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Death at Broadcasting House
256 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1934
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November 17, 2024
Ah, the English Golden Age of Mystery stories, peopled by gentleman with stiff upper lips and ladies who spoke in carefully modulated tones, their vowels sharp enough to cut glass. Peopled also by oiks and ne’er do wells, and discreet servants, with of course the occasional servant who was “no better than they ought to be”. The cultured classes tended to dwell in great family estates with labyrinthine mansions set in ancient grounds. These stately homes are many-roomed; the action happens on a special occasion, with a small group of invited visitors. A library, drawing room or boudoir is conveniently locked, so that the body which is inevitably found in such a place, perplexes the police, sent to solve an “impossible” crime.
Such is a favourite, locked room “whodunnit” from this era. Here too we have the trope of a murder in a closed small community, in Death at Broadcasting House from 1934. The very real “Broadcasting House” has been known to generations, as the home of the BBC (British Broadcasting Corporation). The BBC is itself famous throughout the world for its excellent radio and now television programmes. It began in 1922, under Lord Reith, a Scottish baron and broadcasting executive who established the tradition of independent public service broadcasting in the United Kingdom. By 1927 he was employed as the Director-General of the BBC, created under a royal charter. His concept of broadcasting was as a way of educating the masses, and even now more than a nod is paid to this fundamental founding aim.
“Broadcasting House” may not be a country estate, but it is a beautiful and labyrinthine old building, with its fascinating and unique studios, passages, lifts and and stairs, which serve very well to keep our limited cast of characters enclosed for the mystery. It is a huge Art Deco building, in Portland Place and Langham Place, London. Faced in Portland stone, with breathtaking Art Deco interiors, it is now classed as a Grade II listed building. Construction of these innovatively designed new headquarters began in 1928, and the first radio broadcasts from “Broadcasting House” were made in 1932.
At the time, one man pioneered radio drama for the BBC, among the dozens of people busily going about their jobs, producing the world News and entertainment for the BBC. He was an English actor, writer, director and broadcaster, and part of a great theatrical family. This man was the great-nephew of the Victorian actress Ellen Terry, and the older brother of a very promising actor. The younger brother was to become a world famous thespian: Sir John Gielgud. The pioneer of the new Art form, radio drama, was Val Henry Gielgud. His brother John acted in several of his productions, and Val Gielgud, the BBC’s Head of Productions, both wrote and acted in—and directed—ones such as Death at Broadcasting House. (He was assisted for this one by a “Holt Marvell”, who was actually Eric Maschwitz, a lyricist and writer for both films and the BBC.)
We can imagine the frisson of excitement which would accompany the broadcast of a new play for radio. Entertainment was necessarily sparse and home-grown. In fact this new-fangled radio was the only entertainment provided at home, except playing a few favourite 78 rpm gramophone records, or putting on family plays, or playing musical instruments. Death at Broadcasting House was broadcast live, as everything was, a mere two years after the founding of the mysterious and seemingly magical world of BBC radio.
At that time, almost unbelievably now, radio broadcasters all wore suits and dinner jackets when they were on air, and spoke in clipped RP (Received Pronunciation)—sometimes called “the Queen’s English”, “Oxford English” or “BBC English”. For those who are not acquainted with this accent, just think of Sir John Gielgud’s cultured voice. It was an inspiring time, with a new medium, and involved not only the British public but other countries too, as some broadcasts were recorded and sent overseas. Val Gielgud is often praised with inventing many of the techniques of radio drama still common in the form today. He was not a fan of the radio soap operas which were developing in the USA, preferring to stick to classics such as plays by Shakespeare, but he could see the potential in radio for a unique new form and style of play.
Val Gielgud’s vision was to expand the imagination. He constantly reminded those working with him that radio drama could employ vastly larger casts, and place itself in more exotic settings, than had ever been possible with stage plays. A favourite theory which he wanted to explore, was that while stage plays could show the actions of characters, in radio it was possible to get inside their minds. To this end, he concentrated on producing a variety of one-off dramas, such as Death at Broadcasting House, rather than a continuing series.
Being aware of this context and setting enables us to enjoy this play even more, enjoying the daily routine in “Broadcasting House”. Plus a key element to this play is also the available technology.
To a listener, the radio plays of yesteryear do not sound very different from those of today, but in order to get the various sound effects was a particularly fiendish exercise. There were no huge archives of taped sound, to push at a button, and no computers to tweak the sound effects. If the play demanded a large airy open environmental sound for one scene, the actors had to scoot up and down the staircases to a large airy studio. This resulted in the priceless exchange :
“Rodney Fleming: [to the lift-man] I’m looking for Variety.
Lift-man: That’s eight floors down.
Rodney Fleming: But I’ve just come eight floors up!
Lift-man: Then it’ll be sixteen floors down.“
In fact actors often performed in the same play in multiple rooms, with the technicians switching between different microphones, to produce a seamless scene as if by magic. If music was needed, it would be played in another studio— and usually played live. Henry Hall and the BBC Dance Orchestra played live, and incredible as it sounds, dance routines in full elaborate and flamboyant costumes were performed, encouraging the audience to fill in the picture in their imaginations.
