The Spoilt Kill by Mary Kelly

A year or so ago, I read and loved Due to a Death, a brooding psychological mystery by the English crime writer Mary Kelly. The Spoilt Kill was published a year before Due to a Death, and it shares something of the same mood – a doomed, fatalistic tone that runs through the book. In short, it’s another triumph for this underappreciated writer, a brilliant literary mystery with shades of Dorothy B. Hughes.

Set in the Staffordshire Potteries in the early 1960s, The Spoilt Kill is narrated by Hedley Nicholson, a private investigator in his mid-forties. Someone has been leaking the new designs at Shentall’s, a traditional, family-run pottery manufacturer in the area, resulting in cheap, copycat versions of their ceramics appearing overseas. With the US representing a lucrative market for pottery, the firm’s MD, Luke Shentall, has hired Nicholson to investigate the situation, preferring a more discreet approach than involving the police. In order to carry out his investigations, Nicholson is posing under the guise of a writer, tasked by Luke to capture the firm’s story in an updated promotional brochure – a cover story that enables Nicholson to go poking around the factory asking probing questions without raising too many suspicions.

The stealth, the pains taken, the risks to livelihood that were involved all added up to one word; money. For all Luke’s information about staff and access and cameras, it was money that I had chiefly to look for; money needed or money spent; someone poor, desperately, habitually, or suddenly; or someone merely greedy; or extravagant. That was why I wanted to see the salary sheets. As for wages – time enough to think about them when I’d fruitlessly exhausted the staff. A great thing was to remember that nothing was impossible; nothing, and no one. (p. 47–48)

The nature of the leaks suggests the culprit is someone with early access to the designs, a factor that narrows the suspects down to a handful of individuals – chief amongst them Corinna Wakefield, a talented artist who produces the firm’s new designs. Moreover, Corinna is one of the few ‘outsiders’ at Shentall’s. A former textiles designer from Manchester with no previous links to the pottery business or the local area, she rarely mixes with the others at the factory, setting her apart from those with generations of family loyalty to the firm.

As Nicholson’s investigation gets underway, the situation is further complicated by two significant factors. Firstly, the world-weary Nicholson finds himself developing feelings for Corinna, an attractive thirty-five-year-old widow with a somewhat shady, mysterious past. Consequently, Nicholson feels torn between his duty to Luke Shentall and his growing personal feelings towards a leading suspect in the case. Secondly, during one of the regular guided tours of the factory, a dead body is discovered in one of the vaults for liquid clay, raising the possibility of foul play in an already tense environment…

Kelly has chosen an unusual structure for her mystery, starting with a ‘What Happened’ section describing the discovery of the body – by Corinna, as it happens. Interestingly, Kelly doesn’t reveal the identity or gender of the deceased at this point, leaving the reader in the dark until the middle of the novel. The second section details ‘What Happened Before’ the dead body is discovered, allowing us to get to know various other key players in the mix, most of whom are potential suspects. Finally, we have the ‘What Happened After’ section, outlining the subsequent developments and the solutions to the crimes.

What’s particularly impressive here is the characterisation. Both Nicholson and Corinna are very skilfully drawn, each with their own hopes, disappointments and preoccupations that gradually reveal themselves over time. Moreover, as in Due to a Death, Kelly infuses The Spoilt Kill with a strong sense of despair. There is a doomed, fatalistic feel to Nicholson and Corinna’s relationship throughout, however strongly the reader might hope for a more optimistic outcome. Moreover, the secondary characters are also neatly captured, from the henpecked accountant Colin Dart and his demanding wife, Gillian, to the brusque, insensitive accountant Dudley Bullace.

Gillian! She was an icicle, a narrow brittle icicle wrapped in a tightly belted scarlet raincoat that exactly matched her lipstick and flattered her crisp black hair and blue eyes. She was in her middle twenties, good looking in an orthodox way, though you wouldn’t have turned to look twice at her; a shell on the beach, one of thousands. (p. 49)

Kelly’s prose style is very literary with a distinctly noirish feel, perfectly capturing the stark beauty of the industrial landscape undercut with a seam of darkness, hinting at the sense of menace lurking within.

Then in the floor of the pit, the pure industrial landscape of the iron and steel and the gas works and the ceramic colourists – black chimneys, level crossings without gates, heaps of slag and coke and scrap, a goods train clanking under a bridge, its engine pushing fat rolls of gritty steam into the sulphurous air. And through the middle of everything lay the Trent–Mersey canal, a motionless strip of water, black and glistening like a slug’s back. (p. 104)

The resolutions, when they come, are eminently credible and believable – more so than usual for this type of crime novel when complex, convoluted solutions are frequently deployed. They’re also very much in keeping with the character traits Kelly develops over the course of her narrative, illustrating how any of us could be driven to act rashly or foolishly in the heat of the moment.

So, in summary then, The Spoilt Kill is a top-notch, noirish mystery with an emphasis on characterisation, psychological motivations, atmosphere and mood. Fans of Dorothy B. Hughes and Margaret Millar would likely enjoy this one – a deserving winner of the CWA Gold Dagger on its original release.

The Spoilt Kill is published by the British Library as part of their Crime Classics series. My thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.

Crook O’ Lune by E. C. R. Lorac

In recent years, the British Library has been doing a sterling job with its reissues of various vintage mysteries by the English crime writer Edith Caroline Rivett. While many of these novels were written under Rivett’s main pen name E. C. R. Lorac, others were published in the guise of Carol Carnac – including the excellent Crossed Skis, a fabulous winter holiday read.

Crook O’ Lune (aka Shepherd’s Crook) is another splendid addition to the list, an absorbing slow-burn mystery with an excellent sense of place. The setting is the fictional farming community of High Gimmerdale, which Lorac based on the parish of Roeburndale in the Lancashire fells, an area she knew very well. It also features her regular detective, Chief Inspector Macdonald, who continues to impress with his sharp mind, likeable manner and thorough investigative skills.

With an eye on his future retirement plans, Macdonald is staying with friends in Lancashire’s Lune Valley while he searches for a small dairy farm to buy. During the trip, an investigation with links to the past arises, and Macdonald gets drawn in…

Gilbert Woolfall, a middle-aged businessman from Leeds, has recently inherited Aikengill, a remote farmhouse in the local area. While Gilbert has always been a town man, he finds himself increasingly tempted by the prospect of making Aikengill his home, especially given the beauty of the local area. Moreover, the property has been in the Woolfall family for centuries and was lovingly refurbished by the previous owner, Gilbert’s Uncle Thomas; so, the emotional pull of the property’s heritage is proving difficult for Gilbert to resist.

