The Mysterious Mr. Badman by W.F. Harvey

It’s not too late to squeeze in one last summer mystery. William Fryer Harvey’s 1934 novel, The Mysterious Mr. Badman, begins in a Yorkshire bookshop on a sultry afternoon in July.

While on holiday in Yorkshire, Athelstan Digby agrees to look after the bookshop of his hosts for the afternoon. The weather is stifling, so Mr. Digby doesn’t expect much traffic, but over the course of the afternoon a vicar, a chauffeur, and an out-of-towner ask for the same book, The Life and Death of Mr. Badman by John Bunyan.

Mr. Digby has never heard of the book, and there is no record of it in the bookshop catalogue, which is what he tells each prospective customer. When a copy happens to arrive in a bundle of secondhand books, he snaps up the lot double quick. But then the book gets pinched.

Mr. Digby and his nephew, Jim Pickering, are motivated to find out what makes this book so special. Soon they find themselves caught up in a crime more involved than a little antiquarian book theft, and much more deadly.

I was first attracted to this book because it was advertised as a “bibliomystery”. I must admit I was a bit disappointed on that front. I don’t believe I have ever read a book from this sub-genre, or at least not one that was calling itself a bibliomystery, so I may have had unfair expectations that the mystery be entirely wrapped up in books, which it is not. From Mr. Digby’s perspective, the impetus for the mystery is this book by John Bunyan that goes missing, but the book only plays a small role in the mystery as a whole. 

However, I was also very much attracted to reading a mystery set in Yorkshire, and in that regard this book came through. In fact, it is the setting more than the mystery that came out on top for me. I do love descriptions of nature, and books with a setting that is as necessary to the plot as any of the main characters.

At Kildale Mill he stopped to watch the peat-brown water swirling over the ruined weir, and then struck up on to the moor, choosing a patch that had been burned two years ago and which was now carpeted with green bilberry and bell heather. The walking was easy and he made good progress. It was extraordinarily peaceful. The only sound came from a lark, lost in the blue. There was no one in sight, no one, that is, except the young lady who stood silhouetted against the sky-line, apparently lost in admiration of the view. Then, as he looked, she turned and began to walk quickly towards him. It was Miss Conyers, a deeply agitated Miss Conyers, very different from the reserved, slightly cynical young lady he had met the preceding afternoon. (38)

For me, descriptions like this are better than a photograph or a painting, because I get to create images of the place in my mind as I read, like a film strip that alters, fills in, becomes clearer, as I go along. I’m still thinking of this setting with longing and wishing I was Mr. Digby, setting out in the morning with a map, a cocoa tin for any rare flowers I might find, which in the mean time has been filled with half a pound of raisins bought at the village shop (37). I’m not sure I would be as clearheaded as Mr. Digby about coming across a body on the moors, but I would like to think I would be as cool under pressure as he is throughout this book.

Later, when the above mentioned Miss Conyers lends a hand in the investigation, she becomes Diana, not that Mr. Digby refers to her as such, but the reader gets to be on a first name basis with her. Diana has her own peaceful moment in nature.

Jim proposed that they should all drive on to Whitby, but Diana pleaded a headache. She would find a quiet corner in the Spa gardens, she said, and they could meet her, say, at six at the South Cliff tea-rooms.

She sat for an hour, listening to the music of the band, while from the crowded beach below came the cries of happy children. The bay was dotted with boats. A steam drifter was leaving the harbour, the smoke from her funnel hanging like a black streak across the weather-beaten roofs of the old town, backed by the grand silhouette of the castle and the castle rock, weather-beaten too, but still unconquered. (95)

I thought that last sentence was particularly pleasing, so I had to share it. I think the next bit in the book is interesting in terms of plotting and pacing. It is when the sun disappears behind a cloud and the air gets chilly, that Diana makes her way into town to get make some purchases for the house. There she spots a clue to the chauffeur they have been looking for without even trying. If only all mysteries came together so easily! There are plenty of aspects of this case that Mr. Digby properly investigates, but I did find this coincidence a bit too convenient for my liking. I love the scene setting, though, and how the author gives both his character and the reader a momentary break to catch our collective breath before carrying on with the investigation.

For the most part, I felt remarkably relaxed while reading this book, so I was a bit surprised to see the back cover copy describes it as “fast-paced”. It is slim, just over 200 pages including the introduction, and it does get more tense as it closes in on the climax, but looking back on it now a couple of weeks after finishing this book—I know, very tardy in my review writing—I recall finding the beginning intriguing, the nighttime intruder at the bookshop thrilling, the finding of a body on the moors very exciting, and then my interest dropped off for a while. The tension leading up to the climax was great, and I actually felt concerned about the fate of our main characters. That is, until I reminded myself it was going to turn out all right in the end. Probably.

I know I went on about the setting, saying it was better than the mystery, and I stick by that. However, the mystery in this one was not at all bad. It just is not at the same level as the best books in the British Library Crime Classics collection, in my opinion. Harvey did do a great job of creating characters I cared about, and putting them it tight spots that made me worried, and had me nearly convinced they were not going to get the baddie.

Whether you add The Mysterious Mr. Badman to your end of summer TBR or save it for next July, this is a great one for book lovers or anyone craving a holiday in Yorkshire. I suspect many of us fit into at least one of these two categories! 

I have my friend Gina (@babsbelovedbooks) to thank for this book. She absolutely spoiled me by sending me a few (NINE!) British Library Crime Classics. This happened a while ago, and I was so overwhelmed that I haven’t even been able to photograph them all together. If you have visited this blog before, you will know how much I love these books, and how excited I am to have a whole bunch of new ones to read. The only thing I can liken it to is having a whole cupboard full of candy just waiting to be enjoyed. Thank you, dear Gina, for the books, and more importantly, for you and your friendship! 

Gina and I live some distance apart, but we get together at least once a week virtually for our movie and crochet dates. Right now we are both making blankets using the same Flowers in the Snow pattern, but with different colours. You can see a glimpse of mine in the bottom right corner of the last two photos. When I’m not working on it I have the project sitting on my dining room table, so that I can readily admire it every time I walk by it on the way to the kitchen. The muted palate is making me so happy that I just had to share it alongside these beautiful books. I hope you don’t mind the indulgence. 

