C.H.B. Kitchin’s Crime at Christmas (1934) features his recurring character Malcolm Warren, an unmarried stockbroker who has social connections both with the solid bourgeoisie and with a more literary set. He is invited to spend Christmas at Beresford Lodge, the large house of the Quisberg family, having done business for Axel Quisberg. Beresford Lodge sits on the northern edge of Hampstead, and has extensive grounds. The only drawback is that the rear is overlooked by Paragon House, a decrepit mansion now unoccupied except for a caretaker.
Mr Quisberg is a Continental who is financially successful, and having married Mrs Quisberg is step-father to her children from previous marriages. Malcolm likes the matronly Mrs Quisberg enormously, but does not warm to the rest of the family. The oldest son, Clarence, is disengaged, spending most of his time alone, and Malcolm dryly notes later that he moved from working on a Communist paper to flirting with fascism before becoming the well-paid editor of a magazine specialising in luxury goods.
There are two daughters, one obnoxious and hooked up with an equally unpleasant man, the other seventeen and observing proceedings with a dispassionate eye. A young son is off-stage throughout, recovering from appendicitis and attended by an attractive nurse. Completing the party is Mr Quisberg’s secretary, Harley, and Harley’s mother, plus Mr Quisberg’s very old and dear friend, the equally continental Dr Green.
Then it all goes horribly wrong, starting with Malcolm falling over during a game of musical chairs (the elderly say people had to make our own entertainment in those days like it was a good thing) and badly spraining his wrist. Even worse, he wakes up on Christmas morning to find Mrs Harley’s body on the balcony outside his room. Was it an accident or was she murdered?
Poor Malcolm finds himself in an unpleasant situation but he can’t go back to his flat because he has given his man a holiday so he would either have to shift for himself, or more likely go to an hotel. So he is stuck at Beresford Lodge where he drinks and sleeps a lot to soothe his highly-strung nervous system. The obliging Dr Green visits his room, where Malcolm whiles away much of his time to avoid the family, to massage his wrist, and a manservant helps with his personal needs.
A stranger turns up and there is a heated discussion with Quisberg, part of which Malcolm overhears. There was a witness to the death, and a blackmail attempt leads to further unpleasantness, culminating in Green’s murder. Malcolm had had a brush with the law previously when his aunt had died, and he feels he has certain aptitude when it comes to investigation. He uses his advantages as a house guest, plus his financial background and journalist connections, to delve into Quisberg’s murky background and the events surrounding the deaths.
However, the novel subverts the convention of the amateur sleuth besting the police in tying up the crime and identifying the murderer. Despite Malcolm’s help it is the excellent Inspector Parris who solves the mystery and presents his findings to the assembled residents in classic drawing room fashion. Parris certainly has Malcolm’s number, and by keeping him on a long leash utilises his strengths while retaining control. It is doubtful that this is a fair-play detective story: during a curious question-and-answer section at the end a fictional reader interrogates Malcolm about the case and says that ‘as a matter of fact, I guessed the answer.’ Real-world readers might find the solution a little trickier based on the clues provided.
In terms of acumen, Malcolm is shrewd if not particularly energetic, even so he is no Lord Peter Wimsey or Albert Campion, and luck plays a part in his enquiries. Kitchin disarms the reader sceptical of luck as a legitimate device by having Malcolm claim ‘it nearly always is an unfortunate coincidence that unmasks a really clever murder,’ though actually a detective novel relying on coincidence is the weaker for it.
The snowbound cover of the Faber edition is misleading as Kitchin presents a mild Christmas with not a snowflake in sight, albeit a trifle gloomy at times. Snow would have added to the seasonal atmosphere, but as some of the action occurs in the grounds and on Hampstead Heath it might have deterred characters from going for walks necessary to the plot. The Christmas setting is merely an excuse to assemble the cast and plays no further part in the narrative, nobody feeling in much of a festive mood.
The Joy of Mere Words 