According to academics at Wolverhampton University, since the Reform Act of 1832, hundreds of politicians have tried their hand at novel-writing – 350 to be precise. This startling figure has been announced along with their preliminary findings on the contents of most of these works, namely “an awful lot of sex”. At this early stage of their enquiries, these forensic analysts say the parliamentarians’ tales fall into two categories: thinly disguised score settling or revenge; and the ‘novel of ideas’, which is where the sex and violence come in. The academic in charge of the project said that, “They can’t get the public’s attention through speeches or leader articles in learned journals so they think, ‘OK, I will add some sex and murder and they will start identifying with us.’”

Ignoring the peculiar perception that Joe Public is only interested in sex and murder – how often do these people get out of their constituency offices? – I’d say the researchers are bending over backwards to be diplomatic, or forgiving. It is far more likely that our nation’s lieges are so used to thinking and arguing in black and white that the more sophisticated and nuanced arts are entirely beyond their grasp. The roman à clef is a blunt and vulgar instrument for righting personal slights, turning a novel into a game of blind man’s bluff; while a steamy thriller by an outwardly staid and buttoned up member of the establishment can be profoundly embarrassing, suggesting as it does the hours spent in escapist reveries when the author ought to have been concentrating during Prime Minister’s Questions. Or First Minister’s Questions, for that matter, although it is not entirely clear if MSPs come under the university’s remit.

Even if they did, the Wolverhampton team would have trouble categorising former MSP Christopher Harvie’s debut novel, Dalriada, which is just published (Capercaillie Books, £8.99). It falls into neither of the pigeonholes allocated to political authors. Indeed, it almost defies description, encompassing so much in its pages. I should say at this point that I know Professor Harvie. A distinguished history professor, he is a fellow member of the board of the Scottish Review of Books, and it is fair to say that his conversations during board meetings are not entirely dissimilar to the contents of this novel: profoundly erudite, engaging, provocative and occasionally quixotic.

Dalriada is the story of Scotland in the years around World War One. Its underlying theme is the radical technological and social changes that took place in this period, from the evolving design of warships, planes and tanks, to the coming of the movies and women’s emancipation. Like its author, it throws out sparks on every line, commanding one’s interest and concentration. Take the opening pages, where a Glasgow musical soiree is in full swing. Passages of Brahms, Bach, and Schumann are mentioned, on the assumption that the reader knows the works as well as he. This is soon followed by a cascade of scenes, between Scotland, England and Germany, in which real characters mingle with fictional, as when D H Lawrence meets Connie Reid, later to be immortalised as Lady Chatterley. It is novelist Allan Massie’s opinion of Harvie’s book that, “You are unlikely to have read anything quite like this before. All the more reason to do so.”

And he is right. Unlike more attention-seeking or money making politicians who patronise their readers with beach-reading drivel, Harvie takes the path less travelled. A natural teacher and enthusiast, his assumption of the elevated cultural and historical hinterland of his readers is generous – and inspiring. Here is a polymath who writes of what he knows, but makes no concession to ignorance or apathy. The novel is not without its moments of passion – tastefully handled – but its keynote is inquiry, and a fascination with those who forged war, and those who helped fight it, among them the Clyde shipyard builders. There is also a kindliness about his perception of his characters, notably of women, something of which most of his political kin seem incapable. This effervescent thriller is proof that some of those in the corridors of power do not patronise their readers. Instead they credit them with remarkably broad knowledge. Or a hunger for it.