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Overview
Mystery crime fiction written in the Golden Age of Murder
"Edwards's second winter-themed anthology in the British Library Crime Classics series is a standout. As in the most successful of such volumes, the editor's expertise results in a selection of unusual suspects, expanding readers' knowledge." —Publishers Weekly STARRED review
Crimson Snow brings together a dozen vintage crime stories set in winter. Welcome to a world of Father Christmases behaving oddly, a famous fictional detective in a Yuletide drama, mysterious tracks in the snow, and some very unpleasant carol singers. There's no denying that the supposed season of goodwill is a time of year that lends itself to detective fiction.
On a cold night, it's tempting to curl up by the fireside with a good mystery. And more than that, claustrophobic house parties, with people cooped up with long-estranged relatives, can provide plenty of motives for murder.
Including forgotten stories by major writers such as Margery Allingham, as well as classic tales by less familiar crime novelists, each story in this selection is introduced by the leading expert on classic crime, Martin Edwards. The resulting volume is an entertaining and atmospheric compendium of wintry delights.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781464206764 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Sourcebooks |
| Publication date: | 04/02/2024 |
| Series: | British Library Crime Classics |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 319 |
| Sales rank: | 63,778 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Martin Edwards is an award-winning crime writer best known for two series of novels set in Liverpool and the Lake District. He is series consultant for British Library Crime Classics, the Vice Chair of the Crime Writers' Association, and President of the Detection Club. The Golden Age of Murder, his study of the Detection Club, was published in 2015 to international acclaim, and has been nominated for both the Edgar and Agatha awards for the year's best book about the genre. He received the CWA 2020 Diamond Dagger Award for sustained excellence in crime writing and significant contributions to the genre, joining the ranks of Sue Grafton, Ian Rankin, and Lee Child.
Read an Excerpt
Crimson Snow
Winter Mysteries
By Martin Edwards
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright © 2016 Martin EdwardsAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4642-0675-7
CHAPTER 1
The Ghost's Touch
Fergus Hume
Fergus Hume was one of the most intriguing crime writers of the nineteenth century. His real name was Fergusson Wright Hume, and he was born to Scottish parents in England in 1859, before moving with them in infancy to a new life in New Zealand. He studied law, and was called to the New Zealand Bar, but promptly emigrated to Australia, where he worked as a law clerk while seeking to develop a career as a playwright. After studying the crime fiction of the French writer Emile Gaboriau, he wrote a murder mystery set in Melbourne. Failing to interest a traditional publisher, he resorted to self-publishing, and The Mystery of a Hansom Cab (which appeared in 1886, a year before Sherlock Holmes made his debut in A Study in Scarlet) became a best-seller. Unwisely, Hume sold his copyright; the company which bought it later became insolvent, and the rights passed to the British publisher Jarrolds, who persuaded Hume to revise the book, cutting out some of the 'local colour'.
Hume returned to Britain in 1888, which became his home for the rest of his life. A highly prolific writer, he lived until 1932, but his many later novels or stories have been almost wholly overshadowed by The Mystery of a Hansom Cab, which 'caught the moment' in a manner achieved by few crime novels. 'The Ghost's Touch' is set in an English country house, but as elsewhere in Hume's fiction, the events have their roots in Australia. This highly traditional mystery is a period piece, yes, but also offers a reminder that Hume was a capable storyteller; he deserves more than to be remembered solely on the strength of a single book.
* * *
I shall never forget the terrible Christmas I spent at Ringshaw Grange in the year '93. As an army doctor I have met with strange adventures in far lands, and have seen some gruesome sights in the little wars which are constantly being waged on the frontiers of our empire; but it was reserved for an old country house in Hants to be the scene of the most noteworthy episode in my life. The experience was a painful one, and I hope it may never be repeated; but indeed so ghastly an event is not likely to occur again. If my story reads more like fiction than truth, I can only quote the well-worn saying, of the latter being stranger than the former. Many a time in my wandering life have I proved the truth of this proverb.
