Before going further, I believe, for reasons of accuracy, to explain why this story has two titles (it would also have a third: Ministry of Miracles). The story itself, known by its most common meaning (which was later used by Douglas D. Greene to title one of his essays of fundamental importance on Carr) was published under the pseudonym Carter Dickson in E.Q.M.M. of March 1956. Subsequently, when in 1963 (curiously the year of my birth) Carr decided to publish an anthology of stories referring to Gideon Fell, H. Merrivale and Colonel March, he changed the title of the story to All in A Maze, for a simple and at the same time captivating reason: he used the original title of the story as the title of the collection, varying it however, because if in the original meaning The Man Who Explained Miracles is obviously Merrivale, in the anthology there is no only him, but there are also the other two subjects; and then the title was changed to The Men Who Explained Miracles.
Warning: Spoilers !!!
It all begins when Tom Lockwood sees a terrified girl going down the stairs in St. Paul's, running the risk of breaking her neck. The innate instinct of a knight takes over and so he introduces himself to the girl, who is otherwise quite pretty. Her name is Jenny Linden, and she is also English. But from what she says, she seems to have a French background. And she is terrified: someone had tried to kill her the previous night, and moments before, in the sound tunnel of St. Paul, she heard someone utter a death threat addressed to her, in her ear, even though there was no one who could do it, except the sacristan and a farmer who was eating a sandwich, but too far away for them to have been able to whisper anything in her ear.
Tom, who qualifies as a journalist, offers her tea in a nearby room and so she tells him her story: she is English, the daughter of rich English parents who had moved to France years earlier, where her mother died during the war and his father shortly after. She was entrusted to an old friend of her father, General De Senneville, who acted as her guardian and administered her considerable assets. Now, the girl, who is twenty-five years old, must marry the general's son, Armand de Senneville, an entrepreneur, even if she does not love him, for a sort of arranged marriage, with which Armand will acquire the girl's rich dowry. She has come to England to visit her monuments and visit her relatives and is hosted in their house: the old and sour Aunt Hester, her cousin Margot, and Uncle Fred. Armand didn't want the girl to go to England because he is afraid of losing her, that is, he is afraid that she will seriously fall in love with someone else, but he had to put on a brave face and agree that she should go where expected. But something went wrong. First she found a note on the napkin announcing her imminent death, and then, the following night, someone actually tried to kill her, entering her room, despite the door being blocked by a heavy bolt and the windows being closed by the inside, and opening the stove's gas tap, to make it suffocate to death. Only by a miracle was she saved the next morning.
Aunt Hester, who is watching over the girl, having seen her in the company of someone she knows, rushes into the tea room and there apostrophizes the young man, making a scene. Meanwhile, Jenny has run away through a back door, and when Tom catches up with her, he meets a guy who calls himself an Oeil journalist, who tells him that he sent the girl to Sir Henry Merrivale, and then tells him the story of the attempted assassination. of Jenny, because he, yes he, Steve Lamoreux, a French-Canadian, saved the girl by turning off the gas tap: he is indeed a journalist, but he is also a sleuth, a kind of private investigator who works for Armand de Senneville, who hired him to prevent the girl from meeting English guys. In that capacity he resides at the home of the young woman's old uncles. However, he is unable to fully impersonate the part of the bastard, and for this reason he is trying to prevent the girl from suffering. He offers to help Tom. Since the girl might recognize Steve, only Tom goes to Sir Henry Merrivale who after the war was accused of having made undue expenses, and of having too many current accounts spread across half of Europe, and so was put in the position of having to agree to take care of of the Central Office Eight of the Metropolitan Police, established only by him, the so-called Ministry of Miracles. All the most bizarre cases that only he can solve end up there. And it is no coincidence that Jenny Linden's is. From Merrivale he finds the girl who, when questioned, tells her story of her night of horror and the accident in the acoustic tunnel of St. Paul.
Merrivale listens to yet another reconstruction of the facts and then lights up. Then he makes a phone call, asking to speak to a certain Sam who he saved from trouble once he was found with sixteen girls all naked and asks him if there are twenty around...
