The Romantic Armchair Traveller

France: The Devil’s Door by Sharan Newman

Set in twelfth-century France, The Devil’s Door by Sharan Newman is the second installment in the historical mystery series featuring Catherine LeVendeur, one-time novice at the Paraclete, the monastery founded by Peter Abelard and now ruled over by the learned Abbess Heloise. While the plot is hobbled by somnolent pacing and convoluted by artificial twists and turns that draw out the mystery far longer than its simplicity warrants, the mindset of the characters and the intellectual and religious moorings of the setting are strongly enriched by the author’s doctoral background in mediaeval studies. Another feature which makes this series particularly noteworthy is that mediaeval Jewish society is brought out of the shadows it usually is relegated to in mainstream historical fiction: the perspective is fresh, multi-layered, and inclusive.

 

A missing noblewoman is found fatally beaten and brought to the Paraclete for succour. But when she takes the veil before she dies, donating a piece of forest land to the convent, her outraged relatives accuse Abbess Heloise and her fellow nuns of conspiracy. Grief is in short supply as the seemingly worthless plot of land suddenly attracts interest from near and far.

Only convent boarder Catherine LeVendeur, daughter of a Parisian wine merchant, questions the general assumption that the assailant was a jealous neighbouring landowner, now fled. Her determination to ferret out the truth meets with resistance on all sides and conflicts with the promise of marriage made between her and Edgar of Wedderlie, the young Scottish nobleman for whose love she has decided to refrain from taking monastic vows.

Edgar is not about to have Catherine cantering alone across Champagne in her quest to aid Abbess Heloise and discover the real killer. But even he does not foresee quite how prone Catherine is to ending up in the midst of murderous trouble.

 

Series adherents sometimes wonder why someone would pick any other book than the first in familiarising themselves with a new series. In my case, the closure standalone stories bring contributes to a satisfaction I seldom find in novels with plot threads that develop over several books. Since I am not fond of being bound to a series for its own sake, I select as my introductory sample the installment with a storyline, setting, and characters that intrigue most in order to use the book as an indicator of whether the series will carry enough appeal to justify a bigger investment. Cliffhanger endings, unresolved major plotlines, and character relationships that can only be deciphered by reading previous entries cause quick rejection even when the rest pleases.

The Devil’s Door displays none of these disadvantages, yet when I pulled it out of some rearranged bookshelves earlier this month I was astounded at the pencilled notes which recorded that I had read the book in 1996 (my edition: Forge mass market paperback, 1995). I had not the slightest recollection of the story, nor any inkling of why, with my partiality for things mediaeval and French, I had abandoned or forgotten about the series (10 books now). A week of struggling between admiration and frustration and another to convert the ambivalent experience into a coherent post gave me the answer.

I have striven to avoid spoilers that might ruin the first book, Death Comes As Epiphany, for those who would prefer to start there.

The good first, and there is plenty of it to entertain mystery lovers, historical enthusiasts, and romantics alike. Multiple plot strands combine into a complex tale that transcends genre expectations. The Devil’s Door can of course be read as a straight mystery, but through events both fictional and historical and a multitude of vigorously-drawn characters from every layer of society a simultaneous (and in my opinion more rewarding) examination emerges of mediaeval family, marriage, love, religion, power, and powerlessness.

Newman’s mediaeval France has texture and substance. It is also free of fictional sanitation. Lice is seen in the hair of one character, smiles reveal rotting teeth , and rats scurry in unchanged bed straw. Everyday people regard prejudice and discrimination as their Christian duty, while educated characters scoff at the superstitions of the ignorant even as they themselves harbour beliefs that we smile at today. The precarious existence of those who live on or outside the margins of acceptability is not exploited to showcase the admirable virtues of protagonists with modern values. Although I would have preferred less vague visual descriptions of places such as Paris (map of the town c. 1200), Troyes (map of the twelfth century town) and its palace, where much of the drama takes place, the atmosphere of all locations, including the forest of Othe and the monastic community of the Paraclete, does come adequately alive through the characters that inhabit them.

