The Return of Mr Campion Page 2

  D'Arcy House represented the heart and the mind of the Village not by right of charter nor yet because Pip took to himself and Marge seigniorial status but because, already before 1939, it was recognized as such by custom and common consent. In 1938 they had fought strenuously to save the village school from closure. Marge took seriously the responsibilities chat went with the local prestige unequivocally granted to her home. In 1939 she was energetic and efficient in organizing emergency services and the reception of excuses from London (this, though no fault of hers, in the light of subsequent events and the exposed situation of the village, a fatuous exercise). When Pip was posted to the Middle East at first to active service in the Western Desert and later to less bellicose duties still in hard stations, to Iraq and Iran to act as editor of Army magazines Marge was left as the sole resident representative at the D'Arcy House family. She continued to advise, to organize, when necessary to command and when called upon to console. Throughout the tense but inspiring years of war she allowed nothing, not even her writing, to come between her and her neighbors. For the rest of her life, if in circumstances more congenial, free of danger and not often scarred by tragedy, she remained the prime counselor to all in Tolleshunt D'Arcy.

  Marge relished the role. At village flower-shows and village cricket-matches even when Pip brought from London a team of personalities to pit their cricketing skills against the skills of the Village Eleven she was the central personality, the first among equals. These were the festivals which celebrated and perpetuated the English rural tradition which she cherished with English literature as her most treasured possession.

  When first they moved to D'Arcy, Pip and Marge had added to the number of these festivals one which they themselves invented, the D'Arcy Feast (which Marge describes so lovingly and so vividly in The Oaken Heart and, fictionalized, in The Beckoning Lady).

  Once a year before the war and after Hitler's impertinent interruption still annually for many years on a day by them deliberately selected to coincide with the presence of a country fair on the D'Arey House: Meadow from early afternoon until early next morning the house and its lovely gardens were filled with the eminent, the almost eminent and the would-be eminent. Out on the Meadow publishers, authors, literary agents from London and New York shot at plastic ducks for plastic prizes, well-known actors and actresses rode the roundabout horses, their customary poses humanized by champagne and even the glossy exquisite whose photographs appeared so often in the glossy pages of Pip's monthly tribute to English High Society, The Taller, squealed around lucky dips and surrendered to sweat the perfection of their coiffures as they shied wooden balls at coconuts. In mid evening the whole company, perhaps two hundred, sat at trestle-tables to a supper of salmon, chicken, ham followed by local strawberries (the best in all England) prepared and served by Marge, Joyce and their much-loved assistant, Chrissie, who is still with Joyce when these lines are written.

  There are a few snarling critics who accuse Margery Allingham of being class-conscious and so in a sense she was, as any must be who sets out to limn the subtle but inescapable gradations of English society, but she was no snob. Perhaps instinctively but more likely in the first instance to avoid argument, she accepted as her own several of Pip's prejudices and Pip was a man with many prejudices but he too was not, by any conventional definition, a snob. He despised with equal fervor all Labour Members of Parliament, all Etonians and all who pretended to be what they were not, but he was as much at ease and as companionable in a public bar as ever he was at the Garrick Club.

  There was nothing patronizing in Marge's care for the people of Tolleshunt D'Arcy; these were her neighbors, she owed them her time, her wisdom and her abundant humanity. There was glamor in plenty at D'Arcy Feasts but not ostentation. For Marge and Pip these were occasions convenient for meeting social obligations incurred in the rest of the year, for Marge a decent and enjoyable concession to Pip's gregariousness and for Marge also, perhaps, a magnificent opportunity to observe character, in almost infinite variety and all unbuttoned.

  Since first she was accepted as a Grande dame of detective fiction Margery Allingham's reputation has never waned. Even after her death in 1966 there remained a worldwide congregation of admirers, devotees who had read her books as they were published and who, being alerted by that experience to the fact that there was much more to an Allingham than the unraveling of a mystery, were persuaded to read her books over and over again, and a generation of younger readers discovering her for the first time. In the mid-1980s, at a time when it might have been expected that, with no new Allinghams to fuel enthusiasm, interest in her work must wilt, instead it blossomed.

