(N.B. Margery’s erratic spelling is left intact)
The diary for 1930 is one of the more interesting items in the Allingham archive. It’s a slim, dark green book, rather like a wartime novel, when paper was restricted. It’s signed Margery Youngman Carter and the entries are in pen or pencil, whichever came to hand. Many pages are blank and a few are torn out or across. The diary is not, in fact, a record of daily life but an all-purpose notebook. It covers the middle years at Viaduct Farm, from 1931 to 1933. Police at the Funeral, Sweet Danger and Other Man’s Danger (Dangerous Secrets) are the books under discussion, all published in 1933.
The first entry is a note of a Louie (sic) Armstrong record on Parlophone, and the second, dated 8 December 1932, a list of ‘Things to be done before 24th’. These include four film stories for Aunt Maud, one represented by a row of dashes, the others by name: Beauty Parlor, Bird of Paradise and Blondie of the Follies; a velvet party dress for Jenny and a ‘coatee’ for herself; and a brief list of chores for her Sundays: ‘make mattresses, cover furniture, overhaul linen etc.’. It must have been enough to be going on with.
The next substantial entry is a list of menus from Thursday to Saturday for nine people. First course for breakfast was Force, described online as ‘the first commercially successful wheat flake breakfast cereal’. It was colourfully marketed, with a range of lively packet designs, all featuring a mature man called Sunny Jim who strides about, bursting with Force-engendered energy.
Next comes a brief note for Police at the Funeral: ‘Joyce being queer about Cousin George. Uncle William harping on George. Clockweight.’; and the menus for Sunday 2 January, including ‘kippers for early risers’ and four chickens for dinner. The first of several draft letters is to Mr. Wall, who must have worked for Doubleday, in their London office, since Margery apologises for not having been up to see him: ‘I am still in the throes of house moving, which with my commercial work makes life a little strenuous.’ She refers to the contracts she is returning, ‘duly signed and initialed’, which cover ‘my next three novels’, pointing out that they ‘should surely include Police at the Funeral for which I think you will find I have no contract at all with Doubleday.’ The draft ends abruptly with a quibble about the ‘numbering of the pages’ in the second of the contracts.
A blank page, pale pink, has a sketch of a dog, curled up in sleep. The next item is upside down, a pleasing quasi-sonnet, recording the errant thoughts of a nun. It’s metrically sound but only half the lines rhyme. “He knows not that I am alive, His free soul never looked on walls, That rise and rise up to the sky, And form a box when darkness falls. But every evening when the day is gathering up her coloured gown, I see him riding gallantly towards the white walls of the town. It would be sin to wave, to call, to let him look upon my face. Mine is a cloistered life and heart Predoomed to life within this place. I can not think it sin that I should want to see him riding by.”
After this imaginative flight, we return to practicalities: to a list of people for whom Christmas presents must be found; to a Christmas order including ‘one tray muscallels’, whatever they may be; and to another menu and a sketch of a floor plan. Of particular interest is a list of six American mystery novels. Two are considered on the next page, which is headed ‘This month’s thrillers’. Murder in a Library by Charles J Dutton offers a ‘Quite interesting problem. Murder of an old spinster librarian – why? A young reporter attacked. Clever psychologist Roland Ross, who solves the mystery. Fair solution.’ The Rembrandt Murder by Henry James Forman has a brief note only: ‘also American and also student hero heroine.’ There is no suggestion, even online, that these books were filmed and the comments support the idea that Margery had been commissioned to review them somewhere.
She did review books for Time and Tide and The Daily Graphic later in her career. A brief, arresting note two pages on states: ‘Uncle Andrew disapeared’ and heralds a fascinating page on which Margery considers possible titles: The Crime (or Murders) at Socrates Place or Here’s Mystery (cheap?) or Murder in the House (gruesome?)’ A note in Pip’s hand blithely asserts that the ‘Story opens in some remarkable fashion yet to be devised – in which Joyce gets hold of Albert.’
