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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As my grandfather used to say, “Good god, it’s tough being a John Dickson Carr fan — he wrote some of the genre’s best and most enduring masterpieces, and yet the decline in his later works like Behind the Crimson Blind (1952) and The Cavalier’s Cup (1953) means that when you get to that end of his career he can prove to be frustrating and unenjoyable to read. But try The Dead Man’s Knock (1958), which at least features Dr. Gideon Fell, a character I’m sure you’ll like when you encounter him.” And, over 40 years later, his prophecy has been borne out, with The Dead Man’s Knock arresting a recent slide in quality where my Carr reading is concerned.
The key facet of most crime and detective fiction is that we, the reader, should find ourselves in sympathy with the person who is the victim — or, more rarely, the perpetrator — of, some crime. Sometimes, though, that’s simply not possible.
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Last year my book club picked our favourite 1930s mysteries, and earlier this year we moved on a decade and each selected a top 10 for the 1940s. So, well, here’s mine.
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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.
The original antepenultimate case for the world’s first consulting detective; the perfect time to introduce some new lore, what?
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The first of (so far…) two volumes of William Brittain’s short fiction from Crippen & Landru, The Man Who Read Mysteries (2018) contains the eleven stories written under the non-series ‘The X Who Read [Author Name]’ titles and seven selections from editor Josh Pachter of the tales featuring crime-solving high school science teacher Leonard Strang.
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The Invisible Event 