These Names Make Clues Read online

  This edition published 2021 by

  The British Library

  96 Euston Road

  London NW1 2DB

  These Names Make Clues was originally published in 1937 by Collins, London.

  Introduction © 2021 Martin Edwards

  These Names Make Clues © 1937 The Estate of Edith Caroline Rivett

  Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 0 7123 5384 7

  eISBN 978 0 7123 6778 3

  Front cover image © NRM/Pictorial Collection/Science & Society Picture Library

  Text design, typesetting and eBook by Tetragon, London

  Contents

  Introduction

  A Note from the Publisher

  These Names Make Clues

  ‌Introduction

  These Names Make Clues is an intriguing detective novel written at a time when its author was establishing herself as one of the leading exponents of the genre. The book was first published in 1937, under the prestigious Collins Crime Club imprint. Remarkably, however, this is one of E.C.R. Lorac’s novels that has been almost forgotten. At the time of writing this introduction, I cannot trace a single copy for sale on the internet—anywhere in the world. Nor have I been able to discover any critical commentary about the novel in reference books. Quite a mystery.

  This neglect is all the surprising given that, of all the Lorac books I have read, These Names Make Clues is the novel most closely in tune with the mood of traditional detective fiction of the kind we associate with ‘the Golden Age of Murder’ between the two world wars.

  That mood is struck right from the start. It’s April 1936, and we encounter Chief Inspector Macdonald at home. He’s about to read a popular travel book by Peter Fleming (whose younger brother Ian was at that time unknown; this was long before he created James Bond), but first he goes through his correspondence.

  Amongst his letters is an invitation from Graham Coombe, a publisher, and his sister Susan. They invite Macdonald to ‘join in a Treasure Hunt. Clues of a Literary, Historical and Practical nature will be provided. It is hoped that detectives, both literary, psychological and practical, will compete in their elucidation.’ In an accompanying letter, Coombe challenges Macdonald to forget his professional dignity and ‘measure your wits against those of the thriller writers, and others, who are competing.’

  This is the sort of set-up that is more commonly associated with writers like Agatha Christie; one thinks, for instance, of Cards on the Table (in which Hercule Poirot is invited to a bridge party in the company of murderers who have escaped detection), first published in November 1936. As the seasoned reader of detective fiction knows, such a scenario inevitably leads to fatal consequences.

  Macdonald debates with his friend, the journalist Peter Vernon, whether to accept the invitation, and after tossing a coin, he decides to do so. Once he arrives at the Coombes’ party, the complications come thick and fast. The host has invited people to adopt pseudonyms, and one of the first challenges for the Scotland Yard man is to work out the real identities of his fellow guests. The clues in the treasure hunt are equally convoluted. Suddenly the lights go out. Candles are lit, but matters take an even darker turn after it becomes clear that a man calling himself Samuel Pepys is missing. Macdonald and Coombe go in search, only to discover his corpse in a small ‘telephone-room’ at the back of the house.

  The dead man is actually Andrew Gardien, ‘author of a dozen detective stories. The “Master Mechanic” the reviewers called him, owing to his ingenuity in inventing methods of killing based on simple mechanical contraptions… Springs and levers and pulleys had been used with wonderful effect by the quick brain which had once animated that still body.’ But how exactly did he meet his end—and was he the victim of murder, or did he die of natural causes? Before long, another death is discovered and this time there seems to be no doubt that the victim was murdered. Yet in a Golden Age detective novel, things are seldom as they seem.

  These Names Make Clues is an example of the traditional ‘closed circle’ mystery, with a limited group of suspects, as with Bats in the Belfry, which Lorac published earlier the same year, and which has been reprinted as a British Library Crime Classic. For those tempted to indulge in a little literary detection, it seems highly significant that 1937 was also the year in which E.C.R. Lorac was elected to membership of the Detection Club.

