Tag Archives: British Library

Tea on Sunday by Lettice Cooper

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While the British novelist and campaigner Lettice Cooper is probably best known for her literary novels, such as National Provincial (1938) and The New House (1936), both in print with Persephone Books, she also wrote some mysteries featuring DCI Corby, of which this is one. Recently republished by the British Library as part of their excellent Crime Classics series, Tea on Sunday is a very enjoyable ‘closed circle’ style vintage mystery in which the focus is very much on ‘whodunnit’ – i.e. the characters, their backstories and links to the murder victim – rather than ‘howdunnit’, i.e. the mechanics of the crime. The novel was first published in 1973; however, as series consultant Martin Edward points out in his introduction, it has the feel of a mystery from an earlier age – ideally suited to the BLCC imprint, which spotlights novels from the Golden Age of Crime.

Tea on Sunday opens with a brief prologue, in which Alberta Mansbridge, a lady of a certain age, is preparing to welcome eight guests to her London home for a tea party one Sunday afternoon. As she sets the cups on the tea tray, Alberta reflects briefly on her life, touching on some of the guests expected at 4pm. Nevertheless, at 3.30pm, the buzzer on her intercom can be heard, and it is clear from Alberta’s response that one of her guests has arrived early…

The novel then cuts to just after 4pm, when Alberta’s nephew, Anthony Seldon, arrives at his aunt’s house to find the other guests huddled around the doorstep, keen to escape the snowy weather. The trouble is, Alberta isn’t answering her doorbell despite repeated rings; even a phone call from a nearby kiosk fails to rouse her. Fearing a fall or accident of some kind, the guests contact the police, who break in to find Alberta’s dead body sitting at the desk.

The police quickly identify the cause of death as strangulation, but there are no signs of a break-in, pointing to the belief that Alberta must have known her killer (or had a good enough reason to admit them to the house that afternoon). The time of death is identified as sometime between 3 and 4pm, making it likely that one of the tea party guests had arrived early, swiftly committed the murder, then disappeared before the others turned up. The challenge facing DCI Corby and his colleague, Sergeant Newstead, is to establish which of the guests is the guilty party, a quest that involves some dogged detective work into Alberta’s history and her connections to each of the suspects.

The tea party guests are an interesting bunch, and Cooper spends some fruitful time fleshing out their personalities as the story unfolds. Corby’s interviews with each guest are especially illuminating here, providing valuable insights into each suspect’s relationship with Alberta and their thoughts on her attitudes to life. Firstly, there is Alberta’s nephew, Anthony, whom Alberta seemed to like despite his lack of interest in helping with the Mansbridge family business in Yorkshire. Alberta had a controlling share in the company and often visited the works, which now need urgent modernisation to survive. At present, Anthony is drifting somewhat, working as a sales assistant in a fashionable London boutique, but his heart isn’t it. He’s also troubled by the volatile nature of his marriage to Lisa, a flighty, plain-speaking glamour model whom Alberta disliked intensely. Anthony and Lisa travelled separately to the tea party and are therefore unable to confirm each other’s movements during the crucial period in question.

Then there is Myra Heseltine, Alberta’s former housemate until the pair fell out during the summer. Today’s tea party would have been their first meeting since that fateful quarrel when Myra moved out of Alberta’s home. Also attending are Alberta’s doctor, Ewan Musgrove, now happily married to his second wife; nevertheless, Corby can tell he is deeply troubled about something – what, though, is another matter. Two of Alberta’s business colleagues are also among the guests: Russell Holdsworth, a London-based businessman who manages the finances of the orphanage Alberta’s father established in Yorkshire, and John Armistead, Managing Director of the Mansbridge family firm. Rounding out the group are two of Alberta’s dubious ‘protégés’, Barry Slater, a coarse ex-convict whom Alberta had met during her work as a prison visitor, and Marcello, a smooth-talking Italian with plans to set up an industrial design business. Alberta was financing both of these men to various extents, much to the disdain of some of her friends and family, who thought she was being too liberal with her generosity. In many respects, Alberta was a sharp, uncompromising businesswoman, but her support for these chancers was something of an Achilles heel.

