In five days, Daniel Bronson will be hanged for the murder of regional ne’er-do-well Blackatter, found shot through the back of the head with the insensible, gun-clutching Bronson nearby. And while “no man so near the gallows can be called alive” his wife Selma refuses to think of him as dead yet and approaches Anthony Gethryn to see if he can, “months after the thing was done, when even witnesses’ memories are getting hazy and any scent there might’ve been at the time’s vanished long ago”, find the evidence that would clear Bronson of the crime which Selma simply does not believe he committed. And, well, how could Colonel Gethryn ever live with himself if he didn’t at least try?

My upsy-downsy relationship with the work of Philip MacDonald continues apace with The Noose (1930). It’s not as bad as X v. Rex (1933) — though I’m willing to revisit that and amend my opinion just as soon as I find a nice copy to buy — but neither is it as ingenious as The Rynox Mystery (1930) (mind you, very little is). Instead this falls into a sort of grey middle ground where a few nice ideas lift it above the morass yet MacDonald’s mode of chronicling keeps it from never quite commending itself. This is not even pretending to be fair play detective fiction, with MacDonald keeping you out of not just about every important realisation and clue, but also of conversations and actions as they happen as if hoping to hide his lack of declaration among the many bloodied bodies of such on the battlefield of his telling:

[Flood] smiled apologetically as he drew near — apologetically but with the inoffensive pride of one who does a kindly deed. At the house door he stood awhile with Dollboys. He talked earnestly, and with a little gesticulation. Twice Mr Dollboys nodded, neither emphatically nor wearily: no expression crossed that wooden face…

“So I thought I’d mention it,” Flood said. His tone was not without the tinge of nervousness which seemed suitable. His round, rather youthfully florid face wore a look of gravity. His blue eyes were candid, and innocent without foolishness.

Dollboys nodded. “Much obliged,” he said, “I’m sure.”

Yet at times it’s rather wonderful, such as Gethryn’s subtle manipulations of Mr. J. Harrigan, or his brutal dismissal of the opinions of local folk regarding the culpability of Mrs. Bronson in things (“It’s the line of least resistance for their atrophied minds.”). There are, too, some great character notes…

[She was a] woman whose face and body, whose gown and few jewels, whose self in all guessed and unguessed aspects, not so much demanded attention as spontaneously received attention without the necessity for demand.

…a telling passing comment on the oyster-like behaviour of the Great Detective (“We think, but we don’t speak. We say it’s because we aren’t ready for speech. But it’s really because we don’t know what we’re thinking about.”), and some witty asides (the comment about the speedometer needle).

Against this are the obvious flaws in telling a detective story with no visible detection, the fact that some of the actions of Gethryn & Co. are serendipitous at best — I don’t follow the menacing of Mr. Dollboys, to be honest, and it works out perfectly — and the fact that Gethryn, in virtually the penultimate paragraph, mentions that he (and so, MacDonald) has no idea how a rather key part of proceedings was achieved. MacDonald wrote a lot in the early 1930s, and if this turned out to be a first draft I wouldn’t be at all surprised.

Some wonderfully archaic language creeps through at times (“See it wet, see it dry! I give you my word.”), though we can be reasonably assured that “Hairy Aaron!”, my expression of choice of incredulous surprise, will not be replaced any time soon by “My Winkey!”. It’s interesting, too, that this exists in an era when it is entirely reasonable to ensure that most men of reasonable health would have had some sort of involvement in the First World War, and that the argot at times echoes this in a manner that is mildly baffling now (c.f. “I had S.I. III for a bit,” or “That’s the Varolles VC…”). In this regard, it’s another great historical document of the sort I enjoy in this genre, and a point in its favour.

Ultimately, however, while I have now warmed to MacDonald’s terse style and occasional bursts of loquacity…

[T]aking cap and coat from the hall’s centre table, [he] went to the main door and through it and out into the air. All traces of the mist had now vanished. A yellow sun, bright and cold, made the world sparkle like a nursery picture. He drew in draughts of the earth-scented, sharp-cutting air.

…this thrillerish sort of telling is never going to appeal to me, especially not when the ground for genuine detection is so ripe. I first tried to read this about five years ago and gave up before the halfway point, and, while more in the mood for it this time around, there’s definitely a clear ceiling on how enthused I can feel about it. Not one, I’d suggest, to make your first experience of MacDonald; apply elsewhere and return when in more certain mind about him.