But with the other half of his mind he [Gilbert] was aware that something deep down inside him responded to the remoteness and serenity of the place, something tugged at him, told him he belonged here, as his forefathers had done and that if he sold that ancient house which Uncle Thomas had left him in his will, he’d know for the rest of his life he’d made a mistake, as well as lost an opportunity. (pp. 18–19)

Nevertheless, before finalising his decision, Gilbert is keen to work through his late uncle’s vast store of papers on the Woolfall family history. Who knows what he might discover as he continues to dig?

While Gilbert is mulling things over, Lorac introduces a few other interested parties – each with an eye on the new owner’s decision, one way or another. First up, there’s Betty Fell, a strapping lass from a family of local farmers. Betty hopes to marry her young man, Jock Shearling, a local farmhand, but the prospect of living with either set of parents is not particularly appealing. So, she asks Gilbert if she and Jock can stay in a wing of the house and look after the place in his absence. In effect, Betty would act as Aikengill’s housekeeper while Jock could look after the land.

Then there’s the Rector, the disagreeable Simon Tupper, who seems to think Gilbert’s uncle should have left the Church some money in his will. Gilbert knows of some suspicions regarding the Church’s misallocation of a previous stipend – a provision for a perpetual curate in the area, originally dating back to the Woolfalls’ ancestors in the 17^th century. This ‘hocus-pocus’ about the grant appears to be the reason for the lack of any Church bequest in Uncle Thomas’s will. Finally, there’s Daniel Herdwick, owner of the neighbouring farm. He wishes to buy Aikengill as he already has grazing rights to the estate’s land.

Gilbert is minded to take up Betty Fell’s offer to take care of the place while he decides what to do long term. He knows it might take a year or two to make a final decision, and the house will need looking after in his absence – especially as the current housekeeper, Mrs Ramsden, is moving to Dent to take care of her cousin. However, before any plans can be finalised, a tragedy occurs. A fire breaks out in the Aikengill cellar, destroying the contents of the property’s study and killing Mrs Ramsden – possibly unintentionally, as the house was presumed to have been unoccupied on the night in question.  

Naturally, Chief Inspector Macdonald gets involved in the case – firstly as a consultant to the local police and subsequently on a more formal basis. The ensuing investigations take Macdonald through the hills and dales of the fells, giving Lorac ample opportunities to showcase her skills in capturing the beauty of the local area. What makes this story particularly engaging is how beautifully Lorac portrays the farming community and the local landscape. She writes lovingly about the details of day-to-day rural life, the rhythms of working the land, and the blend of beauty and ruggedness in the terrain.

It was a glorious spring evening, the sun still gilding the crests of the high fells, though the valley was already in shadows. At first, the steep narrow road ran between hedgerows in which the first blackthorn was spreading a mist of white, and the willow catkins were blobs of gold, but after a couple of miles the hedgerows gave way to dry-stone walls, the arable land dropped behind, and the road rose even more steeply to the open fellside. (p. 16)

The narrative is punctuated by some lovely descriptions of the Lancashire landscape, and Lorac’s knowledge of the practicalities of sheep farming also comes through, giving the story a strong sense of authenticity. (The Aikengill mystery is further complicated by the apparent theft of some sheep from Herdwick’s flock – a series of incidents that may or may not be connected to the fire) The post-war atmosphere, complete with shortages and black-market trading, is also nicely evoked.

Another area where Lorac excels is the characterisation. In Macdonald, Lorac has created a character with a deep understanding of country folk, particularly their strong sense of community and suspicion of strangers. The number of key players/suspects is relatively small, and Lorac fleshes them out beautifully through a combination of dialogue, behaviours and descriptive passages. As this mystery is a slow burner, we get to know the characters really well, despite a few obligatory red herrings here and there.

Moreover, the solution is not overly complex or convoluted. Much of it rests on Uncle Thomas’s investigations into the Woolfall family history, some of which seem tantalisingly out of reach for the reader. (If you’re someone who likes to spot the clues and piece everything together yourself before the investigator reveals all, you might be a little frustrated with this one. I’m not sure there’s enough here to actually solve the puzzle in full without a little more info on Uncle Thomas’s papers.) Nevertheless, when the solution is finally laid out, it feels entirely plausible and in keeping with the novel’s tenor – so, no complaints on that front from me.

In summary then, this is a very absorbing mystery with a well-developed set of characters and a marvellous sense of place. Another winner from E. C. R. Lorac, one of the stars of the British Library Crime Classics series – my thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.

The Seat of the Scornful by John Dickson Carr

I’ve had slightly mixed experiences with Carr’s mysteries in the past, but this is a good one!

First published in Britain in 1942, The Seat of the Scornful combines an intriguing mystery with some different interpretations of what constitutes justice. Central to the story is the formidable judge, Justice Horace Ireton, a man who enjoys playing ‘cat-and-mouse’ with the accused, sometimes allowing a convicted criminal to stew in their own juice before approving a stay of execution. As his colleague Fred Barlow observes:

“…He [Justice Ireton] doesn’t care twopence about the law. What he is interested in is administering absolute, impartial justice as he sees it.” (p. 23)

The judge would like his daughter, twenty-one-year-old Constance, to marry Barlow, an affable barrister with good career prospects. Constance, however, has other ideas. Much to her father’s displeasure, Constance has fallen for Tony Morell, a charismatic entrepreneur with a rather shady past.

He [Morell] was one of those self-consciously virile types which are associated with the Southern European; the sort of man who, as Jane Tennant once put it, always makes a woman feel that he is breathing down the back of her neck. (pp. 19-20)

When the couple announce their intention to marry, Judge Ireton offers Morrell a sizeable amount of money to disappear without a word to Constance about their agreement. At first, Morell appears to accept the offer. But after returning to the judge’s bungalow the following evening to collect his payment, Morrell is found dead in highly suspicious circumstances, a scenario that clearly implicates Justice Ireton as the murderer.

Before long, Dr Gideon Fell, who happens to play chess with Ireton, is called in to assist the police with their investigations – and what appears to be a relatively simple case soon throws up some very interesting complications. As it turns out, several people connected to the judge were in the area at the time of the murder. In fact, the room where Morell’s body was found was easily accessible through some open French windows – the very opposite of a ‘locked room’!

As the mystery unfolds and we learn more about the other potential suspects, the judge’s views on justice and the law become increasingly relevant. Can motivations or extenuating circumstances ever justify such a serious crime? And is circumstantial evidence ever sufficient to establish guilt? These questions and more are explored through Carr’s cleverly constructed mystery.