If they had given him [Corby] nothing significant about themselves they had given him a fairly full picture of Alberta Mansbridge. She was, they all agreed, a woman who could be irritating sometimes, but whom nobody would want to murder. But somebody had wanted to murder her—from fear of something she knew? For something they hoped to inherit? It would be necessary to find out about her will and their circumstances. Or was the reason further back in the past, in that early life in Yorkshire that had been dominated by Albert Mansbridge? (p. 106)

At first, Corby’s interviews with each suspect yield few clues, but gradually, various loose ends and points worthy of further investigation begin to emerge. Both Anthony Seldon and Myra Heseltine stand to gain substantially from Alberta’s will, but would this have been enough of a motive for either of them to commit murder? Corby is not entirely sure based on his assessment of their characters. Meanwhile, the state of Alberta’s business affairs certainly warrants a closer look, taking Corby to Yorkshire to rake over the victim’s past. As the Corby’s investigations begin to bear fruit, a clearer picture emerges, but to say any more would be a spoiler, I think.

In summary, then, Tea on Sunday is a very enjoyable vintage mystery featuring interesting, well-crafted characters and a believable solution to the crime. Cooper clearly knows how to flesh out a convincing character portrait without resorting to stock stereotypes or cliches. Anthony Seldon and his glamorous but rather fickle wife, Lisa, are excellent value in this respect, bringing moments of wry humour to the mix.

He {Anthony] had at the moment a job in a men’s boutique in Kensington. In his spare time he was writing a play, or had been until he married Lisa last April, since when he had been living in a whirlpool which hardly allowed him to breathe, let alone write. It was a dead failure, their marriage, a mistake; it couldn’t possibly last and he would be glad to be out of it—only the rest of life would be so horribly dull without her. (p. 27)

DCI Cosby is also very engaging, a thoughtful and humane detective with a sharp eye for detail – his discussions with Sergeant Newstead are a pleasure to read.

‘What did you make of Miss Heseltine?’

‘She seemed to be very upset; very jumpy, and trying not to show it.’

‘More jumpy, do you think, than that kind of woman would be after the sudden shock of losing her great friend?’

‘She’d quarrelled with her.’

‘I don’t think that would make losing her any easier. Rather otherwise, perhaps.’ (pp. 51-52)

All in all, another excellent addition to the British Library Crime Classics series, which continues to showcase these lesser-known mysteries.

(My thanks to the publisher for kindly providing a review copy which I read for Karen’s #ReadIndies.)

Stories for Mothers and Daughters – Maeve Brennan, A. S. Byatt, Jeanette Winterson & more!

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Over the past few years, the British Library has been doing sterling work with its excellent Women Writers series, reissuing lesser-known 20th-century novels by female authors for modern-day readers to enjoy. Alongside the novels, the series includes a handful of carefully curated anthologies, one of which – Stories for Mothers and Daughters – I’m discussing here.

Sometimes, these types of collections can be a little uneven, but in this instance, almost all the entries are very good. Here we have stories that explore various facets of mother-daughter relationships, from headstrong, liberated daughters opposing the more traditional authority figures their mothers represent, to shy, uncertain girls being pushed into society with limited support. In other tales, we learn of the sacrifices some mothers are prepared to make for the benefit of their children. It’s a fascinating collection, spanning a variety of different styles and the full breadth of the 20th century in settings / timeframes. As is often the case, different stories will likely resonate with different readers depending on their tastes, but there really does appear to be something for everyone here, from humorous sketches to poignant pieces to dramatic stories of clashing ideals.

The collection opens with Week-End by Richmal Crompton, who is probably best known for her Just William books, which makes perfect sense given the protagonists in this tale. As the story opens, a widowed mother who values peace and quiet is preparing to welcome her three boisterous adult daughters and their friend, ‘Nibbles’, for the weekend. The girls duly arrive, sweeping through the country cottage in a whirlwind of noise, selfish behaviour and blatant disregard for their mother’s way of life, The crux of this story rests on illustrating how blinkered these daughters are to their mother’s true desires – in short, they assume their mother needs cheering up, while in actual fact, she’d much rather be on her own. However, Compton overdoes it in the execution of this tale, portraying these girls as spoilt ten-year-olds rather than working women in their twenties or late teens. I loved the concept behind this one but couldn’t buy the girls’ behaviour, which included sliding down bannisters and surfing on tea trays when the weather turned foul!

