Enid Schantz

I'd intended to cover a forgotten book by Anthony Berkeley today, but I've heard the sad news of the death of Enid Schantz, and so I've decided instead to pay a small tribute to her.

Enid and her husband Tom were American book-dealers, whom I met several times over the years. Charming and considerate people, with a great passion for mysteries. They ran a store called Rue Morgue, although in recent years they focused on online selling.

They also set up an imprint, Rue Morgue Press, which I've mentioned before on this blog, and which specialised in forgotten books - by such unlikely names as Maureen Sarsfield, as well as the better known Pamela Branch. I bought one of their Branch titles recently, when I was last in Oxford.

They also revived the complete works of Dorothy Bowers, a splendid writer, and their research on Bowers' short life was fascinating. When I last met them, they recommended me to try Clyde Clason, a very interesting writer I'd never heard of before. And their research on H.C. Bailey led to my pilgrimage to his home in North Wales a few months back. I tried to persuade them to republish Henry Wade, but alas to no avail; they weren't Wade fans. But if you check the Rue Morgue catalogue, you'll find plenty of little known gems.

Enid was a lovely lady, and I shall miss her, but I'll remember her not just with affection, but with admiration. I only wish I had been able to spend more time in her company.

Forgotten Book - Murder at Shots Hall

The reissuing of good detective stories that have long been out of print is always a cause for rejoicing, and Tom and Enid Schantz’s Rue Morgue Press deserves special praise for reviving a number of very obscure titles, including the two detective novels written by Maureen Sarsfield.

I must confess that I had never heard of her, but Sarsfield was a British writer active for just a few years shortly after the Second World War; she also published a mainstream novel and (as Maureen Pretyman) children’s books. Even the Schantzes’ diligent researches have failed to turn up much information about her – or an explanation as to why, after a brief burst of energy, she disappeared from the scene as suddenly, and with as little fanfare, as she had arrived. As the Schantzes say: ‘Whether she died young, commenced her short career at an advanced age or simply grew tired of the writing life is unknown.’

On the evidence of this, her first book, previously and rather more evocatively titled Green December Fills the Graveyard, she was brimming with youthful exuberance. The narrative, set in a bombed Sussed manor house and the local village, and featuring Inspector Lane Parry of Scotland Yard, fizzes from start to finish. In rather less than 200 pages there are three murders and a near-fatal poisoning together with neat touches aplenty. The victims all have connections with Shots Hall and its owner, the sculptress Flikka Ashley. Flikka is much admired by Parry as well as a number of men in the village, but she is an enigmatic character – at times, I thought, maddeningly so. Sarsfield gives the impression of being more captivated by Flikka than by her plot or by some of the subordinate characters who, although colourful, are too lightly sketched to be credible suspects.

I found the explanation for the crimes less than wholly convincing and, taken as a whole, this novel bears the hallmarks of a talented but inexperienced writer. With firm editorial guidance she might have developed into a significant contributor to the genre, but it was not to be. I would not go as far as the publishers in claiming that she stands ‘in the front rank of the second raters’, but they are to be congratulated on rescuing Sarsfield’s books (the second Lane Parry novel is Murder at Beechlands), which are well worth a fresh airing. Meanwhile, the mystery of what happened to the author is a puzzle to intrigue any whodunit fan.