  In recent years all her novels (except the three written under a pseudonym and one aberrant venture in fictionalized family history) and all previously-published collections of her short stories have been taken for reissue by publishers on both sides of the Atlantic. Twenty are available, or will soon be available, in German translation and several in other languages. Her only nonfiction work, The Oaken Heart, a vivid and warmhearted account of an English village at war, has been reprinted. There have been many radio-plays based on her novels, several of her books are now available on audio cassettes and Albert Campion has become for the first time a familiar of millions of television-viewers all over the world. (Campion was excised from the only previous screen-version of an Allingham story, Rank's The Tiger in the Smoke.)

  The moment has come, therefore, to offer to readers a new Allingham. The stories in this collection have never before been collected. Written at many stages in her literary development, some were published immediately in newspapers or magazines, others filed away for later use and forgotten in the excitement of new work. All, even the earliest, show Margery Allingham's assured craftsmanship and her gift for storytelling, for characterization and her rare capacity for communicating atmosphere.

  Margery Allingham is, by her readers, unforgotten and unforgettable and so also is Marge Young man Carter by her friends. It is in the hope that I can bring together the two sides of her personality, the professional and the private, that I, who admired her for almost twenty years before, for another two decades, I knew her as a friend, venture now into the first person singular.

  The picture of Marge which stays with me most vividly sets her in a situation which pleasured her more than any other, entertaining a few intimates. She is behind the bar which she had constructed in a small room at D'Arcy House. She stands there, an undeniably large lady, her fine hair, her dress, even the way she holds her arms, compound (no doubt deliberately) to make her twin-sister to Toulouse Lautrec's Folies Bergere barmaid. There is wit and, sometimes, wisdom. There is much talk; of books, pictures, cricket and the activities of friends, and not a little scabrous gossip about those Pip has decided to excoriate as unfriends. She is never remote from the conversation; it is she who prompts when a rare occasion talk flags and her supply of vitriol is no less plentiful than Pip's; but most of the time, like any good novelist, she observes and listens. And all the while she is busily pouring treble-whiskies and treble-gins.

  Margery Allingham A Tribute by Agatha Christie

  Do Detective Story writers read other people's detective stories? That is a question that is very often asked me. The answer, as far as I am concerned is: "Yes, they do." First because you obviously like detective stories, or you wouldn't take the trouble, (and detective stories are a lot of trouble) to write them. And secondly because you have to know what's doing in the detective field so as to avoid repetition. You can write the same love story twice-or even six times, and the fact won't be particularly obvious. But two people having the same bright idea concerning a murder will result in an indignant complaint from readers.

  What people should really ask you is: "How many of the detective stories you read do you remember?" Not very many. And there Margery Allingham stands out like a shining light. Everything she writes has a definite shape. The people, their characters, the very distinctive atmosphere in w
hich they move and have their being-never twice the same-each book has its own separate and distinctive background.

  You may be in Cambridge under the Victorian shadow of Great Aunt Faraday. Or you are in the world of artists and painters-and a famous dead painter plays his part; much as in Rosmersholm the dead wife seems to you the central character in the play with her destructive presence. Or again you are in the midst of the world of haute couture-the exquisite dresses, the models, the drama behind the show rooms and workroom. The Fashion in Shrouds was a good title-for the shadow of death can be felt behind the scenes. You go from that to More Work for the Undertaker and that extraordinary family of highbrow intellectuals, the Palinodea. They seem too fantastic to be true, but they are as real as a pot of Oxford marmalade. Perhaps the whole thing sometimes strains belief, but yet there are pockets in London-a street or two, a square of Georgian houses, all contained within itself, a complete unit.