The cast of characters in The Devil's Door is a dynamic mix of historical and fictional. The former group includes luminaries such as Heloise (Héloïse d’Argenteuil), Peter Abelard, and Bernard of Clairvaux. The one-time lovers, Abelard and Heloise, are described as having matured into commitment to their separate roles in life while continuing to share an unbroken affection for each other. I enjoyed the author’s take on them both: Abbess Heloise as humbly and penitently striving to fulfill God’s will but secretly doubting He listens to her prayers; and Abelard, the aging scholar too harassed by charges of heresy – the developments surrounding the Council of Sens forms one of the subplots – to dwell on their past history but unhesitatingly turning to Heloise for spiritual comfort. Less is known about their son, Astrolabe, but the author turns available material into a sympathetic characterisation of a man caught between the fame of his parents yet tenderly supportive of both. (Even Eleanor of Aquitaine puts in an appearance at Sens – as King Louis’s queen – but the mention is so fleeting that I bring it up only as a piece of trivia for readers who enjoy fictional encounters with her.)

The relationship between Catherine and her teacher, Heloise, derives poignancy from the similarities and differences between their lives and choices. Protective and proud of her charge, Heloise has become a mother figure for the younger woman who, while intensely caring and determined, is impetuous and has not yet fully mastered the discipline to respond rationally. The troubled marriage of her parents, her mother’s illness, and newly revealed family secrets have seared self-doubts into Catherine that are not shaken off by the love she shares with Edgar. Her mind and heart tend to analyse and question everything; she calls these contrary thoughts “her voices”, and they sometimes lead her to fearing that she will one day succumb to the insanity that runs in her family. Although the silliness of her actions toward the end cross deeply into TSTL territory (with the help of equally idiotic decisions made by those who should possess a more mature judgment), I found Catherine an engaging and very appealing character with her physical clumsiness, kind heart, intellectual hunger, and devotion to ensure justice for the wronged.

Despite hints that neither the reader nor Catherine knows everything about Edgar’s Scottish family, his subservient role in the dominant mystery prevents him from developing into something more interesting than an occasionally frustrated companion and eager love interest. But he is a nice foil for Catherine, and together they make a sweet couple.

With so much to praise about this novel, it is time to look at why my reading experience was not more enjoyable. Accuracy in historical fiction is sacrosanct to some readers, and to others, merely an interesting bonus. When the historical record is silent about a person or event, writers, like readers, take different paths in deciding how the missing information should be dealt with. Sharan Newman’s philosophy differs from my preferences, and so, when she takes genuine historical characters about whom virtually nothing is known and invents histories for them that serve her plot purposes, it poses a problem for me. In more than one case I felt the treatment of these characters seriously overstepped reasonable artistic license. It made me crabby, distracting me from the story and steaming me up about the ease with which some authors abuse historical record for the purpose of masking up entirely fictional creations in borrowed authenticity. As Newman’s erudition ensures that judicious portrayals of major historical characters and events intensify an already realistic setting, I cannot acknowledge any need for pretend-historicity. This author possesses all the knowledge and skill required to create believable fictional characters that blend seamlessly into her historical tapestry. History in historical fiction does not become more more legitimate through distortion, however clever.

I wish the prose and pacing in The Devil’s Door had been as competent as the characterisations. Smooth passages are suddenly punctuated by awkward paragraphs and confusing sentence constructions that I sometimes had to re-read until my eyes glazed over, muddled about who exactly was saying or doing what. Moreover, at the beginning of the story quite a few names and pedigrees are tossed about in a manner that repeatedly required me to leaf back and search for some information about who these people were and what their connection was to the subject under discussion.

