Trent Intervenes. E. C. Bentley

It has brought into existence a rich variety of types of detective hero, as this series of talks is showing. My own attempt was among the very earliest; and I realize now, as I hardly did at the time, that the idea at the bottom of it was to get as far away from the Holmes tradition as possible. Trent, as I have said, does not take himself at all seriously. He is not a scientific expert; he is not a professional crime investigator. He is an artist, a painter, by calling, who has strayed accidentally into the business of crime journalism because he found he had an aptitude for it, and without any sense of having a mission. He is not superior to the feelings of average humanity; he does not stand aloof from mankind, but enjoys the society of his fellow creatures and makes friends with everybody. He even goes so far as to fall in love. He does not regard the Scotland Yard men as a set of bungling half-wits, but has the highest respect for their trained abilities. All very unlike Holmes.

      Trent’s attitude towards the police is frankly one of sporting competition with opponents who are quite as likely to beat him as he is to beat them. I will introduce here another scrap of dialogue from Trent’s Last Case that illustrates this. Trent and Chief Inspector Murch have just been hearing the story of Martin, the very correct butler in the service of the man who had been murdered on the previous day. Martin has just bowed himself impressively out of the room, and Trent falls into an arm-chair and draws a long breath.

      TRENT: Martin is a great creature. He is far, far better than a play. There is none like him, none. Straight, too; not an atom of harm in dear old Martin. Do you know, Murch, you are wrong in suspecting that man.

      MURCH: I never said anything about suspecting him. Still, there’s no point in denying it—I have got my eye on him. He’s such a very cool customer. You remember the case of Lord William Russell’s valet, who went in as usual in the morning, as quiet and starchy as you please, to draw up the blinds in his master’s bedroom a few hours after he had murdered him in his bed. But, of course, Martin doesn’t know I’ve got him in mind.

      TRENT: No; he wouldn’t. He is a wonderful creature, a great artist; but in spite of that, he is not at all a sensitive type. It has never occurred to his mind that you could suspect him. But I could see it. You must understand, Inspector, that I have made a special study of the psychology of officers of the law. It’s a grossly neglected branch of knowledge. They are far more interesting than criminals, and not nearly so easy. All the time we were questioning him I saw handcuffs in your eye. Your lips were mutely framing the syllables of those tremendous words: ‘It is my duty to tell you that anything you now say may be taken down and used in evidence at your trial.’

      That is a fair specimen of Trent, and I found that people seemed to like it for a change.

      I found another thing: that the building up of a satisfactory mystery story was a very much more difficult affair than I had ever imagined. I had undertaken the writing of a detective story with a light heart. It came of a suggestion—I might call it a challenge—offered by my old friend, G. K. Chesterton, and I did not suppose it would be a very formidable undertaking. But I did not realize what it was that I had set my hand to. Once the plot was started it began to grow. It got completely out of hand. It ought to have ended at a point a little more than half-way through the book as it stands. But not at all; the story wouldn’t have that. It insisted upon carrying the thing to a conclusion entirely different from the quite satisfactory one, as I thought, reached in Chapter XI; and then it had to go on to still another at the very end, in Chapter XVI.

      So, being then engaged in earning my living by other means, I formed the opinion that writing detective stories was not, so far as I was concerned, an ideal way of occupying one’s spare time. And that is why the novel was called Trent’s Last Case.

      E.C. BENTLEY

      1935

      THE CHARACTERS AND SITUATIONS in this work are wholly fictional and imaginary, and do not portray and are not intended to portray any actual persons or parties.

       I

       THE GENUINE TABARD

      IT was quite by chance, at a dinner party given by the American Naval Attaché, that Philip Trent met the Langleys, who were visiting Europe for the first time. During the cocktail time before dinner was served, he had gravitated towards George D. Langley, because he was the finest looking man in the room—tall, strongly built, carrying his years lightly, pink of face, with vigorous, massive features and thick grey hair.

      They had talked about the Tower of London, the Cheshire Cheese, and the Zoo, all of which the Langleys had visited that day. Langley, so the attaché had told Trent, was a distant relative of his own; he had made a large fortune manufacturing engineers’ drawing-office equipment, was a prominent citizen of Cordova, Ohio, the headquarters of his business, and had married a Schuyler. Trent, though not sure what a Schuyler was, gathered that it was an excellent thing to marry, and this impression was confirmed when he found himself placed next to Mrs Langley at dinner.

      Mrs Langley always went on the assumption that her own affairs were the most interesting subject of conversation; and as she was a vivacious and humorous talker and a very handsome and good-hearted woman, she usually turned out to be right. She informed Trent that she was crazy about old churches, of which she had seen and photographed she did not know how many in France, Germany, and England. Trent, who loved thirteenth-century stained glass, mentioned Chartres, which Mrs Langley said, truly enough, was too perfect for words. He asked if she had been to Fairford in Gloucestershire. She had; and that was, she declared with emphasis, the greatest day of all their time in Europe; not because of the church, though that was certainly lovely, but because of the treasure they had found that afternoon.

      Trent asked to be told about this; and Mrs Langley said that it was quite a story. Mr Gifford had driven them down to Fairford in his car. Did Trent know Mr Gifford—W. N. Gifford, who lived at the Suffolk Hotel? He was visiting Paris just now. Trent ought to meet him, because Mr Gifford knew everything there was to know about stained glass, and church ornaments, and brasses, and antiques in general. They had met him when he was sketching some traceries in Westminster Abbey, and they had become great friends. He had driven them about to quite a few places within reach of London. He knew all about Fairford, of course, and they had a lovely time there.

      On the way back to London, after passing through Abingdon, Mr Gifford had said it was time for a cup of coffee, as he always did around five o’clock; he made his own coffee, which was excellent, and carried it in a thermos. They slowed down, looking for a good place to stop, and Mrs Langley’s eye was caught by a strange name on a signpost at a turning off the road—something Episcopi. She knew that meant Bishops, which was interesting; so she asked Mr Gifford to halt the car while she made out the weatherbeaten lettering. The sign said SILCOTE EPISCOPI ½ MILE.

      Had Trent heard of the place? Neither had Mr Gifford. But that lovely name, Mrs Langley said, was enough for her. There must be a church, and an old one; and anyway she would love to have Silcote Episcopi in her collection. As it was so near, she asked Mr Gifford if they could go there so she could take a few snaps while the light was good, and perhaps have coffee there.

      They found the church, with the parsonage near by, and a village in sight some way beyond. The church stood back from the churchyard, and as they were going along the footpath they noticed a grave with tall railings round it; not a standing-up stone but a flat one, raised on a little foundation. They noticed it because, though it was an old stone, it had not been just left to fall into decay, but had been kept clean of moss and dirt, so you could make out the inscription, and the grass around it was trim and tidy. They read Sir Rowland Verey’s epitaph; and Mrs Langley—so she assured Trent—screamed with joy.

      There was a man trimming the churchyard boundary-hedge with shears, who looked at them, she thought, suspiciously when she screamed. She thought he was probably the sexton, so she assumed a winning manner and asked him if there was any objection to her taking a photograph of the inscription on the stone. The man said that he didn’t know as there