The boys believe they are ventilators. But what about fans? NO. Merrivale asked his acquaintance if there were any ventriloquists in the London square, and he among others gave him the name of a certain Charley Johnson, and gave him the address. Just enough time to get to him, to ring the bell, and then the girl finds herself in front of the farmer she had seen in the acoustic tunnel, throwing open the door, holding a sandwich and a glass of whiskey, wearing a bright dressing gown, and down the steps, lying there in the street, with a knife stuck in his back. All over again?
Merrivale, despite having offered to host the girl, turns around and sends her back to her aunt and uncle's house, where she says she will be safe: her aim is instead to keep an eye on Tom, who in reality is not a penniless journalist, but a scion with an annual income of twelve thousand pounds, son of the London Police Commissioner, as he fears that the mysterious murderer may make an attempt on his life: but... why?
The fact is that he, Tom, and Steve decide to keep an eye on the girl by entering her uncle's estate, in time to see Jenny, escorted by her relatives, walking along the avenues. They should have remained silent but as usual the Great Old Man with his histrionic manner makes those under surveillance become aware of their presence. Jenny declares her reciprocated love for Tom, and in the meantime Armand de Senneville himself, in Merrivale's opinion, is lurking somewhere ready to strike: he is not in Paris at all, but there in London, and he absolutely does not want the rich dowry escapes him. But why on earth would he then try to kill the girl?
Jenny wants to enter the labyrinth of her uncles' park against their uncles' advice. Tom follows her, and in the tangle of branches and bushes, someone tries to stab him, until after a furious melee Tom gets the upper hand. In time for him to rush to Merrivale and unmask the murderer.
The End of the Spoilers
The Man Who Explained Miracles, also known by its other title All in A Maze, is the only story Carr wrote about the figure of Merrivale, other than The House in Goblin Wood.
The story presents a series of interesting characteristics: first of all the Locked Room, resolved very brilliantly (I had some inkling of it anyway). The gas gimmick is brilliant. Even more so that of the whispering spirit in the acoustic tunnel: Carr once again resorts to ventriloquism, which he had resorted to several times previously. Mentions of ventriloquism can be found in various novels, from Four False Weapons to Death-Watch, from The Red Widow Murders to The Mad Hatter Mystery, to The Ends of Justice. The tunnel trick reminded me of another time Carr talks about an event that happens in a tunnel, which is when in Fire, Burn! he writes about a tunnel in which a man dies from a bullet that was not fired by any person (at least it would seem so).
But there are also other references: it's as if Carr has inserted the best of his work as a writer in terms of tricks here. For example, there is a split person, that is, a person who has two identities, one real and one fictitious. This is also a reminder of the young Carr who had written It Walks By Night: in fact there Laurent and Saligny are two identities of the same person. The attack in the labyrinth at night reminded me a lot of the atmosphere of J.J. Connington (who Carr knew well and who he had included in his novels, first of all It Walks By Night), and also a novel by him in which a crime is perpetrated in a labyrinth: Murder in the Maze, 1927.
Furthermore, when Carr talks about the Office headed by Merrivale, the Central Office Eight of the Metropolitan Police, i.e. the so-called Ministry of Miracles, he could also have mentioned another character of his, that Colonel March who is put in charge, in stories about him, of a so-called “Department of Queer Complaints”. On the other hand, in the same collection that contains All in A Maze, there are also two stories with Colonel March: William Wilson's Racket and The Empty Flat.
The story, however, is not notable only for the quotes and the solution (even if of Merrivale's two stories, I always liked the other, an absolute masterpiece, The House in Goblin Wood, for the series of pitfalls and for the solution Grand Guignol, which in that case once again recalls It Walks By Night), but also for a characteristic which is not dwelt upon enough, that is, the humor in Carr: very often Carr in order not to excessively weigh down the atmosphere, which already in itself it is very heavy, full of horrifying details (ghosts, disappearances, rotting or walled-up corpses), dramas and crimes, it often inserts jokes that poison the various scenes. This insertion of jokes, often hilarious, is not so present in the novels and stories with Fell (where everything gives way to salacious comments and pompous self-celebrations, or to the usual exclamations (Archons of Athens, etc..), but in those with Merrivale where the figure of the detective, sketched on that of Churchill, is instead the bad copy, an awkward, ridiculous copy, completely missing instead in those with March and Bencolin where the atmospheres are the darkest that Carr has absolutely invented.