***If you got something out of this post, please consider subscribing to my blog. You can find the email sign up on the right hand side at the top of this page (on desktop version only), or click on the link here. You will receive a confirmation email in your inbox (or possibly your junk folder). Once you click to confirm your email address you will receive an email notification whenever a new blog post goes up. And, of course, you can unsubscribe at any time. Feel free to email me if you have any trouble subscribing, or if you just want to chat about books. I would love to hear from you! Whether you subscribe or not, I’m thankful you are here.***

This blog post contains affiliate links for Blackwell’s. As a Blackwell’s Affiliate, I may receive a small commission, at no additional cost to you, if you decide to make a purchase through one of the links on my website. I recommend Blackwell’s because I use them myself. This helps support me in sharing—what I hope is—valuable content. Thank you for your support!

Cat and Mouse by Christianna Brand

This review is a testament to the power of a positive review written by someone whose taste you trust. Before you think I am a massive narcissistic, allow me to explain.

I picked this book up a little over a month ago, and I was so excited. It feels like I reference Christianna Brand’s London Particular just about every time I review a British Library Crime Classic, but it is my favourite book in this collection. Needless to say, when I saw that British Library Publishing were coming out with another Christianna Brand title, I cheered. Expectations were high. Brand’s 1950 novel, Cat and Mouse opens with a dedication to Mary Lewis, one of Brand’s writer friends or perhaps an editor, I assumed. In a letter to this Mary Lewis, which is included at the start of this book, Brand refers to a passage in Northanger Abbey where Catherine Morland, Miss Tilney, and Henry Tilney are all discussing the melodramatic novels of the time. “I thought it would be fun to do a good, old-fashioned mystery melodrama, two tombstones and a lantern and all: and since you told me the true story which has formed the basis of my plot, I hereby dedicate its three duodecimo volumes with all my gratitude, to you.” The joke is, Mary Lewis was Brand’s real name. She has dedicated the book to herself, and clearly gotten quite the kick out of it. In Northanger Abbey, Henry says, “there must be a murder” and so says Brand. Her melodrama is full of the wit any reader of her work has come to expect, and a good dose of murder too.

But there lies the tricky part. For some reason, I read that playful letter and got the impression that the book would be a joke. Not in a derogatory way. I expected Cat and Mouse to be poking fun of melodrama in the same way Stella Gibbons’ Cold Comfort Farm is a parody of the romanticised pastoral novels written by authors at the time, like Mary Webb. I’m not sure if anyone, other than myself, would have come to this screwy conclusion, but it is a screwy one. My advice is to read Cat and Mouse as you would any of her other novels, expecting Brand’s sharp wit and panache for plot-y plots and twists galore. My other advice is to get on board with the main character, Katinka Jones. I wasn’t on Katinka’s side when I read this book the first time. Yes, I read this book twice. When I reached the end the first time… Well, frankly, I was relieved the thing was over. I was annoyed with Katinka and it did have a clever ending, but it had not been funny. It had been frustrating. I felt like I had missed something, like I wasn’t smart enough to get it. You can imagine how much I enjoyed that feeling! I certainly had no plan to review it. The book was gifted from British Library, and while when a publisher sends a review copy, it is implied the reviewer is meant to review it. However, a negative review is hardly likely to help with sales. So it was not going to review it then. It was decided.

Then I read Sabine’s glowing review…

Sabine’s favourite British Library Crime Classic is the same as mine, London Particular. Do you want to know what Sabine’s second favourite BLCC is? The same as mine. The Wheel Spins by Ethel Lina White. From reading her reviews over the years, I know that if Sabine likes a book, I will too. If she loves a book, so will I. And she loved Cat and Mouse. So what could I do? I had to give it another shot. I had to read it again.

When I picked it up a second time less than a month after my first reading, I was a bit concerned I was jinxing myself by not leaving long enough between readings. But it felt like this book and I had unfinished business. I wanted to know where I stood with it. I just could not put it off.

And now, after the longest introduction to a review, in the history of introductions, here is my review of Christianna Brand’s Cat and Mouse. 

Katinka Jones, the Miss Friendly-wise agony aunt for Girls Together magazine, is on holiday in Wales in September. She visits her Great Uncle Joseph where he lives by the giant reservoir some miles outside of Swansea. This passage describing Katinka’s uncle reminded me of something out of Cold Comfort Farm, and is probably what solidified the idea that this book was going to be a parody when I read it the first time.

Nobody remained but Great Uncle Joseph, known in the Welsh idiom as Jo Jones the Waterworks, because of the proximity of his home to the giant reservoir— the nearest he’s been to water for a long time, thought Tinka, eyeing with disfavour his unattractive person. (Cat and Mouse 23)

Apparently, Katinka didn’t tone down the colour of her red lips and nails enough for Wales, and finds herself unwelcome in her uncle’s home, so she takes up residence in a “gloomy little hotel” in Swansea (23). At a loose end she decides to pay a visit to Amista, a young woman who is a longtime writer to Girls Together, asking for beauty tips and love advice. Hard to say you’ve ‘dropped in’ when you’ve travelled six miles by bus and boat and climbed up a mountainside to get to the person’s house. But Katinka does just that. Once there she introduces herself, leaving out the Girls Together bit, as it might sound a bit mad, and says she is calling on Mrs. Carlyon. The only problem is, everyone in the house, including Mr. Carlyon claims there is no such person. Not only that, there are only two servants and Carlyon living in the house. Even Mr. Chucky, the man she met in the village who offered to come with her to see Carlyon, who she thought was handsome when you really looked at him, says he has never seen the woman. “I didn’t even know Mr. Carlyon was married,” claims Mr. Chucky (41). 

Stumbling out of the house and into the “silver rain”, Katinka runs down the mountain hoping to catch a ride across the river with the woman who delivers the milk, Miss Evans the Milk as she is referred (41). Apparently high heels are not all weather or all terrain footwear, and she takes a tumble, twisting her ankle. Sitting on a rock, waiting for the pain to subside, Katinka collects herself. That’s when she remembers spotting one of Amista’s letters waiting to be mailed sitting on a table in the front hall when she came in. Now, the letter is gone. The mail taken by Miss Evans the Milk. And Carlyon, who comes after Katinka, is none too pleased to hear that she has injured herself, leaving him obliged to have her stay the night. 

But he would not smile, and she gave herself up to the struggle. Every touch of her foot upon the ground was agony.

