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    The Return of Mr. Campion
    The Return of Mr. Campion
    The Return of Mr. Campion
    Ebook226 pages4 hours

    The Return of Mr. Campion

    By Margery Allingham

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    About this ebook

    A collection of thirteen short stories brings back an acclaimed Golden Age mystery author’s beloved sleuth, as well as a host of fresh characters and genres.

    Margery Allingham fans will delight at being reunited with the Queen of Crime’s most thrilling detective, Albert Campion. From capers and traditional mysteries to slice-of-life stories, romantic tales, and even a Christmas story, this anthology is a must-have for Allingham enthusiasts, as well as readers who have yet to discover the esteemed English author.

    Praise for Margery Allingham

    “Margery Allingham stands out like a shining knight.” —Agatha Christie

    “My very favourite of the four Queens of crime is Allingham.” —J.K. Rowling

    “Margery Allingham deserves to be rediscovered.” —P.D. James

    “Spending an evening with Campion is one of life’s pure pleasures.” —The Sunday Times

    “Startlingly good.” —The Guardian

    “At once exciting and amusing.” —The New York Times

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateOct 31, 2023
    ISBN9781504089906
    The Return of Mr. Campion
    Author

    Margery Allingham

    Margery Louise Allingham is ranked among the most distinguished and beloved detective fiction writers of the Golden Age alongside Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, and Ngaio Marsh. Allingham is J.K. Rowling's favourite Golden Age author and Agatha Christie said of Allingham that out of all the detective stories she remembers, Margery Allingham 'stands out like a shining light'. She was born in Ealing, London in 1904 to a very literary family; her parents were both writers, and her aunt ran a magazine, so it was natural that Margery too would begin writing at an early age. She wrote steadily through her school days, first in Colchester and later as a boarder at the Perse School for Girls in Cambridge, where she wrote, produced, and performed in a costume play. After her return to London in 1920 she enrolled at the Regent Street Polytechnic, where she studied drama and speech training in a successful attempt to overcome a childhood stammer. There she met Phillip Youngman Carter, who would become her husband and collaborator, designing the jackets for many of her future books. The Allingham family retained a house on Mersea Island, a few miles from Layer Breton, and it was here that Margery found the material for her first novel, the adventure story Blackkerchief Dick (1923), which was published when she was just nineteen. She went on to pen multiple novels, some of which dealt with occult themes and some with mystery, as well as writing plays and stories – her first detective story, The White Cottage Mystery, was serialized in the Daily Express in 1927. Allingham died at the age of 62, and her final novel, A Cargo of Eagles, was finished by her husband at her request and published posthumously in 1968.

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      The Return of Mr. Campion - Margery Allingham

      The Return of Mr Campion

      Also By Margery Allingham

      Blackkerchief Dick

      The White Cottage Mystery

      The Crime at Black Dudley

      Mystery Mile

      Look to the Lady

      Police at the Funeral

      Sweet Danger

      Death of a Ghost

      Flowers for the Judge

      The Case of the Late Pig

      Dancers in Mourning

      The Fashion in Shrouds

      Black Plumes

      Traitor’s Purse

      Dance of the Years

      Coroner’s Pidgin

      More Work for the Undertaker

      The Tiger in the Smoke

      The Beckoning Lady

      Hide My Eyes

      The China Governess

      The Mind Readers

      Cargo of Eagles

      The Darings of the Red Rose

      Novellas & Short Stories

      Mr. Campion: Criminologist

      Mr. Campion and Others

      Wanted: Someone Innocent

      The Casebook of Mr Campion

      Deadly Duo

      No Love Lost

      The Allingham Casebook

      The Allingham Minibus

      The Return of Mr. Campion

      Room to Let: A Radio-Play

      Campion at Christmas

      Non-Fiction

      The Oaken Heart: The Story of an English Village at War

      As Maxwell March

      Rogue’s Holiday

      The Man of Dangerous Secrets

      The Devil and Her Son

      The Return of Mr Campion

      An Albert Campion Mystery

      Margery Allingham

      Mystery Writer in the Box

      by Margery Allingham

      The art of writing mystery stories is much like any other art, one part aberration to three parts dedication, but when Kipling observed that there were nine and sixty ways of constructing a story he was not including the Mystery in the generalisation.