In fulfilment of this vague promise Margery delivers the goods: ‘Stanislaus Oates in rain and followed. Takes refuge…discovers Albert. Albert produces letter from Marcus Fetherstone explaining his presence. Enter Joyce B. Short conversation. Appearance of Cousin George. Colapse of girl. Cousins disapearence.’
She goes on to develop the action. ‘They go Albert’s flat where a long and urgent telegram from Marcus awaits them. Uncle Andrew Seeley has been fished out of the river dead a week. Obvious murder. Uncle William tells of his amnesia. Uncle William gets his hand seriously hurt. Aunt Julia discovered. Enter police – Inspector Stanislaus Oates. Uncle not at all well. Inquest on Andrew adjourned.’ On the following two pages are further notes in Pip’s hand: ‘Aunt Julia discovered dead in bed. Suspicion points strongly to Aunt Kitty.’ and ‘Death of Uncle William’. The first of these occurs in the novel but the second, blessedly, is long postponed.
There follows, upside down, the draft of a letter to Malcolm Johnson, Margery’s American editor in the 1930s It’s worth quoting in full. Evans is Dwye Evans of Heinemann, Mary is Mary Leonard, Margery’s agent and Miss Nerney is Winifred Nerney, lynchpin of Doubleday’s London office in Great Russell Street.
‘Dear Malcolm, First let me thank you tremendously for the bar equipment, which gives the Half Nelson something really hot in the way of distinction and for The American Keepsake, which made me laugh like hell. Thank you sir. Now look here guv…I gather partly from your letter and partly from Evans and partly from gossip that you’re not too happy about the current Campion story. I’m sorry about this naturally but I don’t feel that it’s the end of the world. I’ve pleased you before and bless me I’ll do it again. My trouble is that I can’t quite visualize what exactly it is you want over there at the moment. It’s not easy to follow the market place from such a distance. Sweet Danger (Kingdom of Death) suits Evans very well it seems and since it is OK with him I don’t regret writing it, but I don’t want you to publish anything you don’t like. Give it a miss and we’ll try something else in the fall.
Since I wrote you last I have had a bit of luck with Dangerous Secrets, a more sensational story than I usually write, for a magazine over here which has a very big sale. They are very pleased with it and under their guiding hand I am producing I think a rather interesting effort in the pure and simple thriller line. Mary or Miss Nerney intends to send it you as it comes out. I think if not I shall do so myself. You should start getting it about the end of February. I also want you to send me the names (or the books if you have ’em about) of the half dozen best-selling Crime Club stories of the past six months. I’ll read them and see if I can’t spot the sort of stuff you want. I feel this popular stuff is not to be treated in the same way as the straight novel. It’s franckly commercial after all and should I think be approached by this author at any rate from a commercial angle.
Anyway, let me know soon what you are doing in regard to Kingdom of Death because the copyright won’t last for ever. But I shall still consider I owe you two books. All the very best from the troops and the old lady herself
Yrs. Margery’.
It would be good to have Malcolm Johnson’s reply to this singular letter, which throws the ball so neatly into his court. In the event, Kingdom of Death was published in 1933 by Doubleday, who promoted it as ‘ a gay and bloody bit of detection’ in the ‘Graustarkian’ vein. Graustark figures in a series by George Barr McCutcheon, hugely popular in America. It’s a fictional principality in the Carpathian mountains, over towards Romania. Averna, of course, is an enclave on the Adriatic coast – and Ruritania’s in there somewhere.
A sentimental poem celebrating love follows. ‘April, April, The year’s most wayward child. Green and white as her kirtle bright. And her yellow hair blows wild. Can our love that has such a sponsor. Stand from day to day. In such a world of transient blossom Can this sweet flower stay? Can the flowers of April last until July? And summer stay among the (hills?). Till the swallows fly? Such thoughts were treachery, my sweet, If ’twas not you and I. Our love is April’s miracle, a flower that will not die. A flower that may not wither through frost and heat and rain, but rivals all the blossom when April comes again.’
