‘I turn to my second point. Has the book any claim to the honourable name of “thriller”? The defence will probably try to insinuate that it has, since after an evening of riot and dissipation four murders are contemplated and, perhaps, attempted. But at the first touch of reality this ridiculous claim must dissolve, like a pricked bubble, into thin air. The first essential quality of a thriller is that it should thrill; action must be swift and immediate, the reader’s imagination must be gripped on the first page, tension must be maintained until it becomes almost unbearable. And what have we here? There is no action of any kind until the later part of the book, which will only be reached at all by the most obstinate and persistent readers – the rest surely will never struggle so far; they will have sunk without trace in the quagmire of donnish talk and prosaic reports of the characters of four unsympathetic individuals.
‘I might leave my case there with the fullest confidence in the common sense of the jury, but duty demands that I should deal with one more point. If all pretence is abandoned that this book is a detective story or a thriller, can it still be argued that it is a story, which may bring some amusement or mental relaxation to a handful of readers? It can even be said that it shows some rudimentary ingenuity, since an attempt has been made to make it appear plausible that of four friends each should consider murdering one of the others. In a detective story, as I have already shown, ingenuity must be supplied by the reader; in a story such as this, it could be left to the writer. If, however, it is seriously claimed that this book should be judged as a story, it is, at best, a story manqué. My Lord, if there is a story to be told, it should be told without circumlocution; it should be presented to the reader in such a manner that he may grow interested in the story itself and in the characters which appear in it. But here the method of narration must be condemned by all right-thinking persons, for everything is at second-hand, and the story can only be followed by those who can pierce through the miasma of donnish conversation. How can there be any sense of reality or actuality when everything is described in a lengthy conversation in Common Room instead of directly? Why must we listen to characters who are outside the story discussing it and advancing their views and solutions, when we could very well perform that mental operation ourselves? For the writer to begin with lengthy descriptions of his characters and of their past lives is clean contrary to all the accepted canons. A character should speak or act, and from his speech and actions a picture of himself is obtained. The method adopted in this book is therefore utterly mistaken. Almost at times the author seems to be indulging in a conversation with himself. He might have told a story – if the story was worth telling – but all that he has done is to write an account of conversations about a story. With confidence, therefore, I await the verdict of the jury, and I ask for the imposition of the maximum penalty which the law allows.’
The dream is changing once more. I thought that I was speaking for the prosecution, but now I feel nothing but a burning desire to make a speech in my own defence. But what is this? The judge, who a short time ago appeared to be a benevolent and sympathetic old gentleman, now appears to me like the personification of doom. A black shadow by his head gives the impression of a black cap – or what I suppose a black cap to be – and his eyes are hard as stones. And what is this that my counsel for the defence is whispering in my ear? ‘There is nothing for it but to plead guilty on all counts and throw yourself on the mercy of the court.’