She was worn out before they had reached the top of the path: sick with pain, almost sobbing with dejection and weariness. She had no idea what time it was, but the mist was closing in about the mountain, the fine, soft drizzle of rain made grey evening of September afternoon. The mountain rose up, impregnably stern, behind the fretted decoration of the silly peaked roofs of the house; and at sight of the servants standing in the little porch, like two dogs straining at the leash to come to their master for some news that they knew he carried, her heart failed her. I must go into the house again and into that horrible hall... (48)

The first time reading this I thought I was meant to be poking fun of Katinka with the author, but I wasn’t finding the situation, or Katinka, very funny. Actually, I was finding Katinka a bit frustrating. I mean, she kept oscillating between fear and infatuation, which got a bit dizzying after a time. The whole Amista doesn’t exist, but wait no, I just remembered this thing, so she must exist! And, suspecting Carlyon of everything imaginable one minute and being in love with him the next, was exhausting. Katinka is supposed to be “an old, old lady of very nearly thirty, grown tough and cynical in the service of her profession”, but what she appeared to be is a young girl in her teens, like our heroine from Northanger Abbey, 17-year-old Catherine Morland (17).

However, on my second reading I didn’t notice any of this. It’s not just that I glossed over these aspects of Katinka’s character. I did not notice them. Once I decided to take the novel seriously, I was on Katinka’s side and I could see why she was torn between her attraction for this man and her suspicion of him. Part of her wants to forget all about Amista. If she can do that, then there is no mystery. If there is no mystery, Carlyon becomes a sad, handsome man, who keeps giving her signs that he is as interested in her as she is with him. But there’s the other side of that. If she cannot prove Amista’s existence, then Carlyon will continue to believe that Katinka is a journalist, who has butted into his home with an unbelievable story. 

Along with Northanger Abbey, this novel has a dash of Jane Eyre. Katinka even references Charlotte Brontë’s novel. The descriptions of the landscape in Cat and Mouse reminded me of a very different book, Forest Silver by E.M. Ward. Perhaps, I only made the connection between these two, because I have not read many books set in Wales, but when Katinka runs out into the “silver rain”, I immediately thought of my beloved Forest Silver. Brand and Ward are clearly writing about the same landscape and the use of the word silver is uncommon enough in descriptions of nature that I suspect silver light must be a characteristic of the place, or perhaps the grey from the mountains reflects off other surfaces, giving them a silvery cast. I had to include a favourite quotation of mine from Forest Silver.

From the narrow road they looked down through tree branches to the lake, that lay rippled and silver bright behind the dark trunks. Almost at the top of the hill they turned off by a little path that led to a gap in the roadside wall. Through the gap they could see into the solemn wood of Bainriggs, now colourless and vague but so sodden with the day's rain that, except in the black tree shadows, everything was changed to silver. The moonlit rocks, the wet sponge of moss upon the ground, leaves, lit spaces of the beech trunks and the stems of birches, always silver but now brighter than in any noontide, all these shone and glittered with a light so wan and yet so brilliant that it seemed like the phosphorescence of a world long dead. (Forest Silver 10)

Katinka does not romanticise the landscape in the way Richard Blunt does in Forest Silver, but I got the sense that she would be inclined to, if she was not so consumed with the mystery of Amista.

She wandered over to the window and, parting the curtains, leaned her forehead against the chilly glass, staring out across the opposite mountain. But the rainbow was gone. Nothing to be seen but the shaft of thin sunshine across the hump of the hill, the sullen, silver river in the valley and, at a turn of the mountain path, the two tiny specks creeping upward towards the house. (Cat and Mouse 79)

There’s that word silver, again. I don’t know what it means. I don’t even know what the landscape in Wales actually looks like, because I have not been. But I felt like these two authors were writing about the same place, a place I would recognise if I saw it, and so much of my traveling happens on the page. When I visited London for the first time, it felt like home. It felt like a place I knew, could find my way around, and a place I had created an image of in my mind with the help of countless authors. Likewise, Wales is being written on my mind, and in my heart through Ward, and now Brand. If anyone has any recommendations for books set in Wales that can help me continue to fill in the details of the landscape, I would love to hear them. 

In the meantime, I’ll be reading Northanger Abbey, which I picked up on a whim after finishing this one. (Full disclosure, I'm reading an ebook of this. But I have linked one of the many gorgeous editions I would buy if I had the means.) It appears two readings of Cat and Mouse in a month only whetted my appetite for melodrama. I never would have guessed it.

Give this fun and witty, but dark, indeed, very dark, rollercoaster of a novel a try. Believe in Katinka Jones, as she ferrets out the truth about Amista, even if she must first stumble upon every untruth as she trods the uphill path to get to the precipice of this inventive novel. 

I have to close this post by thanking Sabine for her wonderful review of Cat and Mouse. She says more, by saying less, than I ever could. 

Thank you to British Library Publishing for kindly sending me a copy of Cat and Mouse for review. As always, all opinions on the book are my own.

***If you got something out of this post, please consider subscribing to my blog. You can find the email sign up on the right hand side at the top of this page (on desktop version only), or click on the link here. You will receive a confirmation email in your inbox (or possibly your junk folder). Once you click to confirm your email address you will receive an email notification whenever a new blog post goes up. And, of course, you can unsubscribe at any time. Feel free to email me if you have any trouble subscribing, or if you just want to chat about books. I would love to hear from you! Whether you subscribe or not, I’m thankful you are here.***

This blog post contains affiliate links for Blackwell’s. As a Blackwell’s Affiliate, I may receive a small commission, at no additional cost to you, if you decide to make a purchase through one of the links on my website. I recommend Blackwell’s because I use them myself. This helps support me in sharing—what I hope is—valuable content. Thank you for your support!

Fear Stalks the Village by Ethel Lina White

Ethel Lina White’s The Wheel Spins is one of my favourite British Library Crime Classics, second only to London Particular by Christianna Brand. I was very excited to get my hands on another of her books. Don’t let the autumnal colours of its cover mislead you, White’s 1932 novel, Fear Stalks the Village, is set at the beginning of summer in an idyllic English village. But like The Wheel Spins, White manages to wreak havoc amongst the peace and tranquility. This one is dripping with atmosphere and it is just so well executed. 

The village was beautiful. It was enfolded in a hollow of the Downs, and wrapped up snugly— first, in a floral shawl of gardens, and then, in a great green shawl of fields. Lilies and lavender grew in abundance. Bees clustered over sweet-scented herbs with the hum of a myriad spinning-wheels. (13)

The village sounds aesthetically pleasing, but what of its residents?

