I have been known to be something of an impatient reader. In the first half of this decade, I read 713 books — an average of 2.74 a week — all while maintaining the physique of a Greek god, fighting crime at night dressed as a badger, holding down a full time job as a lawyer for the downtrodden, and winning the last six series of Mastermind in a raft of ingenious disguises.
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One of my favourite discoveries of recent years has been the character of Captain Duncan Maclain, the blind protagonist of a baker’s dozen of books by Baynard Kendrick. Having enjoyed The Odor of Violets (1941) and Blind Man’s Bluff (1943) as part of the American Mystery Classics range, I’ve been keeping an eye out for other books in the series, and got very lucky stumbling into a copy of The Whistling Hangman (1937) that was so severely beaten it must have owed money to six different loan sharks. And this was an especially exciting find as the novel has been praised by TomCat, apparently featuring some more ingenious impossible deaths in a large New York hotel…and, yeah, largely lives up to its billing.
I’ll level with you: I have never understood the obsession Sherlockians have with the Giant Rat of Sumatra.
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In my very first post on this blog I shared the belief that G.K. Chesterton’s writing is “too verbose”, and I’ll confess that I’ve found him hard to enjoy in the past. But reading some stories with Countdown John got me thinking that maybe I could suffer to give him another go, and so here, eventually, we are.
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With an intriguing title taken from Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890) (“Murder is always a mistake. One should never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner.”), Silence After Dinner (1953) is the eleventh Clifford Witting novel republished by Galileo Publishers. And since they were kind enough to send me a review copy, I can tell you about it fairly close to its release for a change. Opening with a startling, anonymous diary entry set in late-Communist Revolution China, we jump forward four years to the more bucolic South Downs where various people all seem to have spent time in that country and so might be the person responsible for the acts relayed in that opening. So, whodunnit?
It is no doubt fitting that the last Sherlock Holmes pastiche I read saw our Great Detective tackling a copycat of the Jack the Ripper killings in 1942, given that the next one I would go on to read would see him tackle the actual Ripper killings in 1888.
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When we talk about examples of the classic novel of detection being treated as a knowing parody of itself, titles oft-mentioned include The Poisoned Chocolates Case (1929) or Jumping Jenny (1933) by Anthony Berkeley. But I’ve just read The Body in the Library (1942) by Agatha Christie for the first time in 25 years, and, like, her tongue is positively bulging through her cheek at times, no?
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You have to buy the whole book of A Certain Dr. Thorndyke (1927), the tenth novel featuring R. Austin Freeman’s eponymous, esteemed medical jurist, but I’d advise only reading half of it. Rather like final Sherlock Holmes novel The Valley of Fear (1915) by Arthur Conan Doyle, the story here is split into two parts, one of criminous shenanigans and one of tedious backstory — though Freeman’s backstory comes first — and, even then, the crime and its investigation are only just about interesting to hold the attention. Mostly this smells of an idea Freeman couldn’t let go that should have been at best a novella, but which finds itself beefed up so that he could fulfil a clause in a contract. He does so enthusiastically, but it’s not a good read.
Having enjoyed-if-not-loved my first encounter with Roger Ormerod’s work, Time to Kill (1974), he’s hovered on the fringes of my awareness as someone I should get back to. So a timely recommendation for The Weight of Evidence (1978) sees us pick up again with David Mallin
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The Invisible Event 