The characterisation is particularly good here, with Carr’s portrayal of Justice Ireton feeling authentic and believable. Constance Ireton is well-drawn too, a rather headstrong girl with a capacity for flighty emotions. Similarly, Carr does well to create some compelling supporting players, most notably Fred Barlow and Constance’s friend Jane Tennant, who also find themselves drawn into the investigations.

The solution, when it comes, feels a bit convoluted with a couple of last-minute twists that will likely divide opinion. Nevertheless, this thoroughly enjoyable mystery keeps the reader guessing right to the very end!

The Seat of the Scornful is published by the British Library as part of their Crime Classics series; my thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.

Post After Post-Mortem by E. C. R. Lorac

Over the past few years, the British Library has been doing a splendid job in reissuing various vintage mysteries by the English writer Edith Caroline Rivett – mostly under her main pen name E. C. R. Lorac, but also the excellent Crossed Skis, which Rivett wrote as Carol Carnac. First published in 1936, Post After Post-Mortem is another very enjoyable addition to the list – an intriguing, complex mystery with a psychological edge.

Central to this novel are the Surrays, a highly successful family of intellectuals from Oxfordshire. Each of the five Surray children is a high achiever in their chosen field, from the eldest, Richard, the brilliant psychiatrist, to the youngest, Naomi, who has just been awarded a First in Classics. The middle daughter, Ruth – a critically-acclaimed writer – is as prolific as the other Surrays, with several books under her belt. Having just completed her latest manuscript, Ruth is thinking of taking a little break from the stresses and strains of a literary life. So, when a family birthday prompts the Surray clan to gather at their Oxfordshire home of Upwood, Ruth decides to stay with her parents once the gathering is over.

Richard, however, is a little worried about Ruth’s mental well-being, having spotted the signs of potential trouble ahead. As such, he is hoping that Ruth will accompany their mother, Mrs Surray, on a walking holiday in Europe. However, before their plans can be finalised, there is a literary gathering at Upwood – an event that turns to tragedy when Ruth is found dead in her bed the following morning.

At first, the cause of death appears to be a clear case of suicide. A box of sleeping tablets is found on Ruth’s bedside table, along with a suicide note and a newly altered will (signed but not witnessed). It seems that Ruth had been under significant strain before her death, and Richard is especially keen to avoid any additional distress for the family through undue speculation about the circumstances. After all, what’s the point in delving into Ruth’s past history or her state of mind in the weeks leading up to the tragedy when the cause of death seems so unequivocal?

Richard Surray’s one desire at that moment was the instinct of a physician to prevent the spread of a deadly disease. He feared desperately that other lives might be involved in this web of emotional confusion, as he foresaw fresh misery—for his mother and father and sister—if certain possibilities were made public, were dragged into the searchlight of popular curiosity… (p. 58)

With no other pertinent information emerging at the Inquest, the Coroner concludes that Ruth died from an overdose of barbiturates, noting a verdict of suicide in the records. Case closed, or so it seems. However, when Richard returns to his rooms in Bloomsbury, he finds a letter from Ruth, posted on the night of her death, in which she appears quite jolly and upbeat, full of grand plans for the week ahead. Hardly the kind of note that someone would have written had they been on the verge of taking their own life.

After some soul searching and wrestling with his conscience, Richard decides to show the letter to a trusted acquaintance, Chief Inspector Macdonald, a familiar figure to regular readers of Lorac’s mysteries. Naturally, when Macdonald sees the letter, his suspicions are aroused, and in time he is officially appointed as lead detective in the case…

“…You [Richard] argue—quite rightly, to my thinking—that something happened to her [Ruth] after she had written that letter to you. It might have been something which altered her whole outlook, and caused her to commit suicide. It might be something totally different which alters the entire case, so that the verdict of suicide is no longer tenable. One thing is certain—the evidence produced [at the Inquest] was incomplete and consequently misleading. It has to be reconsidered.”  (p. 80)

The deeper Macdonald delves into Ruth’s life and movements before her death, the more he feels that vital information is being withheld, most notably by various members of the Surray family. On the one hand, it could be argued that Richard is trying to protect his mother, Mrs Surray, from further distress; but on the other, he (or another member of the family) might be concealing something for more sinister reasons.

She [Mrs Surray] had resented the Chief Inspector’s presence and the reiteration of those questions which she had answered already, and she resented the implication of his presence that there was more to be told than had been told. Trying to keep a firm hand on nerves that were beginning to torture her, she admitted that Macdonald was considerate and courteous and capable—and in spite of it she hated him, and unfortunately she had let him see it. (p. 122)

As Macdonald’s investigations proceed, it becomes clear that Ruth had fallen for the rather unsuitable Keith Brandon in the months before her death. Brandon – an explorer and serial womaniser at heart – had subsequently turned his attention to Ruth’s younger sister, Naomi, now conveniently out of the picture in the Hebrides. Did this spurning of affection for Brandon prompt Ruth to commit suicide, or was she killed deliberately – either by Brandon or by another player in the mix?

Suspicion also falls on the attendees at the literary party at Upwood on the night of the tragedy. Ruth’s publisher, Vernon Montague, stood to gain from her death, having been named as her literary executor in the freshly-altered will. Also in attendance at the event were Geoffrey Stanwood, a humble novelist whose work Ruth had been championing after a chance discovery, and Charlton Fellowes, a young essayist whom she had not previously met. Interestingly, Naomi was also staying at Upwood over the weekend in question, although not present at the literary gathering itself.

As this slow-burning mystery unfolds, further sinister events occur, including a fire, two poisonings and an ‘accident’ involving two of the potential suspects, giving Macdonald plenty to get his teeth into. As ever with Lorac’s Macdonald mysteries, we see plenty of dogged policework in the investigations; and while the Chief Inspector shows as much understanding and compassion towards the Surray family as possible, he never allows these considerations to distract from uncovering the truth.

Interestingly, there’s quite a strong focus on characterisation in this one. We learn more about Ruth as the mystery unfolds – a reticent, highly-strung woman who had hidden quite a lot of herself from the world, despite her career as a prolific writer. Richard, too, comes in for quite a lot of scrutiny, especially as his motives for the suppression of key information are explored. He seems to think that brilliant, intellectual women are more fragile and prone to living on their nerves than their male counterparts – a view that tips into sexism at times. 

There are also some interesting asides about the ethics of the posthumous publication of a writer’s unfinished works, to the point where I began wonder if Lorac was conveying some of her own views on the subject through Ruth’s thoughts and actions.

All in all, then, a very solid, leisurely mystery with some interesting characters and motivations at its heart. The solution, when it comes, is quite an intriguing one, albeit a little obscure – not something I would have worked out for myself without Macdonald’s explanation, but technically possible nonetheless!

