Understandably, the end of the year and the beginning of the next found many of us busy juggling family, work, and life (usually all at once). This was the case for some of our readers involved in December’s Mitchell Mystery Reading Group discussion of 1936’s Dead Men’s Morris. As I am always happy to talk Gladys Mitchell and Mrs. Bradley, I am grateful that mystery writer Catherine Dilts has shared some concluding thoughts about the book! Here are her observations, along with a few of my own, to add to the recent conversation.
NATURE AND NARRATIVE
Looking at Morris’s second section, Catherine writes: “I am accustomed to the witty dialogue in a Mitchell novel, so was pleasantly surprised by detailed description of the countryside.”
NATURE AND NARRATIVE
Looking at Morris’s second section, Catherine writes: “I am accustomed to the witty dialogue in a Mitchell novel, so was pleasantly surprised by detailed description of the countryside.”
The woods were the colour of woodsmoke, and had almost the same dense obscurity; on the opposite side of the road, far off beyond fields and hedges, a line of trees, a thin straggle of windblown trunks and leafless arms, stood up on the crest of a ridge like jagged clouds in the wake of a windblown storm. The sky was grey behind them, and they were silhouetted against it, a scarecrow brood with menace in their very shapelessness.
That is a great example of visual description that certainly sets the tone and reminds us that nature is literally a fundamental element in Mitchell’s prose and storytelling. From the primeval rains and muds of The Devil at Saxon Wall (1935) to the parched, dusty Greek grounds of 1937’s Come Away, Death, this decade definitely shows GM at her most evocative regarding the natural world and Mrs. Bradley’s relationship to it. Her excellent Stephen Hockaby titles of this fertile period display the same exploration of untamable nature, sometimes placid and beautiful but often threatening and destructive to humankind.
Catherine observes that the author’s descriptions of her unique detective carry their own intriguing duality: “Depictions of Mrs. Bradley could still be harsh, but at other times were flattering.”
Catherine observes that the author’s descriptions of her unique detective carry their own intriguing duality: “Depictions of Mrs. Bradley could still be harsh, but at other times were flattering.”
She looked like an ancient, benevolent goddess, wrinkled but immortal.
“I felt like Mitchell had grown to love her protagonist too much to draw her as a hideous creature. Yet other characters see her as intimidating.” Tombley, for one, is not put at ease by the old woman:
To bring this terrible little old woman into the heart of his affairs was rather like asking a shark to defend one from cannibals.
Catherine notes that “in many cozy mysteries, the victim is unlikable. The author does not want the reader to be emotionally involved with the victim, and gives other compelling reasons why the murder must be solved. Typically, it is to free the wrong suspect from suspicion. In Dead Men’s Morris, the two murder victims are without redeeming qualities.” She offers up this amusing exchange as evidence of Gladys Mitchell’s approach:
[Mrs. Bradley:] “You know, Selby, Fossder was a greedy, grasping, and rather foolish old man, and Simith was a nasty, bad tempered old man. Why should we bother who killed them?”
“Morbid curiosity on your part; a sense of civic duty on mine,” said Sir Selby, grinning.
CLASS AND CONSCIENCE
Regarding the Third Figure and the final section of the book, there is this positive comment: “I was enthralled with the story, to the point that I didn’t slow down to write up notes.” One exchange gave her pause, however. Catherine writes that near the end of the book “there is a startling revelation of the social attitudes of that era that stopped me in my tracks. Carey asks Mrs. Bradley, ‘But how could [the murderer] reconcile with [his/her] conscience the murder of Priest, if that had come off?’ Mrs. Bradley replies, ‘On the principle that to the average European the slaughter of coloured people is not a matter of conscience in the same way that the slaughter of whites would be.’ Carey continues, ‘You mean that just because Priest was poor, and a country man, and uneducated—'”
Catherine concludes, “The manner in which Mitchell presented this conversation made me believe it was her commentary on an unpleasant situation, not approval of the attitude. She seems ahead of her time as an author, but is not in-your-face with her beliefs.” I agree with this interpretation, and also understand the reason for the shock. It’s a moment that directly exposes an ugly Colonialist ideology, and the British Empire is not the only nation whose citizens were quietly (or vocally) complicit in the genocide of indigenous people to promote nationalist expansion.
Regarding the Third Figure and the final section of the book, there is this positive comment: “I was enthralled with the story, to the point that I didn’t slow down to write up notes.” One exchange gave her pause, however. Catherine writes that near the end of the book “there is a startling revelation of the social attitudes of that era that stopped me in my tracks. Carey asks Mrs. Bradley, ‘But how could [the murderer] reconcile with [his/her] conscience the murder of Priest, if that had come off?’ Mrs. Bradley replies, ‘On the principle that to the average European the slaughter of coloured people is not a matter of conscience in the same way that the slaughter of whites would be.’ Carey continues, ‘You mean that just because Priest was poor, and a country man, and uneducated—'”
Catherine concludes, “The manner in which Mitchell presented this conversation made me believe it was her commentary on an unpleasant situation, not approval of the attitude. She seems ahead of her time as an author, but is not in-your-face with her beliefs.” I agree with this interpretation, and also understand the reason for the shock. It’s a moment that directly exposes an ugly Colonialist ideology, and the British Empire is not the only nation whose citizens were quietly (or vocally) complicit in the genocide of indigenous people to promote nationalist expansion.
The parallels between European class consciousness and its corollary of racist contempt in United States history is an interesting and unappealing one. England, with its masters-and-servants divisions and a lack of belief in upward mobility, is historically different from the American view, which has always been predicated on the shakily idealistic premise that one can go from rags to riches if one only worked hard enough. America’s ugly division, historically speaking, is not as much about class as skin color, and who has power over whom, in the past and in the present. Regarding the potential murder of the uneducated laborer Ditch, I believe Mrs. Bradley has a point: the killer can dismiss the act by rationalizing that the death of a menial is not of great concern. Catherine also smartly notes that Mrs. Bradley “distanced herself from that prejudice with the phrasing ‘to the average European the slaughter of coloured people is not a matter of conscience.’ We know Mrs. Bradley is not average.”
THE VERDICT
THE VERDICT
Catherine’s final thoughts on Dead Men’s Morris below bring joy to my heart, and I look forward to future conversations with her and other group readers as we continue to discuss Gladys Mitchell’s many books!
“The closing explanation of the murder and clues was a bit long, but the convoluted plot required this, in my opinion. And at the end, I wanted to start re-reading the novel. After reading Dead Men’s Morris, I am a confirmed Mrs. Bradley fan.”
“The closing explanation of the murder and clues was a bit long, but the convoluted plot required this, in my opinion. And at the end, I wanted to start re-reading the novel. After reading Dead Men’s Morris, I am a confirmed Mrs. Bradley fan.”
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