“The Devil in Velvet” by John Dickson Carr

Over the past weekend I listened to a lot of Stravinsky. It started when I got a hankering to listen to The Rite of Spring (as one usually does.) One thing led to another, and I found myself exploring in depth for the first time the decades of work Stravinsky wrote during his “neoclassical” period, where he abandoned the pure but ordered wildness of his original “Russian Period” ballet scores and instead formed his unique rhythms and chord structures within the confines of Baroque and Classical era musical forms. I had always thought that this period of his music was much stuffier and less innovative than his initial “Russian” period; that all these pieces were simple rehashes of composers past, for instance the way Pulcinella is essentially re-orchestrated Pergolesi. But I was surprised to find that many of Stravinsky’s pieces from the 1920s to 1940s that followed this style were often just as provocative and envelope-pushing as those three famous ballets were. The initial E minor chord of Symphony of Psalms did for chord voicing what Stravinsky had already done for bitonality with the famous “Petrushka chord“; the Symphony in C has the audacity to start on a series of B’s, a.k.a. the leading tone; and the Ebony Concerto is written for jazz band. I mean, jazzy Stravinsky! You can’t get better than that. After these discoveries, I decided that while I will always love The Firebird, Petrushka, and Rite the most, Stravinsky’s neoclassical period was just as interesting and enjoyable.

Now I know I’ve done these extended classical music metaphors before, but at this point I’m sure you’re wondering what exactly the similarity is between Igor Stravinsky and John Dickson Carr. Well, in a way, it’s helped me to see Carr’s late phase of writing historical mysteries the same way I’ve come to view Stravinsky’s neoclassical period. Just like with Stravinsky, Carr’s “historical period” switches focus to the past, but still contains several of the hallmarks that his earlier work does, ultimately producing something quite different from those earlier works but still just as fun. And even though The Devil in Velvet is my first foray into Carr’s historical mysteries, I can already tell that it could very well be the instance where he best mastered the subgenre.

Within its first pages The Devil in Velvet manages to stretch its credibility as a fair-play mystery novel, and show its openness to becoming something more than that. Professor Nicholas Fenton teaches history at Cambridge, and has long been fascinated – if not entirely obsessed – with the life of Sir Nicholas Fenton (no relation,) an MP in the late 1600s, and with the murder of Sir Nicholas’ wife Lydia, which was apparently solved – although the name of the murderer, once written in a firsthand account, has been lost to time. The professor even lives in Sir Nicholas’ old house with his ward, Mary Grenville. One night Professor Fenton comes to make a deal with the devil (it is never explained how he summons the devil) to sell his soul in order to go back in time and inhabit Sir Nicholas’ body, while still retaining his own identity and memory, one month before Lydia’s death in order to solve the mystery.

Fenton does indeed go back in time and finds himself in a younger and more agile body, albeit one bereft of modern hygiene. His first problem to deal with is Sir Nicholas’ lechery – specifically, how to get rid of the mistress, Meg Grey, who Sir Nicholas has apparently let live in the room right across from Lydia’s. After expelling Meg, whom he at first believes could actually be Mary gone back in time as well, Professor Fenton quickly falls in love with Lydia and decides to break one of the devil’s rules – “you can’t change history” – by finding out who is slowly poisoning Lydia with arsenic before the dread death-date of June 10th. Simultaneously with this he must deal with the near-constant barrage of murderous goons sent his way by Sir Nick’s political rival, Lord Shaftesbury (a real historical figure.)

While the plot about Lydia’s murder and Fenton’s attempts to halt it are the main selling-point of the novel, written not too long after some of the locked-room master’s greatest hits, it quickly becomes clear that the whodunit and howdunit are secondary concerns here. Carr had previously shown a deep interest in the England of Charles II when he wrote his nonfiction book The Murder of Sir Edmund Godfrey, which examined various possible solutions to a real unsolved (and ostensibly politically motivated) murder from the time period. Even before the characters of the 17th-century plot are introduced, there is an extended scene of Fenton waking up to a past version of his house:

He stretched out his hand, and touched human hair. This time he felt no impulse to cry out, no flinch to a crawling skin. He knew what he had touched, of course. It was the great peruke, or periwig, whose heavy curls fell down over the shoulders; it stood on its high wig block, ready for the morning.