Clashing priorities of a different kind feature in Inez Holden’s excellent story, The Value of Being Seen, in which Mrs Ascot is determined to launch her daughter Daphne into London society. Every preparation has been made, from ‘polishing’ Daphne at a Parisian finishing school and taking a house in London for the debutante season to instructing the girl on the importance of being seen and making a good impression. And yet, Daphne, who is shy and retiring at heart, finds the endless whirl of society dances terribly intimidating. As the interminable season unfolds, Daphne finds herself fading into the background to the point of becoming invisible to those around her.

Daphne’s existence went on. There were more dances, tea meetings, Lord’s, Goodwood, helping with plays for good causes; the unending putting on of dresses and having pictures taken; Daphne went about in a group of other débutantes all the time. They had nothing of any interest to say to one another—only cries of approval, foolish little laughs, and accounts of dancers fixed for the future. There was not a quiet minute, and through it all no one seemed to see Daphne. She was unconscious of herself, and she went on being unseen. (p. 22)

It’s a very striking story – sad, dark and beautifully executed.

I also loved A. S. Byatt’s evocative story Rose-Coloured Teacups, my first experience of this writer’s work. When Veronica’s daughter, Jane, breaks her mother’s sewing machine – a treasured family heirloom – Veronica is filled with rage at the girl’s behaviour. But the incident also prompts Veronica to recall a similar experience from her student days when she broke several rose-coloured teacups – a gift she detested at the time. Just like the sewing machine, the rose-coloured tea-cups were a treasured possession, passed from one generation to the next in an emotionally charged gesture. When the terrible breakage was discovered, Veronica’s mother was outraged by her daughter’s carelessness, not only at the destruction of the cups themselves but also as a howl of anguish at being trapped by the restrictions of marriage, motherhood and domesticity in general.

The teacups had been given by her mother’s old college friend, to take back a new generation to the college. She had not liked the teacups. She did not like pink, and the floral shape of the saucers was most unfashionable. She and her friends drank Nescafe from stone mugs or plain cylinders in primary colours. She had left folded in her drawer the tablecloth embroidered for her by her grandmother, whose style of embroidery was now exemplified by the cloth, so stiff and clean and brilliant, in the visionary teaparty she had taken to imagining since her mother died. It was a curious form of mourning, but compulsive, and partly comforting. It seemed to be all she was capable of. The force of her mother’s rage against the house and housewifery that trapped her and, by extension, against her clever daughters, who had all partly evaded that trap, precluded wholehearted mourning. (pp. 122–123)

Another excellent story, full of emotional truth. 

A clash of another sort is central to Mary Arden’s striking story The Stepmother,in which a former schoolmistress, Esther King, who prides herself on being able to understand young girls, finds herself struggling to form a bond with her teenage stepdaughter, Ella. Newly married to Ella’s middle-aged father, Esther tries every trick in her armamentarium to befriend Ella, who remains stubbornly polite yet distant and aloof.

In the days, in the weeks after Ella’s coming, Esther was not at all happy. She felt that she was always trying to be nice to Ella, and yet always her advances were met—no, not exactly coldly, and yet somehow not met at all. And still—utterly unlike the Miss King of former days—Esther simply had to go on being sweet to this obstinate creature who refused to respond to her charms. Sometimes she hated herself for it, sometimes there came a little twinge of hatred for Ella, but there was something about the child… (p. 190)

When an infatuated former pupil of Esther’s comes to stay during the holidays, the situation comes to a head, forcing a brutal showdown between Ella and her stepmother. It’s a crushing story culminating in a dramatic denouement.

Phyllis Bottome’s The Battle-Field is another standout example of a mother and daughter pulling in different directions, but in this instance, the mother’s behaviour poses a serious risk to her child’s health. Madeleine has always been a delicate young woman, prone to lung disease and other related conditions, which her mother has nursed. Nevertheless, when a new physician takes over Madeleine’s care, complete rest in a sanatorium is prescribed, which ultimately means no visits from her mother. As this excellent story plays out, the nature of the maternal bond is tested, emotional truths come to light and secrets are revealed, forcing Madeleine to reassess the true aim of her mother’s actions. Bottome paints a vivid picture of a toxic, co-dependent relationship in this dark, beautifully executed story that chills the soul.

