It is a truth universally accepted that an author with a sizeable output will probably vary their approach from time to time. And so, in his twelfth mystery novel to be published under his J.J. Connington nom de plume, Alfred Walter Stewart clearly decided that what his increasingly accomplished criminous schemes needed was more character — a little more personality on the part of the people affected. And thus The Castleford Conundrum (1932) positively overflows with delightful character beats which really bring the situation to life…except that they come at the expense of the criminous element, which feels lucky to come in second place where the book’s priorities are concerned.

Perhaps sensing limitations in the character after five novels, J.J. Connington seemed to retire Chief Constable Sir Clinton Driffield following Nemesis at Raynham Parva (1929) and wrote two novels of diverging quality featuring the bland Superintendent Ross. But, with Ross possibly not finding traction in either his creator’s mind or in that of the reading public, The Boathouse Riddle (1931) sees the return of Sir Clinton, large as life and unknowable as ever, as a murdered groundskeeper interrupts his holiday on the estate of his friend ‘Squire’ Wendover. And so, with nary a sigh, our detective rolls up his sleeves and gets to work…

I don’t normally read two books by the same author within at least a few months of each other, but I so enjoyed J.J. Connington’s criminous debut Death at Swaythling Court (1926) back in September that I was honestly champing at the bit to get back to more of his work. The Dangerfield Talisman, then, (1926) is Connington’s follow-up to Swaythling, with a completely new setting, cast, and conundrum. And Connington himself appears to have been equally keen to get to this one, possibly writing it in a mere seven weeks…and, if that was the case, it’s difficult not to wish that he’d spent a little longer over it.

I first encountered J.J. Connington’s two-book sleuth Superintendent Ross in his debut, The Eye in the Museum (1929), a novel I disliked so much I’ve banished from memory almost entirely.  It was to be hoped, then, that Ross’ valedictorian case The Two Tickets Puzzle (1930) would strike me more favourably — which, given the rate these Golden Age tyros produced mysteries (this is Connington’s ninth crime novel in just four years), didn’t seem too unlikely: quality is bound to vary wildly under intense output. And, sure enough, Ross’ final case is an improvement: clearer, better structured, and far more engaging.