The Devil in Velvet, Chapter 1: “The Mist Door Opens”

Of course, Carr is sure to add some of his signature atmosphere even to the discovery of historical objects. That much cannot be said for when he sidelines into historical context, for example this absolutely riveting account of Lord Shaftesbury’s life that comes right after one of the novel’s first (actually riveting) sword-fight scenes:

“And do I need tell you,” inquired Fenton, “how his fortunes grew high? Until then he was but Anthony Ashley Cooper, ‘the little man with three names.’ How his zeal for the new King pushed him up in titles and favours to being Earl of Shaftesbury? But he scented the wind again. This rising clamour of ‘No Popery,’ this determination to be rid of the Duke of York because the duke is a Catholic—or so my lord thought—would loose a tempest to blow away the King. He deserted again.”

The Devil in Velvet, Chapter 8: “The Lord of the Green Ribbon”

As much as the historical action, along with the dual conflicts of the mystery and the deal with the devil, kept me reading, the long lectures that Carr inserts like these were quite a slog to get through. Not that I mind history lessons, but the change of pace gets tiring.

Besides this the historical atmosphere is developed quite nicely. Of course Carr does this mainly through the imagery and explanation of different aspects of 17th-century London life, from the different locations in comparison to their modern counterparts, to manner of speech and etiquette. However, the transition from modernity into the Stuart era is even better represented through Fenton himself. Although he has always been enamored with this period of time, it is clear in the beginning that he is uncomfortable with fitting into the societal norms. He has to manually maintain the accent of the time, startles his servants by not terrorizing them, and begins a personal crusade for hygiene which confuses others. However, after only a couple weeks in adjustment from his “old-new” life into his “new-old” life, Fenton feels much more at home in 1675 and nearly shows vitriol for the possibility of missing the modern technology he has said goodbye to:

“How strange,” [Fenton] reflected, “have been the minds of authors I have read, setting a character back hundreds of years in time! I think their learning is not wide enough. For they never allow the poor devil to have a good time. He must fret an fume because progress—accursed progress, and thrice-damned machinery—have not come to wreck men’s lives.

“He is infuriated by the lack of telephones and motorcars. I felt no need of them when I studied, in rural Somerset, for some dreary degree or other. Our author, through his hero, is appalled at the sanitation, the harsh laws, the power of King or Parliament. Yet, in my heart, I confess these matters trouble me not at all.”

The Devil in Velvet, Chapter 10: “Of Arsenic in a Sack-Posset—”

And Fenton’s increasing comfort with the past reflects that which Carr had himself experienced while writing the novel and which he hopes his audience will experience reading it.

The supernatural is still a focus in this work, as it has been in many of Carr’s others, but it is very clear from the get-go that the inclusion of the supernatural, and its actuality, is no more than a plot device to get Professor Fenton into the past to explore history and solve a murder. Of course, the inclusion of the supernatural comes in the guise of Satan himself, who appears in the first chapter to make the deal with Fenton, and then reappears a bit over two-thirds of the way through. One thing that is notable about this feature of the novel is it means that for the first time in Carr’s career, not only does the supernatural exist but it is integral to helping the mystery plot itself. This is a stark contrast to his other books, such as Hag’s Nook where the “supernatural” ends up being no more than atmospheric construction to supplement the mystery plot, or The Burning Court, which (no spoilers of course) is… different. At this point in his career, Carr was clearly up for writing new things such as historical mysteries, so perhaps it’s not that much of a jump to include supernatural forces in the progress of the plot in such a way that the mystery itself could not be solved without it. The other aspect of the devil’s part in the story that I found interesting was how he is represented. Normally in Faustian tales like this, where the protagonist/antihero makes a deal with the devil and either lives to regret it or finds some way out, Lucifer is painted as a being of pure evil: cunning, demanding, big, burly, and very scary. Such is not the case here. In both the scenes where Fenton and the devil meet, Carr specifically describes the latter’s demeanor and personality in such a way that makes him seem less like the commonly portrayed devil, but more as someone (or something) fallible and emotional, a person one could run into and chat with like old friends:

Over Fenton’s mind again stole the sense he had known on the first night he had met the devil: a dreamlike quality, wherein voices were soundless and emotions felt only as impalpable waves; yet, at the same time, all seemed as natural and commonplace as two men talking in the smoking room of a club.

