The Ten Teacups by Carter Dickson

THERE WILL BE TEN TEACUPS AT NUMBER 4, BERWICK TERRACE, W. 8, ON WEDNESDAY, JULY 31ST, AT 5 P.M. PRECISELY. THE PRESENCE OF THE METROPOLITAN POLICE IS RESPECTFULLY REQUESTED.

So begins the captivating 1937 locked-room mystery, The Ten Teacups by Carter Dickson, a pen name of John Dickson Carr, and the latest book in the British Library Crime Classics collection.

It would appear to be a fairly innocuous note that arrives on Chief Inspector Humphrey Masters’ desk with the first post on the stifling Wednesday in question. That is, if it was not for the fact that after receiving an almost identical note in April two years ago, a body with two bullet holes was discovered at the address provided. A murder that has yet to be solved. Cue Sir Henry Merrivale, or H.M., as he is almost exclusively referred. 

The police surround 4, Berwick Terrace. Detective Sergeant Pollard, is situated across the hall from a newly furnished room in an otherwise empty and uninhabited house. At the centre of the room is a table and resting on a rare antique peacock patterned shawl lay ten teacups evenly spaced like the face of a clock. Not a soul could get in or out without being seen. So when Vance Keating enters the house he is most certainly alone in the room when the clock strikes 5 p.m.

Four-fifteen. Four-thirty. Pollard felt his scalp crawl and his wits thicken under the pressure of heat. Still no sound issued from the room, nor was there a sign of any other visitor, while the watcher stood neck-cramped with his eyes on the door. The hand of his wrist-watch crept upwards: a quarter to five. And now good theories began to dissolve when he remembered Masters’s words: “I don’t know whether you can run a secret society without any fuss, but I’m smacking well certain you can’t run one without any members.” He was right. Vance Keating sat alone in the shrine, guarded if ever a man was guarded with police at both the back and the front. Five minutes to five. (43-44)

Like the incident two years before, there is a certain inevitability to what occurs. A man is dead and now the police, with the help of H.M.—who appears to doze off at the most unfortunate times—need to figure out how. None of the clues seem to bring them any closer to a conclusion and none appear to be linked with each other. The similarities are the ten teacups on a table, an antique with a peacock print, a newly furnished room in an otherwise empty and uninhabited house, and a person who has been killed in a way that could not possibly be self-inflicted. Oh, and that both houses were previously owned by Mr. and Mrs. Derwent. There is a sense of ceremony to both scenes, which helps spark the idea a secret society is involved in the murders.

I loved the premise of this book. The beginning had me hooked and did not want to put it down. When I was called away, I kept thinking about it, spinning scenarios in my head of where the plot might go. I fear my dog and husband did not get my full attention for a couple of days!

I never felt like I learned anything about H.M. Perhaps, the reader is not meant to. He is certainly not the focus of this book in the way that some detectives are the central character and the murder is just a way of showing off the detective’s intelligence and little quirks. But there is an absence in the place of H.M. I almost forgot he was in some scenes. It is as though he sits back and takes things in, following the trail to the truth, while not sharing any of his process with us. He often scolds Masters for blundering ahead and showing all of his cards to the suspects. Again, perhaps this absence of a figure is purposeful. After all, he is referred to as H.M. almost exclusively, not a name, just a stand-in for one. Somewhere in the first chapter or two, I had to check the back to make sure I was not getting confused between Humphrey Masters and Sir Henry Merrivale as the two share the same initials. Are they meant to be the ying and yang of each other, together creating law and order? I will be interested to read some of Carter Dickson’s other books featuring H.M. to see if I can glean anything more about him in those.

My only real quibble with this one was the ending. It felt like it dragged on for much too long. The conclusion was complicated, required a lot of explaining, and some aspects crossed over into the unbelievable. And when I say complicated I mean bordering on convoluted—there are footnotes, for goodness sake! Although, I would be lying if I didn’t admit I did sort of love the novelty of the footnotes. I do see why the author chose to spin out the ending, as many mysteries of this sort tend to, but it is not a format that I like. To me this one felt a bit too much like Poirot gathering everyone together in the library to show off how cleaver he is. The only difference is that H.M. managed to do this without a gigantic monologue. For which, I am truly grateful. 

I lied. I actually have another grievance to air. The representation of women in this novel is narrow at best, and sexist at worst. The two woman in this book, whether portrayed as either the whore or the virgin, both have a performativity to them. This is an idea I formed as I was reading the last quarter. But I would like to reread this one and take note of whether there is strong evidence of this in the text, or if it is just an impression I was left with. Off hand, I can think of two such occurrences. One is when Mrs. Derwent, feigns she has been assaulted by Masters, creating a public disturbance.

“The point is,” growled Masters, “that all the time the commotion was going on, either out of devilment or to give her time to think what she was going to say, that woman was lying back pretending to cry, and laughing at me through her fingers.” (117)

One of the problems here is that we never do get Mrs. Derwent’s side of the story. We are expected to take Masters’ version of events as truth without question because he is a police officer.

There also seems to be something performative about the victim’s fiancée, Frances Gale, stamping her foot like a child when she doesn’t get her way with the police. But I cannot for the life of me find the place in the text where this occurs, so I may be forcing an interpretation without textual evidence. Something to look out for on a reread, for sure.

Of course, the books republished in this collection are bound to be a product of their time. There is a disclaimer at the beginning of each of them, making it clear that the British Library are in no way endorsing any of the problematic views portrayed in these books by republishing them. 

With this series British Library Publishing aims to offer a new readership a chance to read some of the rare books of the British Library's collections in an affordable paperback format, to enjoy their merits and to look back into the world of the twentieth century as portrayed by its writers.

These books are a snapshot of a time when the publishing industry was not questioning how underrepresented groups were being stereotyped and generally cast in a negative light. One cannot be sure that the author was knowingly portraying women in this light. It seems likely that the author too would be a product of his time, as are we all, for that matter.

There are other aspects of this book, specifically the conclusion, that I would love to go into, but the majority read mysteries for the plot and I would hate to spoil the experience for anyone, and as this is a book review, not an academic essay, I will refrain. However, I might have to do a full on spoiler-y discussion of this at some future date. If you have read this one, please get in touch. I would love to chat about it, but let’s keep the comments below spoiler free. Reach out via the contact form on this site, (which you can find at the top right of this page), or email me at carosbookcase@gmail.com.

The final verdict? Despite its convoluted ending, I would reread this one, not just to analyse the text, but because I enjoyed the first three quarters of this book so much. The premise ignited my imagination in a way that I have not experienced from a book in a long time. I recommend giving this locked-room mystery a try. Enjoy figuring out how, why, and whodunnit, and revel in the novelty (or do I mean oddity?) of those footnotes.

Thank you to British Library Publishing for kindly sending me a copy of The Ten Teacups for review. As always, all opinions on the book are my own.

Coming up next will be a review of Murder as a Fine Art by Carol Carnac a.k.a. E.C.R. Lorac, pictured below, along with a couple more titles in this collection that I was lucky enough to receive from the publisher. After enjoying her book Murder in Vienna, I am especially excited to read more of her work. If you are interested, you can find my review of that one here.

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