rhapsodizing about ‘Lytup’ handbags and Colman’s Starch.

Innovative and industrious, Sayers was perfectly suited to her job. She liked the way the copywriters were collectively known as the ‘Literary Department’, and the buzz and gossip of office life reminded her of student days in the common rooms of Oxford. Philip Benson and his management team regarded her highly, and some thought Dorothy’s talents might one day take her all the way to the boardroom. Her colleagues regarded her as eccentric but gifted, an outspoken bluestocking with a startlingly earthy sense of humour. None of them knew she was nursing a secret which she dared not allow to leak out.

Disaster had struck at a time when life brimmed with exciting possibilities. Publishing her first detective novel fulfilled a long-held ambition, and although sales were modest, Benson’s had raised her salary to six pounds ten shillings a week, and promised a bonus. Even her troubled love life had taken a turn for the better. Although a man she adored had deserted her, a new lover turned up to offer the sexual satisfaction she craved. She nicknamed him ‘the Beast’.

But then the worst happened. With ‘the Beast’, she overcame her loathing of contraceptives, but despite her precautions, something went wrong, and she fell pregnant. When she broke the news to ‘the Beast’, he flounced out in a temper, pausing only to blurt out that he already had a wife and daughter. Sayers had slept with him on the rebound, and she dared not tell her friends about her humiliation. Confiding in her elderly, respectable parents, who were the embodiment of Victorian values, was equally unthinkable. Her father, an elderly vicar, would be horrified, while her mother had no time for babies. She had no confidence that Philip Benson would sympathize. Probably he would sack her. Money was tight, and she dared not risk being thrown out of work.

Overwhelmed by shame and misery, she thought about parting with the child to an orphanage or a charity for waifs and strays. Adoption was impossible; it would not become legal for another three years. In despair, she contemplated abortion, but quite apart from the fact that it was a crime, and highly dangerous, her religious faith made such a ‘solution’ unthinkable.

She had first encountered ‘the Beast’, alias Bill White, when he rented a small flat above hers. Seeking work in the motor trade, he had left his wife Beatrice and young daughter Valerie in an attic flat in Southbourne, near Bournemouth. He stained the wooden floor of Sayers’ sitting-room for her, and took her for trips on his motor-cycle. After teaching her fashionable dance-steps – the bunny-hug, the shimmy and the black bottom – he accompanied her to a dance at Benson’s, wearing a borrowed dinner jacket. Two lonely people, with not much in common, each craving a little fun. She lent him cash, and even introduced him to her parents. The fun stopped the moment she told him about the baby.

With a chilling mixture of cheek and selfishness, Bill asked his wife to help him wriggle out of this calamity. Shocked as she was, Beatrice White agreed, and met up with Sayers. It was an excruciating encounter. They were both tormented by distress and embarrassment, but they were also sensible and decent women whose only mistake had been to fall for an unworthy man. A problem needed to be solved – so what should they do?

They talked things over constructively, without wasting time on recriminations. The outcome was a pragmatic deal. Sayers promised not to see Bill again, and to have the child fostered. Beatrice arranged for Sayers to stay in a guest house at Southbourne, and for her brother, a doctor, to attend the birth at a nearby nursing home. Meanwhile, Beatrice moved into Sayers’ flat in Great James Street, and forwarded her post, so that Sayers could correspond from her London address. This meant she could keep everyone in the dark about the truth of her absence. She cobbled together an excuse to explain to her mother why she would not be home for Christmas. The baby was due to be born at around the turn of the year.

She was a good liar. Once she summoned the courage to ask for time off, the hierarchy at Benson’s accepted what she said at face value. So did her parents. Resting in bed at Southbourne, Sayers scribbled away at Clouds of Witness, her second book about the aristocratic detective, Lord Peter Wimsey, and mapped out the future in her mind. On New Year’s Day, she wrote to her much-loved cousin Ivy Shrimpton, asking if Ivy and her mother, both experienced and trustworthy foster careers, would look after another infant. She didn’t mention she was the mother. Two days later her son, John Anthony, was born.

