Robin Forsythe
Missing or Murdered
AN “ALGERNON VEREKER” MYSTERY
There was no mistaking the sound: it was that of a stealthy footfall, and it appeared to come from the staircase leading to the next floor.
Lord Bygrave left the Ministry on Friday evening, with plans for a fortnight’s holiday in the country. But the following morning he had seemingly vanished into thin air. Now Scotland Yard are struggling to find evidence of foul play in the absence of tangible clues. A national newspaper is offering a reward for information about the Minister’s disappearance – whether Bygrave be dead or alive.
Anthony “Algernon” Vereker, Lord Bygrave’s friend and executor, joins Scotland Yard in their investigation of the mystery. So begins the first of five ingenious and effervescent detective novels featuring Vereker, an amiable and eccentric artist with a razor-sharp mind. Missing or Murdered (1929), is republished here for the first time in over 70 years. It includes a new introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.
‘This is not only a detective story of considerable ingenuity, but it is also a well-written tale with good characterisation.’ Times Literary Supplement
To
Elizabeth
Robin Forsythe (1879-1937)
Crime in Fact and Fiction
Ingenious criminal schemes were the stock in trade of those ever-so-bright men and women who devised the baffling puzzles found in between-the-wars detective fiction. Yet although scores of Golden Age mystery writers strove mightily to commit brilliant crimes on paper, presumably few of them ever attempted to commit them in fact. One author of classic crime fiction who actually carried out a crafty real-life crime was Robin Forsythe. Before commencing in 1929 his successful series of Algernon Vereker detective novels, now reprinted in attractive new editions by the enterprising Dean Street Press, Forsythe served in the 1920s as the mastermind behind England’s Somerset House stamp trafficking scandal.
Robin Forsythe was born Robert Forsythe—he later found it prudent to slightly alter his Christian name—in Sialkot, Punjab (then part of British India, today part of Pakistan) on 10 May 1879, the eldest son of distinguished British cavalryman John “Jock” Forsythe and his wife Caroline. Born in 1838 to modestly circumstanced parents in the Scottish village of Carmunnock, outside Glasgow, John Forsythe in 1858 enlisted as a private in the Ninth Queen’s Royal Lancers and was sent to India, then in the final throes of a bloody rebellion. Like the fictional Dr. John H. Watson of Sherlock Holmes fame, Forsythe saw major martial action in Afghanistan two decades later during the Second Anglo-Afghan War (1878-1880), in his case at the December 1879 siege of the Sherpur Cantonment, just outside Kabul, and the Battle of Kandahar on 1 September 1880, for which service he received the War Medal with two Clasps and the Bronze Star. During the conflict Forsythe was appointed Quartermaster of the Ninth Lancers, in which capacity he served in Afghanistan, India, England and Ireland until his retirement from the British army in 1893, four years after having been made an Honorary Captain. The old solider was later warmly commended, in a 1904 history of the Ninth Lancers, for his “unbroken record of faithful, unfailing and devoted service.” His son Robin’s departure from government service a quarter-century later would be rather less harmonious.
A year after John Forsythe’s return to India from Afghanistan in 1880, his wife Caroline died in Ambala after having given birth to Robin’s younger brother, Gilbert (“Gill”), and the two little boys were raised by an Indian ayah, or nanny. The family returned to England in 1885, when Robin was six years old, crossing over to Ireland five years later, when the Ninth Lancers were stationed at the Curragh Army Camp. On Captain Forsythe’s retirement from the Lancers in 1893, he and his two sons settled in Scotland at his old home village, Carmunnock. Originally intended for the legal profession, Robin instead entered the civil service, although like E.R. Punshon, another clerk turned classic mystery writer recently reprinted by Dean Street Press, he dreamt of earning his bread through his pen by another, more imaginative, means: creative writing. As a young man Robin published poetry and short stories in newspapers and periodicals, yet not until after his release from prison in 1929 at the age of fifty would he finally realize his youthful hope of making his living as a fiction writer.
