The Essex Murders

A review of The Essex Murders by Vernon Loder – 240328

After reading some of John Vahey’s books under his nom de plume of Henrietta Clandon, I decided to sample some of his novels written under his more familiar pseudonym, Vernon Loder. The Essex Murders, known by the alternative title of The Death Pool, was originally published in 1930 and is the first, albeit of only two, in his Inspector Brews series.

The Inspector is a likeable, empathetic investigator with a smile on his face, one who is, if not happy, prepared to put up with the involvement of a couple of amateur sleuths whom, to his credit, he acknowledges as giving him the clue that eventually leads to the resolution of a crime committed in the soggy fenlands of Essex. One of the amateurs, Ned Hope, has more than a little skin in the game as he has just purchased, using up all his financial resources,  the dilapidated Fen Court, set in the middle of nowhere, only to find, to his horror, that three bodies have been fished out of one of the four ponds at the bottom of his garden. His fiancée, Nancy Johnson, provides the unobtrusive love interest and keeps Ned, prone to flights of fancy, firmly on terra firma.

The victims are a wealthy man by the name of Habershon and his wards, two cousins who plan to get married against his wishes. The two youngsters have their wrists tied to each other and there is a fragment of a note pinned to the girl’s clothing suggesting their intention to commit suicide. The initial working theory is that they did away with themselves and that Habershon rushing to the scene too late to prevent the tragedy, slipped, hit his head and drowned in the pool. The watches of the dead men stopped within four minutes of each other.

However, as the case is investigated, it is clear that the facts, not least the position of Habershon’s abandoned car, do not support the suicide theory, but if it is murder, was Habershon the culprit but had an accident before he could leave the scene or was someone else responsible for a triple murder and how was it accomplished?  

Among the pertinent clues that emerge are a thermos containing Brazilian coffee laced with a sedative, a punt that was taken without permission, marks on the river bank, and the curious behaviour of Cornelius Hench, Ned’s nearest neighbour, who claims to be something of an ornithological expert but who confuses a kestrel for a hen-harrier. Hench has an almost too perfect alibi and does not seem physically strong enough to have hauled the bodies from the punt into the pond.

The interaction between Ned and Brews is one of the highlights of the book. Whenever Ned seems to have made some headway in his investigations, he finds that Brews with his annoying routine is normally one step ahead of him. However, his observations about the lights of the abandoned car being on which must have made it observable at the time of the murders and throws doubt on the account of one of the characters enables Brews to make sense of what happened.

With very few characters in the story, let alone credible suspects, Loder does a fine job in maintaining the tension and spinning out the resolution of the mystery, but simply because of the paucity of characters he has to pull off an astonishing piece of legerdemain to bring in two more suspects in at the death. Armchair sleuths might throw their book down in disgust that the author has not played fair, and indeed he has not, and the plot does suddenly veer to one of the appropriation of bearer bonds and the opportunity for a couple, not previously thought to have any relation with each other, to make money beyond their wildest dreams and a fresh start. It does challenge the preconception that just because someone is an x – insert profession or rank as appropriate – they cannot have committed murder.

The pace of the ending, in which both Ned and Brews manage to have their heads bashed in, makes up for the rather slow, ponderous start. Once the book gets going it is an entertaining read with some fascinating characters and a plot that never lull the reader into complacency. For Ned, at least the murders are the making of him financially and bring him a wife.

The moral of the story is never develop lumbago out of the blue.

Power On The Scent

A review of Power on the Scent by Henrietta Clandon – 240307

I seem to be on a random sort of thematic chain at the moment. Having just finished two books that involved a poison despatched by dart I now have two books, of which this is the second, where a wasp, one actual and in this case putative, make an appearance.

Originally published in 1937 Power on the Scent is another novel that John Vahey, better known as Vernon Loder, published under the name of Henrietta Clandon and is one of four novels reissued by Dean Street Press. I found it the weakest of the four for a number of reasons. It reads more as a social comedy than a murder mystery, nothing wrong in that per se, but the detection or gathering of information and clues takes a form of leisurely chats in social settings which, given their lack of variety, get a little tedious.

