But for the sheer beauty and power of language, I must go with Ngiao Marsh, the New Zealander whose Roderick Alleyn mysteries stand as my favorites of the Golden Age. Clicking on the title of this post will take you to one of several Ngiao Marsh sites on the web. Avid mystery fans will find it of interest, no doubt. But there's no substitute for simply trying her work. And to encourage you to do so, I print here a sample. It is the opening of Singing in the Shrouds, a novel I just finished a couple of nights ago. The plot of this 1958 mystery, I must admit, is far from being her best. Nevertheless, even when the mystery itself stumbles a bit, Marsh's insightful, poetic use of the language never does. It is why I enjoy her so.
"In the pool of London and further east all through the dockyards the fog lay heavy. Lights swam like moons in their own halos. Insignificant buidlings, being simplified, became dramatic. Along the Cape Line Company's stretch of wharfage the ships at anchor loomed up portentously:Cape St. Vincent, Glasgow. Cape Horn, London. Cape Farewell, Glasgow . The cranes that served these ships lost their heads in the fog. Their gestures as they bowed and turned became pontifical.
Beyond their illuminated places the dockyards vanished. The gang loading the Cape Farewell moved from light into nothingness. Noises were subdued and isolated and a man's cough close at hand was more startling than the rattle of winches.
Police Constable Moir, on duty until midnight, walked in and out of shadows. He breathed the soft cold smell of wet wood and heard the slap of night tide against the wharves. Acres of acres of shipping and forests of cranes lay around him. Ships, he thought romantically, were, in a sort of way, like little worlds. Tied up to bollards and lying quiet enough but soon to sail over the watery globe as lonely as the planets wandering in the skies. He would have liked to travel. He solaced himself with thoughts of matrimony, promotion, and when the beat was getting him down a bit, of the Police Medal and sudden glory. At a passageway between buildings near the Cape Farewell he walked slower because it was livelier there. Cars drove up; in particular an impressive new sports car with a smashing redhead at the wheel and three passengers, one of whom he recognized with interest as the great television personality Aubyn Dale. It was evident that the others, a man and a woman, also belonged to that mysterious world of glaring lights, trucking cameras, and fan mail. You could tell by the way they shouted 'Darling' at each other as they walked through the passageway.
P.C. Moir conscientiously moved himself on. Darkness engulfed him, lights revealed him. He had reached the boundary of his beat and was walking along it. A bus had drawn up at the entry to the waterfront and he watched the passengers get out and plod, heads down and suitcases in hand, towards the Cape Farewell - a lush bosomy lady and her friend, two clergymen, a married couple, a benevolent-looking gentleman, a lovely young lady with a miserable expression, and a young gentleman who lagged behind and looked as if he'd like to ask her to let him carry her luggage. They walked into the fog, became phantoms, and disappeared down the passageway in the direction of the wharf."
Oh yeah. Dame Ngiao Marsh knew how to write! Give her a try or, if like me, you've enjoyed her in the past, grab a used paperback of her's at your nearest old bookshop, and start enjoying her all over again!
Beyond their illuminated places the dockyards vanished. The gang loading the Cape Farewell moved from light into nothingness. Noises were subdued and isolated and a man's cough close at hand was more startling than the rattle of winches.
Police Constable Moir, on duty until midnight, walked in and out of shadows. He breathed the soft cold smell of wet wood and heard the slap of night tide against the wharves. Acres of acres of shipping and forests of cranes lay around him. Ships, he thought romantically, were, in a sort of way, like little worlds. Tied up to bollards and lying quiet enough but soon to sail over the watery globe as lonely as the planets wandering in the skies. He would have liked to travel. He solaced himself with thoughts of matrimony, promotion, and when the beat was getting him down a bit, of the Police Medal and sudden glory. At a passageway between buildings near the Cape Farewell he walked slower because it was livelier there. Cars drove up; in particular an impressive new sports car with a smashing redhead at the wheel and three passengers, one of whom he recognized with interest as the great television personality Aubyn Dale. It was evident that the others, a man and a woman, also belonged to that mysterious world of glaring lights, trucking cameras, and fan mail. You could tell by the way they shouted 'Darling' at each other as they walked through the passageway.
P.C. Moir conscientiously moved himself on. Darkness engulfed him, lights revealed him. He had reached the boundary of his beat and was walking along it. A bus had drawn up at the entry to the waterfront and he watched the passengers get out and plod, heads down and suitcases in hand, towards the Cape Farewell - a lush bosomy lady and her friend, two clergymen, a married couple, a benevolent-looking gentleman, a lovely young lady with a miserable expression, and a young gentleman who lagged behind and looked as if he'd like to ask her to let him carry her luggage. They walked into the fog, became phantoms, and disappeared down the passageway in the direction of the wharf."
Oh yeah. Dame Ngiao Marsh knew how to write! Give her a try or, if like me, you've enjoyed her in the past, grab a used paperback of her's at your nearest old bookshop, and start enjoying her all over again!