The acceptance of the mystery and the time it takes for the protagonists to uncover the truth relies heavily on the reader’s willingness to respect, along with the characters, the sanctity of a certain religious practice. I did, but looking back I have to say the premise is an extremely flimsy foundation on which to carry an entire mystery novel. It is perhaps fortunate that the story takes several detours from the mystery. The downside is that although the subplots integrate admirably with the main plotline they inevitably slow down an already gentle pace. I grew impatient with clues and twists that are meted out too infrequently and laboriously to sustain narrative tension, and ended up shrugging at the mystery finale due to its lacklustre handling of what should be a shocking revelation. I also questioned the logic of certain crucial actions and decisions committed by several key characters.

It is obvious that no one can be an expert at everything, although many writers make heroic efforts to eliminate errors and inaccuracies. Even The Devil’s Door is not devoid of one or two cringe-worthy blunders. In one instance, a poor but compassionate hermit is able to casually dispense packets of peppercorns to sufferers who consult him for minor ailments. (Peppercorns were a luxury spice coveted by the wealthy, and worth gold in mediaeval times). More significantly, the central plot point regarding female inheritance gave me considerable pause. I am reluctant to conclude a scholar like Newman got something so basic wrong, but the assumptions the plot makes seem to me to be in conflict with local practice. (See, for example, the Champenois custom of partible inheritance discussed in Theodore Evergates’s The Aristocracy in the County of Champagne, 1100-1300; alternatively see the 1212 statute of Blanche of Navarre, Countess of Champagne, which deals with feudal inheritance by women in Champagne. A translation can be found in Evergates’s Feudal Society In Medieval France: Documents from the County of Champagne.)

Finally, a couple of minor grumbles. The inconsistent naming conventions for French characters irritated me. We have some anglicised names such as Walter and William and Peter, while others follow Old French spellings (Thibault, Mahaut, Jehan, Alys), Latin forms (Gaufridus, Paciana, Johanna), or even, in the case of one noblewoman, something Italianate (Constanza). Similarly, while I enjoyed that the French phrases and epithets occasionally exchanged by the characters are in Old French (“Diex te saut”; “C’est mes acors”; “Avoutre!”), the old lay brother at the Paraclete, a former crusader, rather inconsistently shouts “Montjoie et Saint Denis” instead of “Munioie! Saint-Denys!” (“Montjoie et Saint-Denis” appears to be a modern corruption of the battlecry.)

Although the issues I experienced with The Devil’s Door eventually dampened my enthusiasm (the pacing was the death knell) and I sadly concluded that Sharan Newman’s style is not a stimulating match for me, I do hope other readers are inspired to give the series a try. Reviewing my post I find I have almost persuaded myself to give it a second (third) chance... This is solid historical fiction that belongs on the shelf next to Elizabeth Chadwick and Ellis Peters/Edith Pargeter’s depictions of the twelfth century. I hope I will one day find another mediaeval mystery series that carries its scholarship as gracefully.

 

Books of related interest: Rabbi Solomon bar Isaac or Rashi, who was one of the most important scholars of the Middle Ages, is closely associated with the Jewish community of Troyes, which plays a part in The Devil’s Door. The stories of his daughters, who were famed for their learning and married students of their father, have been novelised by Maggie Anton in four books: Joheved, Rachel, Miriam, and The Secret Scholar. I have not read them but plan to do so now. Among non-fiction, The Jews of Medieval France: The Community of Champagne by Emily Taitz seems particularly relevant. My 1970s edition of The Letters Of Abelard And Heloise, translated by Betty Radice, includes, among other things, seven letters, the Historia Calamitatum, and a 45-page introduction to their lives, works, and legacies. The revised 2004 edition seems to have been slightly expanded. Heloise’s surviving correspondence is also available online, as are, I believe, many of Abelard’s writings. Michael T. Clanchy’s 1999 biography of the latter, Abelard: A Medieval Life, challenges some of the received truths about Abelard and Heloise, asserting that the latter’s contribution to the former's philosophy is much more significant than previously assumed. And finally, The Aristocracy in the County of Champagne, 1100-1300 by Theodore Evergates, provides an analysis of “one of the more vibrant principalities of medieval France“.