For the next several years Robin worked in Glasgow as an Inland Revenue Assistant of Excise. In 1909 he married Kate Margaret Havord, daughter of a guide roller in a Glasgow iron and steel mill, and by 1911 the couple resided, along with their one-year-old son John, in Godstone, Surrey, twenty miles from London, where Robin was employed as a Third Class Clerk in the Principal Probate Registry at Somerset House. Young John remained the Robin and Kate’s only child when the couple separated a decade later. What problems led to the irretrievable breakdown of the marriage is not known, but Kate’s daughter-in-law later characterized Kate as “very greedy” and speculated that her exactions upon her husband might have made “life difficult for Robin and given him a reason for his illegal acts.”
Six years after his separation from Kate, Robin conceived and carried out, with the help of three additional Somerset House clerks, a fraudulent enterprise resembling something out of the imaginative crime fiction of Arthur Conan Doyle, Golden Age thriller writer Edgar Wallace and post Golden Age lawyer-turned-author Michael Gilbert. Over a year-and-a-half period, the Somerset House conspirators removed high value judicature stamps from documents deposited with the Board of Inland Revenue, using acids to obliterate cancellation marks, and sold the stamps at half-cost to three solicitor’s clerks, the latter of whom pocketed the difference in prices. Robin and his co-conspirators at Somerset House divided among themselves the proceeds from the illicit sales of the stamps, which totaled over 50,000 pounds (or roughly $75,000 US dollars) in modern value. Unhappily for the seven schemers, however, a government auditor became suspicious of nefarious activity at Somerset House, resulting in a 1927 undercover Scotland Yard investigation that, coupled with an intensive police laboratory examination of hundreds of suspect documents, fully exposed both the crime and its culprits.
Robin Forsythe and his co-conspirators were promptly arrested and at London’s Old Bailey on 7 February 1928, the Common Serjeant--elderly Sir Henry Dickens, K.C., last surviving child of the great Victorian author Charles Dickens--passed sentence on the seven men, all of whom had plead guilty and thrown themselves on the mercy of the court. Sir Henry sentenced Robin to a term of fifteen months imprisonment, castigating him as a calculating rogue, according to the Glasgow Herald, the newspaper in which Robin had published his poetry as a young man, back when the world had seemed full of promise:
It is an astounding position to find in an office like that of Somerset House that the Canker of dishonesty had bitten deep….You are the prime mover of this, and obviously you started it. For a year and a half you have continued it, and you have undoubtedly raised an atmosphere and influenced other people in that office.
Likely one of the “astounding” aspects of this case in the eyes of eminent pillars of society like Dickens was that Robin Forsythe and his criminal cohort to a man had appeared to be, before the fraud was exposed, quite upright individuals. With one exception Robin’s co-conspirators were a generation younger than their ringleader and had done their duty, as the saying goes, in the Great War. One man had been a decorated lance corporal in the late affray, while another had served as a gunner in the Royal Field Artillery and a third had piloted biplanes as a 2nd lieutenant in the Royal Flying Corps. The affair disturbingly demonstrated to all and sundry that, just like in Golden Age crime fiction, people who seemed above suspicion could fall surprisingly hard for the glittering lure of ill-gotten gain.
Crime fiction offered the imaginative
Robin Forsythe not only a means of livelihood after he was released in from prison in 1929, unemployed and seemingly unemployable, but also, one might surmise, a source of emotional solace and escape. Dorothy L. Sayers once explained that from the character of her privileged aristocratic amateur detective, Lord Peter Wimsey, she had devised and derived, at difficult times in her life, considerable vicarious satisfaction:
When I was dissatisfied with my single unfurnished room, I tool a luxurious flat for him in Piccadilly. When my cheap rug got a hole in it, I ordered an Aubusson carpet. When I had no money to pay my bus fare, I presented him with a Daimler double-six, upholstered in a style of sober magnificence, and when I felt dull I let him drive it.
