by Anne Morice
Anne Morice
Murder in Outline
Dangerous secrets score high at an exclusive girl’s school . . . but top marks belong to murder.
Actress Tessa Crichton has mixed reactions to being on the panel of judges at the annual inter-house competition of the Waterside Drama and Ballet School, her alma mater. When she arrives on campus, the headmistress is having an affair with the founder’s husband, a kleptomaniac is on the loose among the budding thespians, and the beloved and bewildering foundress is suffering from a most mysterious illness. When a student with a penchant for drawing compromising caricatures is found dead, the picture is one of murder most academic.
Is it illicit love among the staff? Stealing among the students? Espionage among the alums? Or a scheme so beastly that Tessa’s search for a killer becomes an education in the elusive evil one might find behind the most friendly facade.
Murder in Outline was originally published in 1979. This new edition features an introduction and afterword by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.
‘Anne Morice has a gift for creating intelligent, affection-generating characters, set in light and entertaining atmospheres.’ Spectator
Contents
Cover
Title Page/About the Book
Contents
Introduction by Curtis Evans
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Afterword
About the Author
Titles by Anne Morice
Copyright
Introduction
By 1970 the Golden Age of detective fiction, which had dawned in splendor a half-century earlier in 1920, seemingly had sunk into shadow like the sun at eventide. There were still a few old bodies from those early, glittering days who practiced the fine art of finely clued murder, to be sure, but in most cases the hands of those murderously talented individuals were growing increasingly infirm. Queen of Crime Agatha Christie, now eighty years old, retained her bestselling status around the world, but surely no one could have deluded herself into thinking that the novel Passenger to Frankfurt, the author’s 1970 “Christie for Christmas” (which publishers for want of a better word dubbed “an Extravaganza”) was prime Christie—or, indeed, anything remotely close to it. Similarly, two other old crime masters, Americans John Dickson Carr and Ellery Queen (comparative striplings in their sixties), both published detective novels that year, but both books were notably weak efforts on their parts. Agatha Christie’s American counterpart in terms of work productivity and worldwide sales, Erle Stanley Gardner, creator of Perry Mason, published nothing at all that year, having passed away in March at the age of eighty. Admittedly such old-timers as Rex Stout, Ngaio Marsh, Michael Innes and Gladys Mitchell were still playing the game with some of their old élan, but in truth their glory days had fallen behind them as well. Others, like Margery Allingham and John Street, had died within the last few years or, like Anthony Gilbert, Nicholas Blake, Leo Bruce and Christopher Bush, soon would expire or become debilitated. Decidedly in 1970—a year which saw the trials of the Manson family and the Chicago Seven, assorted bombings, kidnappings and plane hijackings by such terroristic entities as the Weathermen, the Red Army, the PLO and the FLQ, the American invasion of Cambodia and the Kent State shootings and the drug overdose deaths of Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin—leisure readers now more than ever stood in need of the intelligent escapism which classic crime fiction provided. Yet the old order in crime fiction, like that in world politics and society, seemed irrevocably to be washing away in a bloody tide of violent anarchy and all round uncouthness.
Or was it? Old values have a way of persisting. Even as the generation which produced the glorious detective fiction of the Golden Age finally began exiting the crime scene, a new generation of younger puzzle adepts had arisen, not to take the esteemed places of their elders, but to contribute their own worthy efforts to the rarefied field of fair play murder. Among these writers were P.D. James, Ruth Rendell, Emma Lathen, Patricia Moyes, H.R.F. Keating, Catherine Aird, Joyce Porter, Margaret Yorke, Elizabeth Lemarchand, Reginald Hill, Peter Lovesey and the author whom you are perusing now, Anne Morice (1916-1989). Morice, who like Yorke, Lovesey and Hill debuted as a mystery writer in 1970, was lavishly welcomed by critics in the United Kingdom (she was not published in the United States until 1974) upon the publication of her first mystery, Death in the Grand Manor, which suggestively and anachronistically was subtitled not an “extravaganza,” but a novel of detection. Fittingly the book was lauded by no less than seemingly permanently retired Golden Age stalwarts Edmund Crispin and Francis Iles (aka Anthony Berkeley Cox). Crispin deemed Morice’s debut puzzler “a charming whodunit . . . full of unforced buoyance” and prescribed it as a “remedy for existentialist gloom,” while Iles, who would pass away at the age of seventy-seven less than six months after penning his review, found the novel a “most attractive lightweight,” adding enthusiastically: “[E]ntertainingly written, it provides a modern version of the classical type of detective story. I was much taken with the cheerful young narrator . . . and I think most readers will feel the same way. Warmly recommended.” Similarly, Maurice Richardson, who, although not a crime writer, had reviewed crime fiction for decades at the London Observer, lavished praise upon Morice’s maiden mystery: “Entrancingly fresh and lively whodunit. . . . Excellent dialogue. . . . Much superior to the average effort to lighten the detective story.”