It also suffers from a lack of focus as there are too many sleuths involved. We have husband and wife detective writing duo who have an interest in criminology, Vincent and Penny Mercer, and Penny acts as narrator, penning her story under the name of Henrietta Clandon, a neat trick. The side of the well-meaning amateurs is completed by Mr Power, a lawyer-cum-detective. For the police we have Inspector Voce and Sergeant Bohm from the Yard and the local police led by Captain Hollick, who resents the presence of amateurs on his patch, and Inspector Hollick, both anxious to avoid local scandals.

Added to that the murder mystery itself is not very compelling. A retired stockbroker, Montague Mercer, is found dead in his own garden, wearing a rose which bears traces of cocaine. Mercer has an allergy to the drug and did he sniff the rose and with it the cocaine, causing his death? And who laced the rose and why? The irony is that Mercer was a famed amateur horticulturist who had developed the particular type of rose, the Rennavy Rose, which he named after his erstwhile secretary and the village’s femme fatale, Mrs Davy-Renny. Mrs Davy-Renny sent the rose to Mercer via her made which had come from a bouquet bought for her by the local policeman, Inspector Kay.

As Power discovers during the course of the investigation, the Rennavy Rose has a particular characteristic which meant anyone who knew about it, especially its creator, would not be disposed to sniff it. The post mortem shows that Mercer had abdominal injuries, which, after the ingestion of a heavy breakfast, were probably serious enough to kill him. This suggests that his death was murder but by whom and why?

Mrs Davy-Renny is the honey pot around whom the local eligible men buzz. Was the murder incited by a lover’s jealousy? And what of the mysterious behaviour of Stibbins, the main beneficiary of his uncle’s will and client of Mr Power, seen snooping around the gardens with a camera?        

The sleuths discover that Mercer was involved in a  dodgy share promoting scheme with Tressey-Withers and that several of the key suspects had had their fingers burned and the expected beneficiaries of Mercer’s estate, Stibbins and Mrs Davy-Renny, are facing a significant reduction in their anticipated legacies. Mr Power, as all lawyers should, he sees justice is done.

As to Mercer’s murder, the death of Jolson, a retired bank manager and a shrinking violet, who owns a boisterous Great Dane, seems to confirm Voce’s suspicions. We are treated to an amusing analysis of the shape of bruising caused by a Great Dane’s and a human’s head, which together with a recollection of how a school bully was dealt with, seems to seal both the culprit and the method. Using a hat in the summer as an ornament for the hand rather than sitting on the head also becomes highly relevant.

The local police’s unwillingness to create waves means that the case fizzles out with a whimper. Clandon’s style is witty, not least in its title, and there some acerbic asides, particularly about the writing industry and some in jokes which with the passage of time lose their bite, but, sadly, it was not a book with which I felt particularly engaged.     

This Delicate Murder

A review of This Delicate Murder by Henrietta Clandon – 240212

The prolific Anglo-Irish writer John Vahey published books under a number of pseudonyms including Henrietta Clandon. This Delicate Murder, originally published in 1936 and reissued by Dean Street Press, uses a lesser used trope from Golden Age detective fiction, a shooting party, this one held at Chustable Manor. In what is a form of impossible murder, Clandon is able to assemble a motley collection of characters, their two common traits being that they inhabit the literary world and all loathe to greater or lesser extent their host, Lionel Fonders. It is the first of three Clandon novels that are narrated by Henrietta Penelope (Penny) Mercer.

All those invited to blast pheasants and pigeons to kingdom come are duffers with a gun, with the exception of Keble Musson, who, unlike the others, is a literary agent rather than a writer and is negotiating to acquire the North American rights to Fonders’ future works. One of the party, Adie Stole, who writes desert romances, is a pretty erratic shooter and quickly earns the enmity of the dour Scottish gamekeeper, McPherson.

