history, two reports on flooding in the county, one report on the effect of the current on the river banks and lastly a batch of correspondence with a medical officer of health showing how to tell how long a body had been in the water. Now all this trouble to prove that the body thrown into this particular river at a certain point would be washed ashore at another place at a more or less definite time.’
Freeman Wills Crofts was an Irishman, born in Dublin in 1879. He was named after his father, a British army doctor, who died in Honduras before his son was born. His mother married again when Crofts was three and the family moved to the small village of Gilford, Ulster, where his stepfather, Reverend Harding, was the vicar. Gilford village had been founded in 1641 by a Captain John Magill. Crofts was later to borrow Captain Magill’s name for one of his best books, Sir John Magill’s Last Journey, which draws heavily on his Ulster background.
When Crofts was eighteen, he was apprenticed to his uncle, Berkley Dean Wise, the Chief Engineer of the Belfast and Northern Counties Railway. An outstanding civil engineer, Berkley Dean Wise made a huge contribution to railway travel, boosting tourism in and to Northern Ireland, and the young Crofts flourished under his care.
Railways, in that great age of steam, enthralled Crofts, as they have captured the imagination of so many others. Hardworking, creative and intelligent, he rose to become Chief Assistant Engineer. One of his projects which still stands today is the massive ten arch Bleach Green viaduct.
Crofts, however, was always dogged by poor health. It was during a long illness in 1919 that he wrote The Cask and, granted his background, it’s hardly surprising that he chose to make his detective heroes professional policemen.
To a modern reader this may seem an obvious decision, but in 1920, in the shadow of Sherlock Holmes, the gifted amateur was at his (and occasionally her) height of popularity. The sole purpose of a policeman in many Golden Age mysteries is to provide a foil to show the almost supernatural brilliance of the amateur. These are often great fun to read, but Crofts, the trained railway engineer, had a deep respect for the hard work a profession entails
In his fifth book, Inspector French’s Greatest Case, Crofts went on to to create his best known character, Inspector Joseph French of Scotland Yard. Fair minded, decent and achieving his results through sheer dogged persistence, Inspector Tanner of The Ponson Case is, in many ways, a blueprint for French.
‘There were already plenty of “character” detectives,’ wrote Crofts in his essay ‘Meet Inspector French’, ‘the lineal descendants, most of them, of the great Sherlock. I tried to make French a perfectly ordinary man, without peculiarities or mannerisms. Of course he had to have some qualities, but they were to be the ordinary qualities of ordinary fairly successful men. He was to have thoroughness and perseverance as well as a reasonable amount of intelligence, just the qualities which make for moderate success in any walk of life.’
This accent on the ‘ordinary’ has led to the charge that Crofts is a ‘humdrum’ writer and his policeman heroes are humdrum (aka boring) characters. This is unfair. It would be far better and a much truer assessment of his books to see his detectives as Everyman characters.
‘French,’ he wrote, to quote once more from ‘Meet Inspector French’, ‘does not leap to his conclusions by brilliant intuition. He begins a case by going and looking for information in those places in which he thinks information is most likely to be found. When he gets the information he swots over it until he grinds out some sort of theory to account for the facts. Very often this turns out to be wrong, but if so, he simply tries again until he thinks of something better.’
If this sounds daunting, don’t worry—it isn’t. One of the great qualities of Crofts’ writing is that it is very enjoyable to read. He loved travel and used a great variety of locations in his books. All of Crofts’ heroes have an engaging interest in the locations they find themselves, from the round Britain cruise of Fatal Venture to the construction of the A3, lovingly described in The Hog’s Back Mystery. In The Ponson Case, for instance, Inspector Tanner ends up in Portugal, where his insular British prejudices are overthrown by the sight of the glittering city of Lisbon.
Crofts doesn’t, thank goodness, go over the same ground again and again, but leads us forward through the story as new facts are discovered and fresh discoveries are made. His style is simple, easy and accessible. There aren’t any literary fireworks but he tells the story in ordinary, everyday language.
In 1929 Crofts, who was always dogged by ill health, retired from the railways. This was made possible by the great success of his books. Together with his wife, Mary, he moved from Northern Ireland to Blackheath in Surrey. He had always loved the countryside, as is evident from the opening of The Ponson Case. ‘A fine old house, finely set on the summit of a low hill and surrounded by wonderful old trees, it seemed to stand symbolical of the peace, security and solid comfort…’
The peace doesn’t last long.
DOLORES GORDON-SMITH
July 2015
THE dying sun of a July evening shone rosily on the old Georgian house of Luce Manor, mellowing the cold grey of the masonry, bringing out with soft shadow its cornices and mouldings, and softening and blurring its hard outlines. A fine old house, finely set on the summit of a low hill, and surrounded by wonderful old trees, it seemed to stand symbolical of the peace, security, and solid comfort of upper-class rural England.
This impression was not lessened by the outlook from the terrace in front. Below, and already shadowed by the trees beyond from the sun’s rays, was a small Dutch garden, its walks and beds showing up faintly in the gathering gloom. To the right the drive swept off in an easy curve until it disappeared between two rows of beeches, celebrated in all the county round for their age and size. At the side of the house, and reached through a rose pergola, was the walled English garden, with its masses of colour, its laden bushes, and its range of glass houses. In front, beyond the lawn, whose oaks and elms stood singly like sentinels guarding the house, the country rolled away to a line of distant hills, while to the left, an opening in the trees gave a glimpse of the Cranshaw River, with behind a near horizon of tree-covered slopes.
Within, in a large room panelled in black oak, the master of the house sat at dinner. He was alone, the only other members of the household, his wife and his daughter Enid, being from home on a visit. Sir William Ponson, a self-made man, had retired from business some ten years before our story opens and, selling his interest in the large ironworks of which he was head, had bought Luce Manor and settled down to end his days in the rôle of a country squire. Though obviously a nouveau riche, and still retaining the somewhat brusque manners of his hard, northern upbringing, he had nevertheless been received with more cordiality into the local society than usually happens in such cases. For Sir William, though he had thus risen in the social scale, remained a simple, honourable, kindly old man, a little headstrong and short tempered perhaps, but anxious to be just, and quick to apologise if he found himself in the wrong.
It was seldom that Sir William partook of a solitary meal. He was fond of society, and kept open house for all who cared to visit him. He had rented some shooting, and though the fishing in the river was not good, it at least was fishing. The tennis courts were always in perfect condition, and there was a sporting golf course at the neighbouring town of Halford. But it spoke well for Sir William that, of all his acquaintances, those whom he liked best to welcome were his old, somewhat unpolished business friends from the north, by few of whom these pursuits were properly appreciated. In this he had the full sympathy of his wife, a stout, placid lady of uncertain age, who ruled over his household with leisurely, easy-going sway.
Enid Ponson, their only daughter, a young woman of some thirty summers, was a favourite everywhere. Not exactly beautiful, she was yet good to look at, with her pale complexion, dark eyes, and winning smile.