The term 'historical crime fiction' immediately presupposes not only a crime novel, but one hung on a framework of at
least a modicum of historical fact, the extent and detail of which can make or break the work. Besides the
overwhelming importance, key to any novel, of an intriguing plot and protagonists sufficiently sympathetic or
interesting to capture the imagination, historical crime writers have to pay particular attention how they recreate for
the reader their chosen period. Choosing an interesting period and location is a decision that can crucially influence
whether the novel will capture the imagination and intrigue the often jaded reader. The range of settings used in
historical crime novels is extensive, but it's remarkable that so many writers choose to restrict themselves to medieval
Britain. A motivation for this apparent choice is unclear, but much may have to do with the historical knowledge and
perspective of both reader and author alike. Familiar to many readers as a series of names and dates from school
history lessons, medieval Britain is also a rather romantic period of knights and castles, and hence perhaps particularly
suited to the historical novel. Discussing primarily English language novels, readers are often fascinated by the history
of their own country or that of their forebears; living in modern Cambridge, I particularly enjoy Susannah Gregory's
novels set in medieval Cambridge, and for their contrast between past and present. A rather cynical view is that that
the Ellis Peters' Cadfael novels have played a significant role - if novels set in this period sell well, why not continue
in this vein? However, it is gladdening to see that although many excellent novels have been set in this period, many
authors choose less well-trodden settings for their novels, often drawing on their own experience, expertise and
passion for the period in writing about times and places that fascinate and intrigue them.
Besides choosing an interesting or attractive setting for a novel, a particular historical event can play a pivotal role in
the birth of a historical crime novel. An author may want to investigate for themselves or the reader a particularly
puzzling historical enigma; Paul Doherty, writing as Ann Dukthas, takes this approach to extremes, choosing as
protagonist the seemingly immortal scholar Nicolas Segalla to investigate historical mysteries, like the death of Henry
Darnley. Doherty is an interesting case, since he draws on his own studies of the fourteenth century for his many of
his novels, an approach which can be a pitfall of the author's own making, if they become more interested in
presenting what their own solution to an unsolved historical puzzle, or their own view of an event, overlooking crucial
elements like characterisation. Particular conflicts or social changes also provide rich pickings for the novelist in search
of an exciting setting for a less historically significant crime., though a run-of-the-mill crime plot may seem a little
out-of-place when dumped wholesale into a historical setting that serves as little more than window dressing or an
attempt at clever marketing.
Crime writers face all kinds of problems in making the setting and events in their novel convincing for the reader,
dealing with attitudes, architecture, geography and even forensic detail, but historical crime writers have an even more
daunting task. A reader can easily 'fill in the gaps' in a contemporary novel, but beyond films, television and school
history, most readers don't have the experience and knowledge to do this with a novel set in, say, Republican Rome.
When historical crime novels work well, the reader is totally immersed, the background details seamlessly providing a
convincing framework for the action. However, this is a considerable leap of faith, since readers come to rely heavily
on the author to paint an accurate picture of the time, place and attitudes of the characters. While much historical
detail is the subject of intense academic debate, there is a great burden on writers to make sure that events they
described really happened that way, that major historical personages were actually alive at that time, that a particular
battle took place in a particular year, and even that a well-known church had a spire rather than a dome at that time.
This is not to attack imagination and artistic licence in a novel, which make novels far more enjoyable than textbooks,
but major and undisputed facts have to be correctly portrayed, or otherwise the reader loses all respect for the writer,
and whatever merits the novel has in its own right are critically undermined.