Fonders, who had lost his left eye in the Great War, is found dead in his hide, having been shot through the eye hole with unerring precision. The distance of the other hides to that of Fonders’ is greater than the range of the rifles being used, but in terms of proximity and the fact he admits having a tracer bullet in his possession, the finger of suspicion points to Penny’s husband, Vincent (Vincie). To protect his position, Vincie employs a clever lawyer and amateur sleuth, William Power, to help unearth what really went on at Theby Wood, who killed Fonders and why.

Much of the investigation involves investigations into ballistics, the bores of guns, their range and the characteristics of shot and tracer bullets. There is a danger that the story could descend into Wills Crofts and Thorndyke territory and while, of necessity, there is much of a quasi-technical nature, Clandon does handle it with  relatively light hand and leaves the reader with just enough information to understand the point being made.

The other significant problem is that it is quite difficult to keep track of who was in which hide when and the topographical features of the area and, in particular, the sight lines. There is a map at the beginning of the book and I took a screenshot of it – I was reading the Kindle edition – to help me. Much depends on the precise positioning of each member of the shooting party.

To his dismay, Vincie has been appointed one of the executors to Fonders’ estate, a responsibility from which he is keen to relieve himself, but it provides a key to the mystery. An old manuscript is found amongst Fonders’ papers which was sent unsolicited to him by a handicapped person in America. It is dreadful but the plot has an uncanny resemblance to his best seller published a year later. The case turns out to be one of literary plagiarism and revenge.   

The denouement is clever, although, to my mind, there was really only one likely culprit and Power is able to demonstrate his brilliance by delivering a perfect solution to the police. The strength of the book lies in its wit and humour, a lovely portrayal of the literary world with all its bitchiness and thwarted ambitions. It is a comedy of manners and while some of the in jokes might pass a reader at this distance by, it is easy to get the gist. I did not enjoy it as much as the other Clandon novels I have read, but it is fun and entertaining.

Good By Stealth

A review of Good By Stealth by Henrietta Clandon – 240112

John Vahey, a prolific Northern Irish writer, published books under six pseudonyms, including Henrietta Clandon. Good by Stealth originally came out in 1936 and is one of four of Clandon’s works reissued by Dean Street Press, and is reminiscent, without the twist, of Richard Hull’s 1934 debut, The Murder of my Aunt. There is no murder, no mystery, but the narrator, Edna Alice, is accused of that most heinous of crimes, often perpetrated by frustrated spinsters, of being the author of poison pen letters. The introduction includes an excellent and fascinating synopsis of the history of poison pen letter writing, a phenomenon which has been replaced by the more widespread trolling via social media.

The book is written purely from Edna’s perspective in the aftermath of her custodial sentence of twelve months after being found guilty of writing poison letters that caused distress to and ruined relationships of some of the worthies in the county town of Lush Mellish. It only takes a few pages for the reader to recognise that their narrator is distinctly odd, one who has a strongly developed sense of paranoia. She claims she has inherited an enhanced sense of perception from her mother and a determination to pursue what he believes to be right to the bitter end, a trait which bankrupted to him.        

Edna is socially gauche, unafraid to make her opinions known, and a cultural snob, who considers the artistic, literary, and musical woeful in comparison to her finely tuned talents. She has a succession of dogs which cause terror amongst the local cats, dogs, and children, each of her pets, though she can only see their shining virtues, come to a sticky end. No wonder, despite her best efforts to integrate herself into the life of Lush Mellish, where she had just settled, she is given the cold shoulder. As one of her teachers said to her, “you are always right. Strange isn’t it”, a perceptive comment that gives a clue to her psychological make up.

Nevertheless, Clandon manages to elicit some sympathy for his monstrous creation, not least when she is persuaded to stand for election to the Council and promised support from all quarters, only to receive three votes. It is little wonder that she developed a complex plan, learning the lessons from other letter writers whose identity had been rumbled, to send anonymous letters to certain members of the community. Her purpose was not financial gain but to improve the morals and standards of behaviour of the citizens of Lush Mellish. In other words, to do good by stealth.