With such a critical sendoff, it is no surprise that Anne Morice’s crime fiction took flight on the wings of its bracing mirth. Over the next two decades twenty-five Anne Morice mysteries were published (the last of them posthumously), at the rate of one or two year. Twenty-three of these concerned the investigations of Tessa Crichton, a charming young actress who always manages to cross paths with murder, while two, written at the end of her career, detail cases of Detective Superintendent “Tubby” Wiseman. In 1976 Morice along with Margaret Yorke was chosen to become a member of Britain’s prestigious Detection Club, preceding Ruth Rendell by a year, while in the 1980s her books were included in Bantam’s superlative paperback “Murder Most British” series, which included luminaries from both present and past like Rendell, Yorke, Margery Allingham, Patricia Wentworth, Christianna Brand, Elizabeth Ferrars, Catherine Aird, Margaret Erskine, Marian Babson, Dorothy Simpson, June Thomson and last, but most certainly not least, the Queen of Crime herself, Agatha Christie. In 1974, when Morice’s fifth Tessa Crichton detective novel, Death of a Dutiful Daughter, was picked up in the United States, the author’s work again was received with acclaim, with reviewers emphasizing the author’s cozy traditionalism (though the term “cozy” had not then come into common use in reference to traditional English and American mysteries). In his notice of Morice’s Death of a Wedding Guest (1976), “Newgate Callendar” (aka classical music critic Harold C. Schoenberg), Seventies crime fiction reviewer for the New York Times Book Review, observed that “Morice is a traditionalist, and she has no surprises [in terms of subject matter] in her latest book. What she does have, as always, is a bright and amusing style . . . [and] a general air of sophisticated writing.” Perhaps a couple of reviews from Middle America—where in
tense Anglophilia, the dogmatic pronouncements of Raymond Chandler and Edmund Wilson notwithstanding, still ran rampant among mystery readers—best indicate the cozy criminal appeal of Anne Morice:
Anne Morice . . . acquired me as a fan when I read her “Death and the Dutiful Daughter.” In this new novel, she did not disappoint me. The same appealing female detective, Tessa Crichton, solves the mysteries on her own, which is surprising in view of the fact that Tessa is actually not a detective, but a film actress. Tessa just seems to be at places where a murder occurs, and at the most unlikely places at that . . . this time at a garden fete on the estate of a millionaire tycoon. . . . The plot is well constructed; I must confess that I, like the police, had my suspect all picked out too. I was “dead” wrong (if you will excuse the expression) because my suspect was also murdered before not too many pages turned. . . . This is not a blood-curdling, chilling mystery; it is amusing and light, but Miss Morice writes in a polished and intelligent manner, providing pleasure and entertainment. (Rose Levine Isaacson, review of Death of a Heavenly Twin, Jackson Mississippi Clarion-Ledger, 18 August 1974)
I like English mysteries because the victims are always rotten people who deserve to die. Anne Morice, like Ngaio Marsh et al., writes tongue in cheek but with great care. It is always a joy to read English at its glorious best. (Sally Edwards, “Ever-So British, This Tale,” review of Killing with Kindness, Charlotte North Carolina Observer, 10 April 1975)
While it is true that Anne Morice’s mysteries most frequently take place at country villages and estates, surely the quintessence of modern cozy mystery settings, there is a pleasing tartness to Tessa’s narration and the brittle, epigrammatic dialogue which reminds me of the Golden Age Crime Queens (particularly Ngaio Marsh) and, to part from mystery for a moment, English playwright Noel Coward. Morice’s books may be cozy but they most certainly are not cloying, nor are the sentiments which the characters express invariably “traditional.” The author avoids any traces of soppiness or sentimentality and has a knack for clever turns of phrase which is characteristic of the bright young things of the Twenties and Thirties, the decades of her own youth. “Sackcloth and ashes would have been overdressing for the mood I had sunk into by then,” Tessa reflects at one point in the novel Death in the Grand Manor. Never fear, however: nothing, not even the odd murder or two, keeps Tessa down in the dumps for long; and invariably she finds herself back on the trail of murder most foul, to the consternation of her handsome, debonair husband, Inspector Robin Price of Scotland Yard (whom she meets in the first novel in the series and has married by the second), and the exasperation of her amusingly eccentric and indolent playwright cousin, Toby Crichton, both of whom feature in almost all of the Tessa Crichton novels. Murder may not lastingly mar Tessa’s equanimity, but she certainly takes her detection seriously.
Three decades now having passed since Anne Morice’s crime novels were in print, fans of British mystery in both its classic and cozy forms should derive much pleasure in discovering (or rediscovering) her work in these new Dean Street Press editions and thereby passing time once again in that pleasant fictional English world where death affords us not emotional disturbance and distress but enjoyable and intelligent diversion.
Curtis Evans
ONE
“So I am invited to be a judge,” I said, putting the letter down. “How gratifying! And it must show that I am beginning to make my mark on the world. You agree, Toby?”
This was during one of my rest periods, part of which I had been spending with my cousin Toby at his house at Roakes Common. My husband, Robin, who is a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard, had joined us there on Saturday evening, bringing a bundle of mail from London, including the invitation just referred to.
“Much depends on what you will be judging,” Toby replied. “If it is the vegetable marrows at the Storhampton Agricultural Show, I dare say the mark will not be indelible.”
