PHOTO: Lexie Conyngham, pictured amidst the rugged beauty of North East Scotland, where history and inspiration intertwine in her novels.
Uncover The Historical Depths Of Crime Through Storycraft
Lexie Conyngham discusses her historical crime novels, vividly weaving tales of Scotland’s past with meticulous research and heartfelt exploration of human relationships and mysteries across eras.
Lexie Conyngham’s novels are steeped in the evocative landscapes and rich histories of Scotland, but it is her deep connection to the land and its heritage that gives her work its distinctive resonance. Living in the shadow of the Highlands, amidst ancient universities and aristocratic estates, she brings a historian’s precision and a storyteller’s intuition to create worlds where past and present intertwine in absorbing and often perilous ways. To read Conyngham is to step not only into another time but into the soul of places often overlooked, with their secrets unearthed and their shadows illuminated.
Through her various series—Murray of Letho, Orkneyinga Murders, Hippolyta Napier, and others—her craft reveals how power, isolation, and resilience are themes that transcend epochs. From the stormy coastlines of Viking Orkney to the elegant yet fragile spheres of Georgian Scotland, her narratives invite readers to think deeply about what binds communities and individuals, even as tragedy or violence threatens to tear them apart. Her characters, shaped by their environments and era, offer up emotions that feel profoundly modern, yet wholly tethered to their historical constraints.
At heart, Conyngham’s writing embraces the tactile authenticity that can only come from firsthand connection. Whether through weaving Viking braid or reconstructing a Georgian recipe, her “practical archaeology” is more than just research—it is an act of immersion, a way to breathe life into the details that make her stories so compelling. For readers and aspiring writers alike, her work is a testament to the delightful complexities of blending meticulous scholarship with the forces of narrative imagination.
Your Orkneyinga Murders series begins with Tomb for an Eagle — what key historical discovery inspired the haunting atmosphere of that first novel?
When I discovered that the Brough of Birsay, where most of the action takes place, was once much bigger and attached to the western end of Orkney’s mainland, and that there would have been a busy harbour there as well as Earl Thorfinn’s hall and a thriving community where now there are mostly seabirds, it brought history to life for me. I began to imagine what that community was like, perched precariously on a cliff, ready to defend itself against the weather or invaders. The ghosts of it remain, where you can tread the present narrow causeway at low tide and explore the ruins of the Viking longhouses – and the sauna!
In A Wolf at the Gate, Ketil returns to Orkney—how did you research his emotional journey amid resurfacing old traumas?
We can imagine Viking warriors as muscular, tough, killing machines. Ketil is definitely a sensitive man, though he would call it ‘cautious’. Orkney has made him uneasy from the start: he thinks that the mists could conceal all kinds of threats, mythical and real, and coming from a mountainous country he feels the low-lying lands are vulnerable. But when we discover that an apparently charming newcomer actually has a violent past, one that has directly affected someone Ketil held dear, we see another side of Ketil. To lose someone almost before you know whether or not you have them is something that can haunt you, and Ketil, like many strong men, has bottled up his emotions and never spoken about them. Sharing the full story with Sigrid, his childhood friend, is indicative of the relationship developing between them, and gives us a hint as to why Ketil might have returned to Orkney, despite his reservations.
The Bear at Midnight features a thriller set in Buckquoy Hall—what informed your portrayal of isolation and tension within its walls?
Tensions between family members are common when a loved one dies. Here there is a great deal at stake: the hall is a key part of Thorfinn’s defences and he needs a leader there he can trust. The dead man, Einar, had no clear heir, and strangers come to make their claims on his hall. The Vikings did not have the same sense of privacy as we do: much of their living was done in public, or in crowded indoor spaces. Buckquoy Hall would have been full of all the locals, hotly debating who should succeed, waiting anxiously for news of Thorfinn’s decision, sizing up the claimants. And there is no lonelier place than the middle of a crowd when you’re worried, or afraid.
Across the Orkneyinga Murders, sea and landscape recur prominently—how does Orkney itself act as a character in your novels?
Orkney can hardly help being a character. It’s the most wonderful place. It’s the only place I know with gale force mist, where every few feet there’s a cairn, or broch, or standing stone. It buzzes with history. And what I have tried to convey in the novels (despite the murders) is the friendliness of the people – incomers and longstanding families, just as it would have been in Viking times. It was a rich, green place to the Norse coming south, and a convenient stopping off point in those busy seas. There is nowhere like it.
Your Murray of Letho series spans settings from Scotland to Mughal India—do you see thematic threads linking these disparate locales?
Each place that Murray visits and investigates in is a place of energy, somewhere things can happen. They’re places where people come together, where paths meet, and that’s where things can be achieved but also where emotions collide and conflicts arise.
As a historian and practical archaeologist, how do your hands on recreations influence your fiction’s authenticity?
‘Practical archaeologist’ is a kind of joke term for me (though I’m sure there are plenty of very practical archaeologists) – it’s an excuse for wearing odd clothes and boiling things up on the stove that sometimes don’t go well. My basics are knowing how to ride, fence, and shoot. I’ve also spent a little time throwing axes and working silver, and a lot of time cooking Viking or Georgian recipes and weaving Viking braid. It’s good to know how long things take to do or to make, and how restrictive things can be – slow communications, awkward clothing, limited diet – all of which make our characters behave in particular ways. We have to learn to limit our reader’s expectations by making them feel they are in the past with us, so they’re not thinking ‘Oh, just Google it!’ when the character is stuck with a puzzle. If I’ve experienced the feel of the past, it’s much easier for me to help the reader to join me there.
Finally, what single piece of advice would you give aspiring historical crime writers hoping to blend scholarly research with compelling narrative?
Start small. Research is great fun, and there are many rabbit holes to go down. But learn what you need to start writing, and build it up from there. Otherwise you’ll never start writing!
