1863–1938
Ianthe Jerrold 1898–1977
Milward Kennedy 1894–1968
Ronald A. Knox 1888–1957
A. E. W. Mason 1865–1948
A. A. Milne 1882–1956
Arthur Morrison 1863–1945
Baroness Orczy 1865–1947
Mrs Victor Rickard 1876–1963
John Rhode 1884–1965
Dorothy L. Sayers 1893–1957
Henry Wade 1887–1969
Victor L. Whitechurch 1868–1933
Helen Simpson (Associate Member) 1897–1940
Hugh Walpole (Associate Member) 1884–1941
1933
Anthony Gilbert 1899–1971
E. R. Punshon 1872–1956
Gladys Mitchell 1901–1983
1934
Margery Allingham 1904–66
1935
Norman Kendal 1880–1966
R. C. Woodthorpe 1886–1971
1936
John Dickson Carr 1906–77
1937
Nicholas Blake 1904–72
Newton Gayle (Muna Lee 1895–1965 and Maurice Guinness 1897–1991)
E. C. R. Lorac 1894–1958
Christopher Bush 1888–1973
1946
Cyril Hare 1900–58
Christianna Brand 1907–88
Richard Hull 1896–1973
Alice Campbell 1887–1976
1947
Val Gielgud 1900–81
Edmund Crispin 1921–78
1948
Dorothy Bowers 1902–48
1949
Michael Innes 1906–94
Michael Gilbert 1912–2006
Douglas G. Browne 1884–1963
On a summer evening in 1937, a group of men and women gathered in darkness to perform a macabre ritual. They had invited a special guest to witness their ceremony. She was visiting London from New Zealand and a thrill of excitement ran through her as the appointed time drew near. She loved drama, and at home she worked in the theatre. Now she felt as tense as when the curtain was about to rise. To be a guest at this dinner was a special honour. What would happen next she could not imagine.
Striking to look at, the New Zealander was almost six feet tall, with dark, close-set eyes. Elegant yet enigmatic, she exuded a quiet, natural charm that contrasted with her flamboyant dress sense and artistic taste for the exotic. Fond of wearing men’s clothes, smart slacks, a tie and a beret, this evening she had opted for feminine finery, her favourite fur wrap and extravagant costume jewellery. In common with her hosts, she had a passion for writing detective stories. Like them, she guarded her private life jealously.
Until tonight, she had only known these people from reading about them – and from reading their books. Many were household names, distinguished in politics, education, journalism, religion, and science, as well as literature. Most were British, a handful came from overseas. A young American was here, and so were the Australian granddaughter of a French marquis, and an elderly Hungarian countess who each year made a special journey for the occasion, travelling to England from her home in Monte Carlo.
The ritual was preceded by a lavish banquet in an opulent dining room. As the wine flowed, the visitor fought to conquer her nerves. Her escort, a discreet young Englishman, attentive and admiring, did his best to put her at ease. The food was superb, and the company convivial, but she preferred to let others talk rather than chatter herself. Sipping at her coffee, she half-listened to the speeches. At last came the moment she was waiting for. Everyone rose, and the party retired to another room. At the far end stood a large chair, almost like a throne. On the right side was a little table, and on the left, a lectern and a flagon of wine, its mouth covered with cloth.
All of a sudden, the lights went out, plunging the room into darkness. As if at a given signal, everyone else swept out through the door, leaving the woman from New Zealand and her companion alone. She became conscious of a faint chill in the air. Both of them were afraid to break the silence. As the moments ticked away, they dared to exchange a few words, speaking in whispers, as if in church.
Without warning, a door swung open. The Orator had arrived.
Resplendent in scarlet and black robes, and wearing pince-nez, a statuesque woman entered the room. She marched towards the lectern, holding a single taper to light the way. As she mounted the rostrum, the New Zealander saw that, in the folds of her gown, the Orator had secreted a side-arm. The visitor caught her breath. In the gloom, she could not identify the weapon. Was it a pistol, or a six-shooter?
Stern and purposeful, the Orator lit a candle. She gave no hint that she knew anyone was watching. At her command, a sombre procession of men and women in evening dress filed into the room. In the flickering candle-light, the visitor glimpsed unsmiling faces. Four members of the group carried flaming torches. Others clutched lethal weapons: a rope, a blunt instrument, a sword, and a phial of poison. A giant of a man brought up the rear. On the cushion that he carried, beneath a black cloth, squatted a grinning human skull.
The New Zealander was spellbound. The Orator cleared her throat and began to speak. She administered a lengthy oath to a burly man in his sixties. This secretive and elitist gathering had elected him to preside over their affairs, and he pledged to honour the rules of the game they played:
‘To do and detect all crimes by fair and reasonable means; to conceal no vital clues from the reader; to honour the King’s English … and to observe the oath of secrecy in all matters communicated to me within the brotherhood of the Club.’
As the ritual approached its end, the Orator lifted her revolver. Giving a faint smile, she fired a single shot. In the enclosed space, the noise was deafening. Her colleagues let out