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What is happening to me? For years now I’ve been prioritising plot and detection over character and setting almost to the point of unhelpfulness. And yet — now twice in only a few weeks, following Murder in the House of Omari (2021) by Taku Ashibe — I’ve found myself positively relishing a family saga which is slow-moving, clearly lacking in obscure clues and exciting reversals, and almost entirely devoid of detection. The culprit this time around is Death on Herons’ Mere (1941) by Mary Fitt, who came to my attention via Guilty Creatures [ss] (2021) and proves just as delightful in long form. I should not like this book, and yet it completely charmed me. Am I maturing? Am I…cheese?








