‘’S aobhar a bhàis soilleir an clàr-aodainn’: Crime Writing in Gaelic

Interest in crime in Gaelic literature can be traced far back into songs and tales, both anonymous and attributed, that deal with violence and felony, from well-known historical events, such as the Keppoch murder, to local incidents, but the history of focused crime fiction writing is much shorter. Since the early twentieth century, Gaelic writers have been experimenting with crime elements and trying to write in the genre, both to suit their own interests and preoccupations and to increase the competitiveness of Gaelic literature with the range of material available in English.

Crime elements can be traced in one of the two earliest Gaelic novels, Dùn Àluinn (Dunalin, or the Banished Heir, 1912) by John MacCormick (Iain MacCormaig, 1860–1947),¹ where the father of the titular banished heir dies under suspicious circumstances in a supposed accident, but is apparently murdered, and other characters have a criminal past. When summarising Dùn Àluinn, Derick Thomson laconically notes that ‘the plot has a love theme, some murders and scenes in New Zealand goldmines’ and Moray Watson describes the novel’s denouement as ‘a poorly-crafted detective story’.² Dùn Àluinn thus indicates the recurring problem of crime fiction and of genre fiction in Gaelic: it is a brave and an important attempt, but the result comes across as not entirely convincing, and readers may engage with it out of commitment and cultural interest, rather than for genuine entertainment. 

In the early decades of the twentieth century, the author, editor, and activist Ruaraidh Erskine of Mar (Ruaraidh Arascain is Mhàirr, 1869–1960) founded and ran five Gaelic magazines that sought to promote new Gaelic writing and Scottish independence. Although some of Erskine’s ventures were highbrow and aimed at an intellectual audience, he also tried to attract a broader readership through more accessible content. The monthly and later quarterly magazine An Sgeulaiche (‘The Storyteller’, 1909–1911) published original short Gaelic fiction, translations into Gaelic, folk tales, songs, and content for children. 

Erskine himself wrote five detective stories with the private investigator Iain MacRaonuill (John MacRonald) who, after unsuccessfully trying to make his living as a wine merchant and through horse-betting, becomes, by a quirk of fate, a private investigator.³ The stories draw on the trend of detective and, in some cases, the occult detective story which was already well-established, from Arthur Conan Doyle to other authors including William Hope Hodgson, Algernon Blackwood, and Emma Orczy.⁴ The stories are noteworthy for offering no explanations or excuses for being written in Gaelic, four out of five have no obvious links to traditional Gaelic-speaking areas, and feature settings in stately homes with private painting collections and in Tsarist Russia.

Although the literary quality of the stories is uneven, and they give the impression of being written quickly – which is likely, given the amount of writing Erskine was producing for the magazines – the best ones are successful in conveying a sense of menace, in shocking or surprising the reader, and in generating interest in the protagonist. In this respect ‘An Tè aig an Robh Cridhe Nathrach’ (The Woman with the Snake’s Heart) is the most convincing one, employing the fin-de-siècle image of a beastly woman, which resonates with much contemporary art, and it represents one of the clearest manifestations of decadent features in Gaelic literature. 

More attempts to develop the detective short story in Gaelic followed in the quarterly Gairm (1952–2002), co-founded by poet and scholar Derick Thomson (Ruaraidh MacThòmais, 1921–2012) and producer and author Finaly J. MacDonald (Fionnlagh Iain MacDhòmhnaill, 1925–1987).⁵ The magazine sought to promote new Gaelic literature, including the short story in the modern vein, in contrast to traditional tales, but it also strove to appeal to a diverse readership. In the detective stories, these two aims neatly converged. 

One of the most prolific Gairm contributors was the Rev. Cailein T. MacCoinnich (Colin N. MacKenzie, 1917–1994), who won the Gairm short story prize and received the Bardic Crown from An Comunn Gàidhealach in 1952.⁶ Some of his stories that initially appeared in Gairm were brought together in the 1971 volume Mar Sgeul a Dh’innseas Neach (Like a Story Someone Tells), published in the series ‘Leabhraichean Ùra Gàidhlig’ (New Gaelic Books), directed by Thomson at Glasgow University.

The collection includes several detective stories. ‘Crudha Eich’ [A Horseshoe] features a strikingly graphic opening: ‘Bha ’n corp ’na shìneadh air a dhruim-dìreach, aodann fuar neo-dhreachmhor ris na speuran agus rèim bàn de liath-reothadh air fhiasaig. Sin mar a fhuair iad e, ’s aobhar a bhàis soilleir an clàr-aodainn – làrach crudha-eich a chuir an t-eanchainn às.’ [The body was stretched out flat on its back, the face cold and unappealing turned towards the skies, with a white rim of hoarfrost on the beard. That is how they found him, with   – the imprint of a horseshoe that kick out his brains].⁷ The murder dressed up as a riding accident is resolved by the lawyer Diarmad, accompanied by a faithful friend and chronicler. 