We now accept the conventions, and use our imaginations for a radio play, in a similar way to when we read a book, rather than watching a stage play. Perhaps after all there is not much difference now. If a radio play is well written, we do not need an actor to say: “The gun is my hand is loaded!” We know what has gone before; we can sense the tension and feel the fear, so that all that is needed is the convincing sound of a pistol shot, and we are terrified and thrilled, seeing the visuals for ourselves in our mind’s eye.
So this clever play begins, Russian-doll-style, with a broadcast of a radio play, “The Scarlet Highwayman” (later called “Murder Immaculate”). The plummy-voiced producer Julian Caird, (originally played by Val Gielgud) felt that Sydney Parsons, the actor now reading his lines on air, had never been very convincing in rehearsal: he never gasped with enough conviction. However, his performance now as the murder victim, is very much improved, and he is summoned in order to be congratulated on his excellent performance. However, Sydney Parsons does not appear—and with good reason. As the book’s tagline says:
“Twenty-five millions heard his death screams … but none could solve the mystery of Death at Broadcasting House.”
When the crew finally make their way down to Studio 7C, they discover that not only was Sydney Parsons strangled in his role in “The Scarlet Highwayman”, but he has been strangled in real life in the studio, live, on air, and his body has been left slumped by the microphone. Someone in the studio building at the time must have killed him, but who could it be, and why?
Enter Detective Inspector Gregory, who is suspicious of both the cast and the crew. He’s a good solid copper, and speaks with intelligent authority, which is refreshing. For many whodunnits the policeman is a PC Plod and a bit of a fool, to allow our hero—perhaps an amateur detective or just a private citizen with some connection—to solve the case. Here though, it is someone official and without Sherlock Holmes’s deerstalker hat, Miss Marple’s knitting, or Hercule Poirot’s magnificent moustaches. Detective Inspector Gregory is a representative of the law, and is nobody’s fool.
In fact Inspector Gregory soon discovers that the victim had many enemies among his fellow thespians. He finds there are several plausible suspects, all of whom had the opportunity and motive to commit the crime. There is continuous catty squabbling, but it is wittily written; droll, frank and snappy—similar in a way to the dialogue of films from the 1930s. We meet Leopold and Joan Dryden, stalwarts of the company, and both much respected thespians. But Leopold Dryden the leading man, is very unlikable and had slipped out of the recording studio at around the time of the murder. Sir Herbert Farquharson is the money, and Rodney Fleming, Guy Bannister, Herbert Evans, Peter Ridgewell, and Poppy Levine all have various parts to play. Some are Actors with a capital A, grandly extrovert and sensational, others more unassuming, appearing rather browbeaten. Morals in the avant garde world seem looser than in the general public of the time, and there are both poseurs and dandies: “silly ass” types. has a crush on the leading lady, who for her part is extremely worried when the inspector finds an old theatre programme: does she have anything to hide from her past? Poppy is an engaging and quick-witted “tart with a heart” type actress .
There are many secrets, and competition for the best roles in the world of theatre is fierce. The actual murderer’s cast iron alibi needs to be broken, before the case is solved. There is previous history and resentments between some of the cast, as well as a second murder, The story involves obsession, adultery and blackmail .
Obviously a large part of the appeal of this play is its originality: the behind the scenes look at possibly the largest working radio studio of its time, in its infancy. We can pick up references to machines and technology which is now usually consigned to history. One such is the “Blattnerphone”, one of the first sound-recording machines, and one of which had actually been installed at Broadcasting House in March 1932. We get a strong sense of time and place, of the very early days of broadcasts from the BBC; a novelty for the the actors, who were all used to recreating their roles on stage, night after night.
However, Inspector Gregory’s deductions are leading him nowhere, so he decides to reconstruct the crime with the help of Broadcasting House’s technicians and actors, hoping that this will lead him to the killer. There is only one clue given to the identity of the murderer. A little disappointingly, the police inspector keeps most of his evidence close to his chest, not revealing it until right at the end, thus depriving many readers of the chance to guess the solution.
Whodunnit addicts may find it it possible to guess the murderer, though I confess that I did not. There is a cunning red herring, to do with a play on words, which had me totally bamboozled, and which would not work in any other format. Another clever and unique part stems from an interesting historic detail. Although most broadcasts from the time are now lost, consigned for ever to the ether of radio waves, some were actually recorded on steel tape, in order to be sent for BBC overseas programmes. Nowadays the only record we have of those radio programmes is the survival of transcription discs, meant for foreign consumption, in countries within the then British Empire. “The Scarlet Highwayman” happened to be one of these. Hence there is a recording of the actual murder: a rather gruesome detail, but one which works brilliantly in a radio play, and helps in identifying the murderer. The climax is exciting, and unmasking the culprit comes as a genuine surprise, as they had seemingly had a cast iron alibi.