 

Kenya: Stalking Ivory by Suzanne Arruda

Stalking Ivory is the second entry in Suzanne Arruda’s African-set historical mystery series featuring American adventuress Jade del Cameron. The novel is most effective when dealing with the brutality of poaching for ivory and describing the wildlife of the northern borderlands of colonial British East Africa (now Kenya). As a mystery laced with the tentative beginnings of a romance, it was considerably less satisfying to me. Stalking Ivory is, in my opinion, not a standalone mystery. Its plot resolution left me feeling cheated and annoyed, all the more since I had stuck with the story despite its ungainly writing style and characters with whom I failed to connect.

 

1920. Travel writer Jade del Cameron is camping with friends in the remote area around Mount Marsabit to collect material for a photo assignment about elephants. But the peace is shattered by the murder of a patrolling soldier, and Jade’s trip is further disrupted by poachers and a German safari. Then the young Kikuyu boy in Jade’s care disappears. When she discovers a cache of weapons, Jade realises she and her friends have stumbled on a bigger conspiracy than illegal hunting raids.

 

In theory, Stalking Ivory has all the ingredients of a winning historical mystery: a dramatic setting, an outdoorsy adventuress for a heroine, and a plot that employs two high-profile topics: ivory poaching and slavery.

Unfortunately, many of the behind-the-scenes workings of Stalking Ivory are based on events and people only seen in the first book, Mark Of The Lion, which I had not read. Unfamiliarity with the plot of Mark Of The Lion affects every part of Stalking Ivory, including the solution to the mystery, which in consequence, in my opinion, leaves much to be desired. The subject of slave commerce in the end receives only tangential attention whereas the killing of elephants for their tusks is given a more central role in the story. However, in neither case are the economic, the social, or the historical influences that motivate these trades even briefly discussed; their inclusion is limited to unpleasant facts that occasion anger and fuel the mystery.

Stalking Ivory builds up slowly for the first eighty pages or so before the story livens up, but I never grew to particularly like any of the main characters, and remained more interested in the setting and the secondary characters. The tone strives to relieve intense scenes such as graphic descriptions of slaughtered elephants with moments of cheeky humour, but although the heroine usually laughs until she cries at her own jokes, the comedy seemed forced to me. As for the prose, long sections read like unpolished drafts, with characters repeatedly stating the obvious, clunky dialogue, artificial or overwrought chapter endings, and abrupt paragraph shifts.

Although slang, the Germans’ racial attitudes (there are few nuanced characterisations in Stalking Ivory), and multiple references to both the Great War and Edgar Rice Burroughs try to evoke a period style, the atmosphere felt more modern than 1920 to me, largely due to a heroine who does not seem to display any characteristics of a pre-WW II heroine.

Jade del Cameron (the Spanish ‘del’ paired with the Scottish surname Cameron is not explained) is a self-sufficient traveller whose green, challenging eyes can stare down anyone and who refuses to be emotionally or physically dependent on any man. An outsider in her capacity as an American in a British colony and a working woman in a dangerous environment claimed by male hunters and soldiers, her character comes with plenty of interesting potential. As handy with a rifle as she is with a camera, she is in her element in Africa. So far, so good. But her spirited, independent nature is often easily confused with obstinacy and foolhardy impulsiveness and leads her and others into unnecessary danger; her questionable survival instincts rely by turns on an old knee injury alerting her to jeopardy and on mystical interventions; her tracking ability owes much to a tame cheetah whose personality seems no different from a dog; and, being opinionated, she is quick to criticise, condemn, and ridicule others based on how she feels rather than on what they have or haven’t done. Instead of identifying with her or cheering for her I felt myself becoming a cool, distant observer. I recognise that it would be difficult to create a historical heroine whom modern readers can embrace if she were to display the prejudices of her era, but I do wish that the distinctions between the (enlightened) Americans and British versus the (boorish) Germans were less simplistic.

