Having listen to what I’d swear were AI written novels, because I simply don’t believe an author can write a quality novel a month without assistance, I decided I needed to compare these modern word processed novels with their older typewritten predecessors. The new novels are most definitely of their time, which is perfectly fair enough, which I might describe as Rebus in Norfolk, Rebus in Yorkshire, Rebus in the isles, Rebus … well, etc., which is undoubtedly unfair on the new books, and, for that matter, Rebus. They are all clear descendants of Chandler, IMHO.

So I decided to go back to one of the other great streams of detective fiction of the Chandler period. I want to compare then to now, and I want the then to be as fresh in my head as the now.

When I was a teenager, I read my father’s collection of Christie, and adored them. I’d swear Christie is responsible for the fact that I love whodunnits. But I only read Christie, I ignored his copies of Marsh, Sayers, Allingham, and the other greats of that period. I remember seeing Ngaio Marsh books then, but I didn’t read them. I decided to right that wrong, and start doing so now. The fact that she took a lifetime to write a quantity of novels that the modern authors write in a couple of years says everything to me. I’m not condemning those modern authors, incidentally, I’m merely comparing.

So I’ve just read Ngaio Marsh’s first detective Alleyn novel, “A Man Lay Dead’. If you want the plot, go read the wikipedia entry.

First of all, this is a book which is utterly of its time, which is half the idea of reading it. In olden days, only toffs and Russians committed murder (<(unknown)>plus ça change). It is a classic Cluedo book: all the suspects are kept in the posh house whilst the great detective solves the murder. That’s unfair on Marsh; this is one of those books that established the form that is now such as cliché.

I absolutely loved the language! It’s the English that I was taught as a child, which, to be honest, I never entirely grasped. It is the English of my mother’s generation, even though she was never a toff. I also loved Marsh’s sense of humour, which shined through, especially in the first chapter.

The forensics are very different. In Marsh’s time, they were fingerprint kits which the detectives used themselves. In modern times, they’re a small army of scientists covering the murder set in shining analysis. In both, they’re gizmos to move the plot forward. I have no clue, incidentally, whether either times’ techniques, as described, have any connection with their times’ realities.

The motives, on the other hand, are exactly the same: dastardly people doing dastardly deeds for dastardly reasons.

The social structures are very different, yet very much the same. Then, there were toffs and servers. Now, there is everyone. But, in both, there is usually a tight group of people amongst whom is a murderer. Well, the poor bloody novelist has enough on his or her plate without having to invent hundreds of characters to describe and insert into the plot.

A key difference, though, is that the modern authors follow in Chandler’s footsteps, and murder across all of society. Rebus travels across the modern world, in Edinburgh, where, incidentally, you do not see Marsh’s world. I can’t comment on the AI assisted novels, presuming, because I’ve not read them all, but they don’t feel like they’re covering new ground, so I presume they’ll follow Rebus, if they even explore society at all.

One thing I didn’t like about Marsh’s book was the cliché nasty foreigner. Ok, so the books are of their time, and, spoiler alert, those horrible bolsheviks had to be shown to be horrible (which, to be fair, turned out to be true). The irony is, of course, that our modern world is also being fucked up by evil authoritarians, some of whom are Russian, so the book does have a strange echo in today.

The performance, as is often the case nowadays, was fine. Philip Franks bought back memories of my schooling, and my mother, with his accents and voices, for which I am grateful.

The Marsh plot felt a bit silly in places, not in terms of people but in terms of the howdunnit. I won’t spoil it, but it was a bit schoolboyish. Still, this was a first novel, where you can get that kind of gaucheness.

I would swear, though, that the Marsh book, along with Rebus, is more thought through, more thorough, more subtle, and more sophisticated, in terms of the personalities, that the modern AI alternatives. I don’t think that’s my prejudice against, well, something, I just felt that Marsh was more, well, finished and elegant.

One thing I really miss, though, is freshness. Marsh’s may have been fresh in her time, but it isn’t now (Chandler is still fresh). With one exception, none of the modern whodunnits whet my sense of a cool breeze, although again that may well be me not spotting something subtle. That one modern exception, modern–ish now, a truly original whodunnit, and I wish he’d write more, was China Mieville’s “The City and The City”. I understand why it’s a one off, but I wish it wasn’t. It’s such a blast of freshness, of originality. Ah well.

I like the Marsh book, and I will listen to another. If the plotting improves, and given her reputation it must do, I’ll probably hear the lot.