As well as being so inventive, “The Scarlet Highwayman” has very believable narrative style, which is only to be expected, since both writers worked at “Broadcasting House”. Yet despite such a unique setting, presenting a vivid picture of the frightfully middle class milieu of Broadcasting House in the 1930s, this also qualifies as a classic whodunnit. It is doubly fascinating as an engaging thriller, providing escapist entertainment, but also offers a fascinating glimpse into the early days of the BBC.
In the same year, 1934, a film was released under the title “Death at a Broadcast”. Arguably this format would appeal to even more people. Interestingly, the film cast includes several well-known broadcasters and performers of the era. As well as Val Gielgud as the drama producer, Julian Caird, there are parts for a young Donald Wolfit as the murder victim, and Ian Hunter as Detective Inspector Gregory, as well as cameo roles for those only enthusiasts may now recall. If you enjoy crime stories and mysteries set in the 1930s, then the original novel is well worth a look. However, this radio play has to wins hands down in my opinion, for eerie authenticity.
And what of Val Gielgud, writer of the original book, radio play and screen play? He indisputably never went down in history as achieving the same fame as his younger brother. But he did spent many years as BBC’s Head of Sound and Drama. When the new medium of television came along, he also directed the first ever drama to be produced. But unlike Sir John, he didn’t venture in front of the camera very often; in fact only for six plays.
Here is a contemporary review:
“Death at Broadcasting House may be called middlebrow. An actor is murdered in the middle of a broadcast (O si sic omnes)* and millions of listeners hear him die. But he was alone in the studio at the time, and - well, there you are! No one could help finding this tale enjoyable, first, because it is excellently well written; secondly, because it has an exciting plot neatly put together; thirdly, because to listen-in on other people’s ”shop“ is the most entertaining thing in the world, and the authors have made full use of the technical details of the Dramatic Control Panel and the inner organisation of the BBC in staging their drama.
… I have no fault to find with the mechanism of the plot, and all clues are scrupulously given. This is not caviare, but a light and savoury omelette, cooked to a turn and served piping hot.“
- Extract from “The Times Literary Review”, 4th February 1934. The reviewer was none other than Dorothy L. Sayers.
*Her jokey Latin proverb, “O si sic omnes”, translates as “Oh if so all”, which is quite a mean dig at actors in general.
My final thought has to be astonishment, that after twenty five million people had listened to a play called “The Scarlet Highwayman”, which featured a live strangulation on air, the BBC apparently received no complaints!
Perhaps Lord Reith did apologise though, after all.
Such is a favourite, locked room “whodunnit” from this era. Here too we have the trope of a murder in a closed small community, in Death at Broadcasting House from 1934. The very real “Broadcasting House” has been known to generations, as the home of the BBC (British Broadcasting Corporation). The BBC is itself famous throughout the world for its excellent radio and now television programmes. It began in 1922, under Lord Reith, a Scottish baron and broadcasting executive who established the tradition of independent public service broadcasting in the United Kingdom. By 1927 he was employed as the Director-General of the BBC, created under a royal charter. His concept of broadcasting was as a way of educating the masses, and even now more than a nod is paid to this fundamental founding aim.
“Broadcasting House” may not be a country estate, but it is a beautiful and labyrinthine old building, with its fascinating and unique studios, passages, lifts and and stairs, which serve very well to keep our limited cast of characters enclosed for the mystery. It is a huge Art Deco building, in Portland Place and Langham Place, London. Faced in Portland stone, with breathtaking Art Deco interiors, it is now classed as a Grade II listed building. Construction of these innovatively designed new headquarters began in 1928, and the first radio broadcasts from “Broadcasting House” were made in 1932.
At the time, one man pioneered radio drama for the BBC, among the dozens of people busily going about their jobs, producing the world News and entertainment for the BBC. He was an English actor, writer, director and broadcaster, and part of a great theatrical family. This man was the great-nephew of the Victorian actress Ellen Terry, and the older brother of a very promising actor. The younger brother was to become a world famous thespian: Sir John Gielgud. The pioneer of the new Art form, radio drama, was Val Henry Gielgud. His brother John acted in several of his productions, and Val Gielgud, the BBC’s Head of Productions, both wrote and acted in—and directed—ones such as Death at Broadcasting House. (He was assisted for this one by a “Holt Marvell”, who was actually Eric Maschwitz, a lyricist and writer for both films and the BBC.)
We can imagine the frisson of excitement which would accompany the broadcast of a new play for radio. Entertainment was necessarily sparse and home-grown. In fact this new-fangled radio was the only entertainment provided at home, except playing a few favourite 78 rpm gramophone records, or putting on family plays, or playing musical instruments. Death at Broadcasting House was broadcast live, as everything was, a mere two years after the founding of the mysterious and seemingly magical world of BBC radio.