Between 1929 and 1937 Robin published eight successful crime novels, five of which were part of the Algernon Vereker mystery series for which the author was best known: Missing or Murdered (1929), The Polo Ground Mystery (1932), The Pleasure Cruise Mystery (1933), The Ginger Cat Mystery (1935) and The Spirit Murder Mystery (1936). The three remaining novels—The Hounds of Justice (1930), The Poison Duel (1934, under the pseudonym Peter Dingwall) and Murder on Paradise Island (1937)—were non-series works.
Like the other Robin Forsythe detective novels detailing the criminal investigations of Algernon Vereker, gentleman artist and amateur sleuth, Missing or Murdered was issued in England by The Bodley Head, publisher in the Twenties of mysteries by Agatha Christie and Annie Haynes, the latter another able writer revived by Dean Street Press. Christie had left The Bodley Head in 1926 and Annie Haynes had passed away early in 1929, leaving the publisher in need of promising new authors. Additionally, the American company Appleton-Century published two of the Algernon Vereker novels, The Pleasure Cruise Mystery and The Ginger Cat Mystery, in the United States (the latter book under the title Murder at Marston Manor) as part of its short-lived but memorably titled Tired Business Man’s Library of adventure, detective and mystery novels, which were designed “to afford relaxation and entertainment” to industrious American escape fiction addicts during their off hours. Forsythe’s fiction also enjoyed some success in France, where his first three detective novels were published, under the titles La Disparition de Lord Bygrave (The Disappearance of Lord Bygrave), La Passion de Sadie Maberley (The Passion of Sadie Maberley) and Coups de feu a l’aube (Gunshots at Dawn).
The Robin Forsythe mystery fiction drew favorable comment for their vivacity and ingenuity from such luminaries as Dorothy L. Sayers, Charles Williams and J.B. Priestley, the latter acutely observing that “Mr. Forsythe belongs to the new school of detective story writers which might be called the brilliant flippant school.” Sayers pronounced of Forsythe’s The Ginger Cat Mystery that “[t]he story is lively and the plot interesting,” while Charles Williams, author and editor of Oxford University Press, heaped praise upon The Polo Ground Mystery as “a good story of one bullet, two wounds, two shots, and one dead man and three pistols before the end….It is really a maze, and the characters are not merely automata.”
This second act in the career of Robin Forsythe proved sadly short-lived, however, for in 1937 the author passed away from kidney disease, still estranged from his wife and son, at the age of 57. In his later years he resided--along with his Irish Setter Terry, the “dear pal” to whom he dedicated The Ginger Cat Mystery--at a cottage in the village of Hartest, near Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk. In addition to writing, Robin enjoyed gardening and dabbling in art, having become an able chalk sketch artist and water colorist. He also toured on ocean liners (under the name “Robin Forsythe”), thereby gaining experience that would serve him well in his novel The Pleasure Cruise Mystery. This book Robin dedicated to “Beatrice,” while Missing or Murdered was dedicated to “Elizabeth” and The Spirit Murder Mystery to “Jean.” Did Robin find solace as well in human companionship during his later years? Currently we can only speculate, but classic British crime fans who peruse the mysteries of Robin Forsythe should derive pleasure from spending time in the clever company of Algernon Vereker as he hunts down fictional malefactors—thus proving that, while crime may not pay, it most definitely can entertain.
Curtis Evans
Chapter One
Mr. Gregory Grierson, Chief Clerk, sat at his desk at the Ministry of X— near an open window overlooking the Thames with his gaze fixed on the swiftly outflowing tide, all sparkling and flashing in the bright October sun. The wide stretch of water below him was pulsating with golden light, but, though his vision was intent on this splendour, his thoughts were elsewhere. They were evidently occupied with some unpleasant subject, for every now and then he frowned and the lids of his eyes narrowed until the pupils were almost hidden.
