Death and Mary Dazill by Mary Fitt

With a title like Death and Mary Dazill (1941) and the cover you see above, I knew I couldn’t resist reading this novel. It went on my wishlist, and my friend Clare gave it to me for my birthday last year. I’ll have seen it mentioned somewhere in the blogosphere or on Instagram etc, but I don’t remember where – reveal yourself, if you are the one! It’s a reprint from Moonstone Press, a little publishing house specialising in detective novels, who have published a lot of Fitt’s books in lovely new editions.

Mary Fitt was the pseudonym of Kathleen Freeman, and this is her tenth detective novel under that name in a mere five years – but calling it a detective novel is misleading. There is a (at least one!) murder and there are people trying to work out who did it, but all of this has happened many years ago. The whole novel feels less like detective fiction and more like an elegy to a shadowy group of people whose vibrancy and passions have dulled over the decades – leaving only the legacy of long-ago decisions and acts.

We start in the present day, where Superintendent Mallett (apparently a series detective for Fitt) and two friends are attending the funeral of a friend. As they are leaving, they see something that strikes them:

As the Vicar reached the lych-gate, two tall old ladies entered: he swept off his hat to them, and paused for a moment to speak to them. Mallett and Jones slackened their pace, and, unwilling to be drawn into the encounter, stopped as if to wait for Fitzbrown. The two old ladies, after a few minutes’ gracious conversation, bowed to the Vicar, or rather inclined their heads like two queens, and passed on. They were followed at a respectful distance by a chauffeur in wine-coloured livery: he stopped when they stopped, and moved when they moved, keeping exactly the same distance between himself and them, as if drawn by an invisible wire. He carried an enormous circular wreath of hothouse flowers: arum lilies, scarlet amaryllis, gardenias.

These ladies are, it turns out, the fancifully named Lindisfarne and Arran de Boulter – sisters who are leaving flowers by the grave of their father and brother, who died a week apart. They bring a large wreath every week for these men who died half a century earlier – but, notes one of the observers, leave none at all on the nearby grave of Mary Dazill.

At this point, we go back to the past – knowing the three people who will be dead by the end. I was a bit worried that we would have to spend the whole novel with modern-day characters telling anecdotes about the past, but instead we are taken straight there. Lindisfarne (Lindy) and Arran are beautiful and naïve young women on the cusp of adulthood – so much on the cusp that you wouldn’t have thought they needed to replace a leaving governess, but their father decides they must. Enter Mary Dazill – lovely, not much older than the sisters, clever and a little mysterious. Perhaps her mystery is really only the contrast with everyone else in this late-Victorian period, as they are thoughtlessly open with one another.

That’s not quite true – among the mix is a secret engagement, secret romances and secret hopes. But even those with secrets tend to find someone else to confide in, and emotions are running high. By contrast, Mary Dazill is not driven by her emotions. It makes her seem manipulative by comparison with those who can’t control themselves, let alone others.

At first, I was a little unsure of the writing. There is a fey artificiality to it, in excerpts like this, that make it feel more like actors in a melodrama than real life:

“You can’t,” said Arran, in a voice so low that he could scarcely hear. But his hearing was acute enough, then, to catch every shade of Arran’s voice. He leaned forward and said, with his lips almost touching her hair:

“Forgive me, darling. I can’t help it. I love you.”

But I quickly decided to forgive it. The artificiality perhaps comes from these characters’ youth and inexperience. The passions are real, and have real consequences, but they don’t have mature language to express themselves.

It is these passions that lead to deaths… but who killed whom, and why?

Superintendent Mallett doesn’t get much to do in this novel, and if it’s only one of Fitt’s output that you’ve read then you wonder why these three random men are returned to so often in the narrative for their discussion and deduction. Their personalities are adroitly drawn but don’t really matter to the emotional thrust of the book. Since their detective work is based on memories of one of the women, passed on by her mother, and some fragments of evidence, it doesn’t really match what the reader is experiencing. It’s all to the good that we are transported to the past rather than hearing it all secondhand, but it does mean that the deduction element doesn’t quite make sense. Rather, we see events unfold and discover the answer ourselves.

It’s a short novel and, as mysteries go, I didn’t find I particularly cared who the culprit was. But that didn’t matter at all. I really enjoyed it for the atmosphere and for taking me back into that late-Victorian period so well. I was reminded of The Go-Between more than of any detective novel – Fitt is excellent at the atmosphere and world she creates, and this was a lovely time spent in striking company.