At that time, almost unbelievably now, radio broadcasters all wore suits and dinner jackets when they were on air, and spoke in clipped RP (Received Pronunciation)—sometimes called “the Queen’s English”, “Oxford English” or “BBC English”. For those who are not acquainted with this accent, just think of Sir John Gielgud’s cultured voice. It was an inspiring time, with a new medium, and involved not only the British public but other countries too, as some broadcasts were recorded and sent overseas. Val Gielgud is often praised with inventing many of the techniques of radio drama still common in the form today. He was not a fan of the radio soap operas which were developing in the USA, preferring to stick to classics such as plays by Shakespeare, but he could see the potential in radio for a unique new form and style of play.
Val Gielgud’s vision was to expand the imagination. He constantly reminded those working with him that radio drama could employ vastly larger casts, and place itself in more exotic settings, than had ever been possible with stage plays. A favourite theory which he wanted to explore, was that while stage plays could show the actions of characters, in radio it was possible to get inside their minds. To this end, he concentrated on producing a variety of one-off dramas, such as Death at Broadcasting House, rather than a continuing series.
Being aware of this context and setting enables us to enjoy this play even more, enjoying the daily routine in “Broadcasting House”. Plus a key element to this play is also the available technology.
To a listener, the radio plays of yesteryear do not sound very different from those of today, but in order to get the various sound effects was a particularly fiendish exercise. There were no huge archives of taped sound, to push at a button, and no computers to tweak the sound effects. If the play demanded a large airy open environmental sound for one scene, the actors had to scoot up and down the staircases to a large airy studio. This resulted in the priceless exchange :
“Rodney Fleming: [to the lift-man] I’m looking for Variety.
Lift-man: That’s eight floors down.
Rodney Fleming: But I’ve just come eight floors up!
Lift-man: Then it’ll be sixteen floors down.“
In fact actors often performed in the same play in multiple rooms, with the technicians switching between different microphones, to produce a seamless scene as if by magic. If music was needed, it would be played in another studio— and usually played live. Henry Hall and the BBC Dance Orchestra played live, and incredible as it sounds, dance routines in full elaborate and flamboyant costumes were performed, encouraging the audience to fill in the picture in their imaginations.
We now accept the conventions, and use our imaginations for a radio play, in a similar way to when we read a book, rather than watching a stage play. Perhaps after all there is not much difference now. If a radio play is well written, we do not need an actor to say: “The gun is my hand is loaded!” We know what has gone before; we can sense the tension and feel the fear, so that all that is needed is the convincing sound of a pistol shot, and we are terrified and thrilled, seeing the visuals for ourselves in our mind’s eye.
So this clever play begins, Russian-doll-style, with a broadcast of a radio play, “The Scarlet Highwayman” (later called “Murder Immaculate”). The plummy-voiced producer Julian Caird, (originally played by Val Gielgud) felt that Sydney Parsons, the actor now reading his lines on air, had never been very convincing in rehearsal: he never gasped with enough conviction. However, his performance now as the murder victim, is very much improved, and he is summoned in order to be congratulated on his excellent performance. However, Sydney Parsons does not appear—and with good reason. As the book’s tagline says:
“Twenty-five millions heard his death screams … but none could solve the mystery of Death at Broadcasting House.”
When the crew finally make their way down to Studio 7C, they discover that not only was Sydney Parsons strangled in his role in “The Scarlet Highwayman”, but he has been strangled in real life in the studio, live, on air, and his body has been left slumped by the microphone. Someone in the studio building at the time must have killed him, but who could it be, and why?
Enter Detective Inspector Gregory, who is suspicious of both the cast and the crew. He’s a good solid copper, and speaks with intelligent authority, which is refreshing. For many whodunnits the policeman is a PC Plod and a bit of a fool, to allow our hero—perhaps an amateur detective or just a private citizen with some connection—to solve the case. Here though, it is someone official and without Sherlock Holmes’s deerstalker hat, Miss Marple’s knitting, or Hercule Poirot’s magnificent moustaches. Detective Inspector Gregory is a representative of the law, and is nobody’s fool.
In fact Inspector Gregory soon discovers that the victim had many enemies among his fellow thespians. He finds there are several plausible suspects, all of whom had the opportunity and motive to commit the crime. There is continuous catty squabbling, but it is wittily written; droll, frank and snappy—similar in a way to the dialogue of films from the 1930s. We meet Leopold and Joan Dryden, stalwarts of the company, and both much respected thespians. But Leopold Dryden the leading man, is very unlikable and had slipped out of the recording studio at around the time of the murder. Sir Herbert Farquharson is the money, and Rodney Fleming, Guy Bannister, Herbert Evans, Peter Ridgewell, and Poppy Levine all have various parts to play. Some are Actors with a capital A, grandly extrovert and sensational, others more unassuming, appearing rather browbeaten. Morals in the avant garde world seem looser than in the general public of the time, and there are both poseurs and dandies: “silly ass” types. has a crush on the leading lady, who for her part is extremely worried when the inspector finds an old theatre programme: does she have anything to hide from her past? Poppy is an engaging and quick-witted “tart with a heart” type actress .
