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  J. J. Connington and The Murder Room

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  The Murder Room

  Where Criminal Minds Meet

  themurderroom.com

  The Boathouse Riddle

  J. J. Connington

  Contents

  Cover

  The Murder Room Introduction

  Title page

  Introduction by Curtis Evans

  I THE OWNER OF SILVER GROVE

  II THE DEATH OF THE GAMEKEEPER

  III THE PEARLS

  IV THE BOATHOUSE

  V THE KEITH-WESTERTON IMBROGLIO

  VI THE TELEPHONE CALL

  VII THE SALVATIONIST

  VIII DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

  IX SIR CLINTON’S FISHING

  X CINCINNATI JEAN

  XI THE ABBÉ GORON OFFICIATES

  XII THE PEARL NECKLACE

  XIII PROLOGUE AT THE BOATHOUSE

  XIV PRINCIPAL AND ACCESSORY

  XV THE FOCUS OF SUSPICION

  Outro

  About the author

  By J. J. Connington

  Copyright page

  Introduction

  by

  Curtis Evans

  During the Golden Age of the detective novel, in the 1920s and 1930s, J. J. Connington stood with fellow crime writers R. Austin Freeman, Cecil John Charles Street and Freeman Wills Crofts as the foremost practitioner in British mystery fiction of the science of pure detection. I use the word ‘science’ advisedly, for the man behind J. J. Connington, Alfred Walter Stewart, was an esteemed Scottish-born scientist. A ‘small, unassuming, moustached polymath’, Stewart was ‘a strikingly effective lecturer with an excellent sense of humour, fertile imagination and fantastically retentive memory’, qualities that also served him well in his fiction. He held the Chair of Chemistry at Queens University, Belfast for twenty-five years, from 1919 until his retirement in 1944.

  During roughly this period, the busy Professor Stewart found time to author a remarkable apocalyptic science fiction tale, Nordenholt’s Million (1923), a mainstream novel, Almighty Gold (1924), a collection of essays, Alias J. J. Connington (1947), and, between 1926 and 1947, twenty-four mysteries (all but one tales of detection), many of them sterling examples of the Golden Age puzzle-oriented detective novel at its considerable best. ‘For those who ask first of all in a detective story for exact and mathematical accuracy in the construction of the plot’, avowed a contemporary London Daily Mail reviewer, ‘there is no author to equal the distinguished scientist who writes under the name of J. J. Connington.’1

  Alfred Stewart’s background as a man of science is reflected in his fiction, not only in the impressive puzzle plot mechanics he devised for his mysteries but in his choices of themes and depictions of characters. Along with Stanley Nordenholt of Nordenholt’s Million, a novel about a plutocrat’s pitiless efforts to preserve a ruthlessly remolded remnant of human life after a global environmental calamity, Stewart’s most notable character is Chief Constable Sir Clinton Driffield, the detective in seventeen of the twenty-four Connington crime novels. Driffield is one of crime fiction’s most highhanded investigators, occasionally taking on the functions of judge and jury as well as chief of police.

  Absent from Stewart’s fiction is the hail-fellow-well-met quality found in John Street’s works or the religious ethos suffusing those of Freeman Wills Crofts, not to mention the effervescent novel-of-manners style of the British Golden Age Crime Queens Dorothy L. Sayers, Margery Allingham and Ngaio Marsh. Instead we see an often disdainful cynicism about the human animal and a marked admiration for detached supermen with superior intellects. For this reason, reading a Connington novel can be a challenging experience for modern readers inculcated in gentler social beliefs. Yet Alfred Stewart produced a classic apocalyptic science fiction tale in Nordenholt’s Million (justly dubbed ‘exciting and terrifying reading’ by the Spectator) as well as superb detective novels boasting well-wrought puzzles, bracing characterization and an occasional leavening of dry humour. Not long after Stewart’s death in 1947, the Connington novels fell entirely out of print. The recent embrace of Stewart’s fiction by Orion’s Murder Room imprint is a welcome event indeed, correcting as it does over sixty years of underserved neglect of an accomplished genre writer.

