Tag Archives: British Library

Death in White Pyjamas and Death Knows No Calendar by John Bude

Two highly entertaining Golden Age mysteries for the price of one here, lovingly reissued the British Library in one combined volume as part of their Crime Classics series. (My thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.)

Death in White Pyjamas (1944) is one of those lovely country house mysteries where everyone is a potential suspect, and the crime itself involves several unexpected twists. There is a wonderful theatrical quality to the narrative, partly because all the leading players are connected to the Beaumont, a modest repertory theatre off London’s West End. 

The theatre is largely financed by Sam Richardson, a generous, amiable businessman with an interest in the cultural arts. Having made his fortune in biscuits, Sam is using his money to prop up the Beaumont, endeavouring to broaden the audience and strengthen its reputation. Leading the creative side of the venture is theatrical director, Basil Barnes, a somewhat slippery character at heart. Nevertheless, despite his rather superior manner, Basil is very good at his job, frequently coaxing excellent performances from his diverse and temperamental cast.

Sam was pleasant to everybody. Basil was condescending. He always looked on actors and actresses, as he had explained to Mr. Richardson, as so much raw material, only some of it was rawer than the rest. (p. 19)

The action takes place in the summer as the members of the company gather together for initial rehearsals at Old Knolle, Sam’s country retreat. Rather conveniently, Basil has just purchased a cottage nearby, which he is in the process of refurbishing with the help of Deidre Lehaye, the talented stage designer who also works at the Beaumont. Deirdre too is quite the character. Cynical, provocative and barbed, she likes nothing more than to make mischief for other people, finding and exploiting their weaknesses for her own personal gain.

Deirdre smiled lazily. She loved discovering the chinks in other people’s armour and shooting her pretty feathered darts through the cracks. But Angela was easy, so very easy. It was much more fun drawing a bead on Basil because his armour, forged of a colossal self-conceit, was of a far tighter fit. In fact she often wondered if he appreciated her attempts to wound him. (p. 28)

Also present at the house are Angela, the innocent young ingenue from the provinces – one of Basil’s ‘discoveries’; Clara, the rather demanding established actress; Willy, the seasoned actor with a gambling habit; and Rudolph, the aspiring playwright who also happens to be Clara’s nephew.

Interestingly, the crime itself doesn’t take place until we’re about halfway through the novel, giving readers a chance to spend plenty of time with all the characters before one of them is dispatched. During a particularly eventful night, a body in white pyjamas is discovered by the lake at Old Knolle, prompting an investigation into the circumstances surrounding the death.

Bude has a lot of fun playing with some familiar character types here, and there are several potential motives for murder swirling around in the mix from blackmail to revenge to various jealousies. Once the identity of the victim becomes clear, it isn’t too difficult to work out who might have committed the deadly act. What’s more interesting, perhaps, is the unravelling of events leading up to the death. In other words, how the murder was carried out and the underlying reasons behind it.

In summary then, Death in White Pyjamas is a most enjoyable mystery with a theatrical twist – a story of late-night assignations, midnight wanderings and secrets under wraps.

Death Knows No Calendar (1942), is another hugely entertaining novel – a locked-room mystery with a devilishly clever twist. As with Death in White Pyjamas, the whodunit element of the crime is pretty easy to figure out, but the howdunit proves much trickier for the investigators to unravel. 

The setting for this one is Beckwood, the sort of village where everyone knows everyone else’s movements. Central to the narrative are John and Lydia Arundel, a married couple who live at the Oasts – a property incorporating an artist’s studio where Lydia paints portraits. John, by contrast, seems content to live on Lydia’s money, his former career on the stage having stalled some years earlier. Nevertheless, he retains the superficial charm of an actor, something that is noted by at least one other resident of Beckwood.

He’d never made a name for himself and he’d certainly made no money. His marriage with Lydia had hauled him at a single pull out of obscurity and poverty and set him up in Beckwood as a person of some consequence. Not that Arundel was a bad mixer or in any way a snob. On the contrary, he went out of his way to be pleasant to everybody in the parish. But that was just the point—this affability was not natural, it was assumed, cultivated, a part of the actor’s stock-in-trade. (pp. 231–232)

As the novel opens, the Arundels are hosting a party to christen their new bar, a traditional Edwardian-style saloon recently installed in the couple’s home. All the movers and shakers of Beckwood are there. The local rector, Peter Swale-Reid, clearly has some history with Lydia – a flamboyant woman who has attracted multiple admirers over the years. Stanley Hawkinge is another of the host’s casualties – a man who secretly carries a torch for Lydia in a kind of silent devotion. Also present are the party are Lady Dingle and her beautiful niece, Honoraria; and Major Boddy, a retired military man and lover of detective fiction. 

