Murder in Mimicry: A Tessa Crichton Mystery

By Anne Morice

'He wants to see you, personally. He's Detective Meek, he's from Homicide, and chances are he's come to report a killing.'

Tessa Crichton, actress and unwitting private detective, joins the cast of Host of Pleasures-a hit West End play opening its American run in Washington D.C.

All is not well backstage. Artistic t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean Street Press
• Release date: Apr 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781914150104

Anne Morice

Anne Morice, née Felicity Shaw, was born in Kent in 1916.Her mother Muriel Rose was the natural daughter of Rebecca Gould and Charles Morice. Muriel Rose married a Kentish doctor, and they had a daughter, Elizabeth. Muriel Rose's three later daughters-Angela, Felicity and Yvonne-were fathered by playwright Frederick Lonsdale.Felicity's older sister Angela became an actress, married actor and theatrical agent Robin Fox, and produced England's Fox acting dynasty, including her sons Edward and James and grandchildren Laurence, Jack, Emilia and Freddie.Felicity went to work in the office of the GPO Film Unit. There Felicity met and married documentarian Alexander Shaw. They had three children and lived in various countries.Felicity wrote two well-received novels in the 1950's, but did not publish again until successfully launching her Tessa Crichton mystery series in 1970, buying a house in Hambleden, near Henley-on-Thames, on the proceeds. Her last novel was published a year after her death at the age of seventy-three on May 18th, 1989.

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Introduction

By 1970 the Golden Age of detective fiction, which had dawned in splendor a half-century earlier in 1920, seemingly had sunk into shadow like the sun at eventide. There were still a few old bodies from those early, glittering days who practiced the fine art of finely clued murder, to be sure, but in most cases the hands of those murderously talented individuals were growing increasingly infirm. Queen of Crime Agatha Christie, now eighty years old, retained her bestselling status around the world, but surely no one could have deluded herself into thinking that the novel Passenger to Frankfurt, the author’s 1970 Christie for Christmas (which publishers for want of a better word dubbed an Extravaganza) was prime Christie—or, indeed, anything remotely close to it. Similarly, two other old crime masters, Americans John Dickson Carr and Ellery Queen (comparative striplings in their sixties), both published detective novels that year, but both books were notably weak efforts on their parts. Agatha Christie’s American counterpart in terms of work productivity and worldwide sales, Erle Stanley Gardner, creator of Perry Mason, published nothing at all that year, having passed away in March at the age of eighty. Admittedly such old-timers as Rex Stout, Ngaio Marsh, Michael Innes and Gladys Mitchell were still playing the game with some of their old élan, but in truth their glory days had fallen behind them as well. Others, like Margery Allingham and John Street, had died within the last few years or, like Anthony Gilbert, Nicholas Blake, Leo Bruce and Christopher Bush, soon would expire or become debilitated. Decidedly in 1970—a year which saw the trials of the Manson family and the Chicago Seven, assorted bombings, kidnappings and plane hijackings by such terroristic entities as the Weathermen, the Red Army, the PLO and the FLQ, the American invasion of Cambodia and the Kent State shootings and the drug overdose deaths of Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin—leisure readers now more than ever stood in need of the intelligent escapism which classic crime fiction provided. Yet the old order in crime fiction, like that in world politics and society, seemed irrevocably to be washing away in a bloody tide of violent anarchy and all round uncouthness.