Deceptions of a different kind are at the heart of Amy Bloom’s Love is Not a Pie, in which two grown-up sisters develop a deeper awareness of the tangled nature of their mother’s love life in the wake of her death. The significance of puzzling scenes from the girls’ childhoods now slots into place, revealing hard truths about a family friend and his complex relationships with both of their parents.

What was that, I thought, what did I see? I wanted to go back and take another look, to see it again, to make it disappear, to watch them carefully, until I understood. (p. 139)

This surprising story will take readers to some unexpected places, echoing perhaps the sexual freedoms of the ‘60s and ‘70s in its narrative arc.

Maeve Brennan’s The Shadow of Kindness is a bleak, melancholic gem, in which the absence of Delia Bagot’s two children – on holiday with their aunt and uncle in the country – throws the emptiness of Delia’s life into sharp relief. The most heartbreaking aspects of this story stem from the semi-estranged state of the Bagots’ marriage, now an emotional desert following the early death of their first child some ten years earlier.

She knew things were not as they should be between them, but while the children were at home she did not want to say anything for fear of a row that might frighten the children, and now that the children were away she found she was afraid to speak for fear of disturbing a silence that might, if broken, reveal any number of things that she did not want to see and that she was sure he did not want to see. Or perhaps he saw them and kept silent out of charity, or out of despair, or out of a hope that they would vanish if no one paid any attention to them. (p. 111)

This story appears in Brennan’s superb collection The Springs of Affection, which I would highly recommend if you haven’t read it already – it’s one of my all-time favourites!

Elsewhere, Jeanette Winterson has fun with her darkly humorous tale Psalms, whose fervently religious mother and sanguine daughter reminded me of Oranges are Not the Only Fruit. Janet Frame’s Pictures is particularly lovely – a touching story of a mother and daughter enjoying a trip to the cinema. There is no conflict here, just beauty and humanity, an escape from the lonely boarding house where the pair live.

It was a wonderful picture. It was the greatest love story ever told. It was Life and Love and Laughter, and Tenderness and Tears. (p. 49)

Tillie Olsen’s I Stand Here Ironing is another poignant one, highlighting the challenges faced by a poor single mother, raising a daughter during America’s Great Depression.

She was too vulnerable for that terrible world of youthful competition, of preening and parading, of constant measuring of yourself against every other, of envy… (p. 175)

This is a sad story of a child whose life is shaped by harsh circumstances, but there are glimmers of something more hopeful here, especially towards the end.

Finally, a mention for Winifred Holtby’s The Silver Cloak, one of my favourites in this delightful collection – a memorable story in which age and experience must give way to the freshness of youth, even when the mother is still relatively young (thirty-six!) and beautiful herself.

Annie stared at her daughter, and as she looked, the hot shame brought dark blushes to her own cheeks, bathing her neck in warm colour. “Why, Katie!” Katie was jealous. Jealous of her. She had been a thief. She had wanted to steal the pretty things and the attention and the fun which belonged to youth by right of birth. She had been greedy, usurping the girl’s place, because, through her own experience, she knew so much better than Katie what to say and do and wear. She saw the lovely relationship which had bound them so closely breaking down before her grasping desire for a good time. And all for a cloak, a silly silver cloak which wasn’t even very suitable. (pp. 62–63)

As ever with the BL’s Women Writers series, the book is beautifully produced and comes with an informative introduction – in this instance by Molly Thatcher and Simon Thomas. Highly recommended; my thanks to the publisher for kindly providing a review copy, which I read for Karen’s Read Indies event.

The Spring Begins by Katherine Dunning

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When Nora (@pear-jelly on Bluesky and Instagram) announced that she would be hosting #SpinsterSeptember again this year, Simon (at Stuck in a Book) suggested Katherine Dunning’s The Spring Begins as a suitable spinster read. I’m so grateful to Simon for recommending this book to me, as it’s now one of my favourites from the excellent British Library Women Writers series, a wonderful collection of lesser-known gems from the 20th century.

Born in Ireland in 1900, Katherine Dunning lived much of her adult life in England, where she published five novels and many short stories. First released in 1934, The Spring Begins is an evocative portrayal of the lives of three very different young women, all of whom work in service in the 1930s. Dunning writes beautifully and insightfully about each character’s situation, her hopes and ambitions, her constraints and fears. The novel is set during a time when social class and societal expectations placed certain restraints on young women, forcing them to exist within the boundaries allotted to them. Nevertheless, Dunning brings a rare sensitivity to these characters, who are so often the supporting players in fiction from this period. Their inner lives are richly imagined, alive to the complexities of the mysterious, evolving world surrounding them, complete with all the unwritten rules society dictates. Moreover, each woman is at a crucial stage in her personal development, where a significant life choice could shape her destiny for better or worse.

