We should be thankful that Norman Berrow left behind him such wonderful novels as these that make it almost possible to get a glimpse into the workings of his mind. I mean, who else would predicate a novel on the grounds of a giant disembodied thumb vengefully crushing to death anyone who ventures into its lair? It’s a setup too barmy for John Dickson Carr’s fertile impossibilities, too outré for the straight-laced world of Agatha Christie, Miles Burton, Christianna Brand, and their ilk, and doesn’t have enough train journeys for Freeman Wills Crofts. It’s too comedic and explicit for the standard horror get-up of M.R. James or those who followed him…honestly, had Berrow not written this there’s really no-one else who could have.
Writing it is one thing, however, writing it well is quite another, and this is what really makes the difference. Berrow is an accomplished, witty writer who is able to build a surprisingly effective sense of unease over the first half (you know it’s going to be about a thumb because of the title and the cover, but there’s no mention specifically of The Thumb itself by any of the characters until almost the halfway stage) by making the world of his story feel tangible before pulling out rugs you we unaware you’d even been standing on. He does the same thing in The Footprints of Satan (1950) — giving you 30 pages of a small community going about its business before those impossible footprints appear and provide a 20 page confounding discovery — and such patience is admirable given that he clearly wants to get to the bit where a disembodied four-foot thumb crushes a man’s head.
Upon the completion of this second trip, the young chatelaine of Falloway Hall felt she had mastered the art of driving a horse. Which was erroneous and illusory, because sitting behind the somnolent, jog-trotting Claudius and driving a horse were not necessarily synonymous terms; one didn’t drive Claudius, one simply sat there with slack reins and woke him up at odd intervals…
This helps these events, when they occur, to avoid the hollow, hoked up effect that it would be fair to expect going into this. It’s actually quite disconcerting, especially as you know the impossibility is going to be revealed to have some facticious origin, and the cellar in which this all takes place achieves sepulchral dimensions as things progress, with Berrow not leering in pornographic delight over the damage wrought, but also not shying away from it either.
What happened, almost exactly two hours later, was swift and sudden, paralysingly unexpected and unbelievably terrible…
Cue Detective Inspector Lancelot Carolus Smith and his cohort of policemen, easily among my favourite crime-solving collective in the firmament of detective fiction. There’s something about Berrow’s writing which underscores a deep sense of camaraderie and respect among these men without ever having to write about a junior officer gazing adoringly at Smith, or about Smith and Superintendent Blackler ever getting into stilted conversations about how much they trust each other…it’s all finely observed in the dialogue and the easy, buttoned-up ribaldry between these men. Each of them is human in their conduct, their oversight, their frustration, the nature of their professional obligations and commitments, and the fact that key things are missed and the plot furthered because of them goes hand-in-hand in a way that doesn’t feel unduly contrived.
In this way, it’s very much the characters that carry this, as the plot never extends beyond its nutty remit of “a giant thumb crushes people to death in a cellar”. From the surprisingly level-headed psychic Quentin Veil to the elderly man-of-all-work Jarvis, everyone is given time to breathe (and some of them time to stop) and feel like a real person. This may result in the kind of plotting that others will find drawn out, but I loved the way the normalness of these people was allowed to permeate and therefore heighten the inexplicable weirdness at its core.
“It was like a false note in a sonata. Ever listen to sonatas, Brookes — or should I say sonati?”
Brookes intimated respectfully that Mr. Smith could pronounce the name whatever way he liked; personally he preferred Bing, Frankie gave him a pain.
The solution, then, must come and explain all these happenings away, and it certainly does this while undoubtedly lacking a certain artistry. There’s one absolutely brilliant aspect of it and another facet that doesn’t shy away from the horror of what is discovered (suffice to say, not in a violent way, just in the starkness of the revelation), but you’re not all going to be delighted even though it would be unrealistic to expect much more. Berrow may be a slightly uninspired resolver at times, but for such verdant imagineering, such excellent prose, such easy characterisation, and especially for giving me here — “Hairy Aaron!” — my new favourite expression of incredulous surprise, I look forward to everything he’s written. In fact, more are in the post even as you read this…
Brad @ AhSweetMysteryBlog: A giant killer thumb is an idea so ludicrous that you expect this novel to be screwball from start to finish, yet Berrow insists that we take it seriously. He plays it smart by having his characters confront the sheer lunacy of the idea in order to create a genuinely unsettling atmosphere throughout.
While a gigantic, disembodied, murderous, pollical Iberian isn’t quite the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen (I live a full life, it must be said, contrary to appearances) I submit this book for the Golden Age Vintage Cover Scavenger Hunt at My Reader’s Block under the category Weirdest Item You’ve Seen.