“Oh no, something much grander. They want me to be on the panel of judges at the annual inter-house competition of the Waterside Drama and Ballet School. How about that?”
“Isn’t that your own alma mater?” Robin asked.
“One of them. I spent two years there. My parents settled for it when I was clamouring to leave school and go into pantomime. Waterside was a compromise because they do teach a few other things as well, like history and grammar and all that.”
“We’ll take your word for it,” Toby said.
“It was lovely too,” I went on, ignoring this. “Easily my favourite school. Probably even better than panto, in a way. Madam was rather a pill though,” I added reminiscently. “Always carrying on a deathly feud with poor Miss Lawrie, who was very meek and no match for her.”
“Madam who?”
“I can’t remember her name. She was head of the arts side and only ever known as Madam. Miss Lawrie was her opposite number, in the scholastic department, and she was nicknamed Annie, need I tell you? I have an idea she’s retired now, but she never impinged very much on my life. My highest ambition at the age of fourteen was to become a ballerina at Covent Garden, but Madam said I was too tall and too turned in and that every one of my toes was the wrong length. That’s when I switched to acting.”
“And when does this competition take place?” Robin asked.
“26th to 28th June,” I replied, having consulted the letter again. “It’s a weekend, so I’ll probably be able to fit it in, even if, God willing, I am working again by then.”
“A whole weekend? A fair old marathon, by the sound of it.”
“Well, no, not exactly. What happens is that on the first day they have the ballet sessions, which are not in my sphere, although I am invited to attend, more or less as a matter of courtesy. Then on Saturday, which is my bit, each house puts on a one-act play, or scene from something or other. They can write their own, if they want to, and they have to produce it themselves, as well as paint the scenery and make all the costumes. Each performance lasts about half an hour.”
“And how many houses in this school?” Toby asked in an awed voice.
“Five,” I replied, after a brief pause, to deprive him of the satisfaction of catching me counting on my fingers. “Red, Blue, Green, Brown and Orange, the last being mine. We wore orange armbands on our leotards and we were looked after by the dearest old matron-cum-house-keeper called Mrs. Patterson, known to one and all as Patsy, in case you hadn’t already guessed.”
“And what happens on Sunday?” Robin asked, his training and experience once again prompting him to dig out the hard facts.
“Oh, that’s Speech Day, when the two winning performances are given all over again for the parents and governors. There’s also an Art Exhibition, so called, and one or two of the more respectable exercise books are propped up for inspection, just to reassure everyone. Of course, I’d have been invited to the Sunday fling, anyway, being an old girl. I’ve only been to it once, as it happens, and that was the year when I got my first job and wanted to show off a bit; but I shall certainly be there this time. You can come too, if you like.”
Robin managed to conceal any feelings of ecstasy arising from this suggestion and Toby said:
“I can’t help feeling that time has drawn a somewhat spangled veil over this brief period of your life. Can it all have been quite so halcyon as you now make out? Was there not the occasional sticky patch?”
“Oh, indeed! I’ve already mentioned the running battle between Madam and Annie Lawrie, but neither of them was half so alarming as our terrible, awe-inspiring principal, Connie Bland, trumpeting about and putting the fear of God into one and all; especially that ghastly day when Amanda Blake was caught smoking after lights out. It is an experience I never wish to live through again.”
“You mean it was all right to smoke, so long as the lights were on?”
“No, of course not; I was simply trying to recall some of the rough, as well as the smooth, of those far-off days. There was Dr. Bland, for instance, Connie’s husban
d and business partner. Not that there was anything bad about him, quite the reverse, in fact, but he had a rather exciting reputation in the extra-marital field. And there was a grown-up daughter called Pauline, who had to be carted away one night in an ambulance. It was given out that she’d got acute appendicitis and she reappeared about a week later, looking wonderfully pale and wan, but Tina Blundell said she knew for a fact that Pauline had taken an overdose and we all believed her. So, you see, it wasn’t all beer and skittles. Still, you know how it is at that age? One fastens on anything which relieves the monotony and life wouldn’t have been half so much fun without its moments of drama and tragedy.”
“Strange how radically one alters in maturity,” Robin remarked pensively.
TWO
(1)
Waterside School was situated midway between Goring and Oxford, three miles from the small market town of Gillsford and so named because of its position on the banks of the Thames. Indeed, there were periods during most winters, when the river swelled up and overflowed into the meadow on the opposite bank, when one had a strong sensation of living actually on the water, instead of merely beside it. In summer, however, the benefits were reaped, for no lawns were ever greener, no flower beds more brilliant with colour, and no prouder woman in the land than our formidable, success-worshipping principal, Mrs. Constance Bland.
The main building, a long, low and imposing white pile, had been constructed to his own specifications by a local Victorian businessman, in the grounds of a much older house which had been partially burnt down and then left to decay. Fortunately for posterity, he had chosen a style which belonged somewhere in between these two periods, thus achieving the best of both worlds: solid Victorian construction, combined with elegant Regency design. Furthermore, he had had the prescience to site it not on the main river, which nowadays would have been intolerably noisy in summer, but on a private and parallel stretch of backwater.