Late one afternoon, Lydia is found dead in her studio which had been locked from the inside – a practice she always observed when working. At first, the presence of a gun suggests suicide; however, as more details emerge, the possibility of foul play cannot be ruled out – at least for Major Boddy, who, with his enthusiasm for crime fiction, is something of an amateur sleuth. When the Coroner brings in a verdict of suicide, Boddy remains somewhat doubtful. So, ably assisted by former batman, Syd Gammon, the Major sets out to investigate the circumstances surrounding Lydia’s death to solve the puzzle himself.

Unsurprisingly, several suspects emerge, all with potential reasons for wanting Lydia silenced or out of the way. However, the real joy of this mystery lies not in the unravelling of the crime but in the manner of Major Boddy’s investigations. There’s plenty of amusing military-style banter here, particularly between the Major and his batman, Syd.

The morning after the inquest Major Boddy came to a decision. Breakfast over, he crossed into the lounge and rang for Syd Gammon.

“Look here, Gammon,” he said abruptly. “Going to take you into my confidence. Need your help.”

“Very good, sir.”

“What was your opinion of the Coroner’s verdict, eh? Don’t be tactful. I want the truth. Understand?” “Yes, sir. Quite, sir. Well, sir, it’s my fixed opinion that Mrs. Arundel was done in by second party.” “Ha! Exactly, Gammon! Now the question is, will you fall into line with me in an attempt to expose this second party, eh? Investigate on the Q.T., what? Keep our suspicions under our hat.”

“Very good, sir.” (p. 303)

Major Boddy makes a most engaging and perceptive sleuth as he goes about gathering evidence before sharing the results of his enquiries with the police. He’s a decent chap – kindly, tactful and level-headed, especially as various secrets begin to emerge.

All in all, this is another splendid mystery from Jon Bude – a tale of secret meetings, shifting identities and a smattering of romance. Ideal comfort reading in these strange, unsettling times.

My Husband Simon by Mollie Panter-Downes

A few years ago, I read and loved One Fine Day (1947), a beautifully-written novel about class, social change and the need to find new ways to live in the years following WW2. The novel was by Mollie Panter-Downes, an English writer who also acted as The New Yorker’s England correspondent/columnist for the duration of the war. Much of her early work has been out of print for several years; but in March, just as the lockdown was kicking in, The British Library reissued one of the early novels, My Husband Simon (1931), as part of their new Women Writers series. It’s an excellent book, one that brilliantly captures the tension arising from a writer’s desire to pursue her craft during the early years of marriage. 

The novel’s narrator is Nevis Falconer, a promising young author with a successful debut novel to her name. One weekend, while visiting friends in Burnham Beeches, Nevis meets Simon Quinn, an attractive, forceful young man who works in the city. Their attraction to one another is powerful, immediate and largely emotional. Right from the very start, Nevis knows that this will be more than just a casual meeting at a party. Simon has the potential to disrupt her life, forcing her to compromise on the one she has mapped out for herself – that of a writer with a promising career to look forward to. Nevertheless, the passion she feels for him proves hard to resist…

I wanted to get away from this cool stranger who was threatening the neat little plan of my life. That was quite clear from the beginning. I knew that if I married Simon I should have to fight hard for my work and my individuality. His personality was so strong that it might swamp me. Already I knew that he was obstinate and ruthless; that he liked very few of the things that I liked, and was ignorant as a savage about everything that I had been taught to respect. The thought of our life together appalled and fascinated me. (p. 11)

The couple’s courtship is equally swift and passionate. Having stopped off at a pub on the drive back to London, Simon and Nevis spend the night together, vowing to get married in spite of their obvious differences.