Post After Post-Mortem is published by the British Library; my thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.

The Edinburgh Mystery and Other Tales of Scottish Crime – a themed anthology

Over the past few years, the publishing arm of the British Library has been carving out a very successful niche for itself, reissuing a whole host of treasures from the Golden Age of crime fiction. The Edinburgh Mystery and Other Tales of Scottish Crime is part of their occasional series of anthologies, bringing together a range of short stories connected to Scotland. Some of the mysteries are by Scottish writers, while others are set in the country itself, ranging from city-based tales, such as the titular piece, to mysteries rooted in more remote areas such as the Highlands and Islands.

As ever with these anthologies, some entries are stronger than others; and while the quality of stories feels more variable here than in some of the BL’s other themed anthologies, the best stories are very good indeed. Hopefully this review will give you a flavour of what to expect, should you decide to read the book.

The titular story, written by Baroness Orczy, is one of the more compelling mysteries in the collection – a case involving the proposed transfer of a significant fortune, some property, and a particularly splendid set of diamond jewels. There’s also a whiff of disapproval about a forthcoming wedding, a match frowned upon by certain sectors of Edinburgh society.

“In Edinburgh society comments were loud and various upon the forthcoming marriage, and, on the whole, these comments were far from complimentary to the families concerned. I do not think that the Scotch are a particularly sentimental race, but there was such obvious buying, selling, and bargaining about this marriage that Scottish chivalry rose in revolt at the thought.” (p. 48)

This is a very absorbing murder mystery with a surprise or two up its sleeve, a most enjoyable and intriguing read.

While Josephine Tey’s Madame Ville d’Aubier is one of the shortest pieces in the collection, it certainly leaves a strong impression on the reader. In this enigmatic tale, a couple decide to get away from their home in Paris for the day, ultimately ending up in a sleepy village in the country. Tey excels at conveying the deeply unsettling atmosphere of her setting, a rather unwelcoming baker’s shop where they are met with a frosty reception.

And all at once I wanted to get out of the place. Something I did not understand was happening here. The air was thick with it, bulged with it as air does before an explosion. We were being crushed and pressed down by the potency of someone’s misery, and it was as if at any moment that pressure of misery might burst the thing that held it. I wanted to get away before something happened. (p. 160)

Michael Innes’ The Fishermen is one of those good old-fashioned ‘is-it-suicide-or-could-it-be-murder?’ mysteries featuring a small number of potential suspects, each with a possible motive for the deadly deed. Set during a fishing trip in the Scottish Highlands, this is an ingenious mystery with a theatrical flavour as the victim is a playwright. Another enjoyable tale and a worthy addition to the collection. 

Of the stories from lesser-known writers, J. Storer Clouston’s A Medical Crime is well worth highlighting – a neat little mystery involving a series of burglaries, each including the theft of a medically-related item. Carrington – Clouston’s shrewd private investigator – devises a clever way of identifying the perpetrator, complete with a little twist at the end for an extra flourish.

Augustus Muir’s The Body of Sir Henry is a particularly creepy story set on a dark, rainy night in a remote part of the Scottish Borders. There are some wonderfully atmospheric passages here, even if the tale’s outcome proves relatively easy to guess.

A woman sat there, with dark furs round her face, and I’ll never forget her expression. It was one of unspeakable horror. Beside her, a man lay huddled stiffly back on the cushions. Right up to his chin he was covered with a travelling rug. He was elderly and had thick grey hair. His skin was chalk white, and his eyes were wide open and staring straight upward. The light didn’t seem to dazzle them. It would have dazzled mine if I had hadn’t had my back to it. But one quick glimpse at him was enough to tell me the important thing. The man was dead. (p. 145)

P. M. Hubbard’s The Running of the Deer is an excellent story, one of my favourites in the collection. Set on a county estate in the Scottish Highlands, this is a story of jealousy, desire and a regulated deer cull that ends in tragedy – not just for the hinds but for a hunt supervisor too. This gripping mystery has a suitably ambiguous ending, raising crucial questions about the incident concerned.

The Scottish Highlands also feature in H. H. Bashford’s The Man on Ben Na Garve, another standout entry in this anthology. When Wentworth witnesses a seemingly innocent meeting between two men in a remote part of the Scottish countryside, he thinks little of it. A few months later, however, he chances upon a report of a man’s death in that very spot on the day in question – possibly related to the incident he observed, but possibly not. Should he tell the police what he saw that day or keep quiet? A dilemma that leaves Wentworth pondering what to do for the best. This is an excellent story, complete with a couple of unexpected twists at the end – I enjoyed this one a lot!

Also worthy of a mention is The Alibi Man by the Glaswegian writer Bill Knox, an utterly terrifying tale of revenge, kidnapping and dodgy alibis. Moreover, it all feels frighteningly plausible and contemporary, despite its 1960s setting. A very chilling little piece.   

For readers who prefer lighter mysteries, John Ferguson’s The White Line should fit the bill – a hugely enjoyable story of two rivals vying for a lady’s hand. With its cruise ship setting, this delightful tale offers much in the way of glamour, gossip and romance. Another winner.  

Less successful for me were the following stories, including some by relatively well-known crime writers. G. K. Chesterton’s The Honour of Israel Gow, which I didn’t particularly care for despite its spooky Castle setting, and Footsteps by Anthony Wynne, another mystery with a creepy atmosphere and promising premise, only for it to stumble with an overly complex plot. Cyril Hare’s forgettable Thursday’s Child and Margot Bennet’s rather slight The Case of the Frugal Cake could easily be skipped, while the style of Jennie Melville’s Hand in Glove didn’t particularly appeal.

So, while this collection is perhaps more uneven in quality than some of the BL’s other themed anthologies, the ten or so most successful stories are very good indeed, making it worth dipping into for the highlights alone. Moreover, these anthologies are a great way of sampling a wide range of vintage crime writers to see which styles appeal. There’s quite a variety of approaches here, so while some stories will hit their marks, others may not – which is all part of the fun, I guess!

Green for Danger by Christianna Brand

It’s always an unexpected joy when one of these lovely British Library Crime Classics drops through the door, especially if it’s as enticing as this. (My thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.)

First published in 1944, Green for Danger – the second book in Brand’s Inspector Cockrill series – is set at Heron’s Park, a military hospital in Kent in the midst of WW2. As Martin Edwards notes in his excellent introduction, the novel is an example of a classic ‘closed circle’ mystery in which the culprit is one of a small pack of potential suspects the author shuffles during the story, shifting the focus from one person to another until the perpetrator is revealed.