While natives only appear in supporting roles, invisible except in relation to the needs or actions of the Europeans and Americans, the characters of Boguli and Jelani nonetheless form an inextricable part of the plot. I thought these two were the most inspired creations in Stalking Ivory. The mysticism associated with the former blends in naturally despite the fantasy element and lends the intrigue a thoughtful quality not seen elsewhere in the story. The lively, sympathetic depiction of the child Jelani was a breath of fresh air among so many stale, stereotypical characters; of all the creatures, human or animal, in Stalking Ivory, he became the most real and interesting to me. I was disappointed to see him fade out of the story “off-screen” towards the end.

The romance in Stalking Ivory consists of a hint at what may follow as opposed to a full-blown love story. Two suitors who take an instant dislike to each other vie for Jade: Harry Hascombe, a British hunter who it seems also appeared in Mark Of The Lion; and fellow American Sam Featherstone, formerly a pilot, now a novice film-maker. The man who turns out to be the love interest has fallen for Jade through reading about her adventures, and every moment in her company confirms his infatuation. Jade is more ambivalent, pointing out that a few days of combining forces does not mean they now know each other. Some tingly moments do follow, but Arruda, like her female protagonist, seems more comfortable dealing with action sequences than tender emotion. For such a slight romance component the language is surprisingly retro-purplish.

Like Blood Moon Over Bengal, another romantic mystery set in the British colonies between the two World Wars, Stalking Ivory offers a captivating setting and a non-conformist heroine. Unfortunately, since not merely the series’ character relationships but the plot drew on events in a book I had not read, I felt I was served an incomplete mystery with missing actors. Still, the well-integrated, detailed research and glimpses of imaginative characterisation indicate that Suzanne Arruda has talents that are not yet fully developed in Stalking Ivory. Perhaps, in a while, I shall skip another few books ahead in the series and try a more recent installment. I do hope that mystery can stand on its own.

 

A book of related interest: Four Years In Paradise by American explorer Osa Johnson (referenced in Suzanne Arruda's Author Note) details the time she spent with her husband in Kenya in 1924 to 1927. As far as I can tell, Osa Johnson appears to be the real-life inspiration for Jade del Cameron.

Iraq: They Came To Baghdad by Agatha Christie

A Cold War thriller that eschews the usual adversaries, They Came To Baghdad by Agatha Christie offers an outlandish but high-energy plot told with a few winks. Agatha Christie’s own experiences of Iraq (the book was written there), including her stays at several excavations led by her husband, Max Mallowan, infuse the descriptions of Baghdad, Basrah, and a fictional archaeological site with confident local colour.

 

1950. A high-profile meeting between Russian and American heads of state is to take place in Baghdad, Iraq, but international tensions are threatening to sabotage its effectiveness before it has even started. Key to its success is a message from a secret agent, but an unknown enemy is doing everything to stop either from reaching the necessary authorities.

Bored shorthand typist Victoria Jones perks up her dull life through imaginative lies. When her appetite for adventure sends her to Baghdad in search of Edward, a handsome young man she has previously only met on a park bench in London, and into the midst of international intrigue, her talent for spinning a tale suddenly becomes the difference between life and death.

 

Although Agatha Christie’s mysteries have grown in appeal for me over the years after a lukewarm appreciation in my teens, I rarely find the descriptions of scenery in her books other than bland. With its briskly detailed settings, They Came To Baghdad differs as much in this aspect from Christie's usual books as it does in being a thriller or adventure story rather than a typical whodunnit. Christie's Iraq in 1950 is not a romanticised Western vision of a mystical East: Baghdad, for example, at first lets the excited Victoria down with its ill-paved streets, dust storms, cacophony of street noise, and shop windows filled with international goods. I rather suspect Christie is recounting her own first impressions, and that these, like Victoria’s, gradually evolved into unexpected fascination with increased understanding of the city’s personality.

