The Mystery of a Butcher’s Shop – Gladys Mitchell

I’ve been slightly distracted by sink problems over the last 48 hours. Something somewhere is leaking, not in an overly sinister fashion, but persistent enough to be damp and annoying. My father phoned with advice but I’m quite tired and could probably have been more lucid whilst trying to describe what was in front of me. Eventually, and under orders, I checked the washing machine filter – it was clear and clearly not the source of the problem but I ripped off half a fingernail and cut a finger in the process, so for now I’m shoving a pan under the drip and waiting for my mother and a larger wrench to visit soon...

I’m sure Gladys Mitchell never had these problems, and beyond certain that Mrs Bradley wouldn’t have been defeated by plumbing (or by plumbers for that matter). She’s certainly not in the least discomposed by seemingly incomprehensible crimes – fortunately she can apply psychology and clear the muddiest of waters in a way that makes no sense to me whatsoever. It’s infuriating and beguiling in about equal measure; I appreciate the hideous Mrs Bradley with her yellow claw hands, bright cloths, formidable strength, crocodile smile, wonderful voice and unique intelligence but have to reconcile myself to the possibility of having not a clue what’s going on.

‘The Mystery of a Butcher’s Shop’ isn’t too bad in this respect; it’s odd but entertaining (I particularly liked the absent minded vicar with kleptomaniac tendencies) but what I really like about Mitchell is this:

...’She thinks the Church Catechism is immoral.’
‘So do I,’ Said Aubrey feelingly. ‘I can’t stick learning stuff by heart. But what’s her objection?’
‘The bit about your betters. She says the village children are led to believe it means the squire and the people who go fox hunting and the factory owners who pay women about half what they would pay men for doing exactly the same work.’

It goes on for a little bit more in much the same way but what gets me about it is that it was written in 1930 and we’re still fighting the same battle for equal pay now. Mitchell was a prolific writer – she also had a long career as a teacher. She was clearly a woman with ideas and opinions that she wasn’t shy of expressing and compared to her contemporaries (Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers etc) she feels much more subversive. Mrs Bradley does and says outrageous things but crucially she has a career – she doesn’t just stumble on crimes she’s called in to consult and is no Miss Marple who has to conceal her intelligence. I’m so pleased that Vintage have started reprinting these books – there are another three due out in October this year which I look forward to as a welcome post summer/pre Christmas treat.

Death and the Maiden – Gladys Mitchell

I should (still) be writing up sales reports and the like, but realise I’ve spent the last hour tidying my bedroom (not saying it didn’t need it because it did, but...) and have come to the conclusion that if I’m not going to concentrate on work for a bit than I should write up what I thought of ‘Death and the Maiden’ before I forget, which would be a shame because I loved it.

This has to be my favourite Mitchell so far and is exactly why I’m happy to stick with her through thick and thin. Bits of the plot are still a bit hazy to me but that’s okay, and I have to say that more of it made sense to me than usual. Indeed hazy bits included I thought it was a particularly ingenious plot with a compelling and convincingly nasty villain.

Without giving anything away there are reports of a water nymph sited near Winchester and the eccentric Edris Tidson (who has reappeared in London with an expensive young wife and the intention of living of his cousin Prissie, much to the disgust of Prissie’s young ward Connie) soon convinces the whole family to pack bags and go nymph hunting. At this point Prissie calls in Mrs Bradley to pronounce on Mr Tidson’s sanity and then two young boys are found dead... from this point on the plot twists and turns in a way that very satisfactorily passes the time until the eventual conclusion. The identity of the killer is never really in doubt, but working out how it was done, and then in fact having to wait until I was told why it was done, was more than enough of a challenge to keep me interested. Even if it hadn’t been the Mitchellism’s would be more than enough to keep me happy. This for example as a description of a professionally dour Scotsman with something on his mind:

“what will ye?” he enquired, looming like a minor prophet with a major message, uncompromisingly beside the tiny table.”

Or this when Mrs Bradley pulls a psychological rabbit out the hat:

“...he MUST HAVE SEEN THE NAIAD!’ She suddenly bellowed these words in the ear of the unfortunate Mr Tidson’s right ear, so that he jumped like a gaffed salmon and had the same expression on his face that one sometimes sees on a dead fish – at once surprised and peevish.”

I can’t resist this kind of thing. It’s so wonderfully English and gives the right period feel to a plot that’s easily disturbing enough in its essence for the darkest contemporary drama. I found this perfect reading for an early summer’s weekend not least because of a series of evocative and beautiful descriptions of the river and riverside in all its glory. Beyond that the mix of mystery, slightly tongue in cheek humour, coupled with the intellectual exercise of trying to work out if the plot held together, and in the end who precisely was guilty of what kept me very happily absorbed when I should have been doing something sensible and worthy. Really can you ask for much more from a book?

Death at the Opera – a Mrs Bradley Mystery

My relationship with Mrs Beatrice Adela Lestrange Bradley started some years ago care of the Diana Rigg television version in the late ‘90’s. I looked hard for the books at the time, but for once in a way there was no tie in republication, so no Gladys Mitchell for me. A good decade later I found one printed by Virago (The Rising of the Moon) and was very taken with the dark and threatening atmosphere of it all, but at the time still no other affordable or easily available versions of the sixty five other Mrs Bradley novels Mitchell wrote. Frustrating, and surprising for a woman who was admired by Philip Larkin, won the silver dagger award and was a member of the detection club along with Dorothy L Sayers and Agatha Christie.

Finally last year Vintage put an end to my periodic whinging on the subject by re releasing three Mitchells, and now three more have appeared. After the first three (loved one, ambivalent about another, never finished the third) I began to understand why she had been out of print for a while. Producing a book or more a year for over fifty years it’s not perhaps surprising that quality seems to be a bit variable, a writing career spanning from 1929 to the early 1980’s will inevitably include some books which have aged better than others, and (I’ve been consulting wikipedia) some inconsistencies in the heroines back story.

Having hugely enjoyed ‘Death at the Opera’, and now being half way through ‘Death and the Maiden’ which I’m also really enjoying, I find I don’t care about Mitchell’s faults (as I see them). I hope that Vintage keep on bringing them out – she’s just such an interesting writer, and nothing like any other golden age crime writer I’ve known and loved. It’s Mrs Bradley herself that I adore, she’s an older lady with a tremendous past, an expert knife thrower with a penchant for wearing bright and clashing colours, she has a lovely voice and a hideous aspect variously described as being crocodile or boa constrictor like. She has a knife sharp intellect being an eminent psychiatrist, gets on well with children and seems totally fearless, has been married more than once, has an elastic take on morals, and has travelled extensively. In short quite the woman and in honour of that fact I can overlook instances in the plot that don’t make a lot of sense to me.

‘Death at the Opera’ (a relatively early Mitchell from 1934) has a multitude of red herrings as well as some entirely incidental murders. The eventual discovery of the killer doesn’t seem terribly important in the end – I can’t say more without totally revealing the plot and thereby ruining the book for anyone planning on reading it, which would be a shame. Mrs Bradley’s take on right and wrong (not the same as Miss Marple’s for example) is just what I wanted to read; nothing too black and white and a whodunit element to keep me guessing is exactly what the book doctor would have prescribed.