Diarmad reappears in ‘An Dìleab’ [The Inheritance]. One of the most interesting features of the story is the narrative voice, belonging a relative of an affluent farmer deceased in a brutal accident. His biting comments on other family members and unabashed expression of greed make the story engaging and lively right up to the cynical ending. The story hints at family history reaching to the Boer Wars, and involves a treasure of pearls of uncertain provenance, bringing in undertones recminiscent of unsettling encounters with the colonies (and with Continental Europe) that recur in the Holmes canon. 

Two detective stories by MacCoinnich involve more humorous mysterious incidents, both revolving around prize-winning animals: ‘Rud Nach Fhaic Sùil’ [What an Eye Cannot See], where the problem of a bull disappearing from a moving train is swiftly resolved by Cathal, and ‘A’ Mhuc’ [The Pig], where a pig goes missing without trace, and its whereabouts are established by the quick-witted Seòras, with some situational humour derived from the hectic search for the missing animal and the owner’s inordinate regard for it. 

The stories are written in the Conan Doyle vein, narrated by the friend and companion of the exceptionally gifted unofficial investigator, who naturally comes across recherche problems. MacCoinnich is inventive when it comes to the central idea and the narrative voice, but usually conveys little in terms of atmosphere, and he also does not build up the figure of a detective in whom the reader would develop an interest and would follow the stories to learn more about them: Diarmad, Cathal, and Seòras all seem to be fairly interchangeable. 

The most extensive story, and one without a detective, follows the execution and impact of a crime through the eyes of the perpetrator. In ‘Guth na Cogais’ [The Voice of Consience], rather than from following the process of detection, the suspense derives from the reader observing the crime being planned and executed, with direct insight into the murderer’s motivations and feelings: ‘Bha còrr is bliadhna on chuir Mìcheil roimhe a bhean a mhort. ’S bhà e air a dheanamh cuideachd – o chionn fhada, faodaidh – nan robh an cothrom air tighinn ’na rathad.’ [It was more than a year since Michael decided to murder his wife. And he would have done it too – likely a long time ago – if an opportunity came his way.]⁸ At the end, the image of the protagonist-murderer drifting alone in a boat in mist towards death, called on by his murdered wife, and suddenly slipping back to his childhood, brings in a dream-like existentialist dimension. The story is original and unnerving, if slightly uneven, and one of the highlights of the collection. 

Gairm Publications, the publishing venture associated with the magazine, brought out two novellas with detective elements. Na Speuclairean Dubha (The Dark Glasses, 1989) by Iain Crichton Smith (Iain Mac a’ Ghobhainn) testifies to his fondness of detective fiction, and explores, like many of his works, the figure of a loner in a community. The investigation of a suicide in a small town, not surprisingly, takes an existential turn for the protagonist. Likewise, it was Gairm Publications that brought out the first focused murder mystery: the suggestively titled Cò Rinn E? (Who Did It?) by Dòmhnall Iain MacÌomhair (Donald John MacIver, 1942–2015) appeared in 1993. Cò Rinn E? is a short piece and reads almost like a text aimed at Gaelic learners, fluent but intentionally simple, with almost no attempt to create an atmosphere of suspense or to give readers a deeper sense of place and characters. Provided with mostly under-developed clues, the reader has little chance to follow the investigation or make guesses, and the little information available tends to be too frequently repeated. The central plot element is remarkable, though, as it involves the murder of a pregnant woman and a double illicit affair in a Gaelic-speaking township. 

One of the most accomplished works of Gaelic fiction by any standards, and one which is set in the Edinburgh criminal underworld, is Shrapnel (2006) by Tormod Caimbeul (Norman Campbell, 1942–2015).⁹ In its engagement with violence and vice, deep understanding of a city, assured command of language registers, and existentialist dimension, it could be the Gaelic answer to William McIlvanney’s Laidlaw trilogy. The novel follows the eponymous character, ‘Shrapnel’, a retired detective, on his quest for revenge through the capital’s closes and seedy pubs.¹⁰ It is delivered with Caimbeul’s characteristic humour and delight in allusions ranging from the American hard-boiled school and Gunfight at the O.K. Corral to Iain Lom. The importance of constant switching between Gaelic, Scots, and English makes the novel a translator’s challenge and a demanding read, but confirm, alongside Caimbeul’s novelistic debut Deireadh an Fhoghair(The End of Autumn, 1979), his leading place among Gaelic fiction writers. 