Brand cleverly introduces her cast of suspects in the opening chapter through their acceptance letters for positions at Heron’s Park. So, we have Gervase Eden, a Harley Street surgeon, the type with a string of women falling at his feet; Jane Woods (Woody), a rather plain woman of forty who has given up a life of gaiety to volunteer as a V.A.D. nurse, mostly to assuage her conscience for past misdemeanours; Esther Sanson, a young woman whose life has been dominated by a needy, hypochondriac mother – if nothing else, nursing will give Esther some sort of training and a life away from home.

Mr Moon, another surgeon, is a kindly, mature man (almost Churchillian in appearance), still mourning his son, who was killed in a road accident. The sensitive anaesthetist Dr (Barney) Barnes remains troubled by the unfortunate death of a patient on the operating table while in his care. Nothing untoward was found in the inquiry, but the patient’s family have their suspicions – hopefully the move to Heron’s Park will offer Barney a fresh start. Finally, we have Frederica Linley (Freddi), a cool, detached young woman who views volunteering as a V.A.D. as a way of escaping her dreadful stepmother; and Sister Marion Bates, who seems to be on the lookout for a husband on the hospital wards.

Once all the main characters have been introduced, we fast forward to a point in time when the team has been working together for a while, steadily dealing with the casualties in its care. The hustle and bustle of hospital life is brilliantly conveyed, oscillating between periods of high activity and quieter moments when the staff get a chance to chat.

One day, a recently admitted patient – Joseph Higgins – dies while undergoing a seemingly routine operation, much to the team’s distress. At first, the outcome is put down to a bad reaction to the anaesthetic; but given Barney’s history of a previous unexplained death, the surgeons decide to call on Detective Inspector Cockrill to give the incident the once over. The hope is that this will nip any potential gossip about foul play in the bud, but when Cockrill takes a look, his suspicions are soon aroused…

Initially, there appears to be no clear motive for the murder of Higgins, a postman who had been working as an air-raid warden during the war. But as the novel unfolds, more details about the hospital staff emerge for the sharp-eyed reader to spot. Brand does a terrific job in raising subtle doubts about each of her key players as the story progresses, shifting our suspicions from one person to the next – and occasionally back again, just to confuse things further. There’s even a second murder to add to the mix when a stabbing in the operating theatre makes for a rather macabre twist!

Brand – who spent time with V.A.D.s during the Blitz – captures the inner working of a military hospital so well, from the layouts and daily routines of the wards to the anaesthesia procedures in the operating theatre. Right from the very start, there’s a strong sense of authenticity (and a somewhat sinister atmosphere!) to the descriptions of these scenes.

The men slept uneasily on their improvised beds, humped under rough brown army blankets, their arms, outflung in sleep, lying supine across the dusty floor. Here and there a pair of bright eyes gleamed, open and aware; here and there a face was coloured vividly green or purple, where the skin specialists were trying out some new treatment; once she almost collided with a blue-clad figure, its eyes dark hollows in a huge, white-bandaged face. (p. 106)

Some of the most enjoyable aspects of this novel stem from the lively interpersonal dynamics between various characters. There are lots of romantic entanglements here, with people falling in and out of love on a fairly regular basis, possibly as a distraction from the war. While Freddi seems happily engaged to Barney, she cannot help having a little crush on Gervase – a most unlikely Don Juan, especially given his rather dull appearance.

Esther said thoughtfully: “What people can see in Gervase, I never could understand. I mean, he’s nice and he’s funny, but he’s as ugly as anything, so thin and grey and, well, he must be at least forty…”

“Thanks very much,” said Woods.

“Well, I don’t mean that, darling, you know what I mean. He’s not a glamour boy; and he never seems to try to make women like him.”

“Ah, but you’re a lady icicle, Esther.”

“Well, I must be, because I seem to be the only female in the hospital who can see Gervase Eden without swooning at his feet…” (pp. 45-46)

Sister Bates remains madly in love with Gervase following an earlier brief affair. Gervase, on the other hand, is no longer interested in Marion, as his affections ultimately lie elsewhere…

Meanwhile, the war rumbles away in the background, but everyone seems to take things in their stride, particularly the V.A.D.s – Jane, Esther and Freddi – who share a small cottage on the site.

The whole place rocked with the deafening roar of the guns, but the bombs seemed fewer and the flares were dying down. They sat very comfortably with their feet on the fender, drinking cups of cocoa, in defiance of all orders that nobody was to remain in their quarters after black-out, during a raid. (p. 45)

So, in summary, this excellent mystery ticks a lot of boxes for me. The characters are interesting, engaging and really well-drawn. We have an atmospheric WW2 setting with plenty of tension, and there’s just enough detail on the medical front for the drama to feel realistic. Plus, it’s a devilishly clever mystery to boot. The solution, when it comes, is a very ingenious one – not something I would have worked out for myself without or Inspector Cockrill’s explanation, but perfectly possible nonetheless!

The 1946 film adaptation (same title) is excellent too, with Alastair Sim perfectly cast as Inspector Cockrill, a no-nonsense, old-school detective with a cigarette permanently on the go. Trevor Howard also features as Barney, with Judy Campbell (mother of Jane Birkin) as Sister Marion Bates. Very highly recommended indeed – both the book and the film!

Antidote to Venom by Freeman Wills Crofts

Back in March, I wrote about Anthony Berkeley’s engaging Jumping Jenny (1933), a fine example of the ‘inverted mystery’ genre, where the identity of the murderer is known to the reader (but not the investigators of the crime) at an early stage. Originally published in 1938, Antidote to Venom is another mystery in this tradition — and if anything, I think it’s even better than the Berkeley, especially for those of us who enjoy crime fiction with a psychological edge. The novel starts by focusing on events from the perpetrator’s perspective, showing us how easy it is for a seemingly ordinary, law-abiding man to be drawn into criminal activities when circumstances force his hand…

The novel is set in and around Birmington Zoo in the Midlands, which I assume is a thinly disguised stand-in for the Birmingham enclosure. George Surridge, the Zoo’s director, has got himself into a bit of a fix. Trapped in a loveless marriage to the rather prickly Clarissa, George has been drawn into habitual gambling, an addiction that has left him struggling to pay off his debts. The one bright spot in his life is Nancy, a likeminded woman he meets one day at the Zoo. Additional furtive meetings subsequently ensue, and before long, George finds himself embroiled in a steady affair, desperately dreaming of a more relaxed life with Nancy in a chocolate-box cottage nearby.