The story develops through multiple points of view, with the audacious Victoria Jones emerging as the central character whose adventures and misadventures lead to the unveiling of the central mystery. Although Victoria does have a code of honour in that she does not wish to be employed in any dishonest work, she is far from the stereotypical heroine whose virtues dictate she must starve rather than steal. The reader is introduced to her thus: “The superior fascination of fiction to fact was always irresistible to Victoria. She lied with fluency, ease, and artistic fervour.” I was curious to see how the author planned to redeem her – if redeemed she would be – but from early on it becomes clear that Victoria really is rather agreeable, being generally good-natured (excepting a few attacks of jealousy where her attraction to Edward is involved) and possessing both common sense and courage.

Since They Came To Baghdad also charts Victoria’s evolution from silly office prankster to an amateur spy whom danger and death teach sobering lessons, it is fitting that the romantic subplot takes an unconventional path. Everything ties neatly with the main flow of the story, and indeed enhances it.

Although some serious themes are broached, and the plot contrasts the rights of everyday people leading everyday lives with the goals of elitist idealists, They Came To Baghdad unapologetically espouses escapism over complexity and depth. Unlike, say, Helen MacInnes’s Cold War spy novels, They Came To Baghdad shows no interest in promoting or condemning either Communism or Capitalism, which helps the story bounce along with an air of carefree timelessness.

Agatha Christie fits a convoluted plot into a book of a mere 254 pages, and consequently the pacing is rapid if not always smooth. Due to the changing viewpoints it took me a few chapters to get properly settled into the story, but once I allowed its lightness and good spirit to carry me along I found the whole very readable. Tolerant suspension of disbelief regarding certain plot points is required, but then that seems generally the case with adventure stories, of which They Came To Baghdad is an amusing example.

 

Excerpt

(Fontana paperback, 1990, page 111-2):

"It was at this moment that without any warning her bedroom door swung open, a man slipped in, turned the key in the lock behind him and said to her urgently:

'For God's sake hide me somewhere - quickly...'

Victoria's reactions were never slow. In a twinkling of an eye she had noted the laboured breathing, the fading voice, the way the man held an old red knitted scarf bunched on his breast with a desperate clutching hand. And she rose immediately in response to the adventure.

The room did not lend itself to many hiding-places. There was the wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a table and the rather pretentious dressing-table. The bed was a large one - almost a double bed and memories of hide-and-seek made Victoria's recation prompt.

'Quick,' she said. She swept off pillows, and raised sheet and blanket. The man lay across the top of the bed. Victoria pulled sheet and blanket over him, dumped the pillows on top and sat down herself on the side of the bed.

Almost immediately there came a low insistent knocking on the door.

Victoria called out, 'Who is it?' in a faint, alarmed voice.

'Please,' said a man's voice outside. 'Open, please. It is the police.'"

Teaser Tuesday: They Came To Baghdad by Agatha Christie

Teaser Tuesday is a weekly bookish meme, hosted by MizB of Should Be Reading. Anyone can play along! Just do the following:

 

• Grab your current read
• Open to a random page
•  Share two (2) “teaser” sentences from somewhere on that page
• Be careful not to include spoilers! (Make sure that what you share doesn’t give too much away. You don’t want to ruin the book for others!)
• Share the title and author, too, so that other Teaser Tuesday participants can add the book to their TBR lists if they like your teasers!

 

My teaser

(Fontana paperback, 1990, page 16):

 

“The superior fascination of fiction to fact was always irresistible to Victoria. She lied with fluency, ease, and artistic fervour.”

 

They Came To Baghdad (originally published in 1951) is an Agatha Christie mystery about which I can recall absolutely nothing, so I am enjoying it as if for the first time. The Wikipedia entry about the novel labels it an adventure story with romantic elements rather than a conventional whodunnit, and compares it to The Man In The Brown Suit. That and its Iraqi locale, which Christie knew from excavation trips with her archaeologist husband, is what made me pick it up as a break from a long run of romances and historical fiction.

