Martin Edwards's Blog, page 275

Forgotten Book - The Boat-House Riddle

The very title of The Boat-House Riddle by J.J. Connington gives away the fact that it is not a modern book. You'd never use such a title nowadays. And I think it's a worthy entry in Patti Abbott's series of Forgotten Books, because I'd like to bet that very few even of the knowledgeable readers of this blog have ever come across this particular novel. It was published in 1931, and my copy is a 1969 reprint, published by Lythway, who produced a lot of books for libraries in those days, some of which I read in my teens.

The boat-house in question belongs to Wendover, pal of Connington's usual detective, Chief Constable Sir Clinton Driffield. Driffield comes to stay with Wendover, and soon the body of a gamekeeper is discovered near the boat-house. We are provided with a plan of the scene. And eventually a second body is dredged up from a lake.

This is a soundly constructed story, although the circle of suspects is small and there isn't a great deal of tension or dramatic action. Much of the story is devoted to working out the sequence of events on one particular evening. But I found the book a quick and agreeable read.

An interesting feature of the novel is the observations about social class, which probably tell you a lot about England in 1931 (though I should add that Connington was a Scot who lived in Belfast.) For instance: 'If Ferrers had been one of those foreigners who can be strung up to any pitch by jealousy, there might be something in it. But an Englishman of that class would never turn a casual flirtation into a murder drama.' But my favourite line is: 'In science, an international reputation implies merely that an author's papers are read by a handful of specialists, half of whom probably disagree with the conclusion'. Connington was a scientist, and I suspect he enjoyed writing that line.

Editing an anthology

I promised to talk about the art of putting together an anthology - so here goes. Of course, I claim no special expertise, but after editing seventeen anthologies, and being invited to contribute to a good many others over the years, at least I do have experience!

My own preference tends to be for anthologies that have a connecting theme or link of some kind. This helps to give a bit of shape to what might otherwise be shapeless. But I don't tend to obsess about the theme. 'Perfect crimes' or 'Identity' are themes that can encompass a remarkably wide range of stories.

Variety does seem to me to be important. The risk is that a reader may like some stories more than others. But that is inevitable. The key is to try to include good stories, so that even if some readers aren't bowled over by one story, others will be. And variety includes variety of length. Sometimes I include pretty short stories, sometimes much longer ones, though never anything above 10,000 words.

It's great fun to receive and read the stories. Crime writers, I've found, are very generous. I like to include stories by overseas writers when I can, and I also like the idea of mixing star names with unfamiliar names, and relative newcomers. The only part of the process that I hate is rejecting stories. None of us likes rejection, and I don't like inflicting it. But it's unavoidable, because every time, I receive more stories than there is space. To reject a story does not imply fault within the story itself, and I do try to make that clear to the authors concerned. I can only hope they understand the dilemma.

I love writing short stories, and I love reading them too. I've been especially thrilled when stories I've selected have gone on to win prizes – CWA Daggers, an Edgar, a Barry, and many nominations over the years. These honours give me a vicarious sense of satisfaction. But even more rewarding is the privilege of having been the first to see some masterly stories by the likes of Ian Rankin, Lawrence Block, Edward D. Hoch, Reginald Hill and so on. For a crime fan, what could be better?

Author promotion

There was a time when authors didn't have to 'do publicity'. Anthony Berkeley published his first crime novel anonymously. When he used the name Francis Iles, it was two years before people realised he'd written the books – though actually, that was quite a good publicity gimmick, because there was a lot of debate about Iles' identity. Agatha Christie was famously shy and I know other authors who hate promoting themselves.

But in the modern age, publishers expect authors to do their bit to promote their books. The vast majority of crime writers don't have massive publicity budgets, so it's a matter of doing what one can. And this sometimes involves public speaking, something I used to hate. This might seem odd, given that as a lawyer, I'd done plenty of advocacy. But that is rather different.

On Saturday I had the pleasure of speaking at the Nottingham Readers' Day, doing a talk I'd never done before - on Golden Age fiction (hence my current flurry of posts on this subject!) I decided not to over-prepare, but simply to focus on conveying my enthusiasm for the topic, and this seemed to go down pretty well. An added bonus was the chance to meet Gordon Griffin at last - he has read many of my audio books, and done it really well. An example of an enjoyable semi-promotional experience.

Elizabeth Spann Craig's marvellous blog often has very helpful tips on promotion, and it repays reading by anyone who is uncertain about this area. For my part, early on, radio interviews used to worry me a good deal. So did my first appearances at Bouchercon. I remember reading an extract from my first novel at Toronto in front of an audience including the great Reginald Hill (who had kindly come to offer moral support) and I can still recall how nervous I felt. To make matters worse, I'm naturally quietly spoken, so it's easy to become inaudible.

