Have You Ever Tried Ngaio Marsh?

 

 

  

 

PICTURE PERFECT (1980 U.K./1982 U.S.)

By Nagaio Marsh

Little, Brown and Company, 252 pages.

★★★

 

When I was a Fulbright scholar in New Zealand, I read as many Kiwi authors as I could. I still adore authors such as Elizabeth Catton, Michael Bennett, Kiri Hulme, and Witi Ihimaera. Other favorites are hard to get in North America–Maurice Gee, for example. A few we’re not to my taste, including Katherine Mansfield, arguably New Zealand’s most famous literary export. Until last week, I had never read Ngaio Marsh (1899?-1992), the only non-British “Queen of Crime.” That put her in the league as Agatha Christie, Margery Allingham, Dorothy Sayers, and Josephine Tay. When I was teaching and researching full-time, I saved mystery writers for retirement!

 

Photo Finish was a freebie and my first dip into Marsh’s oeuvre. I will read at least one more, as I previously dowloaded one for 99 cents! Her gentleman detective was Roderick Alleyn (her semi- Poirot) was the center of 32 of Marsh’s novels. Her assumed first name is pronounced NY-yo, a Māori name that means either “little tree bug,” or “light on the water.” She was not Māori, but in her day, it was not uncommon for whites to adopt a Māori name, a middle one in her case; her birth forename was Edith.

 

Ms. Marsh was an old-fashioned writer. For instance, instant photography has been around since Edward Land invented the Polaroid in 1948. They were well-known in New Zealand since 1965, and went viral in the 1970s. Instant snapshots factor heavily in Photo Finish, Marsh’s penultimate Alleyn novel. She had a huge vocabulary, though she used outdated terms and cultural references. Social class might have been at play. The novel is about opera and Alleyn and his artist wife Troy are clearly cut from upper- class cloth. Opera itself has long been a refined taste. Photo Finish often reads like a tragic opera set in a New Zealand luxury hotel in the middle of a lake on the South Island.

 

Prima donna Isabella Sommita is fashioned as the most-skilled soprano in the world. Like many divas, she is spoiled and temperamental–the very essence of a difficult star. She embarks on an Australasian tour in part to escape a furtive photographer calling himself “Strix.” He has snapped shots of Isabella in a state of undress, to “prove” that her amble blossom is artificially enhanced by falsies. She and her staff counter that those not-so-clear photographs have been doctored. Madame’s personal life has also horrified everyone around her: manager Ben Ruby; longtime friend Montague V. Reece; Master of Singing Signor Beppo Lattienzo; her manservant (archaic term!); personal secretary, Ned Hanley; her maid, Maria; and even superfan Dr. John Carmichael. She has had previous lovers, but young Rupert Bartholomew is another matter. He has become her protégé and it has gone to his head. He has written an opera for La Sammita with the naïve title, The Alien Corn. Those who have read the score recognize it as an embarrassing disaster, but Isabella has assembled guests to the island to debut a work she declares “genius.” One the eve of production, Rupert gets cold feet and recognizes that his is truly a horrible piece of work. Despite pleas, Isabella insists on forging ahead. It was bad!

 

There is a little reckoning on Isabella’s part for the simple reason that she lies dead in her dressing room, her bosom exposed, and a new photo above her heart secured by a stiletto. Who killed her? Alleyn is drafted to do the initial investigation because – in good operatic form – it was a dark and stormy night. The wind howled, the seas roiled, telephone lines were down, boat launches and the helicopter flights were unsafe, and the local police were stuck on the mainland. Though Alleyn is a high-ranking Scotland Yard figure, this is New Zealand and he wants to respect local customs. He does improvise by using Troy’s face powder to dust for fingerprints, but mainly he tries to keep everyone calm and conducts preliminary interviews. That said, in good Poirot fashion, his is an intuitive investigation that resolves with all the suspects gathered in the same room. That is, after sleepless nights, a search for Strix, a red herring discovery of a lens cap (for a Polaroid?), a search for keys, rumors of a Sicilian vendetta, and a gambit by Alleyn that could backfire.

 

Did I like the novel? If I’m honest, not so much. I found it more stodgy than old-fashioned charming. My view doesn’t mean others won’t conclude differently. It’s short enough to give it a try. You can always tell me I’m wrong but please, no stilettos!

 

Rob Weir