As his troubles mount, George finds himself thinking of his Aunt Lucy, a frail, elderly woman with a sizable portfolio of investments. George knows that he is likely to inherit the bulk of Lucy’s estate on her death – she has made her intentions very clear in this respect. If only she would hurry up and die, George’s money worries would be over. He even finds himself toying with the idea of murder, however ghastly that might appear…

George was filled with horror when he realised just what he had been thinking. Why, that would be—he could scarcely bring himself to frame the word—that would be murder! Good God, how dreadful! Hastily he banished the thought.

But in spite of all his efforts, it came back. It grew, not less hateful, but more familiar. He toyed with the idea, wondering how such a thing might be done, then again assured himself with vehemence that nothing in heaven or earth would ever induce him to be guilty of such a hideous crime.

Still, the horrible suggestion lurked in the recesses of his mind… (p. 47)

Luckily for George, Aunt Lucy dies peacefully in her sleep without any sinister interventions, much to his relief. However, when George meets Lucy’s solicitor to discuss the details of his inheritance, he gets the shock of his life. It turns out that Capper, the rather shifty solicitor handling the estate, has embezzled the proceeds of Lucy’s investments, leaving George penniless with little hope of compensation, even if he goes to the police.

The only solution, as far as Capper sees it, is a cunning plan that requires George to assist in the murder of Capper’s uncle, a wealthy but poorly Professor who dabbles in research at the Zoo. (Naturally, Capper stands to benefit financially from his uncle’s death.) All George needs to do is provide Capper with some venom and a dead snake, and then the solicitor will do the rest. In fact, the less George knows about the murder the better – any pleas of ignorance of the deed itself will be all the more convincing if true. So, when Capper assures George that his plan is foolproof, the latter somewhat reluctantly agrees…

George felt terribly upset. Capper’s scheme seemed safe—for him. If the theft of the securities did not come out—and there was absolutely no reason why it should—no suspicion could possibly attach to him. And he would not commit the murder: in fact, he would know nothing about it. His part would be limited to quite a harmless action. True, he would be taking a snake which did not belong to him, but surely in all these years he had put in enough extra work at the Zoo to balance that? (p. 111)

In the following weeks, Capper enacts his plan with George playing his part as agreed — and not long afterwards, Professor Burnaby (Capper’s uncle) is found dead from a snake bite, just as Capper had planned.

Due to his fragile state of mind and ill health, the Professor’s death is judged to have been an accident, and the case is duly closed. However, when Scotland Yard’s Chief Inspector French hears of the incident via a relative, his suspicions are aroused. It seems a particularly puzzling detail has been overlooked, suggesting foul play as opposed to an accident. So, when French offers his assistance to the Birmington police, the case is reopened, and a more thorough investigation ensues…

While the slow-burn nature of Antidote to Venom might frustrate some readers – it’s only in the final third of the novel that CI French gets involved – I thoroughly enjoyed the story’s pace and its focus on the build-up. What Crofts does very well here is to explore George as a character, giving readers a good insight into the pressures that force him to act. While Nancy is fairly lightly sketched – little more than a cipher in fact – the dilemma that George must deal with is very well portrayed.

The detecting, when it comes, is most enjoyable. French is a very likeable detective – smart, determined and inclusive, keen to work collaboratively with the Birmington Police to secure a successful outcome. The details of the ‘kill’ itself are devilishly clever – not something I would have worked out for myself without French’s hypothesis, but perfectly feasible nonetheless.

The novel ends on a redemptive note with George reflecting on the folly of his ways. While Crofts’ desire to introduce a moral dimension to the story is likely to divide readers, the brevity of this element stops it from being too heavy-handed.

So, in summary, this is a most enjoyable mystery/character study with much to recommend it – I’m really glad I picked this one up!

Antidote to Venom is published by the British Library; personal copy.

Till Death Do Us Part by John Dickson Carr

A very ingenious locked-room mystery with a tantalising premise, I enjoyed this one a lot, particularly the initial set-up.  

Till Death Do Us Part was initially published in 1944; but the story, which is set in the close-knit village of Six Ashes, actually takes place some years earlier during the run-up to the Second World War. Dick Markham, a moderately successful playwright specialising in psychological thrillers, has just got engaged to Lesley Grant, a relative newcomer to the area. While Lesley has only been living in Six Ashes for the last six months, she has made quite an impact since her arrival, attracting the interest of several local men.

The action really gets going at the village fete when Lesley appears to receive some bad news during her consultation with a fortune teller, the star attraction at the event. While Lesley makes light of the discussion, Dick is somewhat puzzled, having clearly seen her reaction to the mystic’s predictions from the shadows visible through the tent. Shortly after the encounter, Lesley shoots the fortune teller with a rifle from one of the stalls, claiming the incident to be an accident due to her lack of familiarity with guns. Nevertheless, when the victim reveals himself to be Sir Harvey Gilman, a famous Home Office Pathologist, suspicions are duly aroused…

While recovering from the shooting, Sir Harvey confides in Dick Markham, raising doubts about Lesley and her personal history. Lesley, it seems, has been associated with a series of poisonings in the past; and in each instance, the victim was either her husband or lover, discovered in a locked room with a syringe of prussic acid close to hand. All three deaths were judged to be suicide at the time, and no hard evidence has ever been found to suggest the contrary; nevertheless, Sir Harvey remains convinced of Lesley’s guilt, especially given the similarities in circumstances.

In short, Sir Harvey wants Dick to help him in his investigations by setting a trap for Lesley. If she really is the killer, chances are she will strike again with an attempt to poison Dick. Sir Harvey hopes to catch Lesley in the act by observing her movements, thereby gathering the evidence he needs to pursue a conviction.

‘She’s being a fool, of course. But she must play with this bright shiny wonderful toy called murder by poison. It’s got her. She’s obsessed. That’s why she took the risk of shooting at me, and trusting to innocent eyes and general gullibility to have it called an accident. All her preparations are made for somebody’s death. And she won’t be cheated of the thrill.’ (p. 59)

It’s a very compelling premise, but before the plans can be finalised and put in place, Sir Harvey himself is found dead in precisely the same circumstances as the other incidents under investigation. In short, the victim’s body is discovered in a locked room with a syringe of prussic acid nearby – a death by poisoning made to look like a suicide, just as before.

As Martin Edwards outlines in his excellent introduction to the book, the eminently likeable Dick Markham now faces a terrible dilemma. He is madly in love with Lesley but knows little of her background before the move to Six Ashes – a factor that gnaws away in his mind in light of Sir Harvey’s allegations. So, should he trust Lesley and her claims of innocence or is she in fact a serial poisoner, just as the Pathologist claimed? And if Lesley isn’t the murderer, who the devil is?