Contributions to the genre from the last decade suggest a growing diversification of subject, tone, purpose, and ambition. They include A’ Togail an t-Srùbain (Collecting Cockles, 2017), the debut novel by Calum N. MacLeòid, where the protagonist is haunted by the disappearance of a body he remembers encountering, and the attitudes of an island community towards immigrants. Iain F. MacLeòid’s Dìoghaltas (Revenge, 2017) and Hiort (St Kilda, 2021) both use the attraction of settings in the Western Isles and draw on local history and on tropes of contemporary Anglophone and Scandinavian crime fiction.¹¹ Aonghas Pàdraig Caimbeul’s Constabal Murdo (Constable Murdo, 2018), where a historical golden brooch gets stolen in Barra, brings a light and humorous touch to the portfolio (in the next instalment, Murdo ventures to Marseilles). It does not seek to build up an atmosphere of menace and succeeds in both verbal and situational comedy. Shelagh Chaimbeul’s Far na Slighe (Off the Path, 2024) follows a female protagonist trying to find out the truth about the death of a young woman near St Andrews twenty years ago and brings in contemporary references, such as true crime programmes. 

Most recently, Gaelic crime gained high visibility with the premiere of the miniseries An t-Eilean (The Island, 2025), where Tartan Noir transforms into Harris Tweed Noir with a complex story concerning the troubled family of a Gaelic-speaking businessman whose wife is found shot at the family mansion. While it is a welcome development in terms of production values and some impressive leading performances, especially from Iain MacRae and Sinead MacInnes, the story would have benefited from more space to develop its numerous clues and characters. Given the high spectator numbers, it will likely inspire similar attempts in the near future. 

While Gaelic literature is waiting for its own crime writer of the assurance and panache of Val McDermid or Denise Mina, perhaps someone will choose a more quirky path, and follow the example of Biddy Jenkinson, one of the most celebrated poets writing in Irish, in whose An tAthair Pádraig Ó Duinnín – Bleachtaire (2008) and Duinnín: Bleachtaire ar an Sceilg (2011) the eminent lexicographer and Jesuit priest Patrick S. Dineen embarks on solving puzzles not only linguistic and etymological, in the vein of Chesterton’s Father Brown. Surely the challenge should be addressed with Edward Dwelly encountering mysterious incidents on his collecting tours in the Highlands, inspired by the equally intriguing definitions from the great dictionary.

1. For an assessment of the novel, see Sheila Kidd, ‘The Forgotten First: John MacCormick’s Dùn-Àluinn,’ Scottish Gaelic Studies 22 (2006) and Moray Watson, An Introduction to Gaelic Fiction (Edinburgh University Press, 2011), p. 38–46.
2. Derick Thomson, Companion to Gaelic Scotland (Gairm, 1994), p. 218; Watson, An Introduction to Gaelic Fiction, p. 54.
3. I discuss the stories in more detail in ‘Snake Women and Hideous Sensations: The Strange Case of Gaelic Detective Short Stories by Ruaraidh Erskine of Mar,’ Scottish Literary Review 12.1 (2020) and in the video lecture ‘Masculinity in Ruaraidh Erskine’s Short Stories in the Context of Fin-de-siècle Detective Fiction,’ Association for Scottish literature, Annual Symposium, 26 November 2022.
4. For a selection of stories, see The Rivals of Sherlock Holmes, a series of anthologies edited by Hugh Greene (1970–1976), and The Ghost Slayers: Thrilling Tales of Occult Detection, ed. Mike Ashley (British Library, 2022). 
5. Moray Watson provides a detailed overview of short fiction in Gairm in An Introduction to Gaelic Fiction, which helped me to identify several examples for this article. Watson discusses Mackenzie’s stories on p. 139–141. He provides English translations for all the Gaelic works discussed. I am using my own translations for them. 
6. Mackenzie’s work has not been subject to much research, apart from Donald Meek, ‘Ath-sgrùdadh: Cailean T. MacCoinnich,’ Gairm 123 (1983) and Ronald Black’s biographical note in An Tuil | The Flood: Anthology of 20th-Century Scottish Gaelic Verse (Polygon, 1999), pp. 777–79.
7. ‘Crudha Eich,’ Mar Sgeul a Dh’Inneas Neach (Roinn nan Cànan Ceilteach, Oilthigh Ghlaschu, 1971), p. 56. Translation mine. The story originally appeared in Gairm 59 (1967) and was later reprinted in the anthology Eadar Peann is Pàipear, ed. Dòmhnall Iain MacIomhair (Gairm, 1985). 
8. ‘Guth na Cogais,’ Mar Sgeul a Dh’Inneas Neach, p. 79.
9. The novel has been released as an audio book, narrated by Tormod Caimbeul himself (CLÀR, 2007), and adapted into a play by Catrìona Lexy Chaimbeul, performed by the company Theatre Gu Leòr, and the script published in a bilingual version (Leabhraichean Beaga, 2016). 
10. I have discussed the novel in ‘The Gael Cosmopolite: Tormod Caimbeul and Shrapnel (2006),’ Litteraria Pragensia, 27.53 (2017).
11. Hiort is discussed by Alan Titley in ‘Modernising the Islands: Irish and Scottish Gaelic Fictions,’ Litteraria Pragensia: Ireland and Scotland: Cultural Intersections Across the Irish Sea 65.33 (2023), DOI:10.14712/2571452X.2023.65.6.