Ianthe Jerrold (1898-1977) has been on my to-read list for awhile. She was an English author from a literary family. She began writing early and published in a number of genres, including two detective stories. The first was The Studio Crime with John Christmas, a well-to-do young man-about-town in the role of investigator. This book was so well regarded by her contemporaries that she was invited to join The Detection Club on the strength of it. First issued by Chapman and Hall in 1929, it was reprinted in 1932 and then lapsed into obscurity until Dean Street Press rescued it in 2015, to be lauded anew. A number of reviewers found it pleasing. See, for instance, The Passing Tramp, In Search of the Classic Mystery, and Cross-Examining Crime.
The story opens on a foggy November night with a small cocktail party in the apartment of Lawrence Newtree, a political cartoonist, in St. John’s Wood. Present are John Christmas, a wealthy manufacturer turned philanthropist, a psychologist who has a thriving practice among the upper class, a physician, and a well-known novelist and her aunt. The conversation has turned to committing murder, as someone comments that the fog makes an excellent cover for crime.
They have one on their hands shortly, as they discover the body of Gordon Frew, who lived upstairs, when the group called on him to view his collection of Asian rugs and art. The door was locked and no one else was present, although the doorman mentioned two earlier visitors. Police suspicion falls on one of the members of the party and Christmas involves himself to exculpate his friend.
Christmas compares himself to Sherlock Holmes often and refers to Newtree as his Watson. Newtree is far less admiring of Christmas than Watson was of Holmes, however, and their banter is amusing. The equivalent of Inspector Lestrade is named Inspector Hembrow of Scotland Yard. Christmas is less acerbic to Hembrow than Holmes was to Lestrade, their relationship is similar to that of Lord Peter Wimsey and Inspector Parker.
Initially I wasn’t especially taken with the story, as the characters are largely stereotypes (a foreigner with a fez!) although they became interesting as it unfolded. The psychologist was especially obnoxious. I was a little afraid Christmas was going to be a Philo Vance twin but he is more likeable. The plot line is complicated with plenty of misdirection and several suspects. I am still not sure that I picked up all of the details of the resolution. The pace seemed to slow about two-thirds through, in spite of the frenetic activity of Christmas, and I think several pages could have been edited out to good effect. Overall, I was glad I finally read one of Jerrold’s books. Students of Golden Age crime fiction should consider it mandatory reading.