      The Mystery is never included in literary lore: that is one of its peculiarities. Something like sixty percent of all books borrowed in many English public libraries are mystery stories and yet they are always reviewed by themselves, kept quite apart from orthodox fiction. This is not mere literary segregation, the black writing and the white writing kept asunder, but rather an indication that the Mystery is different, just as Astrological Prediction is different, or Letters to the Editor.

      To my mind the one really extraordinary thing about it is that it is conventional to the point of being rigid, in an age when every other kind of writing tends to be without prescribed form. This is as odd, when one considers it, as if there were an enduring popular passion for the triolet in an era of free verse.

      It is not that changes have never been attempted, but, although the pattern has softened, no radical alteration has yet occurred. The Mystery remains box-shaped, at once a prison and a refuge. Its four walls are, roughly, a Killing, a Mystery, an Enquiry, and a Conclusion with an Element of Satisfaction in it.

      To please the majority, each of these items must be balanced, at least factually convincing and, if possible, new. This is an exacting specification. Both writers and readers are relentlessly precise, and, when moralists cite the modern murder mystery as evidence of an unnatural love of violence in a decadent age, I wonder if it is nothing of the sort, but rather a sign of a popular instinct for order and form in a period of sudden and chaotic change. The essential killing is, at worst, no more than a status symbol, an indication that the theme in hand is of importance. But there is, also, something deeply healthy in the implication that to deprive a human being of his life is not only the most dreadful thing one can do to him but also that it matters to the rest of us.

      The view of the Mystery as a refuge is particularly attractive to me because that is how I came into it.

      I wrote my first some nine years after the end of the first world war. I was twenty-two at the time but already at the end of a long apprenticeship, and I was very nearly dead of premature old age and disillusionment. Perhaps I should explain. My difficulty had been that I was a writer by birth and that, alas, has nothing whatever to do with being a born writer.

      When I first surfaced, about the age of six, I discovered myself to be the odd man out in a community which did nothing but sit in silence and write. We were a successful Edwardian family living on the edge of the Essex salt marshes, taking no notice of our neighbours, and keeping our own peculiar hours. My father had married his first cousin in his late thirties and had given up editing a London magazine to live in the country and devote himself to writing the rolling melodrama stories which filled the British equivalent of the American pulp magazines.

      He wrote at least two five-thousand-word installments a week and sometimes a third in a lighter vein about boys at boarding school, and he worked hard and slowly, never for a moment relaxing the enormous care which ensured his success.

      My mother was very much younger and was one of those remarkable women who can always succeed in the thing that everybody else is doing and with much less effort than they. She did not write for so long as the others, but she did do it and sold the products, reaping a sort of awed unpopularly in consequence. The other writers were visitors, friends of my father’s from his days in Fleet Street. There was always someone extra closeted upstairs, working to a press date or finishing some long speculative task.

      My clearest recollection is my own frustration. I was energetic, affectionate, and lonely, and all the interesting people in the world appeared to be on the other side of glass. There was nothing for it but to join the club, and soon, I too, sat alone with a stone bottle of blue-black ink and faced the first two great problems of my trade: How to say What? It was a hard life but I expected that. Everybody I knew remarked on it at some time or other.

      One of my favourite brother brushes at this time was an elderly Irishman named George Richard Mant Hearne. He was a great friend of the family and often stayed with us. He was bald and surprised looking, with a stiff leg which gave him a great stride to his walk. He came from Cork and was witty and gentle and poetical and quite different from ourselves, who were second generation London Irish and packed with intellectual savagery and a curious delight in self-derision. Mr Hearne wrote fairy stores [sic] for fun and, for a living, a three thousand word weekly adventure concerning either Sexton Blake or Robin Hood. He worked with care and precision, his basket full of spoiled pages. I used to accompany him to the post office and, as he always enquired very politely after my work, I used to ask after his.