[T]here was no poverty or unemployment in the village. The ladies had not to grapple with a servant problem, which oiled the wheels of hospitality. If family feuds existed, they were not advertised, and private lives were shielded by drawn blinds. Consequently, the social tone was fragrant as rosemary, and scandal nearly as rare as a unicorn. (13)

With no railway station, and a London bus that does not stop in the village, but outside it, it is not surprising the place gets few visitors. The birthrate is stagnant and apparently no one dies there, either. No one leaves, and no one comes. It is an extremely close knit community. Which is why when the villagers get inundated with a slew of poison pen letters, it is so very unnerving. The thought that it must be one of their own sending the letters turns neighbour against neighbour. Trust is broken. No longer is the village a place of hospitality and friendliness. Because how can you feel safe inviting your neighbours into your home when you can’t be sure a traitor isn't among them?

The heart of the village is sick and everything that has made this place special is at stake. Despite the idyllic appearance of the village, everyone in it has a secret they would rather keep hidden. And when the shame of having your darkest secrets revealed becomes too much, people are bound to get desperate. With one person dead under mysterious circumstances, the body count is only going to increase as the tension is ratcheted up and up, until it reaches the breaking point.

Everyone from the “queen of the village”, Miss Decima Asprey, the to the local gentry, the Scudamores, to the Rector are sucked into the drama. When things get too unbearable to go on, the Rector gives a thundering sermon, denouncing the secret enemy, but seeing the sermon has had no effect—besides an increase in donations—he goes to visit the Squire. 

The two men consider consulting with local police, essentially Sergeant James. But as the poisoned pen writer may very well be a woman, as the Squire says, “Probably is. The place is stiff with them” and both the Rector and the Squire do not like the idea of a woman getting arrested, the Rector makes an alternative suggestion.

“I have a friend, Ignatius Brown, one of the idle rich. He rather fancies himself as Sherlock Holmes. He’s not so clever as he thinks he is, but he’s keen, and he should be more than a match for anyone here. Shall I ask him down?”

“No,” said the Squire. “We don’t want any amateurs. I’ll instruct James.” As he spoke, he caught his wife’s eye. Her lips were pursed and she first nodded violently and then shook her head vehemently.

The Squire knew, from experience, how to interpret these conflicting signals, for, suddenly he changed his mind. (127)

Even in this serious moment, we see White’s wonderful sense of humour.

When the Rector had gone, the Squire turned to his wife. Although he usually bullied her, there were times when he followed her advice; for, if the Squire had no positive virtues, he had some rather good faults. (128)

The village is full of interesting characters. There is Joan Brook, who is a companion to Lady D’Arcy, and lives about a mile outside the village with her. We meet Joan at the very start of the book as she entertains her friend, a novelist visiting from London, with a walk through the village. As they take a leisurely stroll through the village, the friend comes up with salacious stories about each of the villagers that are directly contradictory to the people that Joan knows them to be. For example, “the highly respectable married couple […] are not really married to each other, but living in sin”, the Rector throws “bottle-and-pyjama parties with some very hot ladies from town”, the doctor is poisoning his wife, and the tea-totalling local novelist, Miss Julia Corner, is a secret drinker (18, 19, 21). 

I think White is a great writer. She draws complex characters, creates a tightly woven plot that centres around a compelling mystery, and takes “a perfect spot” and turns it into a prison (13). All of this she manages, while writing genre fiction that is also literary. For example, one would take for granted that the title Fear Stalks the Village is figurative, instead White turns fear into a physical presence that lurks in the shadows, that enters gardens, and rooms, when least expected. I found it to be an unexpected technique, but effective. After all, fear is a visceral reaction felt in the body, why not give imbue it with life by giving the bodily presence it already has?

[P]oor Miss Corner unconsciously applied the match which blew up her party.

[…]

“Well, Decima, anything fresh about your anonymous letter?”

Miss Asprey raised her heavy ivory lids.

“No,” she replied. “It is best forgotten.”

“No idea as to who wrote it?” went on Miss Corner, unabashed.

“No.”

Miss Corner suddenly exploded into a fit of laughter. “Perhaps I could make a guess,” she said.

As though her words were a signal, the dark blotch, huddled in a corner of the garden, quivered into hideous life and mingled with the other guests.

With the entry of Fear, Miss Corner’s party was practically killed, for its spirit had soured and died. The continual hum of conversation was now broken by sudden awkward pauses. Immaculate men and elegant ladies stood in the usual little clusters, but each one gave the impression of whispering to his friend, while he tried to overhear his neighbour. For the same thought was in every mind.

‘There is someone here who has slandered a good woman. I may be the next victim.’ (79-80)

Miss Corner, the local novelist, may have “applied the match”, but Fear, “the unbidden outsider” had “slunk outside the gate, awaiting its opportunity to steal inside” (79, 71). I think this image of a “dark blotch” which “quivered into hideous life and mingled with the other guests” is so visceral. There is more than one traitor amongst these people, and the invisible one may be even more dangerous. After all, they can close their doors to their neighbours, but Fear is able to slip in unnoticed.

If you have visited this blog before, you know I love reading mysteries. But I really struggle with how much to share in my reviews. I don’t want to say too much, and I definitely do not want to spoil anything for anyone who has not yet read the book. But I also really want to dish! Especially when it’s a book I really appreciated, by an author that deserves all the praise she can get. Just know that I want to tell you everything about this book. I want to discuss it in depth. But I won’t. It wouldn’t be fair to you, the person who, I hope, is going to be inspired to go out and get your hands on a copy of this book.

After reading, and now reviewing this book, I feel I need to reassess my list of favourite British Library Crime Classics. This one may not have knocked London Particular out of first place, but I fear it will knock another title out of my top five.

Thank you to British Library Publishing for kindly sending me a copy of Fear Stalks the Village for review. As always, all opinions on the book are my own.

***If you got something out of this post, please consider subscribing to my blog. You can find the email sign up on the right hand side at the top of this page (on desktop version only), or click on the link here. You will receive a confirmation email in your inbox (or possibly your junk folder). Once you click to confirm your email address you will receive an email notification whenever a new blog post goes up. And, of course, you can unsubscribe at any time. Feel free to email me if you have any trouble subscribing, or if you just want to chat about books. I would love to hear from you! Whether you subscribe or not, I’m thankful you are here.***

This blog post contains affiliate links for Blackwell’s. As a Blackwell’s Affiliate, I may receive a small commission, at no additional cost to you, if you decide to make a purchase through one of the links on my website. I recommend Blackwell’s because I use them myself. This helps support me in sharing—what I hope is—valuable content. Thank you for your support!

Scandalize My Name by Fiona Sinclair

This Sunday, 3 August is the 105th anniversary of the birth of mystery writer, P.D. James. Her writing is known for being in the style of Golden Age mysteries, but with a darker tone, which I think is fitting to the 1960s when the early Adam Dalgliesh books were published. I love her books for exactly this reason. It’s like reading a novel from the first half of the 20th century with the gloss of nostalgia removed. So when I noticed the back cover of Scandalize My Name called the “high-quality mysteries” of Fiona Sinclair “similar in style and tone to those of P.D. James”, I was skeptical. “Fiona,” I thought, “is going to have a lot to live up to.”

