Gold Was Our Grave is the first title I have read by Henry Wade, one of many unjustly neglected writers from Britain’s Golden Age of Detection literature. His detective, Inspector John Poole, was introduced in 1929’s The Duke of York’s Steps, and Wade – the pseudonym of Major Sir Henry Lancelot Aubrey-Fletcher – delivered nearly 20 more mysteries over the following two and a half decades. Gold is one of Wade’s final titles, published in 1954. (I gladly chose it to meet the reading challenge from Past Offences, a great website whose Crimes of the Century invites the community to celebrate mystery and suspense offerings produced during specific years.) This title mixes fair-play detection with an absorbing police procedural format, and succeeds admirably.
This story could have proven a dry exercise in puzzle plotting, its author content to push his characters around like chess pieces until the solution is revealed. Instead, Wade accomplishes more: he gives the reader a glimpse of believable inter-departmental case-building, with Poole using his colleagues and police contacts (including Chief-Inspector Lackett of C.6 division, specializing in fraud and financial crime, and Detective-Constable Riddling, Poole’s feet on the ground) to follow leads and scrutinize alibis. This group detective work invites the reader to appreciate the well-paced, cumulative experience; other “machinery of justice” resources here are similarly well-defined, from a communication with the American Federal Bureau of Investigation – looking into the provenance of a murder weapon bought in Chicago – to a perfectly observed solicitor for the defense who understands completely just how much he can hear from his client before legal (if not ethical) waters become muddied.
In addition to painting an appealing picture of the larger criminal investigation process, Wade also succeeds in populating his puzzle with characters that possess just the right amount of pathos to come alive, but not so much emotional verisimilitude that the genre is jeopardized. At its heart, Gold Was Our Grave is a tragedy, and it is to Wade’s credit that he uses his detective’s formal position to look dispassionately at events, thus avoiding melodrama.
The story: financial speculator Hector Berrenton is involved in a near-fatal car accident, the result of a disconnected steering-track rod and a precipitously sharp turn on the road near his home. The wreck could have been due to the neglect of his disagreeable chauffeur and mechanic, except for the arrival of an anonymous letter posted the day before and addressed to the driver: SAN PODINO. THIS IS YOURS. FALLON NEXT.
In addition to painting an appealing picture of the larger criminal investigation process, Wade also succeeds in populating his puzzle with characters that possess just the right amount of pathos to come alive, but not so much emotional verisimilitude that the genre is jeopardized. At its heart, Gold Was Our Grave is a tragedy, and it is to Wade’s credit that he uses his detective’s formal position to look dispassionately at events, thus avoiding melodrama.
The story: financial speculator Hector Berrenton is involved in a near-fatal car accident, the result of a disconnected steering-track rod and a precipitously sharp turn on the road near his home. The wreck could have been due to the neglect of his disagreeable chauffeur and mechanic, except for the arrival of an anonymous letter posted the day before and addressed to the driver: SAN PODINO. THIS IS YOURS. FALLON NEXT.
A location map accompanying Henry Wade's Gold Was Our Grave (1954). Fallon, we quickly learn, is Mr. Jocelyn Fallon, Berrenton’s business partner, and San Podino is the name of a gold mine of which the pair sold stocks to the public. While the financiers sold their shares in time to avoid ruin, the public was not as lucky. The case went to trial – did Berrenton have knowledge of the mine’s worthlessness prior to offering the public options? – but both partners were acquitted. Is a scorned investor seeking revenge? Or is the note a misdirection to conceal the attempted murderer’s true motive?
If the latter, the suspect list changes from general to specific, and includes Julian Berrenton, Hector’s son, who may be too accustomed to the good life; Jocelyn Fallon, whose relationship with his business partner may not be as friendly as it looks; ex-secretary Mr. Rightson, who lost his job due to the scandal; and current secretary Daphne Gordon, who appears to be having an affair with the married Fallon.
If the latter, the suspect list changes from general to specific, and includes Julian Berrenton, Hector’s son, who may be too accustomed to the good life; Jocelyn Fallon, whose relationship with his business partner may not be as friendly as it looks; ex-secretary Mr. Rightson, who lost his job due to the scandal; and current secretary Daphne Gordon, who appears to be having an affair with the married Fallon.
The road accident turns out to be a prelude, however, and one fateful Thursday a second attack occurs, and this one claims a victim. Fallon is found stabbed in his car, which he parked near the office building while Hector Berrenton and Daphne Gordon worked late. It is up to Chief-Inspector Poole and his network of associates to steadily build a case that will identify the architect of a very premeditated plan for murder.
I greatly enjoyed the capable presentation and assured plotting and pacing of this book; while I am usually not observant enough to arrive at a solution ahead of a Golden Age detective, the pieces fell into place here about halfway through the story. This was satisfying, as Poole then explores the same lines soon afterwards, and even so the author masterfully allows a sliver of doubt to enter Poole’s inner thoughts, planting that wary possibility that the picture may turn once more before all is revealed. There’s a clue in the form of information in the beginning chapters that is hidden in plain sight, and the final explanation is not overly complicated, and indeed benefits from its relative simplicity. It is also affecting that the murderer, when his or her story is told, is perhaps more deserving of sympathy than scorn.
To return to the inner thoughts of Inspector Poole: Wade sometimes allows the reader access to his detective’s mental hesitancies and strategies, and this more intimate narrative perspective adds greatly to the book’s charm. For example, the gesture of a simple civility while interviewing Daphne Gordon in her home fills Poole with regret at his approach:
I greatly enjoyed the capable presentation and assured plotting and pacing of this book; while I am usually not observant enough to arrive at a solution ahead of a Golden Age detective, the pieces fell into place here about halfway through the story. This was satisfying, as Poole then explores the same lines soon afterwards, and even so the author masterfully allows a sliver of doubt to enter Poole’s inner thoughts, planting that wary possibility that the picture may turn once more before all is revealed. There’s a clue in the form of information in the beginning chapters that is hidden in plain sight, and the final explanation is not overly complicated, and indeed benefits from its relative simplicity. It is also affecting that the murderer, when his or her story is told, is perhaps more deserving of sympathy than scorn.
To return to the inner thoughts of Inspector Poole: Wade sometimes allows the reader access to his detective’s mental hesitancies and strategies, and this more intimate narrative perspective adds greatly to the book’s charm. For example, the gesture of a simple civility while interviewing Daphne Gordon in her home fills Poole with regret at his approach:
It would be churlish to refuse, and presently John Poole was enjoying a very drinkable Spanish sherry, sitting in a comfortable chair facing his hostess across the fire. Hostess? That was exactly it; the moment the first glow of comfort coursed through his veins – or whatever it did do – Poole realized that by accepting the drink, and the apology, he had weakened his position; he could not now press his questions as inexorably as he would do to a hostile – a palpably hostile – witness. He had hastily to reconstruct his plan of action.
Such observational detail is not always to be found in classic mystery stories, their authors preferring puzzle over psychology. (And to be fair, many readers voice the same preference.) But to me, such touches are very welcome when done right, and Henry Wade achieves an impressive balance: it’s a thoughtful police procedural unique enough to rise above its station.
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