There are many secrets, and competition for the best roles in the world of theatre is fierce. The actual murderer’s cast iron alibi needs to be broken, before the case is solved. There is previous history and resentments between some of the cast, as well as a second murder, The story involves obsession, adultery and blackmail .
Obviously a large part of the appeal of this play is its originality: the behind the scenes look at possibly the largest working radio studio of its time, in its infancy. We can pick up references to machines and technology which is now usually consigned to history. One such is the “Blattnerphone”, one of the first sound-recording machines, and one of which had actually been installed at Broadcasting House in March 1932. We get a strong sense of time and place, of the very early days of broadcasts from the BBC; a novelty for the the actors, who were all used to recreating their roles on stage, night after night.
However, Inspector Gregory’s deductions are leading him nowhere, so he decides to reconstruct the crime with the help of Broadcasting House’s technicians and actors, hoping that this will lead him to the killer. There is only one clue given to the identity of the murderer. A little disappointingly, the police inspector keeps most of his evidence close to his chest, not revealing it until right at the end, thus depriving many readers of the chance to guess the solution.
Whodunnit addicts may find it it possible to guess the murderer, though I confess that I did not. There is a cunning red herring, to do with a play on words, which had me totally bamboozled, and which would not work in any other format. Another clever and unique part stems from an interesting historic detail. Although most broadcasts from the time are now lost, consigned for ever to the ether of radio waves, some were actually recorded on steel tape, in order to be sent for BBC overseas programmes. Nowadays the only record we have of those radio programmes is the survival of transcription discs, meant for foreign consumption, in countries within the then British Empire. “The Scarlet Highwayman” happened to be one of these. Hence there is a recording of the actual murder: a rather gruesome detail, but one which works brilliantly in a radio play, and helps in identifying the murderer. The climax is exciting, and unmasking the culprit comes as a genuine surprise, as they had seemingly had a cast iron alibi.
As well as being so inventive, “The Scarlet Highwayman” has very believable narrative style, which is only to be expected, since both writers worked at “Broadcasting House”. Yet despite such a unique setting, presenting a vivid picture of the frightfully middle class milieu of Broadcasting House in the 1930s, this also qualifies as a classic whodunnit. It is doubly fascinating as an engaging thriller, providing escapist entertainment, but also offers a fascinating glimpse into the early days of the BBC.
In the same year, 1934, a film was released under the title “Death at a Broadcast”. Arguably this format would appeal to even more people. Interestingly, the film cast includes several well-known broadcasters and performers of the era. As well as Val Gielgud as the drama producer, Julian Caird, there are parts for a young Donald Wolfit as the murder victim, and Ian Hunter as Detective Inspector Gregory, as well as cameo roles for those only enthusiasts may now recall. If you enjoy crime stories and mysteries set in the 1930s, then the original novel is well worth a look. However, this radio play has to wins hands down in my opinion, for eerie authenticity.
And what of Val Gielgud, writer of the original book, radio play and screen play? He indisputably never went down in history as achieving the same fame as his younger brother. But he did spent many years as BBC’s Head of Sound and Drama. When the new medium of television came along, he also directed the first ever drama to be produced. But unlike Sir John, he didn’t venture in front of the camera very often; in fact only for six plays.
Here is a contemporary review:
“Death at Broadcasting House may be called middlebrow. An actor is murdered in the middle of a broadcast (O si sic omnes)* and millions of listeners hear him die. But he was alone in the studio at the time, and - well, there you are! No one could help finding this tale enjoyable, first, because it is excellently well written; secondly, because it has an exciting plot neatly put together; thirdly, because to listen-in on other people’s ”shop“ is the most entertaining thing in the world, and the authors have made full use of the technical details of the Dramatic Control Panel and the inner organisation of the BBC in staging their drama.
… I have no fault to find with the mechanism of the plot, and all clues are scrupulously given. This is not caviare, but a light and savoury omelette, cooked to a turn and served piping hot.“
- Extract from “The Times Literary Review”, 4th February 1934. The reviewer was none other than Dorothy L. Sayers.
*Her jokey Latin proverb, “O si sic omnes”, translates as “Oh if so all”, which is quite a mean dig at actors in general.
My final thought has to be astonishment, that after twenty five million people had listened to a play called “The Scarlet Highwayman”, which featured a live strangulation on air, the BBC apparently received no complaints!
Perhaps Lord Reith did apologise though, after all.
January 31, 2013
Originally published on my blog here in May 2003.
Throughout the twentieth century, crime novels with unusual settings or backgrounds have been consistently popular with both authors and readers, offering something a bit different to stimulate the imagination. (Dorothy L. Sayers wrote some particularly well known examples.) Death at Broadcasting House is in this tradition, being about the murder of an actor during the production of a BBC radio play in the thirties. (That is when this novel first appeared, but this edition is no more specific about the date than that.) The writers both worked for the BBC at the time (and, yes, Val Gielgud was John's brother), and so the background is described from a position of understanding rather than being learned for the purpose of writing the novel.