Well! I cannot tell you how relieved I am to report that, in my option, Martin Edwards and British Library Publishing are spot on the money with their comparison. In defence of my skepticism, I find a lot of author comparisons on the back of books to be a bit of a disappointment. Many a time I felt that if I had not been expecting to be reading something akin to one of my favourite authors, I would have enjoyed the book more. But I digress… Let’s talk about Fiona Sinclair’s fabulous 1960 novel, Scandalize My Name.

In an almost 300-year-old house on a hill in north London, the Southey’s are holding a grand 21st birthday party for Elaine Southey. Little do the guests know that while they are enjoying the festivities, a corpse lies in the basement below. Although, the Southey’s are not close with him, their basement tenant, Ivan Sweet, has been invited to the party as well. When he fails to arrive, his brother, also in attendance at the party, goes looking for him. 

Known to be a charmer, a manipulator, a blackmailer, and worse, it’s no wonder Superintendent Paul Grainger finds himself wishing he was hunting Ivan Sweet, instead of the man’s murderer.

Grainger, who has bad posture and spectacles, looks more like a don than a police officer. The 39-year-old was widowed during the Second World War not long after he was married. We get to see him in his home, at his work, and at times we are privy to his inner thoughts. When Sergeant McGregor was first paired up with Grainger, he didn’t think much of Grainger, but in their ten years working together he has come to trust that Grainger’s seeming intuitions are based on careful thought and observation. The two make an interesting pair, and like the best partners they both contrast and complement each other. 

At the outset of the case, Grainger and McGregor travel to the scene of the crime, Magnolia House. Driving through London, Grainger vocalises his opinion about the start of the case being “‘the best part, just a nice clean sheet, no personalities mixed up in it yet, just an interesting puzzle that’s got to be solved’” (44). Meanwhile, McGregor is thinking about his partner.

[Sergeant McGregor] was remembering in a ruminative, amused sort of way, what a highfalutin’ fool he had considered the superior officer to whom he had been allotted ten years ago. Been up at Oxford, someone told him, taking a lot of exams in philosophy, of all unsuitable subjects for a member of the ‘Force’. He’d done his time as a ‘gentstable’ of course. McGregor suddenly smiled to himself, Sakes, but I’d like to ha’ seen him, he thought now, squinting sideways at the superintendent’s lean aristocratic figure with its scholar’s stoop and clever-looking eyes. Course he wouldna’ have had the gig-lamps then, he thought, but still! Man, though, he was a fine fellow to work for. Got right into the middle of a case while the rest were still sniffing round the edges. And methodical! Somehow he hadn't expected that; the case built up piece by piece like a jigsaw puzzle. Gave you a kick to listen to him doing it even if his lingo did take a bit of getting used to. Gave you plenty to do, too, and let you have your head. Sergeant McGregor had been won over a long time ago. (44-45)

There is a lot about the way Grainger is described, that calls to mind James’s detective Adam Dalgleish, not so much physically, but in personality. At the outset, I mentioned that James’ books harken back to Golden Age detective fiction, but are a bit darker, a bit grittier. There is no better example of this in Sinclair’s work as the scene in chapter three where an autopsy is described. Sinclair’s description is not gory, but methodical, and is unlike anything I have come across before. It comes as no surprise that Sinclair’s husband, Michael Peters, was a pathologist. I’m sure I’ve read books with autopsy’s being preformed previous to this, but the sheer matter of factness of it with specific details I have not read before made me pause to appreciate the scene. Clearly, I’m not particularly squeamish, but if you are, you may want to skip from the third paragraph on page 39 to the last paragraph on page 42. As I said, it’s not gory and Sinclair in no way glorifies what would naturally be a gruesome scene, but the writing is shocking in its plainness and may be a bit much for some. 

I think it bears mentioning that quite a few characters are introduced in the first chapter. All of the party-goers do come up again in the book, so it is worth paying attention. However! I did something I almost never do, and that is to start this reading book outside in a park. If I, who has the attention span of a new puppy out on its first walk, can manage to get through that first chapter and glean enough information to carry me through the rest of the book without confusion, and without turning back to refresh my memory, I feel sure you can too. With many characters, you had better believe there are a number with secrets they would rather keep hidden. A well-stocked larder of goodies for a blackmailer to root around in, for sure. And some of those secrets are real doozies, I can tell you!

This book struck a good balance of tension and atmosphere, which Sinclair captures by showing us how the events and the setting affects the characters. Set in August, this book has all the heat and intrigue of the summer season captured amid its last gasp before the autumn. Will the end of summer be the precursor to a literal death, as well? You’ll just have to read this one to find out! Let me warn you, the conclusion is tense. I recommend reading it without distractions, if possible.

In the introduction, Martin Edwards mentions that Fiona Sinclair published five novels in total, between 1960 and 1965, Scandalize My Name being the first among these to be published. I am very much hoping that the British Library plans to bring out the remaining four, because Scandalize My Name has been added to my top five favourite British Library Crime Classics. If her other books are anything like this first one, they are much deserving of being brought back to life. 

Thank you to British Library Publishing for republishing this truly wonderful title and for kindly sending me a copy of Scandalize My Name for review. As always, all opinions on the book are my own. 

***If you got something out of this post, please consider subscribing to my blog. You can find the email sign up on the right hand side at the top of this page (on desktop version only), or click on the link here. You will receive a confirmation email in your inbox (or possibly your junk folder). Once you click to confirm your email address you will receive an email notification whenever a new blog post goes up. And, of course, you can unsubscribe at any time. Whether you subscribe or not, I’m thankful you are here.***

This blog post contains affiliate links for Blackwell’s. As a Blackwell’s Affiliate, I may receive a small commission, at no additional cost to you, if you decide to make a purchase through one of the links on my website. I recommend Blackwell’s because I use them myself. This helps support me in sharing—what I hope is—valuable content. Thank you for your support!