But practice does help a lot. I find that I don't worry about public speaking in the same way now, simply because I have done a good deal of it, and I think I've improved my performance from very uncertain beginnings. I've also decided that if I can cope with the potential humiliation of appearing on a 'Mastermind' panel, maybe I can cope with most public arenas. If public speaking bothers you, I do urge you not to give up on it. Audiences want you to do well, not to fail. If you remember they start out on your side, that is half the battle.

Forgotten Book - Before the Fact

Francis Iles' second book, Before the Fact, is my latest contribution to Patti Abbott's series of Forgotten Books. In truth, I hope it isn't a forgotten book, and it certainly should not be, but the reality is that it hasn't been available in the bookshops in the UK for far too long – my reprint dates from 1991 and may have been the last mainstream edition here.

Francis Iles was the name of a notorious smuggler, an ancestor of Anthony Berkeley Cox, who first found fame as the innovative Anthony Berkeley. The first Iles book, Malice Aforethought, was hugely influential. Before the Fact is also much admired, and it is memorable, although flawed.

It is the story of Lina Aysgarth, a born victim. She marries the charming Johnnie, but slowly becomes aware that he is a rogue. In time, she realises that he does not scruple at murder. And in the end, she discovers that he means to kill her.

This book was filmed by Hitchcock as Suspicion, but the master of suspense bottled out and changed the ending. It is a very bleak story indeed – the flaw, though, is that Lina is maddeningly passive. You end up wanting to scream at her to save herself. Even so, this is a remarkable story by a unique innovator.

Where to begin a series?

When reading a series of crime novels, is it necessary to begin at the beginning? In the past, it hardly mattered. Poirot and Sherlock Holmes don't exactly 'grow' as characters. Nor, really, do Father Brown or Gideon Fell or Jane Marple. But Lord Peter Wimsey did develop, in the books featuring Harriet Vane, and Dorothy L. Sayers set the trend for treating detectives as people who would change over time, almost (if not quite) in the way that people do in real life.

Now, it is common for detectives' lives to change as the series goes on. In fact, many readers love this aspect of a crime series – I do myself. But it raises the question – should one read the stories in the chronological order in which they were written? And to complicate matters, some authors write 'prequels'.

I have read many crime series, but very few have I read in the order in which they were written. An exception is Ann Cleeves' books about Jimmy Perez, the Shetland Quartet. And that is a series where, in my opinion (but for reasons I won't explain – no spoilers here!) it is best to read them in order. Often, though, this is a luxury which a reader does not have. What if the early books are out of print (like my early Harry Devlin books), for instance?

As a rule of thumb, I am relaxed about reading a series out of order, and I think most readers should be. But the author's side of the bargain is that it's important to bear new readers in mind even when one is writing, say, book six in a series – one needs to sketch in the backstory, but with great economy, so that spoilers are avoided, and long-time readers do not become bored by repetition.

Forgotten Book - Sir John Magill's Last Journey

In the late 1960s, the Collins Crime Club produced a 'collected edition' of books by Freeman Wills Crofts, a leading writer of the Golden Age. When I'd read all the Christies and Sayers I could find, I borrowed from our local library a Crofts book called Sir John Magill's Last Journey. A good title, but I'm afraid I didn't get very far with the book. For a boy aged about 13 it was simply too dull. But it's a book admired by some fans, so I decided to give it another try and bought a copy from the same edition– and this time I battled on to the end!

It's a good example of Crofts' work, showing both his strengths and his weaknesses. Sir John, a wealthy businessman, disappears and his body is soon found in Northern Ireland. Who killed him? There are several possible suspects, and Inspector Joseph French, pleasant and determined, slowly and methodically seeks out the truth. After a prolonged reconstruction of the crime, there is a dramatic climax at dead of night.

Crofts is good on painstaking plotting – Raymond Chandler, no less, admired his work. He is usually much less careless with details than many of his contemporaries, although the trouble with French is that he specialised in breaking down alibis ('Of alibis French was usually sceptical', Crofts says in his ponderous way.) So anyone with a great alibi is our prime suspect. Crofts also uses many interesting geographical settings, and some of these, in Northern Ireland, Cumberland and Scotland, are quite well described in this book. I was interested by this sentence about Northern Ireland, written in 1930: 'The "troubles" were definitely over and had been for years.' Sadly, not very prescient.

The weakness is the clunky prose and thin characterisation. This is from what we are told of Magill: 'Intercourse with his associates was therefore restrained in cordiality.' No wonder the young Martin Edwards rather lost the will to live when reading that sort of stuff. And worse: 'Of all the jobs that fell to French, the investigation of the life, habits and human relationships of a given individual was that which he found most tedious.' This is a cop who is happier with train timetables than psychology. The result is a book that, despite various merits and historical interest, is a bit soporific for much of the journey

Anthologies

Paul Beech, commenting on the publication of Original Sins, suggested that I write a blog post about the art of putting together an anthology. It is an art, not a science, that is for sure. I know of no guidelines, though I've invented a few for myself over the years.