Or was it? Old values have a way of persisting. Even as the generation which produced the glorious detective fiction of the Golden Age finally began exiting the crime scene, a new generation of younger puzzle adepts had arisen, not to take the esteemed places of their elders, but to contribute their own worthy efforts to the rarefied field of fair play murder. Among these writers were P.D. James, Ruth Rendell, Emma Lathen, Patricia Moyes, H.R.F. Keating, Catherine Aird, Joyce Porter, Margaret Yorke, Elizabeth Lemarchand, Reginald Hill, Peter Lovesey and the author whom you are perusing now, Anne Morice (1916-1989). Morice, who like Yorke, Lovesey and Hill debuted as a mystery writer in 1970, was lavishly welcomed by critics in the United Kingdom (she was not published in the United States until 1974) upon the publication of her first mystery, Death in the Grand Manor, which suggestively and anachronistically was subtitled not an extravaganza, but a novel of detection. Fittingly the book was lauded by no less than seemingly permanently retired Golden Age stalwarts Edmund Crispin and Francis Iles (aka Anthony Berkeley Cox). Crispin deemed Morice’s debut puzzler a charming whodunit . . . full of unforced buoyance and prescribed it as a remedy for existentialist gloom, while Iles, who would pass away at the age of seventy-seven less than six months after penning his review, found the novel a most attractive lightweight, adding enthusiastically: [E]ntertainingly written, it provides a modern version of the classical type of detective story. I was much taken with the cheerful young narrator . . . and I think most readers will feel the same way. Warmly recommended. Similarly, Maurice Richardson, who, although not a crime writer, had reviewed crime fiction for decades at the London Observer, lavished praise upon Morice’s maiden mystery: Entrancingly fresh and lively whodunit. . . . Excellent dialogue. . . . Much superior to the average effort to lighten the detective story.

With such a critical sendoff, it is no surprise that Anne Morice’s crime fiction took flight on the wings of its bracing mirth. Over the next two decades twenty-five Anne Morice mysteries were published (the last of them posthumously), at the rate of one or two year. Twenty-three of these concerned the investigations of Tessa Crichton, a charming young actress who always manages to cross paths with murder, while two, written at the end of her career, detail cases of Detective Superintendent Tubby Wiseman. In 1976 Morice along with Margaret Yorke was chosen to become a member of Britain’s prestigious Detection Club, preceding Ruth Rendell by a year, while in the 1980s her books were included in Bantam’s superlative paperback Murder Most British series, which included luminaries from both present and past like Rendell, Yorke, Margery Allingham, Patricia Wentworth, Christianna Brand, Elizabeth Ferrars, Catherine Aird, Margaret Erskine, Marian Babson, Dorothy Simpson, June Thomson and last, but most certainly not least, the Queen of Crime herself, Agatha Christie. In 1974, when Morice’s fifth Tessa Crichton detective novel, Death of a Dutiful Daughter, was picked up in the United States, the author’s work again was received with acclaim, with reviewers emphasizing the author’s cozy traditionalism (though the term cozy had not then come into common use in reference to traditional English and American mysteries). In his notice of Morice’s Death of a Wedding Guest (1976), Newgate Callendar (aka classical music critic Harold C. Schoenberg), Seventies crime fiction reviewer for the New York Times Book Review, observed that Morice is a traditionalist, and she has no surprises [in terms of subject matter] in her latest book. What she does have, as always, is a bright and amusing style . . . [and] a general air of sophisticated writing. Perhaps a couple of reviews from Middle America—where intense Anglophilia, the dogmatic pronouncements of Raymond Chandler and Edmund Wilson notwithstanding, still ran rampant among mystery readers—best indicate the cozy criminal appeal of Anne Morice:

Anne Morice . . . acquired me as a fan when I read her Death and the Dutiful Daughter. In this new novel, she did not disappoint me. The same appealing female detective, Tessa Crichton, solves the mysteries on her own, which is surprising in view of the fact that Tessa is actually not a detective, but a film actress. Tessa just seems to be at places where a murder occurs, and at the most unlikely places at that . . . this time at a garden fete on the estate of a millionaire tycoon. . . . The plot is well constructed; I must confess that I, like the police, had my suspect all picked out too. I was dead wrong (if you will excuse the expression) because my suspect was also murdered before not too many pages turned. . . . This is not a blood-curdling, chilling mystery; it is amusing and light, but Miss Morice writes in a polished and intelligent manner, providing pleasure and entertainment. (Rose Levine Isaacson, review of Death of a Heavenly Twin, Jackson Mississippi Clarion-Ledger, 18 August 1974)

I like English mysteries because the victims are always rotten people who deserve to die. Anne Morice, like Ngaio Marsh et al., writes tongue in cheek but with great care. It is always a joy to read English at its glorious best. (Sally Edwards, Ever-So British, This Tale, review of Killing with Kindness, Charlotte North Carolina Observer, 10 April 1975)