An actor has a part in a radio play which ends with a death scene played alone in a seventh floor studio of Broadcasting House. Initially, the producer thinks he has performed better than in any rehearsal but then it is discovered that he was killed at the moment of his character's death, so that there are millions of witnesses to the killing (radio plays being performed live in those days). The police are lucky that the performance was recorded at all (it was to be re-transmitted on the "Empire wavelength" that later became the World Service). The question of who the murderer is amounts to a whittling down of the fairly short list of people who might have had the opportunity to kill the actor. The police investigation is constantly being second-guessed by the attempts of some of the suspects to play amateur detective, something which provides amusement (as Inspector Spears repeats yet again that he thought of the most recent suggestion already) and is almost certainly more true to life than the majority of crime novels in this respect.
A lot of the charm of Death at Broadcasting House comes from its period quality. It is full of references to obsolete equipment (the Blattnerphone, for example) and working methods (no one would be likely to broadcast a play live today). Occasionally, it seems like a spoof of itself, containing phrases which would now only be found in a parody - the chapter heading "Topsy does her bit", for example. Sometimes elements jar on the modern reader, as when the narrative demonstrates the seediness of a bar by describing it as "frequented by negroes and tarts", but generally it fascinates. The puzzle is not really difficult, though it is fairly well constructed.
Throughout the twentieth century, crime novels with unusual settings or backgrounds have been consistently popular with both authors and readers, offering something a bit different to stimulate the imagination. (Dorothy L. Sayers wrote some particularly well known examples.) Death at Broadcasting House is in this tradition, being about the murder of an actor during the production of a BBC radio play in the thirties. (That is when this novel first appeared, but this edition is no more specific about the date than that.) The writers both worked for the BBC at the time (and, yes, Val Gielgud was John's brother), and so the background is described from a position of understanding rather than being learned for the purpose of writing the novel.
An actor has a part in a radio play which ends with a death scene played alone in a seventh floor studio of Broadcasting House. Initially, the producer thinks he has performed better than in any rehearsal but then it is discovered that he was killed at the moment of his character's death, so that there are millions of witnesses to the killing (radio plays being performed live in those days). The police are lucky that the performance was recorded at all (it was to be re-transmitted on the "Empire wavelength" that later became the World Service). The question of who the murderer is amounts to a whittling down of the fairly short list of people who might have had the opportunity to kill the actor. The police investigation is constantly being second-guessed by the attempts of some of the suspects to play amateur detective, something which provides amusement (as Inspector Spears repeats yet again that he thought of the most recent suggestion already) and is almost certainly more true to life than the majority of crime novels in this respect.
A lot of the charm of Death at Broadcasting House comes from its period quality. It is full of references to obsolete equipment (the Blattnerphone, for example) and working methods (no one would be likely to broadcast a play live today). Occasionally, it seems like a spoof of itself, containing phrases which would now only be found in a parody - the chapter heading "Topsy does her bit", for example. Sometimes elements jar on the modern reader, as when the narrative demonstrates the seediness of a bar by describing it as "frequented by negroes and tarts", but generally it fascinates. The puzzle is not really difficult, though it is fairly well constructed.
October 20, 2017
E' un buon romanzo, nel suo genere: le descrizioni del lavoro alla BBC sono interessanti e propongono un'ambientazione insolita per un giallo dalla soluzione semplice, ma allo stesso tempo ingegnosa. Però, nel complesso, non mi ha esaltato.
July 9, 2018
This book was original published by Rich & Cowan in 1934 - I used the Scarlet Dagger Crime (Large Print) 1992 version as it's easier and cheaper to get hold of.
The book teaser reads: A radio play, The Scarlet Highwayman, is being transmitted from Broadcasting House. The actors, engineers and producers are all nervous at the prospect of the live transmission and are obviously delighted when it proves to be a success. One of the best scenes is the one in which the actor Sidney Parsons is 'murdered'. Not usually an animated performer, he is surprisingly impressive here. But then his body is found in Studio 7C and it transpires that he really had been murdered. And that everyone who had heard the play had heard him die ....
In The Times Literary Review 4th February 1934 - Dorothy Sayers gives the following review:
Death at Broadcasting House may be called middlebrow. An actor is murdered in the middle of a broadcast (O si sic omnes1) and millions of listeners hear him die. But he was alone in the studio at the time, and - well, there you are! No one could help finding this tale enjoyable, first, because it is excellently well written; secondly, because it has an exciting plot neatly put together; thirdly, because to listen-in on other people's "shop" is the most entertaining thing in the world, and the authors have made full use of the technical details of the Dramatic Control Panel and the inner organisation of the BBC in staging their drama.