To assist in the investigations into Sir Harvey’s death, Dr Gideon Fell – an expert on locked room mysteries – is brought in; and, as is often the case in these things, various red herrings and other distractions must be worked through before the identity of the perpetrator is revealed. For instance, who fired a shot into Sir Harvey’s room on the night of his murder? Was someone else trying to shoot Sir Harvey, and how does this relate to the poisoning (the actual cause of his death)? Why is Lesley so secretive about the existence of a safe in her bedroom? What does this box contain? And why does Lesley hit Cynthia Drew with a hand mirror when she finds her in the bedroom? Or maybe Cynthia is lying when she tells Dick about this incident with Lesley? It’s all rather hard to tell!

The solution to the locked room mystery, when it comes, is a very ingenious one – not something I would have worked out for myself without Gideon Fell’s explanation, but perfectly credible nonetheless. As for the perpetrator and their motive, I’ll leave that suitably ambiguous, just as Carr does himself for the majority of the book – he really does keep the reader guessing on this one.

My only slight niggle relates to Gideon Fell. While there’s no doubting Fell’s skill as detective, I didn’t particularly warm to him as a character due to his slightly haughty demeanour and self-assured air. Also, in terms of style, he’s not the most inclusive of detectives, sharing little of his actual thinking with others as the investigation unfolds – an approach that can leave the reader feeling somewhat detached from the detecting itself.

Nevertheless, the residents of Six Ashes are an interesting bunch and very nicely drawn. Carr does a great job of capturing Dick’s feelings towards Lesley, which are suitably conflicted. Dick desperately wants to believe in his fiancée’s innocence, and yet her alleged association with so many suspicious deaths proves hard for him to square. And to complicate matters further, there’s another potential love interest in the picture – Cynthia Drew, an amiable, level-headed woman who many in the village considered a good match for Dick before Lesley turned his head.

So, in summary, this is a clever locked-room mystery with a highly compelling set-up, albeit with one or two caveats about Fell’s personal style. My thanks to the British Library for kindly providing a review copy of the book – very much appreciated as ever.

Tension by E. M. Delafield

The English writer E. M. Delafield is probably best known for her Diary of a Provincial Lady, a largely autobiographical account of middle-class life in the early 1930s. Tension is an earlier book, first published in 1920 when Britain was still recovering from the impact of the First World War. It’s an interesting story about the damaging effects of gossip – how hard-won reputations can be destroyed by malicious rumours, especially when a manipulative person is involved. On another level, the novel also highlights the limited options available to single women with no husband or family to support them in financing their day-to-day existence.

The novel’s title refers to the tensions created by a new appointment at a Commercial and Technical College in the South West – the main setting for Delafield’s story. As an experienced teacher of shorthand and typing, twenty-eight-year-old Miss Marchrose is well qualified for the role of Lady Superintendent. However, her card is marked when the College Director’s wife – the poisonous Lady Edna Rossiter – recognises Miss Marchrose’s name from an unfortunate incident in the past. Some years earlier, Lady Rossiter’s cousin, Clarence Isbister, was jilted by his fiancée following a life-changing accident – an incident that caused both Clarence and Lady Rossiter considerable distress at the time. Given the unusual nature of Miss Marchrose’s name, Lady Rossiter is convinced that the new Superintendent is the woman who slighted her cousin, so she sets out to ruin her reputation in the most underhand of ways.

Nevertheless, Miss Marchrose proves herself to be hardworking, capable and well-organised – qualities appreciated by College Supervisor Fairfax Fuller, a blunt, plain-speaking man who dislikes any outside interference in his activities, especially from Lady R. Sir Julian Rossiter, the College Director, also takes kindly to Miss Marchrose, viewing her as a good addition to the institution’s staff. But when the new appointee develops a close friendship with Mark Easter, the agent for Sir Julian’s estate, Lady Rossiter sees her chance. As the friendship between Mark and Miss Marchrose blossoms, showing every potential to develop into a romance, Lady Rossiter begins to draw attention to it, dropping carefully-worded hints to other trustees and staff.

“Yes, poor Miss Marchrose. Don’t think that I would willingly say an unkind word about her, for indeed I could never cast the first stone. But I’ve been uneasy for some time, and this afternoon it gave me a little shock to see something—Oh, never mind what! A straw very often shows which way the wind blows.”

Having by this reticence left the simple-minded Alderman to infer the existence of a whole truss of straw at the very least, Lady Rossiter leant back and closed her eyes, as though in weary retrospect. (p. 145)

The situation is further complicated by the fact that Mark Easter is already married; however, his wife is an alcoholic, incarnated in a home for inebriates, a fact he shares with Miss Marchrose at an early stage in their relationship.

As Lady Rossiter continues to sow the seeds of doubt about the nature of Miss Marchrose’s character, the reader can only watch as the rumours begin to circulate, giving rise to the uneasy atmosphere and tensions of the novel’s title. While Sir Julian knows full well what his wife is getting up to, he does little to nip her duplicitous behaviour in the bud – opting instead for a quiet existence, despite his disapproval.

Lady Rossiter, on the other hand, is a fascinating creation – a hypocritical, insensitive woman who lacks even the slightest hint of self-awareness. In living her life by the mantra “Is it kind, is it wise, is it true?”, Lady R is convinced that her actions are for the moral good, misguided in the belief that she is a shining light to others. Moreover, the Rossiters’ marriage is a loveless one, a union of convenience and companionship – a point made clear by Sir Julian right from the very start. In fact, one wonders whether the lack of romantic love in her own life has made Lady Rossiter somewhat envious when she observes it in others, contributing perhaps to her ‘protection’ of Mark Easter from Miss Marchrose’s charms…

As the novel unfolds, we hear a little more of Miss Marchrose’s backstory as the young woman confides in Sir Julian Rossiter – a friendly presence in a somewhat hostile world. By delving into this in some detail, Delafield shows us how desperately lonely life can be for an unmarried woman in the city, with no husband or close family for support – the long, uneventful days stretching out ahead of her as hopelessness and resignation sets in.

“…But all the time I was more and more lonely, and I used to sit and think in the evenings, wondering how I could bear it if all my life was going to be like that—just working on and on and then becoming like one of the older women at that hostel—there were dozens of them—pinched and discontented, always worrying over expense, and why there weren’t two helpings of pudding at dinner, with nothing to do, nothing to remember, nothing to look forward to—knowing themselves utterly and absolutely unnecessary in the world. And they’d got used to it—that was the ghastly part of it—and yet they couldn’t always have been like that…” (p. 120)

In time, we also learn about the circumstances surrounding Miss Marchrose’s aborted engagement to Clarence Isbister – and perhaps unsurprisingly, they’re not quite as ruthless as Lady Rossiter has assumed.