‘Be damned to you all. I’ll do nothing of the sort.’ All my good resolutions to excuse myself by self-accusation have disappeared. I spring to my feet only anxious to make all the excuses and explanations I can. And my inferiority complex has disappeared; much more, I feel myself to be like Alice when she shouted, ‘You’re nothing but a pack of cards!’ and scattered all the members of the court about her. My only difficulty is that I want to repudiate all the accusations at the same time. That doesn’t matter; I am in the middle of my speech without any realization of how I began. ‘You say that the story should be told directly, but that, I assure you, would not add any sense of actuality. I have never seen a murdered corpse, and I could not describe one in a manner which would make a reader believe that I had. On the other hand, I have often enough sat late in Common Room discussing crimes, and have advanced theories about disputed cases in courts of law. To me, then, the conversations in Common Room are much more real than any direct story would be. And I would go further. A detailed realism is no necessary part of a detective story, for the detective story follows highly artificial but well-established conventions. How often is a cursory and unnecessary concession made to the belief that the story should be made realistic without any influence on the reader’s mind at all! Usually at the sight of the corpse one of the characters vomits, or alternatively another remarks, “I did not know there could be so much blood in a human body.” But that is all, and the reader hurries on to the rest of the story without pausing to let the horrid spectacle of the corpse sink into his mind. The corpse is often not much more than a sort of stage property. Reality has little to do with detective fiction. At most there is only a sort of pseudo-realism. In the same way convention will allow the daughter, let us say, of two wicked and criminal parents to be not only beautiful but also an angel of light and a paragon of virtue. No one regards this as surprising or in any way unlikely, provided that she fills her place in the pattern of the story. The sense of reality is obtained less by description than by introducing all the clichés which normal people use in their daily conversation. In fact, the object aimed at is to interest and amuse, and this should be the object of all books except those of a learned or technical nature. In Ten Novels and their Authors, Mr Somerset Maugham makes this point more than once. “The aim of the writer of fiction”, he says, “is not to instruct but to please.” And again with even more effect, “Finally, a novel should be entertaining … [for this] is the crucial quality.” Even in books which are not novels the need for this crucial quality should not be forgotten. Who at one time or another has not considered the amazing reputation of Dr Johnson and the sustained popularity of Boswell’s Life? What is the secret? Is it not partly that (as Dr John Bailey once said) in Johnson “we see our own magnified and glorified selves”, and partly for the simple but sufficient reason that the great Doctor entertains and amuses us? We forget his rudeness and his unattractive habits because we are entertained and amused by him.
‘… Again you complain of the inordinate length of this book, of the prolixity of the descriptions, of the garrulity of the characters. Why should this not have been a short story, a brief intellectual exercise in which Brendel explains by “predetection” who the murderer must be? The answer, here, is that a simple detective tale which is solely an intellectual puzzle can be a very arid affair. For enjoyment there must be some delineation of character, some human as well as intellectual interest. Sherlock Holmes is still the favourite detective of almost all of us, but I very much doubt if we should have loved him and Dr Watson so much if they had started with a series of short stories. It would have been long before we had a picture of them both in our minds, and not till then could we really have enjoyed to the full all their memoirs, and adventures, and further adventures and the rest. Fortunately the characters and the characteristics of both were indelibly and brilliantly impressed on the minds of readers by the Study in Scarlet. Once that was written, any short story in which they appeared was bound to provide enjoyment because the two characters were already old and trusted friends, whose every action excited interest and provided pleasure. Admittedly the Case of the Four Friends could have been related as a story of medium length, neither long nor short, but in that case the characters of those concerned would have had to be even less developed than they are. Yet I wonder sometimes if the so-called “short-long” is not of the ideal length for a detective story.’
My dream seems to have wandered on into another phase. The court has disappeared and the accusations have long been forgotten. It is rather now that
I seem once more to be reviewing my own book, and making the best of a bad job. It is as though I was trying to say what I could, without perjuring myself, on behalf of an old friend. ‘Qui s’excuse s’accuse’, I am now murmuring to myself. Perhaps the less I say in extenuation the better. But what about the introduction? Well, I suppose that if, in the book, detection precedes crime, the introduction may properly follow the story.
A Note on the Author
Sir John Cecil Masterman, (1891–1977), was a son of Captain John Masterman and he was originally destined to follow his father’s footsteps. Masterman spent five years as a naval cadet but dropped out as he felt unsuited for a military career. Instead he pursued academic interests and in 1909 was elected for a scholarship in modern history at Worcester College, Oxford; academic life became his lifelong devotion. Masterman was a dedicated sportsman and played cricket, lawn tennis and hockey for England in international matches.
His literary works were often inspired by his Oxford life and historical pursuits.
Discover books by J. C. Masterman published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/JCMasterman
An Oxford Tragedy
Fate Cannot Harm Me
The Case of the Four Friends
For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain references to missing images.
This electronic edition published in 2014 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain in 1956 by Hodder & Staughton
Copyright © 1956 J. C. Masterman
All rights reserved You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
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eISBN: 9781448214266
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