Fast-forward three years, and we find Nevis – a brittle twenty-four-year-old by this point – rather frustrated by the constraints of marriage. In truth, Simon detests pretty much everything that Nevis enjoys. He shows no interest in books, or in Nevis’s career as a writer for that matter, preferring instead to spend his time with business contacts and vacuous friends – people whom Nevis cuttingly refers to as ‘Good Chaps’. While Simon adores the countryside, Nevis craves the buzz of life in the city, causing the couple to compromise on their desired living arrangements.

Simon’s family is another source of antagonism for Nevis. In short, she views the Quinns as being somewhat beneath her, both socially and intellectually, their name representing an entire class of society in Nevis’s mind.

London was full of Quinns, eating saddle of mutton at handsome mahogany tables; going up the steps of good clubs and stepping out of quiet, expensive cars; thinking that “art” meant the Royal Academy, and “beauty” was the sort of wishy-washy, rubber-stamp, damageable prettiness that you see on the lid of a chocolate-box. (p. 29)

Simon’s mother-in-law would like nothing more than for Nevis to put aside any silly notions of writing in favour of having a baby – just like her daughter-in-law, Gwen, the gentle, domesticated wife of Simon’s brother, Adrian. Nevis, however, would rather die than live the life of Gwen with its quiet deference and lack of mental stimulation. 

As a consequence, Nevis and Simon’s marriage is a tempestuous one, with the couple oscillating between furious quarrels and passionate reconciliations on a daily basis.

It occurred to me that when we had first met we had circled round each other warily like prize-fighters looking for a weakness in the other’s guard. From the beginning there had been a faint sense of antagonism between us; the antagonism of two intensely egotistical people, neither of whom enjoyed the sensation of giving in. We both had black, unforgiving tempers. When we were not being wildly, ecstatically happy we were quarrelling; there were no tame half-measures with us. (p. 31)

Panter-Downes brilliantly captures the impassioned nature of this young couple’s relationship in a way that feels reminiscent of early Evelyn Waugh. I couldn’t help but be reminded of novels like Vile Bodies and A Handful of Dust as I was reading certain passages of the book.  

As the narrative unfolds, we gain an insight into the frustration Nevis feels at not being able to concentrate sufficiently on her craft. Writing is much more than an occupation for Nevis; in many respects, it is a way of life, one that has been clipped by her marriage to Simon. By now, she has published a second novel, but neither she nor her American publishers feel entirely happy with it. While technically speaking, it is a good book, the promise of her spirited debut is somewhat lacking. Moreover, when acquaintances ask how her next one is going, Nevis responds in characteristically sardonic style, refusing to suffer fools gladly for the sake of social graces.

“When are you going to give us another book, Mrs Quinn?”

I thought drearily, “Oh, hell!” If one happens to be a professional writer, there are always people who make a point of enquiring about one’s new book as though it were a child just recovering from scarlet fever. “How is the new book going?” Anxiety, polite interests, two pounds of the best black grapes. “Very nicely, thank you. We expect it to live now.” “Oh, I’m so glad! That’s splendid!” And, the unpleasant duty over, away the enquirer trips, so relieved, so thankful that the dear little sufferer is out of danger and soon going to appear in a nice new seven-and-sixpenny jacket. (pp. 175–176)

All this is thrown into sharp relief by the arrival of Nevis’s American publisher, Marcus Chard. At forty or thereabouts, Marcus is much older than Nevis, more experienced in publishing circles and the like. He sees that marriage is stifling Nevis’s creativity, smothering the promise shown in her first novel, a situation he urges her to address. As a consequence, Nevis comes to realise that she may have to choose between her marriage and her career, two competing passions that have proved challenging for her to reconcile. There is a sense too that Marcus’s interest in Nevis goes beyond the purely professional; he is attracted to her sharp mind and cutting wit, qualities that prove very stimulating to this American visitor.  

By penning My Husband Simon, Panter-Downes has given us a perceptive exploration of the challenges facing women writers in balancing their desire for creativity against the constraints of marriage. It is also a fascinating examination of the subtle differences in class that dictated the rules of society in the 1920s. The depictions of London life are glorious too.

I have to admit to being a little nervous of reading this one, fearing that it might not be up to the admittedly very high standards of MPD’s later work. However, I needn’t have worried at all. This is a terrific book, one that reminds me a little of Elizabeth Taylor’s debut novel, At Mrs Lippincote’s, which I wrote about here.