As the teaser implies, there is an air of insouciance and risk-taking about the heroine, Victoria Jones. Recently fired from her job as a typist for entertaining her office mates with an ill-timed parody of her employer's wife, she proceeds to move heaven and earth in her determination to follow a charmingly mysterious young man to Baghdad. No doubt plenty of international trouble awaits!

I hope to post my thoughts about They Came To Baghdad on Friday. In the meantime, please feel free to comment about your own Tuesday teaser and share a link to it!

Scotland: Wildfire At Midnight by Mary Stewart

Mention the Hebrides and I remember a rainy afternoon on the Isle of Skye with a pot of black tea and the best scones I have ever tasted, the extraordinary kindness of the Scots towards a young, backpacking stranger, and Wildfire At Midnight. A gothicky romantic suspense that became my first introduction to Mary Stewart, Wildfire At Midnight remains a comfort read I re-savour regularly.

 

1953. London is in the grips of coronation fever and weary Gianetta “Janet” Brooke flees the city for a quiet holiday on the Scottish island of Skye. But a strange atmosphere hangs over the isolated little hotel, a tension that is heightened by any mention of Blaven, the nearest peak of the Black Cuillin mountains. Then, among the fishing enthusiasts, climbers, and an old acquaintance who populate the hotel, Giannetta is shocked to run into her ex-husband.

Divorced four years ago after a disastrous marriage, neither is keen to advertise they know each other. While Nicholas Drury researches the folklore of the area to collect material for his latest novel, Gianetta befriends the other guests, in particular Roderick Grant, who explains the reason everybody is upset: a local crofter’s daughter was found ritualistically murdered on Blaven a scant three weeks earlier. Soon after Giannetta’s arrival, tragedy strikes again. And this time, police interest turns from the first victim’s boyfriend to the hotel guests.

 

In the article “Teller of Tales" (The Writer, Volume 83, No. 5, May 1970), Mary Stewart says, "Wildfire at Midnight was an attempt at something different [from her previous writings], the classic closed-room detective story with restricted action, a biggish cast, and a closely circular plot. It taught me technically a great deal, but mainly that the detective story, with its emphasis on plot rather than people, is not for me. What mattered to me was not the mystery, but the choice the heroine faces between personal and larger loyalties."

The classic mystery in the vein of Agatha Christie may not have satisfied Mary Stewart’s professional inclinations, but Wildfire At Midnight is as successful an experiment as any mystery lover could wish. Readers looking for the romantic aspect of Stewart’s storytelling, however, may come away a little less impressed, unless old-school alpha behaviour appeals.

At a brief 175 pages Wildfire At Midnight is a quick read but the intrigue makes every page absorbing and the whole is as thrilling as any mystery double the length. If you enjoy the classic mystery authors such as Agatha Christie or John Dickson Carr (like I do), for example, Wildfire At Midnight should warm the cockles of your heart. Suspects abound; the Inspector is the sternly competent, pipe-smoking, bushy-eyebrowed character of numerous black-and-white British films of the Thirties and Forties; and the heroine is kindly, caring, and prone to end up in the thick of devious goings-on.

On the other hand, this is not a light-hearted romp of the breezily cheerful country-house type. In Wildfire At Midnight, death by murder is a tragedy instead of a mere plot point, and its pall affects the mood and temper of everyone in the hotel. Once it becomes evident that the murderer is not done with his or her crimes, tension and fear escalates as hotel guests realise they, too, may be in danger. Having developed old and new friendships and aware that the guilty person, if found, will be hanged and “buried in quicklime in a prison yard” (p. 108), Giannetta has to fight not to buckle during her struggle to weigh the morality of loyalties against justice and civic duty. Around her, too, brittle nerves stir up heated arguments as the hotel guests begin to suspect one another. The question of when co-operation with the authorities becomes a matter of spying on each other culminates in "strong opinions" (p. 115-6) about whether physical violence has any acceptable place in civilized society.