The Devil in Velvet, Chapter 18: “The Father of Evil”

Not only is the devil shown as someone you could strike up a conversation with, he is portrayed as having suavity, charisma, and some (minor) anger issues. Ultimately, despite his limited time on page, only two chapters’ worth, the devil leaves a mark within the story’s atmosphere because his apparent normality manages to make him even scarier than if he were represented the way devils usually are.

The Sir Nicholas of the past made himself quite a few political and personal enemies, such as Lord Shaftesbury, before the Professor takes control of his body, and even after that the Professor himself manages to make a few more, like Meg Grey’s new lover Captain Duroc. These enemies continuously wish to either get revenge on Sir Nicholas themselves or via proxy, and therefore the novel’s adventures are proliferated with multiple one-on-one sword-fights and even a military-esque battle or two. The majority of these fight scenes happen between Sir Nicholas and some enemy of his, such as Duroc or one of Shaftesbury’s many “Green Ribbon” blackshirts. Note that I say “Sir Nicholas” and not “Professor Fenton”: one of the devil’s conditions to the professor is that, since Sir Nicholas was prone to 10-minute fits of rage when he got especially angry, he may take back over from the professor for such an amount of time is the professor himself gets angry enough. As it happens, Sir Nicholas takes over for many of these fight scenes, and the professor has trouble remembering them when all is said and done. Carr describes the fights with stunning accuracy, detailing all the maneuvers and tricks the parties use to outwit and attempt to kill one another. I won’t go into detail with said maneuvers because quite honestly I couldn’t fully picture most of them in my head, but the descriptions did help me to picture the fights as a whole to a decent level of comprehension. Obviously all of the fights are going to end the same way, i.e. Sir Nicholas prevails and defeats/kills his foe, but Carr builds up enough tension during these sequences that one still never feels quite sure of the outcome until the fight is over.

The Devil in Velvet is populated with many characters who are not only interesting from a 17th-century standpoint but are generally well developed. Of course the dual nature of Professor Fenton/Sir Nicholas is the most memorable of the set, as Carr switches between the humble meekness of the professor and the lecherous anger of the politician, and then blurs the line between them. Another dichotomy becomes clear in Sir Nicholas’ competing love interests, Lydia and Meg. Lydia is much more soft-spoken and mysterious, and almost reminds me of Madeleine from Vertigo in her doomed mystique. Meg on the other hand is much more extroverted and isn’t afraid to make a scene. Certain revelations about Meg’s identity make her a more complex character, however. As previously mentioned, the devil makes his mark with an unusual personality. Sir Nicholas’ friends, acquaintances, lovers, and rivals make up just about the rest of the cast, and much of their characterization is seen in how they interact with Sir Nicholas and what they do for or against him. The servants are particularly memorable in this regard: while the valet Giles Collins (who wrote the incomplete account of the murder) is always faithful to his master, it is clear that some of the other help, like the handyman Big Tom, slowly come around to the “new” Sir Nicholas who treats them like actual human beings, and eventually are willing to put their own lives on the line for him. At the same time, some of the other servants, such as Kitty Softcover the cook, or Lydia’s maid Judith Pamphlin, still have their own personal grudges against Sir Nicholas, which shows in how they treat the household. Sir Nicholas’ two best friends and confidantes, Lord George Harwell and Mr. Reeve, are fun personages and can hold their own in a battle. Carr even puts in a helping of historical accuracy into such real-life figures as Lord Shaftesbury and Charles II, accuracy which Carr himself gives evidence for in the postscript “Notes for the Curious.” While the King is portrayed sympathetically, more as an astute leader than an out-of-touch partygoer, Shaftesbury is shown as the backstabber he was in real life.