There are numerous jokes and sketches: I report some (almost all) :
“Ah, yes!” said Tom. “It was in New York, wasn’t it, that you wrecked the subway at Grand Central Station and nabbed the right murderer on the wrong evidence?” “Oh, son! I dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” said H.M., giving him an austere look. “And in Tangier, I think, you blew up a ship and let the real criminal escape just because you happened to like him?” “Y’see how they treat me?” H.M. demanded, his powerful voice rising as he addressed Jenny. “They’ve got no respect for me, not a bit.” (page 128)
“It seems I spent more money than I should have, or burn me, than I can account for. It also seems—would you believe it?—I shouldn’t have had banking accounts in New York, Paris, Tangier, and Milan.” “You didn’t know, of course, you weren’t allowed to have those banking accounts?” “Me?” (page 128-129)
They hoicked me up on the carpet before an old friend of mine. I won’t say who this louse is, except to tell you he’s the Attorney-General.” “No,” said Tom. “By all means don’t breathe a word.” “‘Henry,’ he says to me, ‘I’ve got you over a barrel.’” “Did the Attorney-General actually use those words?” “Well…now!” said the great man, making a broad gesture and giving Tom a withering look. “I’m tellin’ you the gist of it, that’s all. ‘Henry,’ he says, ‘on the evidence I have here, I could have you fined a hundred thousand pounds or stuck in jail for practically a century.’” Here H.M. broke off and appealed to Jenny. “Was this just?” he demanded. “Of course it wasn’t!” cried Jenny. “‘However,’ he says, ‘you pay up in full, with a fine, and we’ll forget it. Provided,’ he says—” “Provided what?” “I’m to go back to my own office here, d’ye see? It used to be part of the War Office, before they messed everything about in the war. And I’m to be in charge of Central Office Eight of the Metropolitan Police.” “Please,” said Jenny in her soft voice, “but what is Central Office Eight?” “It’s me,” (page 129)
Can you explain miracles?” “No. But I know a man who can. Did you ever hear of Sir Henry
Merrivale?” “Sir Henry Merrivale?” “Yes!” “But he is awful!” cried Jenny. “He is fat and bald, and he swear and carry on and throw people out of windows.” “He is not, perhaps,” Tom admitted, “quite the ladies’ man he thinks he is. But he can explain miracles, Jenny (page 115)“And I was so, so wrong about your H.M.!” “Oh?” enquired Tom. “Yes, yes! He does not swear or carry on or throw people out of windows. He is what you call a poppet.” “Hem!” said the great man modestly. “Frankly,” said Tom, eyeing the stuffed owl across the desk, “I shouldn’t call it a well-chosen word to apply to him. You’ll find out. However! When I’d chucked out Aunt Hester, with the aid of two counter-girls and a friendly cop, I thought I’d never get here. I was afraid some infernal thing or other had happened to you, and I might never see you again.” “You may see me,” said Jenny, and stretched out her hands, “whenever you wish.” “Oi!” interposed a thunderous voice. The alleged poppet was now glaring at them with a malignancy which raised Jenny’s hair. (page 130-131)
“Well,” glowered H.M., scratching the back of his neck, “I’ve got a house, and a wife, and two daughters, and two good-for-nothing sons- in-law I’ve had to support for eighteen years. So I expect you’d better move in too.” “You mean this?” cried Jenny, and sprang to her feet. “You would really want me?” she asked incredulously. “Bah,” said H.M. “Sir H.M.! How to thank you I do not know…!” “Shut up,” said the great man austerely. (page 131-132). In essence H.M. he attributes the crazy expenses mentioned previously to the family situation, to the fact of having to provide for many people dependent on him.