Norman Berrow reviews on The Invisible Event
Featuring Bill Hamilton:
The Smokers of Hashish (1934)
It Howls at Night (1937)
The Terror in the Fog (1938)
Featuring Richard Courtenay:
The Secret Dancer (1936)
One Thrilling Night (1937)
Featuring Michael & Fleur Revel:
Fingers for Ransom (1939)
Murder in the Melody (1940)
Featuring Lancelot Carolus Smith:
The Three Tiers of Fantasy (1947)
The Bishop’s Sword (1948)
The Spaniard’s Thumb (1949)
Don’t Go Out After Dark (1950)
The Footprints of Satan (1950)
Featuring J. Montague Belmore:
Don’t Jump, Mr. Boland! (1954)
Oil Under the Window (1936)
Ghost House (1940)
14 thoughts on “#163: The Spaniard’s Thumb (1949) by Norman Berrow”
“…honestly, had Berrow not written this there’s really no-one else who could have.”
Not even Paul Halter, another “barmy” author ? 🙂
Anyway, after reading your review, I have decided to buy it.
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Haha, this is possibly too weird even for Halter. I hope you enjoy it, Santosh — I’m intending to read The Complete Berrow now, so shall be slowly working my way through them and am very interested in what others make of him.
I see you’ve read all of the Berrow novels I’ve not read… Am I right in thinking you have read ‘Three Tiers of Fantasy’? I’ve only read ‘Don’t Go out after Dark’, which I didn’t especially enjoy only right up till the very end.
Thanks for the recommendation – looks like I should get hold of this title soon! But then again, I still have ‘Bishop’s Sword’, ‘Footprints of Satan’, ‘Three Tiers of Fantasy’ and ‘Terror of Fog’ awaiting to be read…
I’ve only read these three, though others have chipped in with others. I have ordered a few more, moving outside of the Smiths novels to see what else Berrow has o offer — fear not, any I read will feature on here, as I’m loving him and his brand of weirdness.
Thanks for referencing me,JJ. I totally agree about the camaraderie between Smith and his gang; it’s a high point of the series. Watching them all shake their flabbergasted heads at the idea that they even have to TALK about a giant thumb is delightful. I agree with JFW that the ending of Don’t Go Out After Dark is far better than what proceeds it.
I have Footprints of Satan on my shelf. Be sur you read Three Tiers of Fantasy — pure romp!
I’ll be stepping away from Smith with whatever the next Verrow I read is, I want to preserve these fine gentlemen for a lttle longer yet, but fear not — I shall return to 3 Tiers… Berrow just added himself to my “Yup, Gonna Read Everything By You” list, and thankfully there are still 17 to go!
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“I mean, who else would predicate a novel on the grounds of a giant disembodied thumb vengefully crushing to death anyone who ventures into its lair”
Horace Walpole, that’s who. This is a parody of the giant boot that haunts The Castle of Otranto, one of the most famous of Gothic novels from the 18th century. You got a lot more out of THE SPANISH THUMB than I did when I read all those many years ago. It’s not among my favorites of Berrow’s books. Wait till you get to THREE TIERS…
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Oh, John, that’s amazing — there’s a straight Gothic novel with a giant boot that, what, stamps people to death? Too. Much. Awesome. Can’t. Cope.
You’ve improved on Walpole: it’s a giant helmet that crushes people in The Castle of Otranto. It was actually the very first Gothic novel. Walpole himself didn’t take himself or his book as seriously as later Gothic novelists did.
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A giant helmet. Of course. I guess it was a boot in the sequel…
I have read the book. Though it is enjoyable and full of atmosphere, the solutions to the impossibilities were utterly prosaic. This is the basic problem with Norman Berrow. He simply lacks the ingenuity of Carr or Halter.
Only in 2 cases, (The Footprints of Satan and Episode 2 of The Three Tiers of Fantasy) did I find ingenious solutions to impossible events. Otherwise, these are commonplace, obvious and mediocre.
For example, if a person happens to be at 2 different places at the same time, the explanation is that he has a twin ! Or if a person manages to enter or disappear from a locked room, the explanation is that there is a hidden secret passage to the room !
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I haven’t read The Footprints of Satan yet, but I agree with you that Episode 2 of TTTOF is the best impossible solution of Berrow’s that I have read. What differentiates him from someone like, say, Halter, is that everything leading UP to the solution is so pleasurable in Berrow while the cleverness of some of Halter’s solutions is sublimated by an inferior everything-else-leading-up-to-it!
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Berrow isn’t always the most ingenous when it comes to resolutions, I agree, but the atmosphere and the sense of fun go a long way for me. I’m already going to read everything Berrow wrote despite the slightly lower standard of solution, but the very god solution to the impossibility in Deadly Reunion isn’t enough to make me pick up any more Jan Ekström translations that may appear 🙂
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