Let us discuss the mystery itself, which as I have previously stated does not take precedence over the historical adventure itself. By the day Professor Fenton travels back to, May 10th, Lydia’s poisoning has already begun. The question of whodunit is clearly paramount, but Fenton must figure out how the poison is being administered as well, when everything Lydia has ingested is seemingly accounted for. Fenton interrogates the suspects and eventually singles one out as the poisoner. (The method of poisoning is very similar to something from an earlier novel of his.) This person he quickly boots from the house. However, there still seems to be a lingering doubt over whether the mystery has truly been solved or if history will still indeed occur, as the devil postulates during his second appearance. While Fenton makes sure to be on vigil when June 10th comes around, fate intervenes in the end and he is ultimately unable to save Lydia from her doom. No further detection is done (although the servants do hold a makeshift trial) and while one person is originally deemed “guilty”, Meg eventually reveals the truth to Sir Nicholas. While the solution itself isn’t really fair-play due to the dearth of actual clues, the identity of the murderer is quite clever and ties the different genres of the novel together – mystery, history, and supernatural. To say any more would spoil the revelation. One could argue that Carr plays with the idea of who is actually guilty in a similar fashion to The Man Who Could Not Shudder, because while there is a single murderer-reveal that comprises the big twist, Carr (ROT13) va rffrapr npphfrf guerr qvssrerag crbcyr bs pbzcyvpvgl va Ylqvn’f zheqre: Xvggl Fbsgpbire sbe fhccylvat gur cbvfba, gur friragrragu-praghel Fve Avpubynf Sragba sbe nqzvavfgrevat gur sngny qbfr, naq Whqvgu Cnzcuyva sbe fgnlvat zhz naq yrggvat Ylqvn qvr. Crefbanyyl V frr bayl Fve Avpubynf nf thvygl, ohg vs lbh unir nal bgure bcvavbaf ba guvf yrg zr xabj.

The rest of the plotting is rather solid across the board, with a couple notable pitfalls. Carr successfully recounts Fenton’s travels, from going back in time to becoming acquainted with the 17th century, fighting political foes, deciding between two loves, and figuring out how to get out of the several messes left for him by the past Sir Nicholas and his own mistakes. The action takes us to many places: Spring Gardens, Whitehall Palace, and even a climactic escape at the Tower of London. There are certain twists outside of the mystery that resonate as much as the mystery itself, for instance the heritage and fate of Mr. Reeve, or Meg’s secret. While this could amount to one of Carr’s best cases of plotting, there are a couple things that sour the overall mirage. The big one is the “resolution” of Professor Fenton’s attempts to get out of his deal with the devil. I’ve never heard before of the loophole he uses to break the deal off (n qrny znqr jvgu gur qrivy ba Puevfgznf vf ahyy naq ibvq, naq gur uhzna vaibyirq pna xrrc obgu gurve cbjref naq fbhy, nf ybat nf lbh… tvir Fngna n cerfrag rirel lrne?) and it’s one of the stupidest things I’ve ever read. The last ten pages as well resolve the conflict as a whole too quickly and easily, with Fenton and Meg’s relationship (and Fenton’s characteristics) changing at the drop of a hat, and the last enemies fended off with barely any problem.

Despite these chinks in the plot’s armor, and the ultimate unimportance of the mystery, The Devil in Velvet still stands as a grand accomplishment in historical fiction, hybrid mysteries, and Carr’s atmospheric writing style. While there may be times where the novel’s length – I think it’s his single longest novel – are really felt, more often than not the words fly right by with the swashbuckling action, political intrigue, and poisoning plot. I wouldn’t recommend this to anyone as one of their first Carrs, but it’s worth reading once you’ve gotten used to Carr’s skills in “contemporary” mystery writing to see his powers at work in a different way. I feel like this is hovering around the number 10 spot in my personal Carr ranking, but despite that I still know that it is definitely one of his best works from a literary standpoint. I’ve had a bit of a Carr overload lately – my longer, analytical Carr post should come in early July I hope – but when I return to him I’ll be much more willing to check out his other historical mysteries, especially the ones published in the 1950’s such as Captain Cut-Throat and Fire, Burn! Like with Stravinsky, Carr’s fascination with modern idioms within past conventions led to some unusual works that may not completely live up to his agreed masterpieces, but are still worth exploring and appreciating as great pieces of art. (Now the question is, what if Carr had a third, really experimental period like Stavinsky’s dalliance with serialism?)

Other Reviews:

Dust & Corruption

The Grandest Game in the World

The Green Capsule

The Invisible Event

Mystery*File (reprinted from 1001 Midnights by Pronzini & Muller)

Past Offences

Thomas Burchfield: A Curious Man

Vintage Pop Fictions