  Born in Glasgow on 5 September 1880, Alfred Stewart had significant exposure to religion in his earlier life. His father was William Stewart, longtime Professor of Divinity and Biblical Criticism at Glasgow University, and he married Lily Coats, a daughter of the Reverend Jervis Coats and member of one of Scotland’s preeminent Baptist families. Religious sensibility is entirely absent from the Connington corpus, however. A confirmed secularist, Stewart once referred to one of his wife’s brothers, the Reverend William Holms Coats (1881–1954), principal of the Scottish Baptist College, as his ‘mental and spiritual antithesis’, bemusedly adding: ‘It’s quite an education to see what one would look like if one were turned into one’s mirror-image.’

  Stewart’s J. J. Connington pseudonym was derived from a nineteenth-century Oxford Professor of Latin and translator of Horace, indicating that Stewart’s literary interests lay not in pietistic writing but rather in the pre-Christian classics (‘I prefer the Odyssey to Paradise Lost,’ the author once avowed). Possessing an inquisitive and expansive mind, Stewart was in fact an uncommonly well-read individual, freely ranging over a variety of literary genres. His deep immersion in French literature and supernatural horror fiction, for example, is documented in his lively correspondence with the noted horologist Rupert Thomas Gould.2

  It thus is not surprising that in the 1920s the intellectually restless Stewart, having achieved a distinguished middle age as a highly regarded man of science, decided to apply his creative energy to a new endeavour, the writing of fiction. After several years he settled, like other gifted men and women of his generation, on the wildly popular mystery genre. Stewart was modest about his accomplishments in this particular field of light fiction, telling Rupert Gould later in life that ‘I write these things [what Stewart called tec yarns] because they amuse me in parts when I am putting them together and because they are the only writings of mine that the public will look at. Also, in a minor degree, because I like to think some people get pleasure out of them.’ No doubt Stewart’s single most impressive literary accomplishment is Nordenholt’s Million, yet in their time the two dozen J. J. Connington mysteries did indeed give readers in Great Britain, the United States and other countries much diversionary reading pleasure. Today these works constitute an estimable addition to British crime fiction.

  After his ’prentice pastiche mystery, Death at Swaythling Court (1926), a rural English country-house tale set in the highly traditional village of Fernhurst Parva, Stewart published a
nother, superior country-house affair, The Dangerfield Talisman (1926), a novel about the baffling theft of a precious family heirloom, an ancient, jewel-encrusted armlet. This clever, murderless tale, which likely is the one that the author told Rupert Gould he wrote in under six weeks, was praised in The Bookman as ‘continuously exciting and interesting’ and in the New York Times Book Review as ‘ingeniously fitted together and, what is more, written with a deal of real literary charm’. Despite its virtues, however, The Dangerfield Talisman is not fully characteristic of mature Connington detective fiction. The author needed a memorable series sleuth, more representative of his own forceful personality.