I've decided to do a two-part post, starting with a brief account of my own work as an anthologist. I got started after suggesting to fellow members of the CWA's Northern Chapter that we put together a book of our stories. They were enthusiastic – provided I found a publisher and did the putting together. I remember a planning meeting at the Whitley Bay home of Ann and Tim Cleeves, with Robert Barnard, Val McDermid and Chaz Brenchley, as we kicked around ideas. The result was Northern Blood, a book that was very well received, and I was proud to be associated with it.

Over the years, two more Northern Blood books followed, and I was even asked to help the East Anglian Chapter with a book. In the mid 90s, the CWA committee asked me to take over editorship of the national anthology. My predecessors since the 1950s had been distinguished, but invariably encountered the problem that publishers tend to be less than enthusiastic about anthologies from a commercial perspective.

I found a publisher – Severn House, with whom I've just become reunited – and Perfectly Criminal was the first of three books they produced. We've been involved with several publishers over the years, but the aim is always the same – to produce a great book that showcases the talents of CWA members, famous and not so famous alike.

More soon on how I go about the editorial task.

Anthony Berkeley again

A striking number of readers of this blog were as intrigued as I confess I am. by the fact that Anthony Berkeley married his agent's ex-wife. This may actually be a unique event in the history of British literature!

Berkeley does fascinate me, for many reasons. He was a very clever writer, and also an intriguing man. Malcolm Turnbull wrote a good biography, Elusion Aforethought, which is well worthe seeking out.

Some of the books are dated, but all of them have something a little unusual about them. You may also be entertained by this brief time-line:

1930 – Berkeley dedicates The Second Shot to his agent.
1931 – Berkeley dedicates Malice Aforethought to his first wife – and proceeds to divorce her.
1932 – Berkeley marries his agent's former wife, and dedicates Before the Fact to her.

It's not just the sequence of events, I think, it's the pace of change that is remarkable...

His second marriage failed, too. But Berkeley, a complicated and rather mysterious fellow who claimed to dislike everyone, remained on surprisingly good terms with both his exes. He left money in his will to his first wife. And his second wife moved into a London flat on the floor just below his. As well as continuing to do his washing....

Origiinal Sins

Today sees the official publication by Severn House of my latest anthology for the CWA, Original Sins. I'm pleased with the book, and I think it offers a really good mix of stories and authors, with characters from no fewer than five well-loved series making an appearance. I'm extremely grateful for the contributions of a terrific line-up of writers. A word of thanks, too, for the publishers, who have done a very good job of work.

There is an intro from me, and a foreword by Tom Harper, chair of the CWA. Here are the stories:

Simon Brett – Doctor Theatre

Ann Cleeves – Beastly Pleasures

Martin Edwards – Clutter

Kate Ellis – Feather

Chris Ewan – Art of Negotiation

Christopher Fowler – Bryant and May in the Soup

Sophie Hannah – The Asking Price

Tim Heald – Dukws and Drakes

Reginald Hill – Where Are All the Naughty People?

Peter Lovesey - Ghosted

Rick Mofina – The Last Pursuit

Barbara Nadel – Two Stars

Christine Poulson – Fishy Story

Chris Simms – Tick Tock

Zoe Sharp – Rules of Engagement

Andrew Taylor – Little Russia

Charles Todd - Yesterday

Laura Wilson – Precious Things


By the way, tomorrow, in the hope it will entertain/amuse you, I'll post a bit more information about Anthony Berkeley's complicated life.

Forgotten Book - Laidlaw

My latest entry for Patti Abbott's series of Forgotten Books is a novel by a Scottish writer, William McIlvanney (whose brother, I learned recently, still writes about football for 'The Sunday Times'). It's called Laidlaw, and it dates from 1977. Ian Rankin admires it, and so do I. So too did Ross Macdonald, of all people, which must count for something. (I've never written about Macdonald in this blog, but he's one of the American crime writers I really enjoy, even though admittedly I've only read a handful of his books.)

Right from the start, you know that McIlvanney really can write. The first paragraph begins'Running was a strange thing', and at once we are with the viewpoint character, as his feet are 'slapping the pavement'. Running, we are told, 'was a dangerous thing. It was a billboard advertising panic; a neon sign spelling guilt.' I think the style is arresting, and although it was a very modern-seeming book in its day, it hasn't dated too badly. The obvious adjective is 'gritty', but however you describe it, it's a powerful read.

The eponymous Laidlaw is an unconventional Glaswegian cop, who does not know which side he is really on. A girl's body is found, and the question is whether Laidlaw's methods will help him to the truth, or whether a more orthodox will prevail. Can you guess the answer?

This was McIlvanney's crime debut, after three earlier novels. The dust jacket announces it as 'the first of a series of police thrillers', but as far as I know, McIlvanney only wrote one more crime novel, The Papers of Tony Veitch, which I also liked, but perhaps not as much as Laidlaw. Maybe he didn't have the energy or the interest to sustain a crime-writing career over a period of time – something which requires stickability as well as talent. But this book is a good one.