The Gutenberg Murders by Gwen Bristow & Bruce Manning

I’ve been having a great time reading the Gwen Bristow and Bruce Manning books that Dean Street Press republished in 2021. I had planned to read them in chronological order, but decided against it when I realised that their second book, The Gutenberg Murders (1931), and their fourth book, The Mardi Gras Murders (1932) share some of the same characters. Both The Invisible Host (1930) and Two and Two Make Twenty-Two (1932) are ones that I can recommend. The Invisible Host has such an original premise and one that is remarkably similar to Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None (1939). It was great fun reading those two books back-to-back and comparing them. Although, I must admit that it is Two and Two Make Twenty-Two that has become the favourite. What can I say? I love when a book is set on a remote island and if it’s a mystery—harkening back to the opinions I shared about And Then There Were None in my review—so much the better.

Hot on the heels of finishing Two and Two Make Twenty-Two, it was with high hopes that I picked up The Gutenberg Murders. And let me tell you, this book was everything I hoped it would be, and more. This is another book from this wife and husband writing team that I think would make a great film. It is no surprise to me that Bruce Manning went on to have a career in Hollywood as a screenwriter. Like the other two books of theirs I have read, The Gutenberg Murders feels like Old Hollywood to me. What starts as a mystery surrounding the theft of a nine leaves from a Gutenberg Bible, escalates to a series of murders with the victims dying by fire, quite literally.

Nine leaves of a Gutenberg Bible have been stolen from a safe at the Sheldon Memorial Library, and all fingers point to assistant librarian, Quentin Ulman, whose “racket is wine, women and books” (1). This latest theft comes on the heels of a number of others, going back six months. 

What I love about this book is how the theft of a few scraps from a rare book juxtaposes with the bigness of the crimes. There is nothing subtle about these murders, and this contrast is not unlike the city itself, as Bristow and Manning describe it.

New Orleans is a Janus-town, and any story of New Orleans must be a tale of two cities. Wade drove along the narrow white canyon of Carondelet Street, walled on either side by the unromantic modernity of skyscrapers; he crossed Canal Street, brilliantly lit and brisk with the evening crowds; then suddenly, before he had gone a hundred yards on the other side of Canal Street he entered into the old city, built two hundred years ago, and was driving slowly through the serene decadence of the Quarter. (58) 

Where Ulman’s body is found is another place, again.

Algiers is a disgruntled suburb of New Orleans that sprawls along the west bank of the Mississippi River and is reached from the city by the Canal Street ferry. Farther up the river, opposite the ferry station at Napoleon Avenue, is Harvey, another sulky little suburb, and between Algiers and Harvey is a dirt road that winds lonesomely through the shadowy chaos of live oaks and moss and red lilies that grow in the marsh on either side.

The little road is bright with traffic at night, when the people of Algiers and Harvey finish their day’s work and go to ride, but in the daytime passing autos are few, and for this reason Dr. Prentiss and the Sheldon Library had selected a spot on this road as the site of the bindery where repairs might be made on those of his literary treasures that had been mishandled in the course of years. The bindery was a compact little building isolated among the moss-hung oaks. (6)

Of course, the prime suspect in the thefts is found murdered. Anyone who has read enough mysteries will not find this a surprise, but what did take me aback is the state in which his body is found. Ulman is diminished to a “charred and smoking skeleton that was found on a dirt road” with only a “blackened cigarette case bearing Quentin Ulman’s name” and the location, a quiet road near the library’s bindery, to identify him. I don’t know about you, but there is something about a burnt body that feels particularly horrendous. We are certainly not in cosy murder mystery country with this one! 

Someone is held at gunpoint. There is not one, but two women who have femme fatale potential. More than one person gets burnt alive. But I think the most memorable scene for me will be when an intruder in the form of a journalist hides behind the screen of a large fireplace, while listening in on an argument, and taking a surreptitious snap or two, while he’s at it. And it is all set with the backdrop of this city of two faces, and it is not always clear which face is which. This is in some ways an even more dramatic book than Two and Two Make Twenty-Two, and that one was plenty heavy on the drama. I believe I said this in that review, but I’m going to say it here too. These books feel of their time, in the best way. They scream the 1930s to me, and apparently, the thirties is the decade I read the most from. (I actually had no idea of this fact until I started making note of it recently.) 

Without discussing any spoilers—but, oh, how I am tempted!—I really enjoyed the build to the conclusion, as the tension is slowly ratcheted up. Bristow and Manning make fantastic use of setting throughout this book, and in the build to the conclusion this is especially true. Just thinking about this book and how much I did not see that ending coming, makes me want to read it all over again. Alas, my copy must go back to the library. But this is one for the wishlist, for sure. I have already read the first few chapters of the last book penned by Bristow and Manning, The Mardi Gras Murders, and I have to say, that one is already chalking up to be a doozy. I can’t wait to get back to it.  

***If you got something out of this post, please consider subscribing to my blog. You can find the email sign up on the right hand side at the top of this page (on desktop version only), or click on the link here. You will receive a confirmation email in your inbox (or possibly your junk folder). Once you click to confirm your email address you will receive an email notification whenever a new blog post goes up. And, of course, you can unsubscribe at any time. Whether you subscribe or not, I’m thankful you are here.***

This blog post contains affiliate links for Blackwell’s. As a Blackwell’s Affiliate, I may receive a small commission, at no additional cost to you, if you decide to make a purchase through one of the links on my website. I recommend Blackwell’s because I use them myself. This helps support me in sharing—what I hope is—valuable content. Thank you for your support!

Men For Pieces by Brian Flynn

Men For Pieces (1949) is book 36 in Brian Flynn’s Anthony Bathurst Mysteries series. Along with this one, Dean Street Press are republishing books 37 through to 40, Black Agent (1950), Where There Was Smoke (1951), And Cauldron Bubble (1951), and The Ring of Innocent (1952). And all five books come out today! Brian Flynn wrote 57 mysteries, of which, I believe, 53 of them feature his brilliant gentleman detective Anthony Lotherington Bathurst. Dean Street Press have republished book one, The Billiard-Room Mystery (1927), through to book 40. 

I have not read the first book, or the second. In fact, I have only read one other book in this series. It was one of the books around the middle, and I was not overly impressed by it. However, I was on holiday at the time and after a two day long journey in the car we ended up at the most abysmal rental. It was so damp that if you sat on the couch you cold feel moisture seeming into your clothes. It was dirty. It smelled, unsurprisingly. And a mere dribble came out of the shower. Even Clark—who is a dog, for anyone who does not know—kept giving the couch suspicious sniffs. Needless to say, I could not get comfortable and spent the entire time we were there sitting outside, waiting for it to be over. It is doubtful that any book I read in that environment would have impressed me. The sad thing is, I was only made aware of this fact through reading Men For Pieces. I had such a great time reading this book, and absolutely loved our detective, Anthony Lotherington Bathurst, that I am determined to start the series from the beginning and read my way through all the books, including that one that didn’t get the attention it deserved from me the first time around. But before I go off on a Brian Flynn binge, let’s talk about Men For Pieces.