  The Detection Club was the world’s first social network for detective novelists. Founded in 1930 by Anthony Berkeley, the Club adopted a constitution and formal rules a couple of years later, by which time it had already made a significant impression on the literary world, broadcasting two radio serial mysteries, and publishing two highly successful collaborative detective novels, The Floating Admiral and Ask a Policeman, which remain in print to this day. The first President was G.K. Chesterton; after his death in 1936, he was succeeded by E.C. Bentley, author of Trent’s Last Case, the novel which was the catalyst for the Golden Age style of cerebral whodunit. Leading figures in the Club included Dorothy L. Sayers, Father Ronald Knox, John Rhode, Agatha Christie, Milward Kennedy, and Baroness Orczy. The aim of the Club was primarily social, but members were also keen to elevate the literary standards of the genre. Election to membership was—and remains to this day—highly prized.

  Lorac was elected the year after the Club elected its first American member, John Dickson Carr. In the same year, she was joined by Christopher Bush, Newton Gayle (a pen-name for Maurice Guinness and Muna Lee), and Nicholas Blake (the name under which Cecil Day-Lewis, who later became Poet Laureate, wrote detective fiction). No more members were elected until 1946, by which time the world had changed. Lorac continued to be a proud and enthusiastic member of the Detection Club to the end of her life, travelling down to London after the war from her home in Lunesdale to attend meetings. For a number of years, she served as Secretary of the Club.

  It seems highly likely that These Names Make Clues drew inspiration from her experiences and encounters on becoming a member of the Detection Club. Andrew Gardien bears a resemblance, both in physical appearance and the type of mysteries he wrote, to John Rhode (Cecil John Street in real life), who was a pillar of the Club and evidently very good company. Suffice to say that Gardien’s personality and behaviour were different from Rhode’s, and I imagine that both he and Lorac were highly amused by the liberties she took with the character. It would not be a surprise if it were discovered that Rhode, who was generous with his expertise, gave Lorac the idea for the murder method in this story. It is possible to detect touches of other Club members, such as Baroness Orczy and the husband and wife team of G.D.H. and Margaret Cole, in the characters. There may also be a hint of Billy Collins, Lorac’s publisher, in the portrayal of Coombe.

  Pseudonyms and games with names play a significant part in this story, and in fact E.C.R. Lorac was itself a pseudonym. It concealed the identity of Edith Caroline Rivett (1894–1958), who also wrote a lengthy mystery series under the name Carol Carnac. She was known to her friends as Carol, and when she started writing crime fiction she simply turned that name back to front so as to become Lorac.

  Detection Club members prized ‘fair play’ in their detective fiction, and Lorac’s reluctance to present certain vital information necessary to enable the reader to solve the puzzle until rather late in the book may have raised a few eyebrows among her colleagues. Nevertheless, this is an entertaining story which has been out of print for far too long. The British Library reprints of Lorac’s novels have led to a huge resurgence in her popularity and it is a pleasure to rescue this book from the obscurity in which it has languished for more than eighty years.

  M
artin Edwards

  www.martinedwardsbooks.com

  ‌A Note from the Publisher

  The original novels and short stories reprinted in the British Library Crime Classics series were written and published in a period ranging, for the most part, from the 1890s to the 1960s. There are many elements of these stories which continue to entertain modern readers; however, in some cases there are also uses of language, instances of stereotyping and some attitudes expressed by narrators or characters which may not be endorsed by the publishing standards of today. We acknowledge therefore that some elements in the works selected for reprinting may continue to make uncomfortable reading for some of our audience. With this series British Library Publishing aims to offer a new readership a chance to read some of the rare books of the British Library’s collections in an affordable paperback format, to enjoy their merits and to look back into the world of the twentieth century as portrayed by its writers. It is not possible to separate these stories from the history of their writing and as such the following novel is presented as it was originally published with minor edits only, made for consistency of style and sense. We welcome feedback from our readers, which can be sent to the following address:

  British Library Publishing

  The British Library

  96 Euston Road

  London, NW1 2DB

  United Kingdom

  ‌These Names Make Clues

  I

  Chief Inspector Macdonald, stretching his long limbs in an adequate chair by his own fireside, was prepared to enjoy the sort of evening which he preferred to any other. His own company, a book (he had just got Peter Fleming’s News from Tartary), a pipe, and a wood fire—these promised a perfectly satisfactory evening.