The whole affair rose out of the invitation which Frank Ringan sent me to spend Christmas with himself and his cousin Percy at the family seat near Christchurch. At that time I was home on leave from India; and shortly after my arrival I chanced to meet with Percy Ringan in Piccadilly. He was an Australian with whom I had been intimate some years before in Melbourne: a dapper little man with sleek fair hair and a transparent complexion, looking as fragile as a Dresden china image, yet with plenty of pluck and spirits. He suffered from heart disease, and was liable to faint on occasions; yet he fought against his mortal weakness with silent courage, and with certain precautions against over-excitement, he managed to enjoy life fairly well.
Notwithstanding his pronounced effeminacy, and somewhat truckling subserviency to rank and high birth, I liked the little man very well for his many good qualities. On the present occasion I was glad to see him, and expressed my pleasure.
'Although I did not expect to see you in England,' said I, after the first greetings had passed.
'I have been in London these nine months, my dear Lascelles,' he said, in his usual mincing way, 'partly by way of a change and partly to see my cousin Frank — who indeed invited me to come over from Australia.'
'Is that the rich cousin you were always speaking about in Melbourne?'
'Yes. But Frank is not rich. I am the wealthy Ringan, but he is the head of the family. You see, Doctor,' continued Percy, taking my arm and pursuing the subject in a conversational manner, 'my father, being a younger son, emigrated to Melbourne in the gold-digging days, and made his fortune out there. His brother remained at home on the estates, with very little money to keep up the dignity of the family; so my father helped the head of his house from time to time. Five years ago both my uncle and father died, leaving Frank and me as heirs, the one to the family estate, the other to the Australian wealth. So —'
'So you assist your cousin to keep up the dignity of the family as your father did before you.'
'Well, yes, I do,' admitted Percy, frankly. 'You see, we Ringans think a great deal of our birth and position. So much so, that we have made our wills in one another's favour.'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, if I die Frank inherits my money; and if he dies, I become heir to the Ringan estates. It seems strange that I should tell you all this, Lascelles; but you were so intimate with me in the old days that you can understand my apparent rashness.'
I could not forbear a chuckle at the reason assigned by Percy for his confidence, especially as it was such a weak one. The little man had a tongue like a town-crier, and could no more keep his private affairs to himself than a woman could guard a secret. Besides, I saw very well that with his inherent snobbishness he desired to impress me with the position and antiquity of his family, and with the fact — undoubtedly true — that it ranked amongst the landed gentry of the kingdom.
However, the weakness, though in bad taste, was harmless enough, and I had no scorn for the confession of it. Still, I felt a trifle bored, as I took little interest in the chronicling of such small beer, and shortly parted from Percy after promising to dine with him the following week.
At this dinner, which took place at the Athenian Club, I met with the head of the Ringan family; or, to put it plainer, with Percy's cousin Frank. Like the Australian he was small and neat, but enjoyed much better health and lacked the effeminacy of the other. Yet on the whole I liked Percy the best, as there was a sly cast about Frank's countenance which I did not relish; and he patronized his colonial cousin in rather an offensive manner.
The latter looked up to his English kinsman with all deference, and would, I am sure, have willingly given his gold to regild the somewhat tarnished escutcheon of the Ringans. Outwardly, the two cousins were so alike as to remind one of Tweedledum and Tweedledee; but after due consideration I decided that Percy was the better-natured and more honourable of the two.
For some reason Frank Ringan seemed desirous of cultivating my acquaintance; and in one way and another I saw a good deal of him during my stay in London. Finally, when I was departing on a visit to some relatives in Norfolk he invited me to spend Christmas at Ringshaw Grange — not, as it afterwards appeared, without an ulterior motive.
'I can take no refusal,' said he, with a heartiness which sat ill on him. 'Percy, as an old friend of yours, has set his heart on my having you down; and — if I may say so — I have set my heart on the same thing.'
'Oh, you really must come, Lascelles,' cried Percy, eagerly. 'We are going to keep Christmas in the real old English fashion. Washington Irving's style, you know: holly, wassail-bowl, games, and mistletoe.'
'And perhaps a ghost or so,' finished Frank, laughing, yet with a side glance at his eager little cousin.
'Ah,' said I. 'So your Grange is haunted.'
'I should think so,' said Percy, before his cousin could speak, 'and with a good old Queen Anne ghost. Come down, Doctor, and Frank shall put you in the haunted chamber.'
'No!' cried Frank, with a sharpness which rather surprised me, 'I'll put no one in the Blue Room; the consequences might be fatal. You smile, Lascelles, but I assure you our ghost has been proved to exist!'
