My great love is for mysteries of the Golden Age, and the authors who emulated the style. The richness and imagination found in stories written at the time is just incredible. Reading a Golden Age mystery is almost like agreeing to an author-reader duel with whoever the author was. The author throws every trick in the book at you: red herrings, fake alibis, multiple murders... Meanwhile, the reader tries his (or her) best to keep their balance, thrusting back with their own deductions, trying to figure out just what the old devil’s up to this time. It’s plenty of fun to read along and try to beat the detective to the solution. I can’t help but get a picture in my mind of a pleasant evening of deduction by the fireplace: Dr. Fell smoking a pipe in a red leather armchair, Sir Henry Merrivale battling it out with a pair of knitting needles as Miss Marple attempts to help out… It’s a very warm, pleasant image.
Unfortunately, somewhere along the road, this kind of mystery became unpopular. Instead, we are stuck with 600 page books, 450 of which are character angst, 100 of which is devoted to social commentary, and the rest is the plot. We’re stuck with characters moaning about how unhappy they are, the details of their various love affairs, and attempts at faux artistry all over the place. The picture I get of the modern mystery stage is a dark, grim one, where imagination and creativity are almost viewed as crimes in themself.
That is why I would prefer reading a Golden Age mystery almost any day of the week – and why finding a good, (more) modern mystery author is something of a miracle. Enter William L. DeAndrea.