      I learned of many of the hazards of my profession from his accounts of his crises. There was the time when the artist had a lost weekend and forgot which series he was illustrating. The first my poor friend heard of it was when it was discovered that the block, already made for the next week’s Robin Hood, showed a company of persons sitting in the greenwood dressed in the flannels and boaters fashionable in the current year of nineteen hundred and ten.

      Mr Hearne rose to the occasion with courage and inserted a single sentence in his tightly knit piece. ‘Swiftly disguising themselves in modern costume, Robin Hood and his Merry Men took counsel.’ He was not pleased with it, though. It held up the action, he said, and then, like one of the witches in his own fairy stories, he gave me a riddle to remember. ‘They never mind you putting all you’ve got into this sort of stuff. They never pay you any more for it, but they don’t stop you.’

      So ever since those days, I have always kept some item on the stocks which has got to be given all I have. There is nothing uplifting about this: I do it for pleasure. Sometimes it has to take its turn, but I never put it away.

      By the time I was twenty, I had tasted some of the Dead Sea fruit of authorship. My left, or ‘commercial’, hand was reasonably successful. I earned an almost adequate living by writing and re-writing a great many words to suit the less important requirements of a variety of editors. But my right hand, the one I took so seriously and which wrote ‘for fun’, was not doing so well.

      It had produced two full-length books, the first a novel about smuggling on the salt-marsh, which was the only place I knew well. Smuggle was all one could do there save graze.

      This book had been published on both sides of the Atlantic when I was seventeen, and I had been to a full-scale London literary party on the strength of it. I had also had my first unnerving experience of being interviewed by the daily press without having anything to say to it.

      My poor father was bitterly disappointed by the mess I made of it all. He was the kindest man alive, but, in one of his stories, I would have been beautiful as well as industrious, witty, resourceful, and, above all, lucky so that my book would have coincided with some world-wide interest in smuggling on salt-marshes. As it was, I had the family figure, designed by Providence for great endurance at the desk, no conversation and a stammer. My book sold few copies and irritated quite a lot of people.

      My second was even more unfortunate inasmuch as it never got published at all. I wrote it at the direct request of my father who was one of those born editors who are able, not only to inspire almost anybody to write anything, but whose decisions are final anyhow. At this time, he was bitten with curiosity concerning one of the most controversial subjects of the day, degenerate teenagers or Bright Young People as they were called.

      I did my honest best to produce the work he ordered: ‘a factual truthful account of the Inmost Thoughts, Aspirations and Actions of the Young as You Know Them’, and I achieved something so abysmally and innocently dull that it exhausted the reader very nearly as much as it had me. The book was a great disaster and I almost became entirely left-handed and gave up writing except for a living.

      Only then did it occur to me that, as far as writing for fun was concerned, I might profitably dispense with absolute direction, and I recalled Mr Hearne’s remark about the freedom to be found in the simple action story. The Mystery had begun to blossom, and the rules were very strict, but their restraint was negligible compared with the dreadful strait jacket of keeping bitterly serious when one was not that way inclined. I decided to escape into the Mystery.

      At this distance it is much easier to see what I was running from than it was then.

      In 1928, the postwar demolition of Edwardian civilisation was well under way. Few people had any faith in anything constructive and the mood was angry. Discredited ideas suffered in a general spring-cleaning so drastic as to be almost a laying waste. Many perfectly good babies thrown out with the bath water and several eternals nearly went with them.

      The chief of these last was Romance, even the word lost its normal meaning and became a synonym for a watered down version of the period’s main discovery which was that sex could be discussed.

      In the twenties, one could have fairly described the Mystery as ‘that kind of popular tale which is not about the Horrors of Love’; and the odd effect of this arbitrary division was, that into it went every familiar demigod which the ordinary reader wanted to keep amid the jamboree of destruction.