While it is true that Anne Morice’s mysteries most frequently take place at country villages and estates, surely the quintessence of modern cozy mystery settings, there is a pleasing tartness to Tessa’s narration and the brittle, epigrammatic dialogue which reminds me of the Golden Age Crime Queens (particularly Ngaio Marsh) and, to part from mystery for a moment, English playwright Noel Coward. Morice’s books may be cozy but they most certainly are not cloying, nor are the sentiments which the characters express invariably traditional. The author avoids any traces of soppiness or sentimentality and has a knack for clever turns of phrase which is characteristic of the bright young things of the Twenties and Thirties, the decades of her own youth. Sackcloth and ashes would have been overdressing for the mood I had sunk into by then, Tessa reflects at one point in the novel Death in the Grand Manor. Never fear, however: nothing, not even the odd murder or two, keeps Tessa down in the dumps for long; and invariably she finds herself back on the trail of murder most foul, to the consternation of her handsome, debonair husband, Inspector Robin Price of Scotland Yard (whom she meets in the first novel in the series and has married by the second), and the exasperation of her amusingly eccentric and indolent playwright cousin, Toby Crichton, both of whom feature in almost all of the Tessa Crichton novels. Murder may not lastingly mar Tessa’s equanimity, but she certainly takes her detection seriously.

Three decades now having passed since Anne Morice’s crime novels were in print, fans of British mystery in both its classic and cozy forms should derive much pleasure in discovering (or rediscovering) her work in these new Dean Street Press editions and thereby passing time once again in that pleasant fictional English world where death affords us not emotional disturbance and distress but enjoyable and intelligent diversion.

Curtis Evans

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

On the day after he was promoted to Chief Detective Inspector, which happened to coincide with our fifth wedding anniversary, Robin and I treated ourselves to a celebration lunch in Soho, at the conclusion of which he proved once more how worthy he was of his new eminence by striding off in a southerly direction, bolt upright and with as steady a gait as if he had been lunching off steamed fish and soda water. This left me to make my solitary, very slightly weaving way round the corner into Dean Street and to stagger even more laboriously than usual up the three murky flights of stairs to my agent’s office, where I had an appointment at three o’clock.

I mention these circumstances only as a reminder of how one thing can so often lead to another, for it must be said that if Robin had not been promoted to Chief Detective Inspector, but demoted to Sergeant and we had actually lunched off steamed fish and soda water, I should not have been airily signing my name on a dotted line which led straight to a six months stint in the United States, within ten minutes of our renewing our marriage vows and swearing never again to part. On the other hand, if it had not been for that celebration lunch, we should still be making do with the same, worn out drawing-room carpet and I should never have made the acquaintance of lovely old Inspector Meek of Homicide, so life would have been impoverished in one way or the other and it is no use trying to re-write the balance sheet now.

However, to put events into their correct sequence for once, when I lurched into my agent’s office, grinning like a lunatic, she said:

‘Hallo, my darling, so you got here at last! Lovely to see you! Do sit down, you look as though you might have scarlet fever rather badly.’

This friendly greeting was echoed in less fulsome terms by my cousin, Toby, whom I dimly perceived to be occupying the chair by the window, thereby adding to the general sense of unreality, since Toby could rarely be coerced into visiting London in any circumstances and does not belong, in the professional sense, to my agent. They are not even particularly good friends. It soon transpired, however, that his presence on this occasion was directly connected with my own, and for the following reason:

Toby’s most recent comedy, Host of Pleasures, now nearing the end of its London run, was soon to be transferred to New York, a deal for the American rights having been made by Messrs. Schenk and Pattison, and this had made it necessary to re-cast two of the parts. Catherine Fuller, the leading lady, had opted to go to America, but, owing to some rather complicated tax arrangements which necessitated his being domiciled in Switzerland, Roger Bellamy, who played opposite her, had elected to stay at home. The other change concerned the second female lead, since the actress who played it had become pregnant during the run, and it was this which was now being cast at my feet. Not pearls before swine, however, for I had both seen and read the play a number of times and had no doubts about my suitability for the part, which in fact had been conceived with myself in mind. The fact that I had been obliged to turn it down, for domestic reasons, mitigated my guilt in accepting the offer now, for on the first time around the rehearsal period had clashed with Robin’s first chance in two years for a real holiday and he had set his heart on a safari-like jaunt in Kenya.