When Ivy agreed to look after him, Sayers told her the truth. Her parents must not be told, she insisted. The news would mortify them. Giving birth to an illegitimate child was not, she told Ivy, the kind of ‘ill-doing’ which her mother would tolerate. The Sayers were proud of their clever, lively daughter, and she could not bear to let them down. Perhaps she underestimated their love for her, but Ivy proved utterly reliable. The Sayers went to their graves without ever learning that they had a grandchild. Bill White had no further contact with his son John Anthony. Within four years, he had met someone else, and divorced Beatrice. After that, he never saw his daughter Valerie again either.

To the end of Sayers’ life, the existence of her child was known only to Ivy and a handful of trusted confidants. Beatrice kept quiet too. Not until Sayers died did she tell Valerie that she had a half-brother. Valerie and John Anthony never met, because by the time she plucked up the nerve to contact him, he was dead.

Did anyone else guess the truth? At first, Sayers congratulated herself on managing her absence from Benson’s with the utmost discretion, although on returning to work, people noticed she had put on weight. One colleague at least, it seems, saw though the mysterious ‘illness’. Suspecting what had happened, he tried to make mischief, terrifying Sayers with the threat of exposure.

Courage was a quality Dorothy Sayers never lacked. Her tormentor had no hard evidence to support his guesswork, and she faced him down. Somehow she found the strength to say, ‘Publish and be damned’, and made sure he kept his mouth shut. Her secret was secure. Later, she would take her revenge on him, but not until it became safer to do so.

Before and after Benson’s, Oxford played a pivotal role in Sayers’ life. She was born in the city on 13 June 1893. Her father, an ordained priest, had been a contemporary of Oscar Wilde at Magdalen College, but his life followed a much less exotic course than Oscar’s. When his daughter was four, he was offered the living at Bluntisham, in East Anglia’s fen country. Oxford and Fenland provided the settings for two of Sayers’ most admired novels, Gaudy Night and The Nine Tailors. After the Godolphin School in Salisbury, she won a scholarship to Somerville College, where she studied modern languages and medieval literature.

The feminist and pacifist Vera Brittain, an Oxford contemporary, described Sayers as ‘a bouncing and exuberant young female’. That bounce and exuberance never deserted Sayers, despite the blows that rained down on her over the years. Tall, thin, and with a neck that earned her the nickname ‘Swanny’, she stood out from the crowd, and made up for her lack of natural beauty with a flamboyant taste in clothes. She liked to wear a three-inch-wide scarlet riband round her head, and earrings in the form of miniature cages containing brightly-coloured parrots. Often she strode down the High, smoking a cigar while a cloak billowed around her.

Her busy social life included attending a lecture by G. K. Chesterton, whom she admired as a man, as well as for his detective stories. She also developed crushes on Dr Hugh Allen, director of the Bach Choir, and Roy Ridley, a handsome Balliol student who later became the college’s chaplain. Ridley was the physical original of a fictional Balliol man, Lord Peter Wimsey.

In August 1914, oblivious of the tense political climate in Europe, she set off for a long holiday in France, which was duly interrupted by the outbreak of war: for all her intellectual gifts, she could be hopelessly naïve. The following year Douglas Cole (like Chesterton, a future Detection Club colleague), a co-editor of Oxford Poetry, accepted one of her poems for publication. Before long, she produced a slim volume of verse. Having achieved a First in French, she applied for a job in the French Red Cross, but was turned down because she was too young. After a spell as a teacher, she worked for Blackwell’s, the publishers, in Oxford, where she fell in love with Eric Whelpton, a handsome soldier who have been invalided out of the Army.

After the war ended, Whelpton started teaching in France. Sayers chased him across the Channel, and took a job as his assistant. When he teased her about her enthusiasm for crime fiction, she told him some friends from Oxford were planning to make a fortune by writing detective stories. The group included Douglas Cole, his wife Margaret, and Michael Sadleir, later a successful publisher. They thought they could create a market, and had it in mind to set up a writing syndicate together. Sayers urged Whelpton to join them, but he was not interested. Worse, he did not reciprocate her devotion.