All three live and work within close proximity to each other; however, their lives rarely overlap, largely because each woman’s role is strictly controlled, often allowing little time for interaction between classes and/or domains.

Firstly, there is Lottie, the young, sweet, innocent nursemaid to the Kellaways’ lively young daughters, Isobel and Anne. Raised in an orphanage with no family of her own, Lottie is inexperienced in the wider world, placing her at the mercy of Nurse’s vehement warnings about the horrors of men. Nurse, a bitter, resentful bully, delights in bossing Lottie around, filling her head with frightful stories of the wickedness lying in wait. Consequently, Lottie shrinks away from any encounters with men, especially those involving a sexual charge or undercurrent, however subtle.

Nevertheless, Dunning reveals Lottie to be a sensitive young woman, vividly alive to the kindness of humanity and the wonders of the natural world. As the novel unfolds, Lottie experiences an awakening of sorts under the guidance of George, a kind, tender, loving young man who also works on the Kellaways’ estate. George makes Lottie more aware of her own body, her burgeoning sexuality, without ever taking advantage of it. She feels safe with him, secure in the promise of his unwavering love.

The pool was no longer a blurred radiance before her, her body within the light touch of George’s arm was intensely aware of everything about her. She had yielded instantly and unconsciously to his touch, and he had drawn her closely to him.

For a moment he held her like that. They could hear the sea below them, faint but clear. The dark light around them had a sudden strange brilliant clarity, and there was a fragrance of crushed grass and wet earth and the seaweed that the receding tide was uncovering. (p. 93–94)

While Lottie seeks protection from the terrible ravages of men, Hessie Price – a plain-looking day governess at the nearby rectory – is desperate for a different kind of security, something only a suitable husband can provide. With her intense obsession over respectability, Hessie sees marriage as her only gateway to status, financial security and a respectable position in society. In many respects, she is a victim of circumstance, hemmed in by the narrow boundaries of her class, firmly on the periphery of life. In short, her existence is ‘a grey borderland of gentility and excessive modesty’.

Unable to marry above her station, and unwilling to bow below it, Hessie must find a suitable match from her own social stratum – not an easy task given the limited options available to the surfeit of single women in the interwar years. In the meantime, she lives with her mother and younger sister, Hilda, trying to survive in a household where money is tight.

Time is running out for Hessie, an uncomfortable truth made all the more apparent when Hilda announces her engagement to Albert, a local man she has been seeing. This unexpected development throws Hessie into a tailspin, heightening her ongoing fantasies about the rector’s curate, Mr Saul. Somehow, Hessie has convinced herself that Mr Saul is attracted to her, when in fact, nothing could be further from the truth. It’s all very painful to observe, highlighting the tragedy of Hessie’s situation.

Hilda and Albert Baker. How had Hilda done it? Albert was stocky and red-faced, but he was a man, and he was quite important in the town. Mother, Miss Bowman, everyone was treating Hilda with new respect. A year ago they’d just been Hessie and Hilda Price, sisters, companions, with their little girlish jokes together, and now Hilda had shot away from her. Oh God, if only she could follow Hilda.

‘My sons-in-law…Albert is a good man, steady and kind, but my elder daughter’s husband—one of God priests. Oh, yes, quite a big private income of his own, not like poor Mr. and Mrs. Benson, our rector here. My Hessie is so happy. If you’ll just pass me that album I’ll show you some snapshots. Snapshots are always so natural—aren’t they? Ah, there’s the baby. Yes, a boy…’

A horrible convulsive tremor shook Hessie’s body, and she felt desperately sick and dizzy. (p. 175–176)

While Hessie doesn’t begrudge Hilda her happiness with Albert, their engagement throws the emptiness of Hessie’s own life into sharp relief. The forthcoming marriage is driving a wedge between the two sisters, separating them in new, uncomfortable ways. Consequently, Hessie succumbs to jealousy, becoming increasingly exasperated by Hilda’s excitement over her wedding plans.