  It was the next year, 1927, that saw J. J. Connington make his break to the front of the murdermongerer’s pack with a third country-house mystery, Murder in the Maze, wherein debuted as the author’s great series detective the assertive and acerbic Sir Clinton Driffield, along with Sir Clinton’s neighbour and ‘Watson’, the more genial (if much less astute) Squire Wendover. In this much-praised novel, Stewart’s detective duo confronts some truly diabolical doings, including slayings by means of curare-tipped darts in the double-centered hedge maze at a country estate, Whistlefield. No less a fan of the genre than T. S. Eliot praised Murder in the Maze for its construction (‘we are provided early in the story with all the clues which guide the detective’) and its liveliness (‘The very idea of murder in a box-hedge labyrinth does the author great credit, and he makes full use of its possibilities’). The delighted Eliot concluded that Murder in the Maze was ‘a really first-rate detective story’. For his part, the critic H. C. Harwood declared in The Outlook that with the publication of Murder in the Maze Connington demanded and deserved ‘comparison with the masters’. ‘Buy, borrow, or – anyhow – get hold of it’, he amusingly advised. Two decades later, in his 1946 critical essay ‘The Grandest Game in the World’, the great locked-room detective novelist John Dickson Carr echoed Eliot’s assessment of the novel’s virtuoso setting, writing: ‘These 1920s [. . .] thronged with sheer brains. What would be one of the best possible settings for violent death? J. J. Connington found the answer, with Murder in the Maze.’ Certainly in retrospect Murder in the Maze stands as one of the finest English country-house mysteries of the 1920s, cleverly yet fairly clued, imaginatively detailed and often grimly suspenseful. As the great American true-crime writer Edmund Lester Pearson noted in his review of Murder in the Maze in The Outlook, this Connington novel had everything that one could desire in a detective story: ‘A shrubbery maze, a hot day, and somebody potting at you with an air gun loaded with darts covered with a deadly South-American arrow-poison – there is a situation to wheedle two dollars out of anybody’s pocket.’3

  Staying with what had worked so well for him to date, Stewart the same year produced yet another country-house mystery, Tragedy at Ravensthorpe, an ingenious tale of murders and thefts at the ancestral home of the Chacewaters, old family friends of Sir Clinton Driffield. There is much clever matter in Ravensthorpe. Especially fascinating is the author’s inspired integration of faerie folklore into his plot. Stewart, who had a lifelong – though skeptical – interest in paranormal phenomena, probably was inspired in this instance by the recent hubbub over the Cottingly Faeries photographs that in the early 1920s had famously duped, among other individuals, Arthur Conan Doyle.4 As with Murder in the Maze, critics raved about this new Connington mystery. In the Spectator, for example, a reviewer hailed Tragedy at Ravensthorpe in the strongest terms, declaring of the novel: ‘This is more than a good detective tale. Alike in plot, characterization, and literary style, it is a work of art.’

  In 1928 there appeared two additional Sir Clinton Driffield detective novels, Mystery at Lynden Sands and The Case with Nine Solutions. Once again there was great praise for the latest Conningtons. H. C. Harwood, the critic who had so much admired Murder in the Maze, opined of Mystery at Lynden Sands that it ‘may just fail of being the detective story of the century’, while in the United States author and book reviewer Frederic F. Van de Water expressed nearly as high an opinion of The Case with Nine Solutions. ‘This book is a thoroughbred of a distinguished lineage that runs back to “The Gold Bug” of [Edgar Allan] Poe,’ he avowed. ‘It represents the highest type of detective fiction.’ In both of these Connington novels, Stewart moved away from his customary country-house milieu, setting Lynden Sands at a fashionable beach resort and Nine Solutions at a scientific research institute. Nine Solutions is of particular interest today, I think, for its relatively frank sexual subject matter and its modern urban setting among science professionals, which rather resembles the locales found in P. D. James’ classic detective novels A Mind to Murder (1963) and Shroud for a Nightingale (1971).

  By the end of the 1920s, J. J. Connington’s critical reputation had achieved enviable heights indeed. At this time Stewart became one of the charter members of the Detection Club, an assemblage of the finest writers of British detective fiction that included, among other distinguished individuals, Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers and G. K. Chesterton. Certainly Victor Gollancz, the British publisher of the J. J. Connington mysteries, did not stint praise for the author, informing readers that ‘J. J. Connington is now established as, in the opinion of many, the greatest living master of the story of pure detection. He is one of those who, discarding all the superfluities, has made of deductive fiction a genuine minor art, with its own laws and its own conventions.’