  Before he began the book, however, he opened the letters which had arrived while he was out. The first three he tore up after one glance—a prospectus of a newly-floated company, an offer of a “complimentary sitting” from “Violette,” a Court photographer (the description made Macdonald grin; his own criterion of the word “Court” was very different from that of the photographer), and a begging letter from that hardy and unashamed pickpocket, Jeff Baines. Jeff always expressed a belief in the kind-heartedness of the police officer who had first caught him out in his skilful handcraft, and Macdonald indulged in a second grin over the optimism of the cheerful rogue. The fourth letter did not follow the previous three into the fire. It caused the chief inspector to sit with a look of rather comic perplexity on his lean, long-jawed face. The large square envelope contained a card on which the copper-plate inscription ran as follows:

  Mr. Graham Coombe and Miss Susan Coombe invite Chief Inspector Macdonald to join in a Treasure Hunt. Clues of a Literary, Historical and Practical nature will be provided. It is hoped that detectives, both literary, psychological and practical, will compete in their elucidation.

  Cocktails 8.15 p.m. All pseudonyms respected.

  April 1st, 1936. Caroline House, W.1.

  A note was included with the card, which ran:

  Dear Chief Inspector,—I hope this sort of thing is not beneath the dignity of Scotland Yard. When we were discussing the impractical nature of the clues set forth by thriller writers at Simpson’s the other evening I had no idea who you were. On being enlightened I chuckled a bit, and then it occurred to me that our party would be immensely improved if you could be induced to come and measure your wits against those of the thriller writers, and others, who are competing. We hope for a jolly evening, and my sister and I would be much honoured if you will join the chase, pseudonymously, if you prefer it.

  Sincerely yours,

  Graham Coombe.

  It was about a week ago that Macdonald had met the writer of the letter. Dining at Simpson’s with a barrister named Parsons, Macdonald had been introduced to a bearded man whose aspect was rather don-like—the fine domed head and thoughtful eyes denoted learning, though Coombe’s face lighted up occasionally with an impish gaiety rather at variance with his general impressiveness. The conversation had turned to detective stories, and Macdonald had uttered a few trenchant criticisms of the methods employed by the author of a new thriller which was enjoying a brief furore as a best seller. It was not until after Coombe had left them that Parsons informed Macdonald that the donnish-looking fellow was Graham Coombe, the publisher, whose firm had produced Murder by Mesmerism, the novel which Macdonald had criticised.

  After receiving this information, Macdonald had felt rather chastened. He had had no intention of being a spoil-sport, and writers of detective stories had ample justification for their pursuit—a living to earn on the one hand, and the public to entertain on the other. He had wished that he had been less censorious. With Coombe’s invitation in his hand, he felt that he was hoist with his own petard. He was offered hospitality by a publisher who turned the other cheek to the smiter, and who at the same time challenged the critic to use his wits in practical combat against those whom he had derided. Frowning, Macdonald cast the card aside and filled his pipe. If he went to the party he would probably end by looking a fool, as well as feeling one, for it was highly probable that the “thriller merchants” would deal with clues “literary and historical” far more swiftly than he could himself. If, on the other hand, he refused to go, he could imagine Graham Coombe chuckling over the pusillanimity of a critic who funked a battle of wits with those whom he had criticised. He was still debating the point in his mind when he heard the bell ring at the door of his flat, and a moment later a long-limbed young man strolled in, observing:

  “Don’t say damn. I’m not stopping long. Oh ho! You’ve got a card from Graham Coombe. What about it?”

  The speaker was Peter Vernon, a journalist from whom Macdonald had acquired useful tags of information on certain occasions, and the chief inspector pointed to a chair with his pipe.

  “Sit down, laddie. Are you one of the treasure hunters?”