'That's a paradox; a ghost can't exist. But the story of your ghost —'
'Is too long to tell now,' said Frank, laughing. 'Come down to the Grange and you'll hear it.'
'Very good,' I replied, rather attracted by the idea of a haunted house, 'you can count upon me for Christmas. But I warn you, Ringan, that I don't believe in spirits. Ghosts went out with gas.'
'Then they must have come in again with electric light,' retorted Frank Ringan, 'for Lady Joan undoubtedly haunts the Grange. I don't mind as it adds distinction to the house.'
'All old families have a ghost,' said Percy, importantly. 'It is very natural when one has ancestors.'
There was no more said on the subject for the time being, but the upshot of this conversation was that I presented myself at Ringshaw Grange two or three days before Christmas. To speak the truth, I came more on Percy's account than my own, as I knew the little man suffered from heart disease, and a sudden shock might prove fatal. If, in the unhealthy atmosphere of an old house, the inmates got talking of ghosts and goblins, it might be that the consequences would be dangerous to so highly strung and delicate a man as Percy Ringan.
For this reason, joined to a sneaking desire to see the ghost, I found myself a guest at Ringshaw Grange. In one way I regret the visit; yet in another I regard it as providential that I was on the spot. Had I been absent the catastrophe might have been greater, although it could scarcely have been more terrible.
Ringshaw Grange was a quaint Elizabethan house, all gables and diamond casements, and oriel windows, and quaint terraces, looking like an illustration out of an old Christmas number. It was embowered in a large park, the trees of which came up almost to the doors, and when I saw it first in the moonlight — for it was by a late train that I came from London — it struck me as the very place for a ghost.
Here was a haunted house of the right quality if ever there was one, and I only hoped when I crossed the threshold that the local spectre would be worthy of its environment. In such an interesting house I did not think to pass a dull Christmas; but — God help me — I did not anticipate so tragic a Yuletide as I spent.
As our host was a bachelor and had no female relative to do the honours of his house the guests were all of the masculine gender. It is true that there was a housekeeper — a distant cousin, I understood — who was rather elderly but very juvenile as to dress and manner. She went by the name of Miss Laura, but no one saw much of her as, otherwise than attending to her duties, she remained mostly in her own rooms.
So our party was composed of young men — none save myself being over the age of thirty, and few being gifted with much intelligence. The talk was mostly of sport, of horse-racing, big game shooting, and yacht-sailing: so that I grew tired at times of these subjects and retired to the library to read and write. The day after I arrived Frank showed me over the house.
It was a wonderful old barrack of a place, with broad passages, twisting interminably like the labyrinth of Daedalus; small bedrooms furnished in an old-fashioned manner; and vast reception apartments with polished floors and painted ceilings. Also there were the customary number of family portraits frowning from the walls; suits of tarnished armour; and ancient tapestries embroidered with grim and ghastly legends of the past.
The old house was crammed with treasures, rare enough to drive an antiquarian crazy; and filled with the flotsam and jetsam of many centuries, mellowed by time into one soft hue, which put them all in keeping with one another. I must say that I was charmed with Ringshaw Grange, and no longer wondered at the pride taken by Percy Ringan in his family and their past glories.
'That's all very well,' said Frank, to whom I remarked as much; 'Percy is rich, and had he this place could keep it up in proper style; but I am as poor as a rat, and unless I can make a rich marriage, or inherit a comfortable legacy, house and furniture, park and timber may all come to the hammer.'
He looked gloomy as he spoke; and, feeling that I had touched on a somewhat delicate matter, I hastened to change the subject, by asking to be shown the famous Blue Chamber, which was said to be haunted. This was the true Mecca of my pilgrimage into Hants.
'It is along this passage,' said Frank, leading the way, 'and not very far from your own quarters. There is nothing in its looks likely to hint at the ghost — at all events by day — but it is haunted for all that.'
Thus speaking he led me into a large room with a low ceiling, and a broad casement looking out onto the untrimmed park, where the woodland was most sylvan. The walls were hung with blue cloth embroidered with grotesque figures in black braid or thread, I know not which. There was a large old-fashioned bed with tester and figured curtains and a quantity of cumbersome furniture of the early Georgian epoch. Not having been inhabited for many years the room had a desolate and silent look — if one may use such an expression — and to my mind looked gruesome enough to conjure up a battalion of ghosts, let alone one.