This time, having agreed, there was no turning back and my agent, who had stayed her hand until the die was cast, then plied me with black coffee and details of the schedule, which were as follows:

The newly formed company would rehearse for two weeks in London, starting on 3rd September, thereafter to disperse and later reassemble in Washington for a further three-week rehearsal period. The play would open on 15th October at the Eisenhower Theatre in the Kennedy Center, where we had a month’s engagement before moving into New York.

All this was such music to my ears that I felt a perverse compulsion to find at least one wrong note in it: ‘Only three weeks?’ I enquired.

‘More than enough,’ Toby assured me, ‘you appear to forget that most of them have been working together for months, even the understudies.’

‘No, I hadn’t forgotten, but they’ll be in strange surroundings, just as much as me. Three weeks on a stage none of us has set foot on before doesn’t sound an awful lot. What about lighting, for a start?’

‘Really, Tessa, you are not required to be director and stage manager as well, you know. All we ask is that you should learn your part like a gallant little trouper; and I daresay they have a few lights knocking around somewhere in the Kennedy Center, and someone who knows how to switch them on and off.’

‘Don’t rise, my darling, don’t rise!’ my agent implored me, ‘they’ve got Marty Jackson for the lighting. He’s madly experienced and knows the Eisenhower like the back of his grubby little hand.’

‘Oh, good!’ I said, forgetting to sound dubious, ‘I love Marty, he’s such a dear.’

‘I am so glad you approve,’ Toby said, ‘I am sure we all want the SS Eisenhower to be a happy ship. Any other little matters you’d care to sort out while you’re here?’

It was tempting to reply that my only remaining worry was how to break the news to Robin, but did not envisage this going down very well, since nothing is more unpopular than the kind of unprofessionalism which intrudes domestic problems into working life and I was aware that this was one canoe which I should be required to paddle on my own.

All the same, the dilemma was still uppermost in my mind when Toby and I descended the dark and dirty staircase to Dean Street and this, combined with the blinding shock of emerging into the glare of afternoon sun, caused a moment or two of delayed reaction when we were hailed by a tall, willowy, middle-aged man alighting from a grey Rolls-Royce, which was blocking the street from end to end, and looking the very picture of a Shaftesbury Avenue duke in his sporty tweed suit and hat. It was only when he had pushed the latter to the back of his head, in order to facilitate the embraces, and had greeted us both in a clear tenor voice, which also had the effect of riveting the attention of every individual within a radius of twenty yards, that I came out of a dream and recognised him.

‘Gilbert was very cordial,’ I remarked to Toby when, the full spate of endearments having washed over us, he and I continued our leisurely progress towards Leicester Square, ‘considering that he’s supposed to hate your guts, by all accounts.’

‘Not any more. That hatchet is now buried. Or, at any rate, a handful of soil has been thrown over it.’

‘That’s good news. A dangerous enemy, so they tell me.’

‘But a valued friend?’

‘That would imply that he had some.’

‘You’re very hard on poor old Gilbert. Is the champagne turning sour on you, or have you other grounds for dislike?’

‘Nothing personal, but he played a very lousy trick on a friend of mine, who happened to be three-quarters up the creek at the time. Gilbert put the boot in. Apart from that, I only know him by reputation and one can hardly say fouler.’

‘An omission which is about to be corrected.’

‘What a depressing thought! Why should you think so?’

‘I know so. Gilbert is our new lead. He is taking over from Roger and you’ll be rehearsing with him at ten o’clock on Monday week.’

‘You’re joking, Toby!’

‘Not at all. He may not be your own favourite, but American audiences hold a different view. In fact, his name alone ensures a sell-out for the entire run at the Kennedy before we even open.’

We strolled on in silence, crossing Coventry Street and making for Trafalgar Square, my heart or some adjacent piece of anatomy growing heavier with every step. The ordeal of breaking my news to