Norman Berrow’s literary output presents very much like the little girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead: when he’s good he’s The Three Tiers of Fantasy (1947) and The Footprints of Satan (1950), but when he’s bad he’s Words Have Wings (1946) or The Singing Room (1948). And after a few reading experiences so tedious that I didn’t finish them, never mind review them on the blog, a break was needed. Three years without reading a word by the man, then, we return with The Lady’s in Danger (1955), which lacks for detection but is nevertheless a very enjoyable little thriller, and a fun time thanks to its author’s familiarity with so many of the tropes he deploys.

American P.I. Brick ‘Brad’ Bradley is visiting England when he is woken in the night by a woman’s scream. Rushing to investigate, he learns that the young, beautiful Seraphina Thringwater — thankfully she goes by Sara for most of the book — was awoken herself by a man in her room trying to strangle her. In short order, Brad is hired by Sara’s chaperone Agatha Fletcher-MIlton to guard her against whatever misfortune is stalking her, since — from kidnap attempts to various other unusual happenings — something ominous is circling Sara. So, Brad follows the menage to the isolated estate of Thringwater Dene, which Sara, being the only surviving relative of the eldery Ann Thringwater, stands to inheret. And whatever trouble is stalking Sara is not far behind, with night-time attacks, mysterious disappearances, murder, and plenty of confusion enveloping the household and those associated with it.

The real coup here is the characterisation of Bradley, a fish out of water in an isolated locale who has to figure out as much about British society as he does the situation in which he has become embroiled. There’s a real charm in the way Berrow communicates Brad’s separation from all that surrounds him…

“You’re big, aren’t you?” she said, performing the old British trick of telling you what you are and then asking you to agree with it.

…including the fact that he often has no idea what the locals in Thringwater Dene are saying, their dialogue often reduced to “hurring and burring” with the occasional word looming out of the fog. There’s no cynicism or condescension in Brad’s attitude, mainly just an air of separateness that he adopts with good humour and a sense of being a stranger in a strange land.

I didn’t see any Maypole played while I was there, but I did once catch a peek of a kind of slow-motion square dance without partners they said was cricket.

This is much more a thriller than a novel of detection, and it’s not terribly difficult to determine where things are heading — Berrow offers one clue of sorts, and it lands with the subtlety of a pillow case full of horseshoes — but something about the laid back tone of Brad, the easy relationships he builds with certain characters, and the steady and confident layering of events that Berrow wrangles makes it very difficult not to enjoy. And, for all the obviousness of the final fillip, I can’t deny that the revelations there did hit a little harder than I’d expected them to — a salutary lesson in the importance of having readers connect with characters when the plotting isn’t the strongest.

It helps that, for all the inevitability on display, Berrow does cram in a couple of good surprises. A couple of deaths caught me off guard, and again the examination of character reveals slightly more about the all-female staff of Ann Thringwater’s country house than would be expected of this novel were it written 15 years earlier. Additionally, as a Kiwi, Berrow has a keen insight on the oddities of British culture — like how accents can vary so wildly in only a small distance, say — that had me, an Englishman, greatly tickled.

The Lady’s in Danger — despite this Ramble House edition having a cover that frankly baffles me, Gavin O’Keefe usually doing far more interesting work for the imprint — is, then, a light, enjoyable, and pleasant way to pass the time. You’ll not be rocked back on your heels, nor will it stand out in your mind as an exemplary example of anything that it does, but the confidence Berrow is still able to bring to bear on what should be a forgettable and easily dismissed plot is very pleasing, and it’s great to see him achieve something so notable this late in his career.

So, well, perhaps that three year gap was a good thing, enabling me to return to Berrow to appreciate so much of what I enjoy when I do enjoy his writing. As such, I shall not rush on to his next novel The Claws of the Cougar (1957) nor to the couple of gaps I have to fill in his back catalogue. Let’s let absence make the heart grow fonder, because I’d love to end our association on a more positive note, which I feel I owe him after the very good time I have spent in his company. So, well, don’t watch this space too avidly…but that’s by no means a bad thing.

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