Supposing she [Hessie] screamed now. Just dropped the plates and opened her mouth and screamed. Hessie bit her under lip as she ran out into the kitchen. She laid the plates with a clatter onto the dressing-board by the sink, and pressed her hands to her head. How could she live through Hilda’s wedding, and afterwards, too? Evenings alone with Mother, while Hilda sat with her husband, and afterwards Hilda and Albert went upstairs together. Hilda would be a wife, a married woman. Hilda would come back to see them, and she’d talk about ‘my husband’ and Mother and she would exchange meaning glances, leaving Hessie outside the fraternity of married women. (p. 146)

Like Lottie, Hessie is also fearful of sexual desires; however, while Lottie is worried about the wickedness of men, Hessie is more disturbed by suggestions of unspoken longings from within. She constantly torments herself with thoughts of Hilda and Albert together once they are married, a mysterious, intimate world she knows nothing about. Meanwhile, Hessie will be left to fester with her mother, unloved and untouched by a man, until such time as Mr Saul declares his hand.

Men did like women to be women. Be independent, of course, but in a feminine way. Her eyes always looked better at night, too, when the pupils grew large and spread out over the pale irises. If only she were beautiful. But she was nicer looking than Hilda, and Hilda and Mr. Baker were somewhere ahead of them, and Hilda would be kissed. Mr Baker’s small hard mouth would close down on Hilda’s, and then—but, really, really, she was ashamed of herself. Why did she keep on thinking of things like this? Indecent, immodest things, that frightened her with their persistence, that seemed to come from some uncontrollable outside source and take possession of her. (p. 86–87)

By contrast, the Kellaways’ kitchen maid, Maggie, is more at ease with her own body and sexuality; it liberates her to think of its youth and attractiveness to men. Like Lottie, nineteen-year-old Maggie lives and works in service at the Kellaways’ grand house; however, she is much more worldly-wise than her nursemaid colleague. The virile head gardener, Maxwell, has eyes for Maggie, and likewise, she is sexually attracted to him, knowing full well what a night-time invitation to his potting shed will entail…

This was not the first time Maxwell had come up the drive at this time of the morning, and spoken to her. Sometimes she [Maggie] was half afraid of him, especially when he came close to her, bracing himself backwards and forwards on his thick legs, his hands thrust into his pockets.

‘Always working hard—aren’t you?’ he said again.

Maggie tossed back her head. ‘The same as you,’ she answered pertly.

The glint of the smile shone in his eyes. ‘I work pretty hard, too. Come down to the potting-sheds some evening and I’ll show you what I do. Why don’t you?’

Maggie sat back on her heels and glanced at him. She knew pretty well what a man of his type was after, but she could take care of herself all right. Or could she? (pp. 15–16)

At first, it seems that Maggie is primarily interested in the sexual side of her relationship with Maxwell; however, as the novel unfolds, she begins to fall for him more completely, illustrating that she is looking not only for love but sexual pleasure, too. As to whether Maxwell reciprocates Maggie’s feelings, you’ll have to read the book yourself to find out.

Maggie touched his arm. His fierce possessiveness made her feel compassionate and gentle. But things would not be like this always. Her love for him might last, because she thought of him in every way, he was her lover and her child too, but what would be left of his love once his body grew tired of hers? Still, so long as he needed her in any way she was there to give him what he wanted. (p. 170)

These three very different women offer readers some fascinating contrasts. Through Hessie, Dunning shows us the damaging impact of war on thousands of lonely spinsters. Unremarkable, good-natured women who would have made loving wives and mothers, but were instead left on the shelf to wither away untouched and unloved due a shortage of eligible men. Moreover, she clearly signals the potential dangers of such an emotional desert, leading perhaps to bitterness, jealousy and even madness over the years. Nevertheless, as this thoroughly engaging story draws to a close, there is a blossoming of sorts for Hessie – not a happy ending as such, but an awakening, something she can look back on whatever the future may bring.

There is a new beginning for Lottie, too, in the emergence of a more confident, secure young woman, no longer afraid of men and Nurse’s horror stories, safe in the knowledge that George will take care of her.

Alongside her excellent skills with characterisation, Dunning’s prose is gorgeous, peppered with evocative insights into her protagonists’ inner lives, beautifully observed details of their working environments and lush descriptions of the natural world.