  That is, I think, the particular hallmark of Margery Allingham the fantastic and the real, intermingled. And she has another quality, not usually associated with crime stories. Elegance. Elegance of style is unusual nowadays. Virginia Wolf, Elizabeth Bowen-not many others come to mind. How seldom are words used with aptitude, delicacy, point.

  I barely knew Margery Allingham. She was, like myself, a member of the Detection Club, and I met her there once or twice, though she did not attend our dinners very often.

  If I say that I don't know at all what she was like, that is the truth, and it makes her interesting to me, because one so often thinks one knows more or less just what someone one has met is like. She did not seem reserved, but I think she may have been. She talked and smiled-she was nice.

  But there was a great deal more to her writing than that. I know little about her except that she lived mostly in the country in East Anglia. I think I am rather glad that I know her only by the words that came with such art from her pen. Her whole intriguing personality seems gathered together there.

  Police at the Funeral was, I think, the first book of hers I read. I thought it was good. I read some of the earlier ones. The Crime at Black Dudley ... Sweet Danger. They were thrillers, slightly 'blood and thunder' types, competent, but not as yet very real. Then I came to Death of a Ghost which I still think the best of all her books. Every person in it stands out, from the art dealer to the drab Mrs. Potter with her pathetic secret, and up to the wholly lovable "Belle Dear."

  I did wonder once whether Margery Allingham might not be a pseudonym of Dorothy Sayers. Albert Campion was not unlike Peter Wimsey at the beginning. But the resemblance did not last. Albert Campion developed quite differently from Peter Wimsey and Margery Allingham's writing and style developed quite differently from Dorothy Sayers. It became more obscure and more mannered-but less verbose, and I think more interesting.

  Inspector Luke however, Miss Allingham's second string, I never feel really came off. His creator tried hard with him, but do what she would, he remained palpitating with vitality-but remarkably lacking in brain power.

  Two of the books in which he appears, The Tiger in the Smoke and Hide my Eyes (the latter especially) are remarkable thrillers, with a wonderful mounting atmosphere in which you get almost the smell of evil. 'By the pricking of my thumbs Something evil this way comes' might serve as a description of them. Luke bumbles about radiating energy, but it is the Lady who held the pen to whom we make due acknowledgment for a very fine piece of writing.

  How sad it is that there are not more of her stories to which we can look forward. Not only to enjoy on publication, but to read often and often again, enjoying them anew each time. Bravo! Margery Allingham, your fellow writers won't forget you.

  The Case is Altered

  Mr Albert Campion sat in a first-class smoking-compartment reflecting sadly that an atmosphere of stultifying decency could make even of Christmas a stuffed-owl occasion. Suddenly a new hog skin suitcase of distinctive design hit him on the knees, the golf-bag brushed the shins of the shy young man opposite him and an armful of assorted magazines burst over the pretty girl in the far corner of the compartment. A blast of icy air swept round the carriage. The familiar jerky movements which indicated the train had started, a squawk from a receding porter, and then Lance Feering burst in propelled, as it seemed, by rocket.

  "Caught it," said the newcomer with the air of one confidently expecting congratulations, and as the train took the points he teetered back on his heels and collapsed between the two young people on the seat opposite Mr Campion.

  "My dear chap, so we notice," murmured Campion, and he smiled apologetically at the girl now disentangling herself from the shell burst of newsprint. It was his own particular disarming my-poor-friend-is-afflicted variety of smile, the one that privately he considered infallible, but on this occasion it let him down.

  The girl, who was in her late teens, slim and fair, with eyes, as Lance Feering put it later, like brandy-balls, looked at Campion with grave interest. She packed the magazines into a neat bundle and placed them on the opposite seat before returning to her book, and even Mr Feering, who was in one of his more exuberant moods, could not fail to notice that chilly protest. He began to apologize.