In summary, then, Tension is an absorbing exploration of the challenges of life for working spinster in the interwar years, not least when there are poisonous women such as Lady Rossiter about. The latter may well have earned her place alongside other monstrous women in fiction – characters such as Flora in Elizabeth Taylor’s The Soul of Kindness and Miss Bohun in Olivia Manning’s School for Love – each one flawed in her own individual way. There are some good supporting characters here, too – not least Mark Easter’s rebellious children, Ruthie and Ambrose (aka Peekaboo), who provide a little light relief amidst the tensions in the college.

All in all, it’s another fine addition to the British Library’s Women Writers list, a series that continues to shine a light on society’s treatment of women in the early-mid 20^th century. My thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.

Murder in the Basement and Jumping Jenny – two splendid vintage mysteries by Anthony Berkeley

Two very intriguing British Library Crime Classics for you today – both featuring Anthony Berkeley’s amateur detective / crime writer, Roger Sheringham.

Murder in the Basement (1932)

A very enjoyable mystery, and an excellent introduction to Berkeley’s work.

The story opens with the discovery of a body, carefully concealed in the basement of a rented house in Lewisham – much to the horror of newlyweds Reginald and Molly Dane, who have just taken possession of their new home. The meticulous Chief Inspector Moseley and his team quickly confirm a few important particulars about the body – a young woman aged twenty to thirty, found naked except for a pair of gloves, probably murdered some six months earlier by a shot to the head. That said, the victim’s identity proves much trickier to establish due to the lack of any papers or visible distinguishing features on the body.

One of the most interesting things about this novel is its imaginative structure, the first third of which focuses on Moseley’s quest to put a name to the dead woman. After a few blind alleys and less than fruitful enquiries, the police trace the victim to Roland House, a boys’ Prep School on the outskirts of London.

Now, it just so happens that Moseley’s great friend, the detective writer Roger Sheringham, deputised for a Master at the very same school the previous year – partly as a means of gathering background for one of his novels. So, when Moseley calls on his friend for support, Sheringham offers the Inspector the manuscript of his unfinished book – a novel based directly on the Roland House staff, just as he perceived them at the time.

“…There isn’t a development in it which I didn’t see in preparation; and you might say that there isn’t an action for which I haven’t definite evidence. It isn’t difficult, you know, to forecast people’s major actions when one has studied their minor ones. The mind never alters its sweep.” (pp. 65–66)

Sheringham’s manuscript forms the second section of Berkeley’s novel – presented to the reader with the characters’ real names. Happily, it’s a most entertaining story, rife with all manner of personal grudges, petty jealousies and emotional entanglements amongst the staff. In short, we have a very well-drawn set of characters here, with plenty of potential for mischief and mayhem.

By the beginning of Basement’s final third, which returns to Moseley’s investigations, we know the victim’s name and her former role at the school. The murderer’s identity also seems clear cut, along with the emerging details of the motive. Nevertheless, there is the question of hard evidence to be gathered – convincing enough to secure a conviction in court. Interestingly, Sheringham also plays a crucial role in establishing the nuts and bolts of what actually happened to prompt the murder, drawing on his experiences at the school and various insights into character.

In summary then, this is a very intriguing mystery with a creative set-up and structure – I could quite happily read a whole novel from Sheringham’s pen, such is the entertaining nature of that engaging second section.

The final solution, when it comes, has a few surprises up its sleeve – possibly a little contrived at one or two points, but that’s a minor quibble in the broad scheme of things. There’s also some lovely humour running through the book – not just in the antics at Roland House School but in the detailed detective work, too. I’ll finish with a passage from an early interview with a neighbour as the police try to establish the history of the Lewisham house.

Relations? Well, there was a nephew; but such a nice young man; quite impossible that… his name and address? Well, his name was Staples too, but as for his address… wasn’t he in the navy, Jane? Or was it the merchant service? Anyhow, Miss Staples called him “Jim,” if that was any help. It was? How wonderful to think of oneself actually helping Scotland Yard! (p. 35)

Jumping Jenny (1933)

A very entertaining example of the ‘inverted mystery’ genre, where the identity of the murderer is known to the reader (but not the investigators) at an early stage.

Here the action centres on a fancy-dress party being hosted by Sheringham’s friend, Ronald Stratton, and his sister, Celia, at Ronald’s spacious country house in the home counties. Most of the guests have entered into the spirit of things, dressing as either murderers or their victims, as per the gathering’s theme. To add a macabre touch to the evening, Ronald has set up mock gallows on the property’s flat roof, complete with three stuffed figures, two male and one female – the Jumping Jacks and Jenny partly referenced in the novel’s title.

As the party gets going, Sheringham becomes increasingly fascinated by Ronald’s sister-in-law, Ena Stratton, clearly an exhibitionist who craves to be the centre of attention, irrespective of how much trouble this creates for those around her. Virtually everyone at the event has a good reason to dislike Ena intensely, and when Sheringham finally meets her, he too is far from impressed.

“Shall we dance?” said Roger.

“I’d rather have a drink. I haven’t had one for at least half an hour.” She spoke slowly, and her voice was not unpleasant, rather deep and with a particularly clear enunciation. She managed to convey that for a woman of her sophistication not to have had a drink for at least half an hour was quite too ridiculous. (pp. 42–43)

Ena claims to be thinking of ending it all – a cry that other partygoers put down to attention-seeking theatrics rather than any serious threat. Nevertheless, when Ena is subsequently found hanging from the roof-top gallows as the party enters its finally stages, her earlier talk of suicide takes on a different light. The reader knows, however, that Ena’s death was not as straightforward as might appear at first sight, having observed the woman’s final moments on the roof.

The intrigue really kicks in when Sheringham notices something amiss with the scene of Ena’s death, a crucial detail that seems at odds with the hypothesis of suicide. So, he meddles with the evidence, hoping to shield a friend he suspects of being involved in a murder. But by doing this, Sheringham unwittingly puts himself in the firing line, prompting another guest to suspect foul play – to the point where Sheringham could be viewed as a prime suspect.  Jumping Jenny is a very engaging mystery that plays with various conventions of the genre. It’s really rather entertaining to watch Sheringham as he rushes around, trying to make each attendee’s story fit with the alerted ‘crime scene’, digging a deeper hole for himself as he goes. The novel’s tone is gently humorous, with some darkly comic moments for sharpness and bite, while the characters themselves are nicely differentiated and well-drawn. There’s even a little twist at the end, just to keep the reader on their toes throughout.

All in all, another very welcome addition to the BLCC line-up – my thanks to the publishers for kindly providing review copies of both books.