At length he rose impatiently from his chair, as if summarily wrenching himself free from the domination of that distasteful train of speculation, and walked leisurely over to the tall vase of sweet-peas standing on the mantelpiece. He gazed with genuine admiration at the delicate blossoms and tenderly re-arranged them with a sensitive and rather finely shaped hand. Then he stood back a pace and regarded them critically. Yes, they were undoubtedly superb blooms; they had more than repaid the incessant care he had bestowed on their culture. A look of satisfaction, even of pride, gathered on his features—the pride and satisfaction of the successful horticulturist. From that vase of sweet-peas he wandered over to gaze lovingly at an etching by Forain, and another by Zorn, hanging on the wall opposite the fire-place. These two etchings constituted the sole personal note struck by Gregory Grierson in the furnishing of Room 83, which in all other respects conformed to the taste of the mysterious genius responsible for the embellishment of Government interiors.
Mr. Grierson was a man of considerable refinement, and he had often felt grateful to that mysterious genius for the amazing skill with which he had eliminated every vestige of himself—of a human being with predilections—from his work. The unobtrusive greens of the walls, the silent, non-committal carpets, the mute and passionless reserve of the hearth-rugs (worked with the Royal monogram to obviate theft rather than add ornament) could never impinge on the consciousness or offend the susceptibilities of the most sensitive soul that might have to pass the greater part of his earthly existence among them. Mr. Grierson glanced round the room and for a moment entertained the seductive vision of Room 83 furnished to the standard of his fastidious taste. But to indulge the vision was only a pleasant folly after all...
He returned to his desk, sat down and commenced the day’s work. He had not been seated long when Bliss, one of his staff, entered with a précis of some correspondence and laid it on his chief’s desk. Bliss was about to return to his own room when Mr. Grierson swung round in his chair and spoke to him.
“Any telephone message for me this morning, Bliss?” he asked.
“No, sir. Have you had any further news of Lord Bygrave?”
“None whatever. Scotland Yard rang me up last night and told me that one of their representatives would call here to-day. Show him in to me at once on his arrival.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Altogether it’s a most extraordinary business—I can’t understand it. However, now that the police are on the track there’s just a possibility that they’ll shed some light on the mystery. The Press have already raised the hue and cry, and this morning one Daily published a photograph of Lord Bygrave with the offer of £100 reward for information that will lead to his discovery, dead or alive. What a topic of conversation for the town!”
“I can’t imagine what can have happened to him!” exclaimed Bliss with a perplexed air.
“There’s no knowing in these days of unrest and anarchy what may suddenly happen to any public man,” replied Mr. Grierson gravely. “However, perhaps I’m looking on the matter with undue pessimism. Let’s hope there’ll be a happy solution to the mystery after all.”
Mr. Grierson turned again to his desk to signify that the conversation might be considered at an end, and Bliss passed through the door leading into the juniors’ room (as it was always called
), where his colleague Murray was eagerly awaiting him.
“Any news of Bygrave?” asked Murray, unable to allow Bliss a protracted enjoyment of an air of importance which the possession of secret information had already bestowed on him.
“None at all,” said Bliss curtly and sat down at his desk.
“I hope they’ve rung up Bygrave Hall,” remarked Murray. “Bygrave may simply have gone home slightly indisposed.”
“True, Murray, true! You seem to wish to be helpful,” replied Bliss mockingly, “but you must fling off these luminous remarks to the Scotland Yard official when he arrives this morning.”
“Good Lord, are we going to have a visit from Scotland Yard?” asked Murray excitedly.
“Yes,” replied Bliss, noticing with some satisfaction the electrical effect of his communication.
“My hat!” exclaimed Murray. “The shadow of romance has actually fallen across the prosaic threshold of the Ministry.”
“I think we may consider that it’s our day,” said Bliss with a faint smile. “By the way, Murray, have you decided how you’re going to pose for the Press photographer?”
“Bless my soul, no, not yet. Things are moving so swiftly. I’m glad you’ve called my attention to the point—it’s important. What do you think of, say, a three-quarter view, seated at my desk, telephone receiver in one hand and quill pen in the other? Have we any quills left? I feel a quill is essential. But have you got your story ready for the interviewer? ‘Mr. Bliss’s Story’ they’ll call it.”
“I shall work that up at lunch over my sausages and mash and one veg., as the waitress calls it,” replied Bliss quietly. “What is intriguing me at present is whether I shall be photographed with my morning coat open or buttoned. It’s most difficult to decide.”
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