Except that it could hardly have taken a person 45 seconds to cross a passage and enter a room (a second is much longer interval than one thinks, and in 45 seconds I can walk down 20 stairs, out through the back door, shutting it after me, and half way down the garden), I have no fault to find with the mechanism of the plot, and all clues are scrupulously given. This is not caviare, but a light and savoury omelette, cooked to a turn and served piping hot. (Taken from Taking Detective Stories Seriously - The Collected crime Reviews of Dorothy L. Sayers - Martin Edwards - 2017)
My own review - The setting (Broadcasting House) is original and the story is put into a very believable narrative (which is only to be expected as both writers worked at Broadcasting House & were involved in the production of plays). The characters are of an authentic type and what one imagines as artist types for that period in time - covering, extrovert & hidden characters as well as loose living individuals and the dandy types.The only humour present in the novel comes from the comparisons between the situation (plot) and that of contemporary crime novels & characters e.g. Dr Thorndyke & The Yellow Room Mystery (Gaston Laroux) etc - and a smattering from the amateur sleuth's plucky female helpmates. The novel has an easy flow to it and moves at a middle pace - however some of the dialogue between characters is somewhat melodramatic (to be expected from radio play writers) and may sound stilted to modern day readers. Dorothy Sayers comment about the 45 seconds above is incorrect the murderer had probably just under 4 minutes to commit the act. An enjoyable read and very insightful into the life at Broadcasting House (BBC) in the early 1930s.
The flaws to the novel are: The book needed a plan of the studios as sometimes this gets confusing in the book (my copy did not contain one but the 1934 edition may of done?). A second death (Higgins) is brushed over and never explained - murder/suicide/accident and seems totally unnecessary as it leads to nowhere - this part of the story is used to introduce the two plucky assistant sleuths. Inspector Simon Spears shares information about Parson's murder with other suspects which is unrealistic - he also steals an item from someone's house while they are on the telephone. As a puzzle there is only one clue given to the identity of the murderer - although it is easy to guess at the murderer. A lucky coincidence occurs that one character remembers something that happened in the past that connected 3 of the suspects.
I would give this book 7 out of 10 as it's an enjoyable read - if the setting hadn't been so good I would have given the book about 5.
This book is one of hundred books that are used to tell the story of the development of British Crime Fiction 1901-1950 in Martin Edwards new book 'The Story of Classic Crime in 100 Books' - due to be released early August 2017. This book appears under Chapter 8 - Capital Crimes (somewhere in London is used as the crime scene).
The book teaser reads: A radio play, The Scarlet Highwayman, is being transmitted from Broadcasting House. The actors, engineers and producers are all nervous at the prospect of the live transmission and are obviously delighted when it proves to be a success. One of the best scenes is the one in which the actor Sidney Parsons is 'murdered'. Not usually an animated performer, he is surprisingly impressive here. But then his body is found in Studio 7C and it transpires that he really had been murdered. And that everyone who had heard the play had heard him die ....
In The Times Literary Review 4th February 1934 - Dorothy Sayers gives the following review:
Death at Broadcasting House may be called middlebrow. An actor is murdered in the middle of a broadcast (O si sic omnes1) and millions of listeners hear him die. But he was alone in the studio at the time, and - well, there you are! No one could help finding this tale enjoyable, first, because it is excellently well written; secondly, because it has an exciting plot neatly put together; thirdly, because to listen-in on other people's "shop" is the most entertaining thing in the world, and the authors have made full use of the technical details of the Dramatic Control Panel and the inner organisation of the BBC in staging their drama.
Except that it could hardly have taken a person 45 seconds to cross a passage and enter a room (a second is much longer interval than one thinks, and in 45 seconds I can walk down 20 stairs, out through the back door, shutting it after me, and half way down the garden), I have no fault to find with the mechanism of the plot, and all clues are scrupulously given. This is not caviare, but a light and savoury omelette, cooked to a turn and served piping hot. (Taken from Taking Detective Stories Seriously - The Collected crime Reviews of Dorothy L. Sayers - Martin Edwards - 2017)
My own review - The setting (Broadcasting House) is original and the story is put into a very believable narrative (which is only to be expected as both writers worked at Broadcasting House & were involved in the production of plays). The characters are of an authentic type and what one imagines as artist types for that period in time - covering, extrovert & hidden characters as well as loose living individuals and the dandy types.The only humour present in the novel comes from the comparisons between the situation (plot) and that of contemporary crime novels & characters e.g. Dr Thorndyke & The Yellow Room Mystery (Gaston Laroux) etc - and a smattering from the amateur sleuth's plucky female helpmates. The novel has an easy flow to it and moves at a middle pace - however some of the dialogue between characters is somewhat melodramatic (to be expected from radio play writers) and may sound stilted to modern day readers. Dorothy Sayers comment about the 45 seconds above is incorrect the murderer had probably just under 4 minutes to commit the act. An enjoyable read and very insightful into the life at Broadcasting House (BBC) in the early 1930s.
The flaws to the novel are: The book needed a plan of the studios as sometimes this gets confusing in the book (my copy did not contain one but the 1934 edition may of done?). A second death (Higgins) is brushed over and never explained - murder/suicide/accident and seems totally unnecessary as it leads to nowhere - this part of the story is used to introduce the two plucky assistant sleuths. Inspector Simon Spears shares information about Parson's murder with other suspects which is unrealistic - he also steals an item from someone's house while they are on the telephone. As a puzzle there is only one clue given to the identity of the murderer - although it is easy to guess at the murderer. A lucky coincidence occurs that one character remembers something that happened in the past that connected 3 of the suspects.
