Tags
Agatha Christie, Albert Campion, Dorothy Sayers, Hercule Poirot, Lord Peter Wimsey, Margery Allingham, Ngaio Marsh, Roderick Alleyn, Stephen Sondheim, Sunday in the Park with George
[NOTE: F/M/K stands for F**k/Marry/Kill, and is an amusing way to compare 3 similar people per your own preferences. Past editions in other places have included Bill Murray/Steve Martin/Chevy Chase, and Warren Beatty/Jack Nicholson/Dustin Hoffman.]
Welcome to a new edition of F/M/K, where we review the attributes of aristocratic detectives from classic British mysteries. Today we’ll be pitting three paragons of the genre against each other in a Jell-O wrestling match to the death…ok, not really, but that would be a pretty awesome spectacle, wouldn’t it? Our contestants are Ngaio Marsh’s creation Roderick Alleyn, Margery Allingham’s detective/adventurer Albert Campion, and Dorothy L. Sayers’ dream boyfriend, uh, detective Lord Peter Wimsey.
No Hercule Poirot, you ask? Nope. He’s not a Brit or an aristocrat, so technically doesn’t qualify for this competition. And would you really want him included? Of course you’d hire him in a jiffy to solve your rich uncle’s murder so you can claim your inheritance, and you might even be shopping buddies. (“Hey Herc, does this peach satin make my butt look fat?” “Undoubtedly, mon amie, we must search for the dresses more flattering.”) But you’d never, ever want to hit that. Ack, just thinking about it…a little bleach for the little grey cells, s’il vous plait!
So back to our upper-class crime solvers, who have quite a bit in common beyond being detectives who solve fiendishly complicated murder mysteries. They are all “gentlemen,” the younger sons of posh aristocratic families. Campion and Wimsey are the younger brothers of dukes, while Alleyn is the younger brother of a baronet. Accordingly, they all went to Oxbridge colleges, are highly cultured, sensitive, artistic chaps, and none of them ever seem to have to worry about money. They all live in high-class central London flats but own (or have access to) vast estates out in the provinces. As they are the flowers of the aristocracy, their own set often give them the side eye for mucking about in anything as commonplace as crime, but somehow they are so brilliant and charming about it that everyone gives them a pass.
With all this in common, how to decide who gets bedded, who gets wedded, and who gets deaded? It’s all about their personalities, mon cher Hastings – how they deal with women, how they handle stress, how they acknowledge weaknesses. Well, you know, that, and looks.
Speaking of looks, let’s ogle Chief Inspector (later Superintendent) Roderick “Rory” Alleyn, the obvious “F” in our group. The only actual Scotland Yard officer in this threesome, he solves murders with his less gentlemanly CID team and lives in a bijou Chelsea flat in care of an elderly Russian manservant. After Oxford he spent a year in the diplomatic service before entering police college, and thus speaks fluent French. He is very, very good at his job, but the ugliness of murders and the shenanigans he has to pull to solve them pain his sensitive soul. But beyond his congenial and amusing company, dude is hot. The newspapers call him “Handsome Alleyn” and just about every woman he meets, from teenaged debutantes to their 80-year-old grandmothers, has at least one “holy crap, gotta get me a piece of that” moment. Even rich American ship’s belles can’t get enough.
“Say, have you seen that guy Alleyn around?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know—“
“He’s tall and thin, and I’ll say he’s good-looking. And is he British! Gee! I’m crazy about him.”
– Artists in Crime, 1937
So why wouldn’t you marry this guy and nail down all this pulchritude ‘til death do you part? Well, he’s away on business a lot (big downside to being a policeman), and it wouldn’t be much fun to be married to someone that every other woman out there is trying to seduce. Plus, here’s the big buzzkill – for a brilliant, gorgeous guy, does he ever suck at romantic conversation. Witness this excruciating exchange with object of love (and eventual wife) Agatha Troy:
“This must be right. I swear it must be right. I can’t be feeling this alone. Troy?”
“Not now,” Troy whispered. “No more, now. Please.”
“Yes.”
“Please.”
He stooped, took her face between his hands, and kissed her hard on the mouth. He felt her come to life beneath his lips. Then he let her go.
“And don’t think I shall ask you to forgive me,” he said. “You’ve no right to let this go by. You’re too damn’ particular by half, my girl. I’m your man and you know it.”