As for the love interests, I cannot say much about them without spoiling that particular subplot. Two men express interest in Giannetta: her ex-husband Nicholas Drury and climber Roderick Grant. I was a young and definitely unsophisticated teenager the first time I read Wildfire At Midnight and the outcome of the romantic triangle took me by utter, and not very pleasant, surprise. None of my re-readings have altered that first impression, yet I have learned to set the resolution to the romance aside. The result is immense enjoyment of the ambiance, the mystery, the skilfully sketched assortment of quirky and colourful characters, and the setting.

One can always rely on Mary Stewart’s descriptive genius to create a setting so breathtakingly real that it seems to be a memory of one’s own rather than an imagined place. This is perhaps particularly the case with northern England and Scotland; born in Durham and educated there and in Yorkshire, Stewart later settled in Scotland. Wildfire At Midnight also borrows specialist knowledge from her husband, noted Scottish geologist Sir Frederick Stewart, and draws upon the couple’s travels: “[...] the one background I owe entirely to him is the Scottish one for Wildfire At Midnight. We travelled every inch of Scotland together.” (Interview in Counterpoint, edited by Roy Newquist, published by Rand McNally & Company, 1964, page 564.) The rain-lashed island setting with its suddenly descending fogs, perilous mountains, treacherous bogs, and toasty peat fires by which to warm oneself with a glass of sherry, is a character in its own right. It is neither filler nor a device to create suspenseful moodiness (although suspenseful and moody are the resulting atmosphere), but is actually even more integral to the plot than usual with Stewart, who always takes care to match her stories believably to the chosen location.

Wildfire At Midnight has aged rather well not because it still seems modern - for good or ill, it does not, and some of its more dated attitudes require indulgence of the conventions and sensibilities of another era - or because it touches on a discussion of ethics that will probably always remain a human dilemma; it has aged well because it fits so comfortably into a beloved genre that thrives as much on nostalgia as it does on a well-conceived mystery. It shows Mary Stewart the plotter at her best; and for those seeking an armchair trip to Scotland, well, Mary Stewart’s Isle Of Skye is almost every bit as striking as the real one.

 

Excerpt

(Fawcett Crest paperback, 1956, p. 73-4):

"The night had been black and wild, and after several fruitless and exhausting hours of climbing and shouting in the blustering darkness, the searchers had straggled home in the early hours of daylight, to snatch food and a little sleep before setting out, haggard-eyed and weary, for a further search. Bill Persimmon had telephoned for the local rescue team, and about nine next morning, a force some twenty strong set out once again for what must now certainly be reckoned the scene of an accident.

This time, I went with them. Even if I couldn't rock-climb, I would at least provide another pair of eyes, and I could help to cover some of the vast areas of scree and rough heather bordering the Black Spout.

The morning - I remembered with vague surprise that it was the eve of Coronation Day - had broken grey and forbidding. The wind still lurched among the cairns and heather braes with inconsequent violence, and the frequent showers of rain were arrow-sharp and heavy. We were all muffled to the eyes, and trudged our way up the sodden glen with heads bent to meet the vicious stabbing of the rain.

It was a little better as we came under the shelter of the hill where Roderick and I had talked two nights ago, but, as we struggled on to the crest of it, the wind met us again in force. The raindrops drove like nails before it, and I turned my back to it for a moment's respite. The storm gusts leaped past me, wrenching at my coat, and fled down the valley towards the sea.

The hotel looked far away and small and lonely, with, behind it, the sea loch whitening under the racing feet of the wind. I saw a car move slowly away from the porch, and creep along the storm-lashed track to Strathaird. It was a big car, cream, with a black convertible top.

'Marcia Maling's car,' said a voice at my elbow."