  Such warm praise for J. J. Connington makes it all the more surprising that at this juncture the esteemed author tinkered with his successful formula by dispensing with his original series detective. In the fifth Clinton Driffield detective novel, Nemesis at Raynham Parva (1929), Alfred Walter Stewart, rather like Arthur Conan Doyle before him, seemed with a dramatic dénouement to have devised his popular series detective’s permanent exit from the fictional stage (read it and see for yourself). The next two Connington detective novels, The Eye in the Museum (1929) and The Two Tickets Puzzle (1930), have a different series detective, Superintendent Ross, a rather dull dog of a policeman. While both these mysteries are competently done – the railway material in The Two Tickets Puzzle is particularly effective and should have appeal today – the presence of Sir Clinton Driffield (no superfluity he!) is missed.

  Probably Stewart detected that the public minded the absence of the brilliant and biting Sir Clinton, for the Chief Constable – accompanied, naturally, by his friend Squire Wendover – triumphantly returned in 1931 in The Boathouse Riddle, another well-constructed criminous country-house affair. Later in the year came The Sweepstake Murders, which boasts the perennially popular tontine multiple-murder plot, in this case a rapid succession of puzzling suspicious deaths afflicting the members of a sweepstake syndicate that has just won nearly £250,000.5 Adding piquancy to this plot is the fact that Wendover is one of the imperiled syndicate members. Altogether the novel is, as the late Jacques Barzun and his colleague Wendell Hertig Taylor put it in A Catalogue of Crime (1971, 1989), their magisterial survey of detective fiction, ‘one of Connington’s best conceptions’.

  Stewart’s productivity as a fiction writer slowed in the 1930s, so that, barring the year 1938, at most only one new Connington appeared annually. However, in 1932 Stewart produced one of the best Connington mysteries, The Castleford Conundrum. A classic country-house detective novel, Castleford introduces to readers Stewart’s most delightfully unpleasant set of greedy relations and one of his most deserving murderees, Winifred Castleford. Stewart also fashions a wonderfully rich puzzle plot, full of meaty material clues for the reader’s delectation. Castleford presented critics with no conundrum over its quality. ‘In The Castleford Conundrum Mr Connington goes to work like an accomplished chess player. The moves in the games his detectives are called on to play are a delight to watch,’ raved the reviewer for the Sunday Times, adding that ‘the clues would have rejoiced Mr. Holmes’ heart.’ For its part, the Spectator concurred in the Sunday Times’ assessment of the novel’s masterful
ly constructed plot: ‘Few detective stories show such sound reasoning as that by which the Chief Constable brings the crime home to the culprit.’ Additionally, E. C. Bentley, much admired himself as the author of the landmark detective novel Trent’s Last Case, took time to praise Connington’s purely literary virtues, noting: ‘Mr Connington has never written better, or drawn characters more full of life.’

  With Tom Tiddler’s Island in 1933 Stewart produced a different sort of Connington, a criminal-gang mystery in the rather more breathless style of such hugely popular English thriller writers as Sapper, Sax Rohmer, John Buchan and Edgar Wallace (in violation of the strict detective fiction rules of Ronald Knox, there is even a secret passage in the novel). Detailing the startling discoveries made by a newlywed couple honeymooning on a remote Scottish island, Tom Tiddler’s Island is an atmospheric and entertaining tale, though it is not as mentally stimulating for armchair sleuths as Stewart’s true detective novels. The title, incidentally, refers to an ancient British children’s game, ‘Tom Tiddler’s Ground’, in which one child tries to hold a height against other children.

  After his fictional Scottish excursion into thrillerdom, Stewart returned the next year to his English country-house roots with The Ha-Ha Case (1934), his last masterwork in this classic mystery setting (for elucidation of non-British readers, a ha-ha is a sunken wall, placed so as to delineate property boundaries while not obstructing views). Although The Ha-Ha Case is not set in Scotland, Stewart drew inspiration for the novel from a notorious Scottish true crime, the 1893 Ardlamont murder case. From the facts of the Ardlamont affair Stewart drew several of the key characters in The Ha-Ha Case, as well as the circumstances of the novel’s murder (a shooting ‘accident’ while hunting), though he added complications that take the tale in a new direction. 6