The recipients, however, did not see it that way and the authorities began their campaign to entrap Edna and bring her to justice. Clandon evokes some sympathy for Edna as we learn of the activities of a solicitor, Power, who cosies up to Edna after rescuing her dog and gradually through a series of seemingly innocuous questions over several encounters leads her to give vital information which seals the case against her. If Edna’s moral compass is a little wonky, so is that of the authorities and when the inevitable happens, the reader cannot help feeling that Edna is as much the victim as the transgressor.       

By modern standards, the accusations made in her anonymous letters seem quite mild and Edna’s sentence unduly harsh. As another reviewer has suggested, the obvious solution would have been for her to up sticks and move elsewhere, but this is not in Edna’s psychological make up. She has inherited her father’s stubbornness and determination to see things through to their natural conclusion.

As well as being a fascinating study of the mind of a poison pen letter writer, the book is humorous in style with some wonderful and memorable scenes. If you like a quirky take that ploughs a furrow less travelled in the hackneyed world of crime fiction, this is the book for you. Superb.

Inquest

A review of Inquest by Henrietta Clandon – 231223

One of the many noms de plume which the prolific writer, John Vahey, used was Henrietta Clandon. I have not read any of Vahey’s books before and Inquest, originally published in 1933 and reissued by Dean Street Press, is the first he published under the guise of Clandon. It is at times witty, with some sharp observations and the characters are well drawn.

The book’s set up treads very familiar ground, a country house party albeit with a twist. Six months before the book begins a businessman, William Hoe-Luss, had died at his French chateau, having eaten some poisonous mushrooms and then falling down some stairs. The French officials acted quickly, ruling that it was accidental, that the mushrooms were the principal cause and the body was cremated. There are suggestions, though, that all was not as it seemed and his widow, Marie, who was the principal beneficiary from William’s demise, invites all who were at the chateau at the time to her country house in England at Hebble Chase to rake over the coals. A sort of inquest, you might say.

The story is narrated by Hoe-Luss’ physician, Dr Soame, the only member of the party who was not present at the chateau. He accidentally lets slip that the botanist in the party, Hector Simcox, is adamant that the type of fungi believed to have poisoned Hoe-Luss was not to be found growing on his French estate. Not long afterwards, Simcox too plunges to his death, having fallen from a window while apparently looking at some lichen on the house’s wall. Was it an accident or a murder and had his suspicions forced the killer to strike again?

It is interesting to see how different writers approach a similar subject. In some ways Inquest is a bit of a forerunner to Freeman Wills Crofts’ Mystery on Southampton Water, published a year later, in the back story which involves the discovery of a revolutionary manufacturing process, industrial espionage, and the fortunes of two companies. As is his wont, Wills Crofts plunges headlong into the nitty gritty of his case while the machinations of the two competing businessmen, Hoe-Luss and Caley Burton, the latter a guest at both the chateau and Hebble Chase, gradually emerge as if by osmosis.

The reasons for the difference in handling are twofold. Clandon chooses to make Dr Soame his narrator. While he does his own sleuthing, principally at the behest of Marie, he is on the periphery of the police investigations, principally relying on his position as police surgeon and his good relations with the Chief Constable, Tobey, and Mattock of the Yard to get any sort of insight into the direction and progress of the official investigations. Secondly, the British police have no official jurisdiction over Hoe-Luss’ death and have to concentrate on Simcox’s fall, a handicap that forces them to attack the kernel of the mystery from an oblique angle. These two structural problems weaken the book as a murder mystery with too much going on off stage for my taste.

Nevertheless, there is much to enjoy in the book where a stained dress shirt, a fibre from a face flannel, and the wrist actions of a polo player and an accomplished angler have important parts to play in a house which has convenient passageways to allow guests to move around unobserved. There are only two, three if you are stretching the point, credible suspects, but mainly through a notable parsimonious approach to sharing vital information, Clandon maintains the mystery until the end. Whether the rationalisation of what happened is enough to convince the jury is another matter.

However, for me the strength of the book is in Clandon’s writing, the characterisation and wit. The other three Dean Street Press reissues have joined my TBR pile.