Peter Oliver worked at Delaney’s bank, until the day he didn’t show up. Everyone there assumes he is sick and just failed to let them know. But his fiancée Stella Forrest knows something is wrong when he fails to come from lunch to the restaurant where she works. With Peter’s parents and siblings away for Easter the couple spent much of the weekend together. The last words he said to her on Monday night were, “Usual time tomorrow” (39).* 

When Stella spots Anthony Bathurst walk into her restaurant the next day, she immediately recognises him. Desperate, she sends him over a note providing him with the broad strokes of the situation and begging him for his help. Anthony being the person he is, believes her, despite the dismissal of the situation from his lunch partner, Chief Detective Inspector Andrew MacMorran. Soon the worst is realised. Peter Oliver is dead. Found in the bathroom of his parents’ home, dressed in evening wear with his throat cut, the bloodied straight razor held in his left hand. All signs point to suicide, but one. The bath plug wound around the wrong faucet.

Through the investigation £20,000 worth of foreign bonds are discovered to have gone missing from Delaney’s bank. It’s looking more like Peter got himself into trouble and killed himself in remorse. Then few days later the bonds are returned to the bank. Curiouser and curiouser. But when Stella goes missing, the situation becomes even more unclear. Why would the person who sounded the alarm on her fiancé’s disappearance not stick around until his killer was brought to justice? Anthony tries to make sense of it by talking it out with pathologist, Greatorex.

“On Good Friday—that's only five days ago, my dear chap, not even a week—this desperate, terror-haunted man takes his girl to Hampton Court. The next day they do a ‘flick’ at one of the best cinemas. Sunday sees them at Southend and Monday they visit Kew Gardens. Kew Gardens in April, Greatorex. Very lovely, you know. Ever been there?”

Greatorex closed his brief-case and stood up. “What the hell are you trying to say, Bathurst?” 

Anthony shrugged his shoulders. “Simply that this man, who's now a corpse, was, but a few days ago, in love with love and life. Doing all the delightfully normal things that a healthy man, with his arms round a pretty girl, wants to do. Are you following me, Greatorex? Friday, Hampton Court, Saturday, the cinema, Sunday, Southend, Monday, Kew Gardens, and Monday night—after kissing his girl good night—off with his own head, and so much for Peter Oliver! Well, Greatorex, does it add up, do you think?” (52-53)

From the start, Anthony is able to put himself in the shoes of the dead man, Peter. While initially the physical evidence tells one story, that of suicide, the person Peter was and his relationship with Stella, tells a different story. All Anthony and his buddy MacMorran have to do is fill in the gaps, and find out who would want to kill Peter. Because from the looks of it, the man didn’t have an enemy in the world. 

The mystery in this book is strong. I certainly did not see the ending playing out how it did. But I do think that one could in theory solve the mystery. That is, if one was a bit better at that sort of thing than I! My only real complaint about this book is that I would have liked to find out more about our sleuth, Anthony Lotherington Bathurst. The series is named after him, so clearly it’s his show, but I did not get any sense of what his personal life is like outside of the case, or even if he has one. We know he’s a good person. He isn’t just solving murders for fun. He has a moral conscience and has not been desensitised or become cynical by the job like MacMorran who brushes Stella’s note off with, “I’ve seen this sort of thing before” and “[h]ysteria takes all sorts of forms” (32). This gives an unflattering impression of MacMorran, when he really isn’t a bad guy, he just does not seem to be as inclined to see the individual situation, because he has been at the job so long. And let’s be honest, Anthony has a talent for ferreting out the truth and seeing the details that others miss. That is why he’s working with Scotland Yard in the first place. At least that’s what I assume. We don’t get an explanation about why Anthony and MacMorran are friends, how they met, or why they are working together. There’s no background catchup at the start of this book that you so often see in detective series. But I expect that information is provided in the first book. I will read that one, and report back.

If you want to geek out over these books or just find out more about Brian Flynn, the blog In Search of the Classic Mystery Novel is a wonderful resource. I stumbled upon it when I was looking for more information on the author, and what do you know? It is run by none other than crime fiction historian, Steve Barge, the person who wrote the introductions for the new Dean Street Press editions. He has got some great sounding suggestions for books to read next in the series and lots of reviews and information on other mystery writers. I have to thank him for clarifying that the title Men For Pieces comes from a piece of poetry by Omar Khayyam. I suspected it was a phrase from a quotation, but if it wasn’t for his review I could very well still be trying to solve that mystery! And if I haven’t convinced you to pick up one of Brian Flynn’s books, well Steve Barge wrote a fantastic article for the Dean Street Press blog that will leave you desperate to get started on your journey with this author.

Thank you to Dean Street Press Ltd. for kindly sending me a copy of Men For Pieces for review. As always, all opinions on the book are my own.

***If you got something out of this post, please consider subscribing to my blog. You can find the email sign up on the right hand side at the top of this page (on desktop version only), or click on the link here. You will receive a confirmation email in your inbox (or possibly your junk folder). Once you click to confirm your email address you will receive an email notification whenever a new blog post goes up. And, of course, you can unsubscribe at any time. Whether you subscribe or not, I’m so thankful you are here.***

*All page numbers are from the ebook and are not likely to correspond to the paperback edition.

This blog post contains affiliate links for Blackwell’s. As a Blackwell’s Affiliate, I may receive a small commission, at no additional cost to you, if you decide to make a purchase through one of the links on my website. I recommend Blackwell’s because I use them myself. This helps support me in sharing—what I hope is—valuable content. Thank you for your support!

Two-Way Murder by E.C.R. Lorac

It was not until I had finished E.C.R. Lorac’s Two-Way Murder and was reading Martin Edwards’ introduction that I learned this was a previously unpublished book. I am putting that at the start of this post because if you are a fan of Edith Caroline Rivett’s writing and had reservations about this one being not as good as her others due to it being published posthumously, fear not! I enjoyed this one perhaps even more than Murder in Vienna, and I did love that one. (You can read my review of that one here.)

On a foggy night in January, just about everyone across the countryside near Fordings is heading to the Prince’s Hall for the annual Hollydown Hunt Ball. Commander Nicholas Brent has offered a ride to Ian Macbane, who is in the area visiting his aunt and uncle. As they pass Hollydown Manor, which was recently sold, the subject of the daughter of the house comes up. Rosemary Reeve disappeared on the evening of last year’s ball and she has not been seen or heard from since. The subject quickly shifts to lighter subjects, including the young women likely to be in attendance. It becomes clear that most of the young men in the area are interested in the young and beautiful Dilys Maine.

