I’m not entirely sure where Casual Slaughters (1935) by James Quince first came to my attention, but it might have been this list of 150 largely very good detective novels, compiled by Curtis Evans back in 2010. And since Curtis and I recently agreed about The Dead Man’s Knock (1958) by John Dickson Carr, and since Oreon Books recently reprinted Casual Slaughters and I bought a copy while visiting at the excellent Bodies in the Bookshop in Cambridge, well, the time seemed ripe to pull it out of my TBR to see how I fare. And, as if I needed more convincing, Quince’s title is from Hamlet, this blog takes its name from Hamlet…seriously, could the universe be aligning more?

If the novel slightly disappoints as an example of the detective arts — the culprit and means are revealed via monologue in the closing chapter — it’s a nevertheless very charming story of a small village, Bishop’s Pecheford in Devon, and the people there. Quince has a wonderful eye for the telling details of human nature, like he garrulous Mrs. Tawton as “a local paper published in hourly editions”, or the importance of village events like the Flower Show as highlights of the calendar:

For one glorious afternoon and evening of the humdrum year all of us, save the bedridden, give ourselves up to sheer enjoyment of a crashing band and hot tents and, not least, the spectacle of naked hatred, anger and envy given free by those exhibitors who have not won a prize.

When a headless corpse is discovered buried in the churchyard, the finger of suspicion will begin to swing, though in a rather more small-minded way than we’re used to since “[h]uman heads, particularly if they are rural, seldom have room for two ideas at once”. Scotland Yard appears in the person of the fabulously-named Inspector Lawless, and our narrator Blundell puts him up and so finds himself privy to rather more information than one might otherwise. Then a second body is found, and the plot…sort of ends at that point.

For reasons I shall no go into, the Parochial Church Council adopts responsibility for finding out who is guilty of these crimes, and so, after various meetings to vote on motions in this direction, divide up and begin to question the locals. This goes on for several humorous chapters and, with some small advancements achieved, the guilt is brought out as previously discussed — hardly an example of rigorous detection, but it is quite good fun watching the various agrarian types apply themselves to the dark arts of ferreting out information.

“The Borgias? Who are they?” asked two or three of us at once, to the embarrassment of Fanny.

“The Borgias? Don’t you know? Oh — Italian people — used to poison people.”

“Used to? They’re dead, then?” put in Mrs. Tawton sharply.

“Oh, yes!” admitted poor Fanny.

“Then I don’t see what they’ve got to do with it.”

Occasionally Quince hints at a bigger world in casual moments like Blundell reflecting on his war experience or in the aside that the impact of international trade is being felt by the local man (“You’ll mostly find us Devon farmers eat New Zealand butter.”). For the most part, though, this is simply a fast, light, and enjoyably inconsequential read that has a grin hiding around most corners (“The method I have of judging [women’s] ways is by thinking of them as a cross between sailors and fowls, the only creatures that I really understand”.) and only engages with the unpleasantness of its central theme as a passing idea.

There’s space here for some great examination of the genre — the hiding of that missing head is brilliant, if only the context had been mentioned sooner — but Quince lacks the experience to really exploit the richness of the setting and people he has so excellently conjured to life. There is also some distracting writing — you cannot roll your r‘s in the sentence “What is said of those who hold aloof?” — but it’s difficult not to feel that, had he ever written a second novel, Quince would have improved on these little disappointments. If you’re looking for a gentle time in a beautifully-limned locale, Casual Slaughters comes highly recommended. Anyone hoping for a lost classic, however, need not apply.

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See also

Martin Edwards: The strength of this book lies in Quince’s wry humour, which has worn pretty well, on the whole. The interplay of characters is very nicely done, and I’m sure he drew on his own experiences of English village life in evoking the mood and setting. The Rector, unsurprisingly, is especially well done. It’s a quiet book, but fun to read, and I’m disappointed that he never wrote another.