As
crime fiction goes, The Master of The Moor by Ruth Rendell is perhaps one of
the more subtle examples. The action is set in a moorland community, presumably
somewhere like North Yorkshire, though the book’s place names are pure
invention and geography is not defined. There has been a murder, a fairly
vicious affair where the young female victim – perhaps a cliché in itself – has
not only been stabbed but scalped as well. The body has been discovered by
Stephen, a large man, passionate enough about moorland rambling to write a
regular column on the subject for a local newspaper, and thus is probably not
unknown in the community. The plot will not be spoiled if it is revealed that,
primarily because of his intimate knowledge of the moor, coupled with his
solitary nature, Stephen becomes suspect number one. There is another murder
and yet another in this small, apparently tightly-knit place.
Stephen
is apparently happily married in an unhappy marriage. We learn of his sexual
dysfunction, as if it is advertised, while he questions his own birthright. He
has a confused elderly relative who lives in a care home. There’s a famous
local novelist, now dead, famous for his moorland romances, a writer with whom
Stephen feels a strong and special association.
There
is Dadda, meaning Stephen’s father, a giant of a man who runs a furniture
restoration business. His son is an employee. There is Nick, the man Stephen’s
wife is seeing. And then, inevitably, there are policemen involved. There has,
after all, been a murder.
Ruth
Rendell’s descriptive writing captures the landscape well and also communicates
Stephen’s life-long love of the place, its history, its flora and fauna, and
its uniqueness. The plot eventually works its way through its own machinations
and there is something of a surprise towards the end. So why, then, is such a
competently written, engaging and enjoyable book eventually such a disappointment?
The answer, surely, is that demands of the genre dominate and diminish the
writer’s ability to communicate. And here are four ways in which this happens.
Firstly,
there is the all-seeing person at the heart of the process – the writer. As
previously stated, Ruth Rendell’s book is very well written and is certainly
much more than competent when compared to almost any other form. But the writer
here is clearly not to be trusted. There are ideas, facts and facets relating
to almost all of these characters that the writer deliberately hides from the
reader, merely so that they can be revealed when the plot demands. This happens
despite the God-like, all-seeing standpoint that the non-participant narrator
adopts and the shifting point-of-view where, apparently, we can be inside the
thoughts of any of the characters at whim. And still we do not know what they
think! In The Master Of The Moor, for example, Stephen apparently changes
colour when he gets angry. We only learn this some way through the tale. Do we
assume that this is a new phenomenon? Has he never before been angry? Has
no-one ever noticed this tendency, or remarked upon it in this small,
tightly-knit community? Perhaps it is merely a convenient vehicle for the
story-teller, introduced with little warning to create a spicy moment. Perhaps,
then, it is disingenuousness of this type that prompts someone like Alan
Bennett to confess that writers generally are not very nice people.
Secondly,
there is the function of the characters in relation to the plot. Throughout,
the reader senses that the only reasons for identifying aspects of character is
to link them to a linear plot that will eventually be resolved, with revealed
detail functioning as either evidence or motive. As the process unfolds, such
details are revealed sequentially as clues to notice, like scraps of paper
strewn on a forest floor to dictate the route to follow. We know that these
people only exist as mere vehicles, functionaries whose existence is to serve
the illusion. And the journey feels ever more like being led by the nose.
Thirdly,
and by no means any less importantly, is the requirement that all belief be
suspended, even within a setting that seems to rely upon establishing a sense
of realism. Genre fiction seems to be, in relation to this demand upon the
reader, to be more demanding than fantasy, horror or even opera. In Master Of
The Moor, for instance, we have a total of three bizarre murders in a small,
rural community. Not only are these crimes committed in a very short space of
time, they are also in the public domain. Meanwhile people in these small towns
seem to go on with their lives without those recent events dominating their
thoughts, conversations or actions. There have been three murders, and yet it
is the local police who are still doing the investigating. Three murders, and
still there is neither a plethora of imported reinforcements from even nearby
forces, nor is there any invasion by researchers, presenters, technicians or
temporary twenty-four hour studios of national and international news gathering
organisations. Life, and death, it seems, just goes on. There have been three
murders, and apparently not even journalists from local or regional media are
on the streets of this small place drubbing out a story. There have been three
murders, and yet people still do not have them at the forefront of their
gossip. There is no finger pointing. There are no tearful press conferences,
and little speculation. And people still discuss furniture restoration,
moorland grasses, old mines and out-of-date books before any of the three
murders. Reality, the currency of the genre, seems to be strangely absent.
Fourthly,
and perhaps most important of all, is the sense that everything presented is
formulaic. The victims are all young and female, of course, and men with sexual
problems behave strangely. Most people conform to social class stereotypes and
anyone with an interest worthy of remark is a suspect.
Master
Of The Moor is a good read. It is an enjoyable book. But, via its form,
prescriptions and preconceptions, it presents an at best two-dimensional world.
Its plot and characters are truly one-dimensional within that frame, mere lines
that join up pre-placed dots. There is nothing wrong with the book, but, like
its characters, it is imprisoned by the confines of genre and cannot transcend
the imposed framework. The experience it offers the reader is therefore
limited. Imagination, somehow, seem to be lacking.