Lucky for them, Dilys manages to put in an appearance at the ball. Although she had to sneak out of her father’s house to be there, and must get home before Alice, the family’s loyal and well-meaning servant, gets home. Alice wouldn’t mind her having a bit of fun, but Dilys thoughtfully does not want to put Alice in the position of having to lie to her overbearing and hard to mange employer. Thankfully, Nick Brent has obligingly offered to get her back in good time, and they leave the ball around midnight, setting out on the low road where the fog is not as bad. But the best laid plans do have a way of going wrong, and when Nick and Dilys come upon a corpse that is quite literally blocking the narrow road, things start to go very wrong indeed.

Quick thinker that he is, Nick suggests Dilys head home on foot, while he walks to the nearest house to call the police. Michael Reeve’s place is the closest, but upon arrival Nick realises that Michael must still be at the ball. He gains entry through a kitchen window, and calls the police to report the body. But just as he is hanging up the phone, he hears someone inside the house. He drops his torch in surprise, and just after Nick announces himself, he is set upon. After a violent struggle, his attacker leaves him knocked out and buried under a fallen bookcase.

Sometime before one o’clock, Ian Macbane gets a ride home with Tom Hudson. They too end up taking the lower road because of the fog and come upon Nick’s empty vehicle. They see the body in the road and ascertain the person is dead, when the police arrive. 

Meanwhile, Dilys who has cut across the fields at a run with her dress bundled in her arms, has arrived home safe and sound. She is just getting ready for bed when the phone rings. It’s Alice saying she won’t be able to make it back tonight as another accident is blocking her route. While Dilys is on the phone her father, Mr. Maine, arrives home unexpectedly—he was supposed to be away for the night—looking “not only tired” but “gaunt and strained and dirty” with “a stain down one side of his face” and collar “crumpled and awry” (37). He is angry that Alice isn’t there with Dilys, and he says something about how Alice should have called earlier. Mr. Maine tells her to go to bed as it’s almost midnight. But Dilys knows it must be almost half past one at this point. She also knows her father wears a watch and is always aware of the time. Why would he want her to think he had arrived home earlier than he did? 

Speaking of the Maines, I love their servant, Alice. She is smart, methodical, speaks her mind, and looks out for Dilys as a mother or older sister would. She is certainly more effective in influencing Dilys than her father. A day or two after the incident, Nick calls up Dilys and asks if she would like a cocker spaniel from his dog’s litter, even offering to pick her up, and save her a cold walk over the downs. Dilys tells Alice about the phone call and Alice’s reply is classic her. 

“Has he indeed? Those pups are worth a lot of money—no end of prizes that bitch of his has won. They say he knows more about dogs than any of the vets do.” She looked at Dilys with her shrewd blue eyes. “All the same, maybe it’d be better not to go traipsing over there just yet. If he’s promised you a pup, he’ll keep it for you, all right. Wait a week or so, until there’s not so much backchat being handed round.” (115)

Alice suggests Dilys wait a bit to get the dog, cites the reason behind her thinking, but allows Dilys to come to her own decision. Seeing the logic behind Alice’s thinking, Dilys agrees with her. Alice is a smart woman, smarter than she lets on. This isn’t the only moment that she says a partial truth for a desired result where the full truth might have the opposite effect. 

Inspector Waring from the County C.I.D. is tasked with investigating the case. I believe Waring’s Divisional Detective Inspector, Thorn, comparison of Waring with the other officer investigating the case could equally apply to Alice.

Turner, routine-minded, concrete, his feet firmly on the ground, his method based on the ascertainable details of police evidence—times, places, prints, and all the rest of it: the methods which, admittedly, had been the foundation of police work since the force was inaugurated. And Waring— imaginative, aware, sensitive: able, by some odd quirk of his lively mind, to obtain confidences and acquire impressions which were beyond Turner’s scope. Thorn had to admit, from past experience, that Waring had a lively and unexpectedly sound judgement over people of whom his observation had been of the slightest: when Waring had said, “Seems to me there’s a connection somehow; so-and-so was being cagey…” it had often proved that there was a connection, and later in the case Waring had produced some unexpected observation which showed that his logical powers had not been in abeyance while he soaked in awareness of human nature.

“Makes you wonder what is the basis of detection, after all,” pondered Thorn. “Timetables or human nature? After all, criminals are human and maybe young Waring’s getting back to basic detection. They ought to make a good pair, Turner with his conscientious routine, Waring with his awareness of humanity.” (112-13)

And the two do make a good team. Waring reminded me a bit of the detectives in Anthony Berkeley’s Not to be Taken. Lorac does not turn her detective into a figure of fun, but Waring does seem to have a way of making people feel comfortable. Like Alice, Waring has the talent for knowing how to get the result he wants from people. But unlike Alice, Waring is a detective and most people do not offer up information to him, whereas people actively seek Alice out to share a gossip. 

I had such a great time with this one. Getting to read Martin Edwards’ introduction afterwards was an added treat.

The writing is crisp, despite the fact that editing must have been minimal. The author’s name on the cover sheet is “Mary Le Bourne”—evidently a pun on “Marylebone”—and the police detectives in the story are not the investigators familiar from the Lorac and Carnac series. The setting on the south coast of England is also something of a departure from the backgrounds to most of her post-war novels. Was she trying to write a different type of detective story? Might she have had in mind a distinct series featuring Waring, the likeable police officer who solves the puzzle? The answer to both questions may well be yes. (vii)

The British Library did not have a copy of the manuscript of Two-Way Murder because it had not been published. If it was not for the typescript copy supplied by James M. Pickard, this novel could very well be undiscovered still. 

I highly recommend this one to fans of classic crime with a rural setting. It would make a perfect winter read. Though, I must admit, it’s one I would welcome rereading at any time of year.

(I just wanted to note that I have linked to the UK edition of Two-Way Murder, which is published by British Library Publishing, not the American edition by Poisoned Pen Press, which is the one that I borrowed from my library and is pictured in these photos. The editions are slightly different sizes and the covers have different textures, but the contents are the same.)

This blog post contains affiliate links for Blackwell’s. As a Blackwell’s Affiliate, I may receive a small commission, at no additional cost to you, if you decide to make a purchase through one of the links on my website. I recommend Blackwell’s because I use them myself. This helps support me in sharing—what I hope is—valuable content. Thank you for your support!