I would give this book 7 out of 10 as it's an enjoyable read - if the setting hadn't been so good I would have given the book about 5.
This book is one of hundred books that are used to tell the story of the development of British Crime Fiction 1901-1950 in Martin Edwards new book 'The Story of Classic Crime in 100 Books' - due to be released early August 2017. This book appears under Chapter 8 - Capital Crimes (somewhere in London is used as the crime scene).
August 31, 2017
Recensione completa su www.pennaecalamaro.com
Non viaggio mai senza un libro dietro, e ora che il mio ereader è rotto, dovevo selezionare con cura un titolo adatto al mio viaggio letterario Sulle tracce delle grandi scrittrici. Mentre cercavo tra i romanzi ancora da leggere, mi è capitato sottomano questo. Perfetto, ho pensato. Se una delle autrici del viaggio è Agatha Christie, un giallo scritto da due uomini suoi contemporanei e ambientato a Londra, città da cui ho iniziato il giro, non può che essere una buona scelta. E così infatti è stato.
Romanzo del 1934, rimasto inedito in Italia fino al 2009, rispetta tutti i canoni del giallo classico. Un omicidio in diretta durante una trasmissione radio, un accusato e altri quattro sospettati, un ispettore di Scotlard Yard che indaga con arguzia e costanza. Il ritmo è incalzante e le tracce e gli indizi si dipanano piano piano. Come in ogni giallo che si rispetti, ovviamente ho tentato di capire chi fosse l’assassino prima del finale. Non faccio spoiler, ma vi do anch’io un indizio: i due autori danno la chiave e a un certo punto, facendo bene attenzione alle risposte dei personaggi, saprete chi è l’assassino. O l’assassina. Diabolici questi due scrittori di inizio novecento. L’unica cosa che non mi convince in pieno del romanzo è la motivazione dell’assassinio, però forse è dovuto più che altro a un senso dell’onore dell’epoca che oggi ci sfugge. Oltre alla storia in sé, ho trovato interessante anche la descrizione tecnica di come avvenivano le dirette degli sceneggiati radiofonici e divertente cercare di indovinare in quale personaggio si nascondessero gli autori. Nella vita, infatti, erano entrambi dipendenti della BBC e lavorano insieme, quindi la ricostruzione dovrebbe essere fedele. Quanto vorrei che li facessero anche oggi!
Non viaggio mai senza un libro dietro, e ora che il mio ereader è rotto, dovevo selezionare con cura un titolo adatto al mio viaggio letterario Sulle tracce delle grandi scrittrici. Mentre cercavo tra i romanzi ancora da leggere, mi è capitato sottomano questo. Perfetto, ho pensato. Se una delle autrici del viaggio è Agatha Christie, un giallo scritto da due uomini suoi contemporanei e ambientato a Londra, città da cui ho iniziato il giro, non può che essere una buona scelta. E così infatti è stato.
Romanzo del 1934, rimasto inedito in Italia fino al 2009, rispetta tutti i canoni del giallo classico. Un omicidio in diretta durante una trasmissione radio, un accusato e altri quattro sospettati, un ispettore di Scotlard Yard che indaga con arguzia e costanza. Il ritmo è incalzante e le tracce e gli indizi si dipanano piano piano. Come in ogni giallo che si rispetti, ovviamente ho tentato di capire chi fosse l’assassino prima del finale. Non faccio spoiler, ma vi do anch’io un indizio: i due autori danno la chiave e a un certo punto, facendo bene attenzione alle risposte dei personaggi, saprete chi è l’assassino. O l’assassina. Diabolici questi due scrittori di inizio novecento. L’unica cosa che non mi convince in pieno del romanzo è la motivazione dell’assassinio, però forse è dovuto più che altro a un senso dell’onore dell’epoca che oggi ci sfugge. Oltre alla storia in sé, ho trovato interessante anche la descrizione tecnica di come avvenivano le dirette degli sceneggiati radiofonici e divertente cercare di indovinare in quale personaggio si nascondessero gli autori. Nella vita, infatti, erano entrambi dipendenti della BBC e lavorano insieme, quindi la ricostruzione dovrebbe essere fedele. Quanto vorrei che li facessero anche oggi!
November 29, 2022
An actor is murdered while his play is being broadcast. More here: https://ahotcupofpleasureagain.wordpr...
February 17, 2023
Molto ben costruito, con i diversi punti di vista che si intrecciano a scombinare ancora di più le carte.
February 2, 2021
For my full review click on the link below:
https://crossexaminingcrime.wordpress...
https://crossexaminingcrime.wordpress...
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October 25, 2018Synopsis: a 1934 radio play. Millions of people hear an actor die during a radio production. But he was alone at the time.
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