Houses as Lieux de Mémoire in Margery Allingham’s Crime Fiction

This article discusses the house as a site of memory in the novels of Margery Allingham, where it embodies a tension between the past and the present that turns the domestic milieu into a place of horror. Stemming from Susan Rowland’s claim that Golden Age authors did not write ‘unproblematically conservative country house mysteries’ (43), this paper uses Svetlana Boym’s theory of restorative and reflective nostalgia and Pierre Nora’s concept of lieux de mémoire (sites of memory) to read Allingham’s novels, which critically observe the sustainment of a vision of the past after the Great War. In her work, country houses like the eponymous one in The Crime at Black Dudley (1929), are, despite their aristocratic grandeur, perfect scenes for murder. While the countryside is associated with a nostalgic innocence, it is also contaminated by the intrusion of the present, as in Sweet Danger (1933). Family secrets are also reasons for crime, as we see in Police at the Funeral (1931). Hide My Eyes (1958) relocates the nostalgic atmosphere to a suburban house converted into a museum of ‘curios’, which operates as an ironic allegory of a nation wrapped up in its own history.

‘Not at all afraid’: Queer Temporality and the School Detective Story

Kate Haffey has recently argued that if queer time can be seen as a turning away from narrative coherence, it suggests new possibilities for considering narrative structures more generally. Combining the narratively rigid structures of the school story and the detective novel, the four novels discussed in this article – Gladys Mitchell’s Laurels are Poison (1942), Josephine Tey’s Miss Pym Disposes (1946), Shirley Jackson’s Hangsaman (1951), and Joan Lindsay’s Picnic at Hanging Rock (1967) – disrupt conventional understandings of linear time. Depicting not only queer, or potentially queer, characters, but a queer phenomenological perspective, they challenge reader expectations with a focus on aporias and gaps, whether in terms of trauma (Jackson), the blurring of fact and fiction (Lindsay), or the prolonged delay of both crime and resolution (Tey). These novels draw attention to the insufficiency of texts to capture experience, and the inadequacy of textual authority. As such, they reveal the extent to which mid-twentieth-century women’s fiction was able to challenge the genres and narrative structures with which it was most closely associated.

‘Hard-Boiled’ Detectives in Spain and Mexico: The Ethical Reorientation of a Genre

Hard-boiled’ fiction arose in the early decades of the twentieth century, uncovering connections among crime, wealth and power, and exposing moral fissures within U.S. capitalism. After French publisher Gallimard marketed translations of American crime fiction as noir, international writers started adjusting the ethical framework of the original authors as part of their ‘glocal’ adaptation of a global genre to local circumstances. The present article pushes past ‘glocal’ analysis of noir to propose a ‘transnational’ relationship, adapting Paul Giles’ definition of ‘transnational’ practice in which international authors reflect the genre back upon its American roots in order to illuminate the ‘silences, absences and blindspots’ in the original ethical stance. The ‘misreading’ of noir also permits a ‘misrecognition’ of local circumstances, exposing moral fissures throughout different societies. This article shows how series by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán and Paco Ignacio Taibo II reveal ethical blindspots in American models by situating the detective within an emotional history of place (Barcelona for Vázquez Montalbán, Mexico City for Taibo II). Although these detectives ultimately cannot determine or perform the role of ethical citizen, their emotional-geographical bonds open up a critique of American ideals and pave the way for a reimagining of the ethical in the twenty-first century.

‘She Was Such an Exotic Creature’: Feeding the Orientalist Machine in Agatha Christie’s Murder in Mesopotamia

The Orientalist scenario that Agatha Christie’s Murder in Mesopotamia displays is an incontestable representation of the ‘Orient’ as an exoticised ‘Other’ that menaces Western civilization with its inherent tendency towards depravation and savagery. In Christie’s novel, the archaeological site configures a terrain wherein civilisation is safeguarded because controlled by Westerners and yet, civilisation is disrupted the moment a murder is committed and everything indicates that the murderer is ‘one of us’, not the oriental ‘Other’. However, the stranger that endangers the civilising integrity of an otherwise unpolluted, commendable Orientalist enterprise by murdering ‘one of us’ is none other than the victim, Mrs Leidner, who goes through an orientalising process that premeditatedly transforms her into the essential Oriental female, the Belle Dame sans Merci. This article aims at unmasking how the Orientalist plot of Murder in Mesopotamia is strategically used to condemn the woman, the victim, and exonerate the murderer, the husband. Hence, the ‘Oriental’ female that lurks behind Mrs Leidner’s ‘blonde, Scandinavian fairness’ ( Mesopotamia 28) is exposed whereas Dr Leidner’s past as a German spy is conspicuously undermined. What this Orientalist plot ultimately unveils is the prescience of ‘whiteness’ as a discursively constructed category just as elusive as gender.

An Age of Contradiction, or Who Killed Colonel Protheroe?

Crime Fiction studies have entered something of a new age. It is no longer necessary to begin an article with defensive remarks about sales numbers or the literary qualities of detective novels; indeed, this may be the start of a new Golden Age. In this article, I shall review two phenomena that may be considered instrumental in this critical turn: adaptations for the screen and Pierre Bayard’s self-styled critique policière, or ‘detective criticism’. Screen adaptations of Agatha Christie’s works have, by turns, enthralled and dismayed viewers. In removing their cosy edges and transforming Christie’s novels into films fit for contemporary audiences, they have gone as far, in some cases, as to change the sacrosanct ending. Here, I shall discuss the ways in which Charlie Palmer’s 2004 adaptation of The Murder at the Vicarage points to a potential rereading of the novel. I shall then deploy Bayardian detective criticism not only to demonstrate the implausibility of Miss Marple’s final solution to The Murder at the Vicarage, but also to suggest that Christie’s greatest skill lies perhaps in saving her greatest red herring until last.