Perhaps sensing limitations in the character after five novels, J.J. Connington seemed to retire Chief Constable Sir Clinton Driffield following Nemesis at Raynham Parva (1929) and wrote two novels of diverging quality featuring the bland Superintendent Ross. But, with Ross possibly not finding traction in either his creator’s mind or in that of the reading public, The Boathouse Riddle (1931) sees the return of Sir Clinton, large as life and unknowable as ever, as a murdered groundskeeper interrupts his holiday on the estate of his friend ‘Squire’ Wendover. And so, with nary a sigh, our detective rolls up his sleeves and gets to work…

One of the particular pleasures of this book is just how delightfully traditional a classic detective story it is: canny interpretation of the many unusual features of the crime scene, a local populace all engaged in some kind of nefarious or unscrupulous activity at the time of the murder, and a clever detective whose patient and rigorous approach is able to see through the melee and give events their appropriate importance. The first nine chapters are, in this regard, the sort of pure detection I wish I could boil down and inject into my veins, and if the final 100 pages dilutes things slightly, well, it’s not like there isn’t much to enjoy along the way.

Interestingly, it’s Wendover who is the biggest surprise here: not that his pomposity or class bias is in any way lessened, but somehow I found his obvious prejudices — laid out keenly by Connington in the opening chapter — less of a barrier to enjoyment than before. It helps that he’s clearly the butt of more than a few errors in judgement (c.f. his confidence over the people who would have had access to his shiny new boathouse), and his blindness in certain regards is played for laughs at his expense…

“When he slipped on the bank and came down with a smash, his gun went off and shot him.”

“And then he got up and cleaned his fingerprints off his gun? He must have been an amazingly tidy fellow.”

…so that even though you blench at his distrust of foreigners and predisposition against those not in his own caste, somehow it feels less galling, confined to an era whose outlook was as ill-informed as that of the man who holds such views. But Connington also humanises him in little touches like detailing the avidity with which he carries his new telephone around his house, so that he’s neither purely a figure of fun nor an archetype to aspire to.

It also doesn’t hurt that Driffield is, in his own dry way, exceedingly good company. Alfred Walter Stewart’s scientific background is felt in Driffield’s reflection that “in science an international reputation implies merely that an author’s papers are read by a handful of specialists, half of whom probably disagree with the conclusions”, and Driffield’s own charming conceit can be found in his admission that he followed up a hunch with Wendover rather than with local policeman Inspector Severn because “I didn’t care to take the risk of drawing a blank in his company…[o]ne must save one’s face if one can, Squire”.

The final chapter, too, lays out Driffield’s interpretation of events as things unfolded — a carry-over here from The Case with Nine Solutions (1929) — and moments sprinkled throughout, such as his reasoning about “a place where a girl wears neither evening dress nor jewels”, are intelligent, well-formed, and pleasingly obscure in the best Golden Age tradition. The mystery might appear to broaden a little in the second half, but the tight focus on a fairly small group reminded me of Clifford Witting‘s tiny casts and clever reinterpretations…with Connington’s advantage being that his own books don’t feel in need of a good trim.

The final answers might lack a little in the dark arts of obfuscation and surprise, but the book is never dull, and Connington has clearly had some time to reflect on the nature of Driffield in his absence in a way that raises some interesting ideas, off of which we ricochet as the plot barrels along:

“When you set your men to get up a case against a man and hang him, do you mean to prevent him committing another murder, or do you want to deter other people from murder, or are you punishing him for what he’s done? Why do you do it?”

“Because I’m paid to do it,” said Sir Clinton prosaically. “It’s part of my work.”

For those seeking a traditional time, The Boathouse Riddle is probably 90% of what you’re after, and marks for me a very happy way to end my reading in 2023. You can sense Connington’s limitations here, but you can also see a man working well inside of what he knows how to do, and when it comes off this successfully it’s hard to begrudge the enjoyment conferred upon the reader.

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