On the other hand, some novels have a tendency to move to the other extreme, and deluge the reader with a barrage of
fact, relevant and otherwise. Steven Saylor, in particular, portrays in his 'Roma Sub Rosa' novels the setting of
Republican Rome in immense detail, and pays particular attention to the political and military events of that era. At
times the complexity and detail that he describes can seem rather overwhelming, but I'll gladly acknowledge that much
of this is necessary to gain a grasp of just why the events in the novels are so significant, and that Saylor is a talented
writer who deals with these problems admirably. Characters of many historical thrillers and crime novels often end up
involved in such major historical events - it is interesting to see such events from the inside, but a writer of fiction
must fictionalise many such events to some degree, often ascribing dubious motives to those involved. Ellis Peters
manages to balance these two facets, vividly and accurately portrays the turbulent events of the twelth century, and
sometimes involves her characters in them, but rarely at a central role, and wisely sticks to the relative mundanity of
everyday domestic and economic crime. On the other hand, a writer like Steven Saylor, makes a point of involving his
characters in critical points in the history of Rome, starting with his initial desire with 'Roman Blood' to follow one of
Cicero's trials through the medium of the crime novel. His protagonist, Gordianus, ages rapidly between novels since
the events that Saylor is interested in exploring are quite widely spaced, and one often wonders how Saylor will
continue once Gordianus reaches his allotted span. The problem of fitting a novel's plot against the inexorable march
of time is one that historical authors often face, particularly faced with an inevitable catastrophic event looming in the
future that threatens to disrupt the status quo.
Where the historical crime writer can excel, however, is in capturing the atmosphere and 'flavour' of the time to portray
a realistic-feeling, "believable" settings, leaving the reader to follow the story without worrying about exactitudes.Here
again, there is a payoff between creating a believable atmosphere which the reader can empathise with, and drenching
them in the minutiae of everyday living. It can be far more enjoyable for the reader to imagine what life would have
been like in Imperial Rome for ordinary citizens, rather than facing endless descriptions of cooking utensils,
bath-houses and togas. This is not to say that strange concepts or names should not be used, but they have to be
introduced somehow, but perhaps in a less painful manner. Lindsay Davis succeeds admirably, managing include much
detail about, say, Roman cuisine, with the reader hardly noticing except when they've finished the novel and realise
just how significant a mere turbot can be... On the other hand, there can be a tendency to over-emphasise the brutality
and deprivation endemic in many historical societies, and this can often leave the reader jaded and disinterested. This
payoff is crucial to creating a realistic but enjoyable novel, and many historical crime novels live or die by how they
handle this difficult dilemma.
A novel is nothing without characters that readers can believe, with motives that they can understand, and whose
actions they applaud or are intrigued by, and this just as true for historical crime. Naturally, the familar bugbear of
'realism' versus fiction rears its head, particularly when applied to who a character is, how they think, and how they
act. One obstacle that is why the detective is involved in investigating a crime. Law enforcement was, generally, less
organised and extensive than now, lacking the support structures of modern criminal investigations; besides, sheriff's
officers and the like were probably preoccupied with defence and maintaining civil order than investigating murders.
Given this lack of organised law enforcement, the writer is forced to find other roles and motives for a character, and
hence the profession and motivation of the historical detective can be extremely diverse. Frequently, historical
evidence itself can offer some novel solutions. Lindsay Davis took the idea of the informer in Imperial Rome,
snooping in order to earn money and favour from the ruling classes, and merged it with the modern concept of the PI
for hire, creating Marcus Didius Falco, private informer. Davis has been heard to remark that she was rather taken
with the idea of a gumshoe in Imperial Rome, evident in the Chandleresque style of The Silver Pigs, although this
pastiche approach has become less prominent as Falco develops as a character and an investigator. Other writers take
the idea of a murder being an unwelcome diversion from normal duties for local military leaders, like P.F. Chisholm's
Sir Robert Carey, Deputy Warden in the Borders. P.C. Doherty takes this one step further, providing Hugh Corbett,
Keeper of the Secret Seal, to be forced into the often unwilling role of detective whilst carrying out his
counter-espionage duties and handling sensitive political situations on behalf of Edward I. The traditional model as the
detective as gifted amateur is the main source of motive, with figures from doctors, judges and academics to priests,
monks and even travelling pedlars, drawn into an investigation by being, as usual, in the wrong place at the wrong
time.
