This inverted mystery was first exposure to the novelicious work of R. Austin Freeman, and remains a decided highlight in a career that, in my experience to date, has no lack of excellent novels of detection. The central dilemma in which the eponymous Mr. Pottermack finds himself entangled is so vibrantly realised that I was on tenterhooks in the best possible way as the conclusion rolled round and we waited to see which way the ingenious Dr. John Evelyn Thorndyke was going to jump. The Thorndyke books have become firm favourites, thanks in no small part to the efforts of Nick in steering me in those opening encounters, and Pottermack is a beacon at, or indistinguishably near, the top of that whole experience. Glorious stuff. [My review]

You don’t have to pick a Christie, of course, but And Then There Were None (1939) is magnificent and so hors concours, thus I wanted to go for something a little different. I remembered this for its fabulous final reveal — nothing new at the time, but it still makes me smile all these years later — and the compact way Christie barrels through a busy narrative with the youthful vigour and narrative cleanliness that marks out an author at the very peak of their confidence. Upon rereading it, I found it pretty much living up to these memories, with all the Christie strengths — and some lovely creative ideas cast aside for use later — and little of the weaknesses that would come into effect as she continued to write with such undimmed energy for so many years. God, we were lucky to have her. [My review]

An updating of Israel Rank (1907) by Roy Horniman, Wade’s Heir Presumptive (1935) sees a minor member of an aristocratic family slowly murdering his way into a title and money, and remains one of the darkest books ever produced in the Golden Age. It’s a brilliant, compelling sort of darkness, though, with grimly-detailed death scenes, social-climbing lovers, throwaway comments on the changing nature of gender roles in society, and a final narrative disclosure that bears down on you with the inevitability of Fate itself. Hot damn, I wish someone would reprint Wade; the last boom of GAD reissues seems the perfect opportunity for this star to rise again. Hopefully this isn’t too far away from reappearing in bookshops, and you should grab a copy the instant it appears. [My review]

Yes, I can be accused of over-fondness where Crofts is concerned, but The End of Andrew Harrison (1938) is such a magnificent piece of structuring — an impossible murder on a giant yacht, plus a rallying cry against the cynical and ruinous manipulations of big business — that I honestly don’t quite get how anyone could read it and not love it. It lacks only a map of the eponymous millionaire’s boat to make one aspect marginally clearer to the reader, but apart from that shows one of the Golden Age’s arch constructionists on belligerently brilliant form: he knows what he knows, and he’s going to write this novel of patient detection his way, dammit. Just a glorious book, and such a delight to have back in print. [My review]

I’m currently working my way through the Sergeant William Beef novels of Leo Bruce and — due to the semi-chronological nature of that task — I won’t get to reread Case with No Conclusion (1939), the third book, until the end. But I remember being very impressed with the nature of this: you’re essentially told in the title that there will be no formal solution to this murder investigation, yet Bruce, in his full, convention-flouting pomp, still found a way to make that surprising: for Beef to essentially be both Roger Sheringham and Hercule Poirot. It’s a complex and canny piece of plotting, enabling the detective to both fail and succeed in no uncertain terms, and the route to get there is also kept entertaining at each step. Maybe I’ll have cause to amend this decision in due course, but what’s life without a little suspense…?