They stared at each other.
“That’s the stuff to give the troops,” Alleyn added. “The arrogant male.”
“The arrogant turkey cock,” said Troy shakily.
“I know, I know. But at least you didn’t find it unendurable. Troy, for God’s sake can’t we be honest with each other? When I kissed you just then you seemed to meet me like a flame. Could I have imagined that?”
– Death in a White Tie, 1938
It’s supposed to be romantic, but ugh, right? Just keep your mouth shut, Rory, and get your handsome ass in my bed already.
The best husband in this bunch is undoubtedly Albert Campion. At first glance, this assertion seems ludicrous. Campion is tall, thin and blond, with a face that is “not unhandsome” but is hidden behind enormous horn-rimmed glasses and a perpetually foolish expression. Just about every utterance out of his mouth is fatuous and inane. He’s been disinherited from his grand family after graduating from Cambridge and has been involved in a number of shady enterprises; “Albert Campion” is only the most common of his many pseudonyms. He has vast knowledge of the criminal underworld and his manservant, Magersfontein Lugg, is an unrefined former cat burglar. He falls head over heels for girls who appreciate his sleuthing abilities but otherwise treat him as a cute, harmless pet. Not exactly prime marriage material, right?
But after a while you realize the brilliance behind Campion’s foolish veneer. No one ever takes him seriously…until about 15 minutes too late, when he’s caught them in their misdeeds. His criminal connections provide valuable information to solve murders, information they’d never volunteer to the cops. His aristocratic background provides entry into high society, but being the black sheep of the family means no dreary obligations in the House of Lords. His shallow exterior masks impressive physical bravery, empathy towards his fellow men, a resolute character, and a sensitive and discerning heart. Best of all, he never blathers awkwardly about his precious feelings to his paramours. Check out this exchange with eventual wife Amanda Fitton, at the end of a harrowing adventure:
“Don’t be frightened,” she said. “I’m not proposing marriage to you. But I thought you might consider me as a partner in the business later on…I don’t want to go to a finishing school, you know.”
“Good Lord, no,” said Campion, aghast at the prospect.
“That’s all,” said Amanda. “Get that well into your head…I say, do you ever think about Biddy Pagett?’ [one of Campion’s earlier crushes]
Mr. Campion, disheveled, and unbeautifully clad, met her frank enquiring gaze with one of his rare flashes of undisguised honesty.
“Yes,” he said.
Amanda sighed. “I thought so. Look here,” she went on. “I shan’t be ready for about six years yet. But then – well, I’d like to put you at the top of my list.”
Campion held out his hand with sudden eagerness. “Is that a bet?”
Amanda’s small cold fingers grasped his own. “Done,” she said.
– Sweet Danger, 1933
I know, swoon, right? If he proposed to me, I’d say yes before he’d finished the question.
OK, enough slobbering over Albert Campion. What about Lord Peter Wimsey, you say? He, too, is blond, fairly attractive, educated and sensitive. He, too, hides his wit and wisdom behind a landslide of barely relevant chatter about John Donne and famous Greek poets of antiquity. (In fact, according to Mike Ripley of Strand magazine, Campion was originally conceived as a parody of Wimsey before he took on a life of his own.) Besides having the best private collection of antique books in Britain, Wimsey is filthy rich, owns a sumptuous Piccadilly flat full of devoted servants (particularly his very correct Jeeves-like valet Bunter), and loves his adorable mother. So what’s the trouble?
Umm…nothing. To quote Dot in Sunday in the Park with George, “That’s the trouble…nothing’s wrong with him.” Lord Peter is just about perfect, every woman’s ideal man. But who really wants perfect? Who wants a guy who will listen sympathetically to your whining and overlook your quirks and flaws, but who can’t really relate because he never whines and has no faults himself? Campion’s flaws and uncertainties are often front and center as he solves mysteries and catches criminals; Lord Peter’s biggest human failing seems to be feeling sorry for some of the murderers he collars, as if he doesn’t realize ahead of time that dabbling in detection means life or death, not an amusing parlor game.
So, alas, Lord Peter, I’m afraid it’s curtains for you in our little game of FMK. But we can make it an appropriately literary passing. I’ll get someone to recite Elizabethan sonnets and Socrates’ death speech from Phaedo in the original Greek while I administer the hemlock.