      One of the first of these ancient treasures was the knight errant. This figure is Romance’s eternal hero, the rescuer, the dragon slayer, the wanderer in search of other people’s troubles. When he became a displaced person he went into hiding and lived on, as Reggie Fortune, Philip Marlow, Philo Vance, and Perry Mason, as the Good Fairy Private Eye, in fact … an unlikely sprite.

      However, likeness was by no means so important in the early days as it became later on. Realism, even the Mystery’s brand which is literal, rather than lifelike, has seeped into the form very slowly. The knight errant flourished in his fancy dress, and the writers, who continued to develop him in his exile, were left in peace to do so. They were in the sanctuary of the four-sided box and were never taken too seriously either by themselves or anyone else.

      From the author’s point of view, one of the more deceptive aspects of the Mystery is that it appears so easy to do, and I suspect that I was particularly fortunate inasmuch as that was practically the only mistake I did not make. I had never found any writing easy and this was to be right hand stuff. What attracted me most of all, I remember, was the protective covering offered to the author. Nobody blamed the Mystery writer for being no better than himself. If he got his facts wrong the readers wrote and abused him, but no one, not even in the literary columns, ever wrote to analyse his twisted ego or to sneer at his unformed philosophy. Nobody cared what the Mystery writer thought, as long as he did his work and told his story. It suited me. The only definite thing I had to tell the world was that I liked it, even if no one else did. The box seemed most inviting, but settling down in it was a very tricky business. At that time, I had no idea of the importance to the writer of his knight errant detective. I thought that one simply had to have a sleuth who was instantly recognisable, so that the reader could follow him without effort … an opium smoker in a deer-stalker, perhaps. Most of the more showy types appeared to have been bagged by the time I came in, and, on looking around, my eye lighted on a minor character called Albert Campion in my own first detective story. True, he was not very suitable and, indeed, had been described in that book as some sort of minor crook, but I did not think anyone would ever read Black Dudley again, and so I promoted him.

      He appealed to me because he was the private joke-figure of we smarter youngsters of that period. The Zany or Goon, laughing inanely at danger, who is now beloved and imitated by most young people everywhere was, in those days, considered a very unhealthy and esoteric phenomenon. He was misunderstood and regarded with black misgiving by all but the enlightened few and the idea of making him a detective in a lighthearted Mystery story was absurd and rather fun.

      So there we were for a time, me and Albert. He was a piece of youthful nonsense and I was growing up; we seemed set for trouble.

      For a while I was fully occupied finding out how to write the tales at all. From the start, my Mysteries have tended to run in threes, one to break the new ground, one to consolidate it, and one to convince me I must push on again. This has nearly always meant that the second book was the good one, and so, in later years, the third of the series has not always been written, even if it has been partially worked out.

      The first three, Black Dudley, Mystery Mile, and The Gyrth Chalice Mystery, were constructed on the Plumpudding principle. One collected as many colourful, exciting, or ingenious inventions, jokes, incidents, or characters, as one could lay hands on and simply crammed them into the box as tightly as they would go. This is no construction at all, and I should never have got away with it had my left hand not been trained in the old school of ‘pop’ adventure which decrees simply: ‘a surprise every tenth page and a shock every twentieth’. As it was, it made a definite recipe of a sort and I survived to go on to phase two. This was an attempt at the straight murder mystery, the tale cut to fit the box. Police at the Funeral was the first of these, and Death of a Ghost the second, and, before they could be written, something had to be done about Mr Campion.

      Fortunately for me, it occurred to me then that if I could change so could he, and that the difference between a real character and a paper one was life which changes all the time. As the only life I had to give anybody was my own, we grew very close as time went on.

      After the Murder Mysteries, we had a shot at the light novels and, after them, at a more serious kind, lightening the proceedings every now and again with a Plumpudding single to keep

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