The mystery as novel of manners

National Review, Jan 20, 1992 by Linda Bridges

spinning wheels, you remember. Yes, it

was all the Queen's fault. I don't believe

in that Wicked Fairy. The poor girl had

nothing to do but moon about and admire

her own reflection in the roses. So presently

she went to sleep out of sheer boredom."

By convention, a mystery can't be a "comic novel." But that is no bar to comedy in it. In Against the Grain Emma Lathen offers a tall tale about Plomsky's Otter Ensemble and a Sol Hurok-like impresario named Abe Baranoff:

The otters were no ordinary otters, if

various respectful but guarded press reports

could be believed. . . . These otters

could sing "The Volga Boatman," dance a

rousing mazurka, and assemble a three-stage

rocket . . .

"For fish?" suggested somebody from

the Times . . .

"Fish?" replied Baranoff. . . . "Fish for

artists like this? Would we give fish to

Callas? To Rubinstein? To Horowitz?" He

brandished a Malacca walking stick.

"Tell them, maestro."

He inclined his majestic head as

Plomsky commenced a detailed description

of the sugar pellets used to coax

prodigies of effort from his proteges.

"Soaked in champagne," added Baranoff

grandly. He cared more for the

spirit than the technique of the performing

arts.

Pained, Plomsky protested. "But no!

Not champagne. Sometimes when they

are tired, a little vodka, yes! But champagne - no." . . .

"In America [Baranoff declared],

Plomksy's otters will swim in champagne!"

But when all the scenes have been set, the characters established, and the jokes enjoyed, a murder mystery is, finally, about murder. And on the subject of murder the true mystery (as opposed to the suspense novel or thriller) has a solid and unashamed morality. Hercule Poirot confronts the question in Death on the Nile:

"Mademoiselle, do not open your heart

to evil. . . . Because - if you do - evil will

come. Yes, very surely evil will come. It

will enter in and make its home within

you, and after a little while it will no

longer be possible to drive it out." . . .

"I suppose you believe it's very wrong

to kill a person who has injured you - even

if they've taken away everything

you had in the world?"

Poirot said steadily: "Yes, Mademoiselle.

I believe it is the unforgivable offense - to

kill."

Others disagree about the possibility of forgiveness - Ellis Peters's Brother Cadfael and G. K. Chesterton's Father Brown each connive at the escape of murderers they judge to be truly repentant - but not about the gravity of the offense. Murder was a sin before it was a crime - "arrogating," as Leo Bruce's detective Carolus Deene put it, "the power of God" to take a life. The murderer's soul, no less than the victim's life and the community's peace, are the concern of the mystery novelist.