“Then there’s your clothes,” he mused. “That’s a very fetchin’ outfit you’ve got on now, and I expect you brought a whole trunkful?” “Yes, my clothes! I forget!” “Don’t worry,” said H.M. with a suggestion of ghoulish mirth. “I’ll send a police-officer to fetch ‘em. (page 132)
“Looky here, my wench. I want to speak to Sam….Oh, yes, I can! This is the old man. You just tell him I squared it when he was givin’ a beautiful party for sixteen beautiful gals without any clothes on, and the silly-ass coppers broke in. Yes, the old man!…” (page 138)
“That you, Sam? How are you…? Never better, Sam! There’s a question I want to ask you….Thank’ee, Sam. How many vents are working now?…” Tom Lockwood looked up wildly at the air-ventilator humming and whacking above his head. He looked at an equally bewildered Jenny. “Only three? You’re sure of that? Right, Sam. Gimme their names and descriptions. Yes, I said descriptions! Uh-huh….No, the first one’s no good. Try the second….Lord love a duck, that sounds like the one we want! But try the third, just for luck….No, he’s no good either. It’s Charley Johnson. Gimme the address. It’s nearly six o’clock—he’s bound to be at home now….Thanks a million, Sam. And try to keep to one woman next time, hey? All right, all right!” (page 139)
“Sir!” protested Tom. ‘What in the name of sense is all this business of air-vents, and how can it help us?” “You wanted a miracle explained, didn’t you?” demanded the great man. “All right. Are you comin’ with me, or not?” (page 139)… “For the last time,” said the desperate Tom, “will you tell what an air-vent—” H.M. pulled down the brim of his hat even harder. “Who said anything about an air-vent?” he howled. “I didn’t. I said ‘vent.’ That’s the theatrical and professional term for a ventriloquist. Didn’t you ever hear a ventriloquist?” (page 140)
Burn me,” and H.M.‘s voice rose up passionately, “people are always sayin’, ‘What an old cloth-head he is; stick him upside down in the dustbin.’ Then they see what I mean. And they yell. Why, Henry; pull him out and dust him off; we should never have guessed it.’ And of course they wouldn’t have guessed it, the star-gazin’ goops! Only—” (page 143)
The role of guide caught Sir Henry Merrivale’s fancy at once. “Hem!” he said, tapping himself on the chest. “Me.” Lamoreux looked doubtful. “Okay, Pop, you’re the boss. But are you sure you know enough about the history of this joint?” “Me?” said the outraged H.M. “The palace of Hampton Court,” he bellowed, “begun by Cardinal Wolsey in the year 1515, was in 1526 pinched from this worthy prelate by that howlin’ old ram King Henry the Eighth, whose wives I shall now proceed to—” “Pop! Quiet!” “Am I a guide,” H.M. asked loftily, “or ain’t I?” (page 146)
Sir Henry Merrivale, in his most maddening mood, sat on an upended wheelbarrow, in one of the few remaining Tudor quadrangles: of dark red brick, with its white stone lions uprearing from the walls beside sly little windows. H.M. was again smoking his black pipe, and looked up at Tom without favour. (page 142)… From under the archway to a second quadrangle the sound of “S-s- t!” hissed at them in a way which made H.M. leap up from the overturned wheelbarrow (page 145). Here we even have a rhetorical figure: an oxymoron = paradoxical union of two antithetical terms. Note how for one of the few times in the passage Hernry Merrivale is referred to by the noble title Sir. The thing was invented by Carr precisely to achieve a result that opposes nobility to sitting on a wheelbarrow, which is something ridiculous.
Furthermore, Carr never loses his tendency to show off knowledge, dates, names and historical references. We see it in the brief but amusing altercation centered on William the Third, in which Sir Henry Merrivale cannot stand having his historical culture held against him : “On our right,” it thundered, “we got the famous Hampton Court gardens, forty-four acres of elegant spinach, first laid out by King William the Third and completed in 1734.” “For God’s sake, be careful,” whispered Tom. “William the Third died in 1702.” H.M. swung round, fists on hips. “And d’ye think I don’t know that?” he bellowed. “I didn’t say the old sour-puss finished ‘em, did I? I just said he laid ‘em out—which is what I’m goin’ to do to you, young man, if you don’t shut up and stop interruptin my lecture.” “Pop! The soft pedal! Give it the old soft pedal! Holy cats, they’ll hear you as far as Thames Ditton!” (page 147).
Overall, a gorgeous novelette.
Pietro De Palma
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