  Mr Campion had known Feering in his student days, long before he became a well-known stage-designer, and was used to him, but now even Campion was impressed for Feering's apologies were easy but also abject. He collected his bag, stowed it in a clear space on the rack above the shy young man's head, thrust his golf-clubs on the opposite rack and, positively blushing and regarding the girl with pathetic humility, he reclaimed his magazines.

  When he spoke the girl glanced at him, nodded coolly and with just enough graciousness not to be gauche, and then calmly turned over a page.

  Mr Campion was amused. When at the top of his form Lance was reputed to be irresistible. His dark face with its long mournful nose and bright eyes was sufficiently unhandsome to be interesting and the quick gestures of his short, painter's hands made his conversation picturesque, but his singular lack of success on this occasion clearly astonished him and he sat back in his corner eying the young woman with covert mistrust.

  Mr Campion resettled himself for the two hours' silence which custom demanded from first-class travelers who, even though in all probability are soon going to be asked to dance together if not to share a bathroom, have not yet been introduced.

  There was no way of telling if the shy young man and the girl with the brandy ball eyes knew each other, or if they too were en route for Under hill, Philip Cookham's Norfolk place. And for himself, Campion was inclined to regard the coming festivities with a degree of lugubrious curiosity. Cookham was a magnificent old boy, of course, one of the more valuable pieces in the Cabinet, as someone had once said of him, but Florence was altogether a different kettle of fish. From wealth and position she had grown blase to both and now took her delight in notabilities, in Campion's experience a dangerous affectation. She was, he had to admit it, some sort of remote aunt of his.

  He looked again at the young people, caught the boy unaware, and was immediately interested.

  The illustrated magazine which the lad had been reading had fallen to the floor and he was staring out of the window, his mouth drawn down at the corners, and a narrow frown between his thick eyebrows. His was not an unattractive face, too young for strong character, but open enough in the ordinary way, yet at that moment it wore a revealing expression. There was recklessness in the twist of the mouth and sullenness in the eyes. And the hand upon the inside armrest was clenched.

  Mr Campion was curious. Young people do not usually go away for Christmas in this top-step-at-the-dentist frame of mind.

  The girl looked up from her book. "How far is it to Under hill from the station?" she inquired of the young man.

  "Five miles," he replied. "They'll meet us." He had turned to her so easily and with such obvious affection that any theories that Campion was forming about him were immediately knocked on the head. The man's troubles were palpably
nothing to do with unrequited love.

  Lance had raised his head with bright-eyed interest at the gratuitous information and now a faintly sardonic expression appeared on his lips. Campion sighed for him. Lance Feering fell in and out of love with the abandonment of a seal round a pool. He was an incurable optimist and already he was regarding the girl with that shy despair that so many women had found too piteous to be allowed to persist. Metaphorically Mr Campion washed his hands of Lance. He turned away just in time to notice a stranger glancing in at them from the corridor. It was a dark and arrogant young face and Campion recognized it immediately, feeling at the same time a deep wave of sympathy for old Cookham. Florence had done it again.

  Victor Preen, son of old Preen of the Preen Aero Company, was certainly notable, not to say notorious. In his short life he had gathered to himself much publicity by his sensational flights, and a great deal more for adventures far less creditable, which drew from angry men in the armchairs of exclusive clubs many diatribes against the black guardliness of the younger generation.

  Victor Preen stood now a little to the left of the compartment window leaning idly against the wall, his chin up and his eyelids drooping. At first sight he did not appear to be interested in the occupants of the compartment, but when the shy young man looked up Campion caught a swift glance of recognition, and something else, passing between them.

  Then, still with that same elaborate casualness, the man in the corridor wandered away, leaving the other staring in front of him, his eyes again sullen.

  The incident passed so quickly that it was impossible to define the exact nature of that exchanged glance, and Mr Campion was never a man to go imagining things, which was why, when they arrived at Minstree Station, he was surprised to hear Henry Boule, Florence's private secretary, introducing the two men to each other, and even more surprised to notice that they met as strangers.