  “No such luck. Coombe sent me a card, but I’ve got to go up north that week for the T.U.C. meeting. I’ve never been to one of Coombe’s parties, but I’ve heard that they’re the last word in the way of a good evening, and he’s spreading himself over this one. It’s going to be a damn good show. Coombe’s idea is to see if the thriller gang can live up to their pretensions and do down the straight authors over picking up clues and reading ciphers and all the rest.”

  “Let ’em get on with it,” replied Macdonald. “I’m not an author. It’s not my idea of amusement.”

  “Like that, Queen Vic? Not amused? Cold feet, Jock? More shame for you.”

  “Those are my matches, and you can take them out of your pocket,” replied Macdonald. “Why on earth should I spend a good evening racking my brains over stuff that’s not in my line, to provide amusement for a crowd of nimble pen-pushers? I don’t see myself.”

  “Do you a power of good, Jock. You’re getting too high-minded. Pen-pushers! I like that! Ever heard of Ashton Vale, the economist? He may be going, and Digby Bourne, who wrote that book on the Australian hinterland. Then V. L. Woodstock’s going—the historian. I like to see you sitting in a large arm-chair being superior. I’d give my wig to go.”

  “Ashton Vale? Good Lord! I’ve always wanted to meet him; but—a Treasure Hunt!”

  “Why not? I like parties with a point to them. Coombe’ll give you a run for your money. He’ll set the clues, but you’ll have the run of his library to get the facts if you don’t happen to know them, and the sight of Ashton Vale working out a numerical cipher’s enough to cheer a man up.”

  Macdonald groaned.

  “Numerical ciphers! Losh! I’ve forgotten all the algebra I ever learned, and a log table’s as much good to me as Plotinus.”

  Puffing away at his pipe, Vernon laughed to himself. “Graham Coombe’s got the laugh on his side this time, Jock. Although you criticise his choicest authors in the manner of one having authority, you take good care to keep out of their way when you’re given a chance of demonstrating your superior ‘methodology.’ Ca
’ canny!”

  Macdonald laughed in his turn. “Oh, I can see all that without having it pointed out to me. I’m cast for the clown, whether I go or not. The one thing I like about the whole show is the idea of meeting Ashton Vale and seeing him doing a bit of funny stuff in the treasure-hunting line. What’s this about ‘pseudonymity,’ or whatever the word is?”

  “That’s a touch of astuteness on the part of Coombe. I don’t know exactly who’s going to show up at this do, but most of them won’t know the others by sight. You won’t have the faintest notion if the chap who pips you at the post is a thriller writer or a pukka scholar. When you arrive you’ll be handed a card to wear on your coat, inscribed with the name of some dead and gone literary colossus. You’ll find yourself labelled as Erasmus Esquire, or Sir Thomas Mallory, while Ronile Rees will be Currer Bell or George Eliot, and Nadia Delareign will be Mrs. Aphra Behn or Sappho, and every one will look at every one else with a glare of suspicion. Of course, Coombe will get most of the fun, because he knows who everybody is.”

  “Yes. From his point of view there’s plenty of entertainment value in the party,” groaned Macdonald.

  “Why not from yours? If you and Ashton Vale and Digby Bourne can’t make Ronile Rees and Co. look funny, you damn well ought to. Coombe’s not a fool. He’ll set you all posers which you’ll have an equal chance of guessing. However, it’s your pigeon, not mine. I’m fed to the back teeth that I can’t go myself. What I really came for was to recover a book I left here last month. A yellow jacket, one of the Left Societies’ publications.”

  “Take it away. It’s behind Gibbon on the top shelf. I don’t like the look of it. But you didn’t come in because you wanted that book. You came in to see if I’m going to Coombe’s party. Why?”

  “Because I want to hear about it, and if you go you’ll be able to tell me all the choice bits. For a chap who’s fond of posing as a flat, you see a surprising amount that other folk don’t see; and, what’s more, you remember it. I’m not certain if there’s more to this party than meets the eye. What a lark if Ashton Vale turned out to be the author of Ronile Rees’ books. You never know with these blighters. They just chuck off a thriller or two in their spare time.”