H. Hessell-Tiltman was the recipient of the next draft letter. A writer of popular non-fiction and a biography of Ramsay MacDonald, the Labour Prime Minister, he was also a publisher and editor. He must have edited ‘Answers’, where Margery’s three left-hand thrillers were published.
‘Dear Mr. Tiltman Thank you for your letter. I should very much like to see you about Dangerous Secrets. I have a main plot in mind of course and I am anxious to have an oportunity of putting it before you. It strikes me as ingenious, but that of course is for you to decide. I shall be in town on Wed. Could I come in to see you at 3 o’clock? I should very much like to meet —- ‘and there the draft stops, so we shall never know.
Three bills from Whiteley’s are laid in next, all dated 8 December 1932. Margery owed them £2/0/2 for cord velveteen, £2/8/11 for satin and rayon and £1/0/9 for three PC sheets. Perhaps the velveteen was for Jenny’s dress, mentioned earlier. A short enigmatic letter follows, of which one would like to know more. Montague Norman was Governor of the Bank of England.
‘Dear Mr. Hayden, Thank you very much. The orphan (now covered with diamonds) is assured a suitably alcoholic Christmas.
Yrs v sincerely M —
P S. I’ve seen to the American debt. Did you know I was Montague Norman in disguise?’
Then there is a single sentence to Mr. Blackwood: ‘I do hope I shall be able to interest him as much by the end of the story as the beginning.’
Margery’s film work for Maud Hughes figures next. She lists and briefly places the characters from It Pays to Advertise, The Gang Buster and No Limit, all from Paramount in 1931. She sums up the action of No Limit: ‘Girl left with Park Lane appartment and Rolls Royce to mind. Diamonds pinched. Husband a crook.’ On the page opposite is a small pencil sketch of Pip Carter’s head, with a cigarette in his mouth, captioned ‘Mi luv ‘. Margery drew him even if he did not draw her. More film notes follow: on Women Men Marry – ‘Young wife led astray by woman friend. Magnanimous elderly lover’; and A House of Unrest, cryptically summed up by ‘Diamond. Island. No. 1. Girls £20,000’.
Further on , Margery drafts the opening of a self-promoting publicity profile, claiming to have been only 17 when Blackkerchief Dick was published; and writes a jingle in praise of Nelson Keys, a popular song-and-dance man of the interwar years: ‘On stage or movie Nelson Keys Can be depended on to please. He played in Mumsie with Pauline. And now in a revue is seen.’ Later entries include a list of ten films to be written up for Aunt Maud, several with ticks to indicate work accomplished; a further brief draft for Police at the Funeral; and a second list of those who will expect a present at Christmas. A final list of films tails off into doodling.
Two important items bring up the rear. A third poem, ‘A New Year Toast’, shows Margery still very much in love with Pip, with no hint of the disillusion yet to come. ‘Here’s health to you , my very dear, And happiness and, too, The love that’s ours, the hope that’s ours, Lasting all life through. I drink to you, beloved, Will you share the cup with me, And when your lips shall touch the rim. There shall mine also be. The wine is red, the cup is gold, Softly the candles shine. The new year seems most kindly. When your eyes look into mine. The new year seems a broad white road. Through gracious lovely land. I care not where it leadeth .If we go hand in hand. But if the way is petal-strewn Or if it (stony?) be, What matter it, beloved, If I have you with me?’
Two trivial entries apart, the diary ends with one of the most important entries, a careful draft, in ink, of Marcus Featherstone’s letter to Albert, early in Police at the Funeral. Apart from a reference to Mrs. Faraday as a martinet, it is virtually word for word as it appears in the published novel.
Like all we learn of Margery Allingham from what survives of her life, this diary-notebook shows strongly how game she was, meeting life head-on and operating simultaneously on several demanding fronts: running the home and making dresses and mattresses; entertaining house parties and planning meals for nine; drudging continually on Maud’s film stories; and creating the memorable books that kept it all going. Besides the admiration she commands for her enduring achievement, she earns it too for her indomitable spirit.
margeryallingham.org.uk 