'I don't agree with you!' said I, in reply to my host's remark. 'To my mind this is the very model of a haunted chamber. What is the legend?'
'I'll tell it to you on Christmas Eve,' replied Ringan, as we left the room. 'It is rather a blood-curdling tale.'
'Do you believe it?' said I, struck by the solemn air of the speaker.
'I have had evidence to make me credulous,' he replied dryly, and closed the subject for the time being.
It was renewed on Christmas Eve when all our company were gathered round a huge wood fire in the library. Outside, the snow lay thick on the ground, and the gaunt trees stood up black and leafless out of the white expanse. The sky was of a frosty blue with sharply twinkling stars, and a hard-looking moon. On the snow the shadows of interlacing boughs were traced blackly as in Indian ink, and the cold was of Arctic severity.
But seated in the holly-decked apartment before a noble fire which roared bravely up the wide chimney we cared nothing for the frozen world out of doors. We laughed and talked, sang songs and recalled adventures, until somewhere about ten o'clock we fell into a ghostly vein quite in keeping with the goblin-haunted season. It was then that Frank Ringan was called upon to chill our blood with his local legend. This he did without much pressing.
'In the reign of the good Queen Anne,' said he, with a gravity befitting the subject, 'my ancestor Hugh Ringan was the owner of this house. He was a silent misanthropic man, having been soured early in life by the treachery of a woman. Mistrusting the sex he refused to marry for many years; and it was not until he was fifty years of age that he was beguiled by the arts of a pretty girl into the toils of matrimony. The lady was Joan Challoner, the daughter of the Earl of Branscourt; and she was esteemed one of the beauties of Queen Anne's court.
'It was in London that Hugh met her, and thinking from her innocent and child-like appearance that she would make him a truehearted wife, he married her after a six months' courtship and brought her with all honour to Ringshaw Grange. After his marriage he became more cheerful and less distrustful of his fellow-creatures. Lady Joan was all to him that a wife could be, and seemed devoted to her husband and child — for she early became a mother — when one Christmas Eve all this happiness came to an end.'
'Oh!' said I, rather cynically. 'So Lady Joan proved to be no better than the rest of her sex.'
'So Hugh Ringan thought, Doctor; but he was as mistaken as you are. Lady Joan occupied the Blue Room, which I showed you the other day; and on Christmas Eve, when riding home late, Hugh saw a man descend from the window. Thunderstruck by the sight, he galloped after the man and caught him before he could mount a horse which was waiting for him. The cavalier was a handsome young fellow of twenty-five, who refused to answer Hugh's questions. Thinking, naturally enough, that he had to do with a lover of his wife's, Hugh fought a duel with the stranger and killed him after a hard fight.
'Leaving him dead on the snow he rode back to the Grange, and burst in on his wife to accuse her of perfidy. It was in vain that Lady Joan tried to defend herself by stating that the visitor was her brother, who was engaged in plots for the restoration of James II, and on that account wished to keep secret the fact of his presence in England. Hugh did not believe her, and told her plainly that he had killed her lover; whereupon Lady Joan burst out into a volley of reproaches and cursed her husband. Furious at what he deemed was her boldness Hugh at first attempted to kill her, but not thinking the punishment sufficient, he cut off her right hand.'
'Why?' asked everyone, quite unprepared for this information.
'Because in the first place Lady Joan was very proud of her beautiful white hands, and in the second Hugh had seen the stranger kiss her hand — her right hand — before he descended from the window. For these reasons he mutilated her thus terribly.'
'And she died.'
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Crimson Snow by Martin Edwards. Copyright © 2016 Martin Edwards. Excerpted by permission of Poisoned Pen Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Crimson Snow,Copyright,
Contents,
Introduction,
The Ghost's Touch,
The Chopham Affair,
The Man with the Sack,
Christmas Eve,
Death in December,
Murder at Christmas,
Off the Tiles,
Mr. Cork's Secret,
The Santa Claus Club,
Deep and Crisp and Even,
The Carol Singers,
Solution to Mr. Cork's Secret,
More from this Author,
Contact Us,
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