A major temptation for any historical crime writer in search of a fresh character to play detective is to dragoon real-life
people into their novels, and unfortunately, this can create a slew of problems, especially when the writer tries to deal
with the motivation and interpretation of the character and ideals of any historical figure. The idea of a character like
William Shakespeare or Jane Austen as a detective frequently leads to all kinds of anachronisms and inconsistencies
with how that person, rightly or wrongly, is perceived to as having behaved, set against the writer's own ideas and the
demands of the plot. For instance, would Will Shakespeare, as portayed in Faye Kellerman's 'The Quality of Mercy'
really become entangled in helping Spanish Jews to secretly enter England, or would he have been a little busy writing
and acting? Bernard Bastable uses a rather novel 'alternative history' approach by envisioning an ageing Mozart,
having not encountered Salieri and his real-life death, now living in London as a composer and occasional detective.
The real benefit of having real-life characters often comes when they occupy supporting roles, either helping or
hindering the protagonist as necessary, like Vespasian, a patron of sorts to Davis's Falco, or as significant characters in
their own right, in the way that Saylor's novel 'Roman Blood' revolves around Cicero's employment of Gordianus, as
an investigator. P.F. Chisholm deserves special mention by taking the letters and journals of Sir Robert Carey, Deputy
Warden of one of the Border Marches in Elizabethan England, and creating a fully-fleshed, believable character
involved in the crimes and situations that Carey really faced.
Besides the role and motivation of the detective, the question of how ordinary people acted and how they are
portrayed is still a source of much debate. Some critics question whether the actions and outlook of characters are at
odds with the culture and society in which they live, being nothing more than twentieth century characters dumped
unceremoniously into another time and place, but still acting as modern readers expect given our own experiences.
Lindsay Davis's characters are a case in point - on the basis of much contemporary evidence, one might be rather
surpised to discover that a senator's daughter shacked up with a plebian informer, with an illegitimate child to boot,
while still able to pop over to her parent's villa for a spot of cena. The knowledge and skills of a character also often
give rise to similar anachronisms, justified or not. It came as no great surprise that Susannah Gregory's fourteenth
century physician, Matthew Bartholemew, had acquired surprisingly modern views on hygiene and surgery after
studying with an Arab teacher. This may not be entirely fair, since such knowledge may well have been around and in
use then, but his role as a modern, if misunderstood, medic surrounded by ignorant leech-peddlers and bloody-handed
butchers seems a little predictable at times.
Problems like this become even more significant when you consider how characters talk to each other in novels, and
how they may have talked at the time. Given that dialogue can make or break a crime novel, it is always difficult to
create dialogue that 'feels right' whilst still being easy to understand. A purist in such matters might be tempted to
re-write Doherty's 'Canterbury Tales' novels with Chaucerian Middle English, but there is a fine divide between
larding dialogue with 'thees', 'thous' and inadvertently amusing insults like 'misbegotten whore's whelp', and having
characters chat away in modern British or American English. Actually, many successful writers do exactly this, using
modern idiom, occasionally laced with the odd authentic-sounding phrase, which often seems rather appropriate to a
busy, cosmopolitan city like ancient Rome or medieval London. The converse view from that of the historical purist
ask the question "how can we tell?" Surviving evidence and contemporary writings are perhaps not, given illiteracy
amongst many people, always going to show how the majority of 'ordinary people' thought, acted and behaved. Molly
Brown, author of 'Invitation to a Funeral' in a recent article for Crime Time, compared modern Britain with
Restoration London, and came to the conclusion that perhaps things weren't so different after all.
This will probably always be an academic or philosphical point, but a fine balance is pretty much essential to create
characters that act and speak in a believable and realistic way for the time, but that the reader can still empathise with.
This last point perhaps sums up the spirit of successful historical crime fiction - a delicate juggling act of detail,
history, drama and atmosphere that isn't as easy to pull off as some might think, but that can produce novels just as
deserving of praise and acclamation as any set in the present day.
