The Floating Admiral - Agatha Christie [1]
In this 1932 Constitution, the Ordinary Meetings of the Club should be “not fewer than four in the year”, so things haven’t changed that much. In 2010—and for many years before that—the Detection Club met three times.
What has changed is the criterion of admissibility for potential candidates. With the great spread of crime fiction’s range, the qualification has been extended way beyond the traditional whodunit (which is just as well, because very few people nowadays write traditional whodunits). The current membership certainly includes writers of “adventure-stories or ‘thrillers’ or stories in which the detection is not the main interest”, as well as practitioners of the historical, legal, forensic, psychopathological and other developing subgenres. Crime fiction is a much broader church now than it was in the 1920s and 1930s, and the Detection Club reflects that.
Some would argue that contemporary mysteries are much more varied and frequently better written than the offerings of that so-called “Golden Age”. They are certainly more psychologically credible than many of the works produced at that time. They are also more serious, sometimes even to the point of taking themselves too seriously. In crime fiction, noir is the new black.
Most of these differences could be seen as improvements, but the one thing that has been lost with the passage of time is the sense of fun that used to be associated with crime fiction. In her introduction to The Floating Admiral, Dorothy L. Sayers’ description of the collaborative exercise is: “the detection game as played out on paper by certain members of the Detection Club among themselves.” And later she writes: “Whether the game thus played for our own amusement will succeed in amusing other people also is for the reader to judge.” The fact that the book is being reissued yet again suggests that there are still plenty of readers out there willing to be amused by the game.
A lot of Golden Age crime novels were games. A murder mystery was an intellectual challenge rather on the same level as a crossword—and it’s interesting that the two forms of entertainment both developed around the same time. In the days before television, in the days of country house parties, such games were very popular. Collections of crime puzzles—like F. Tennyson Jesse’s The Baffle Book, A Parlour Game of Mystery and Detection—sold in large numbers. It was indeed the age of the parlour game … which hardly exists nowadays. People don’t have parlour games. Very few of them even have parlours.
But it is in the spirit of a parlour game that The Floating Admiral should be approached. The idea of a serious (should I use that awful word “literary”?) novel written by a relay of authors is incongruous. For a light-hearted work of crime fiction, though, the concept is fun, and I think it’s clear that the writers involved in The Floating Admiral enjoyed the intellectual challenge that faced them.
I have been involved in a couple of collaborative ventures of this kind and I very quickly discovered that the best job to get is that of the person who starts the story. In the first chapter you can sprinkle clues and inconsistencies with reckless abandon, secure in the knowledge that it won’t be you who has to tie up all the loose ends later. As a logical consequence of this, the worst job is writing the final chapter, pulling together all the threads of the story to produce a credible solution to the mystery. The temptation to begin that final chapter with the words “But it was all a dream …” is strong.
In The Floating Admiral this particular short straw was drawn by Anthony Berkeley, which was probably just as well. The author of The Poisoned Chocolate Case, who also, under the pseudonym of Francis Iles, produced the classic thriller Malice Aforethought, was equipped both as whodunit plotter and as someone who understood the psychology of the criminal mind. If he couldn’t make sense of the ending, nobody could, and I think it’s significant that his final chapter is entitled