There was a shrubbery full of rare shrubs in the grounds to the right of the house. The variety of leaves there alone was astonishing. Pale green leaves; umber-coloured; scarlet-brown, the shade of virginia creeper in the autumn; clear yellow traced with bright green; and a deep cold purple green almost repellent in its strong, forbidding, vanished brilliancy. (p. 3)

I loved spending time with these women, each of whom is seeking her own form of fulfilment, whether it be pleasure and sexual desire, love and liberation or security and social status. Very highly recommended indeed – my thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.

Stories for Summer and Days by the Pool – Elizabeth Bowen, Elizabeth Taylor, Daphne du Maurier and many more!

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Over the past few years, the British Library has continued to develop its excellent Women Writers series, reissuing lesser-known novels by female authors from the 20th century for modern-day readers to enjoy. Alongside these novels, the series includes a handful of carefully curated anthologies, one of which, Stories for Summer and Days by the Pool, I’m reviewing here.

Overall, this is an evocative collection of summer-themed stories, full of heady, sunny days, warm sultry nights and the powerful feelings these conditions tend to evoke. As the heat rises, jealousies swirl, passions are stirred and repressed emotions begin to resurface. Here we have stories of holiday romance, coming-of-age, changes in destiny and relationships under strain.

Occasionally, these sorts of collections can be somewhat uneven, with a few slighter stories lurking between the gems. In this instance, however, all fourteen stories are well worth your time, while four entries – those by Elizabeth Bowen, Elizabeth Taylor, Daphne du Maurier and Muriel Spark – are very good indeed.

The book is also beautifully produced – the literary equivalent of a box of chocolates, featuring perennial favourites, new discoveries and the occasional left-field choice. With contributions from critically acclaimed writers such as Virginia Woolf, Katherine Mansfield, Elizabeth Bowen, Elizabeth Taylor and Sylvia Townsend Warner to lesser-known contemporaries including Sylvia Lynd, Phyllis Bottome and Mary Lavin, this delightful anthology showcases tales in a range of styles – from evocative sketches to poignant encounters and partings to creepy, atmospheric stories that linger in the mind. Inevitably, different stories will resonate with different readers, depending on their tastes, but there really does appear to be something for almost everyone here! As in reviews of other anthologies and short story collections, I’ll focus on some of my favourites to give you a flavour of the highlights.

The collection opens with Katherine Mansfield’s Carnation, a brief, evocative sketch with sexual undertones, which takes place in a girls’ school. Mansfield uses imagery very effectively here, leaving the symbolism open to interpretation by the reader as her story unfurls.

She bought a carnation to the French class, a deep, deep red one, that looked as though it had been dipped in wine and left in the dark to dry. (p. 1)

Flowers also make an appearance in Virginia Woolf’s equally evocative story Kew Gardens, a short sketch in which a couple’s emotional history is briefly illuminated by glimpses of their past.

The petals were voluminous enough to be stirred by the summer breeze, and when they moved, the red, blue and yellow lights past one over the other, staining an inch of the brown earth beneath with a spot of the most intricate colour. (p. 5)

In Elizabeth Bowen’s Requiescat, one of my favourites from this collection, Stuart has come to Italy to see the recently widowed Mrs Majendie, who was married to his friend, Howard. As this subtly devastating story unfolds, Bowen reveals the true nature of Stuart’s feelings for Mrs Majendie, hinting at what might have been if their paths had taken the same turn.

She was less beautiful than he had remembered her, and very tall and thin in her black dress. Her composure did not astonish him; her smile, undimmed, and the sound of her voice recalled to him the poignancy of his feelings when he had first known her, his resentment and sense of defeat—she had possessed herself of Howard so entirely. She was shortsighted, there was always a look of uncertainty in her eyes until she came quite near one, her big pupils seemed to see too much at once and nothing very plainly. (p. 14)

This excellent, exquisitely written story quivers with the latent energy of emotions long suppressed, all played out against the beauty of an Italian garden resplendent in summer.

Tentative relationships of a different kind can be found in Elizabeth Taylor’s excellent story In a Different Light, in which a married, middle-aged woman, Barbara, travels alone to a Greek island, ostensibly to comfort her recently widowed sister, Jane. While Barbara believes there is nothing left for her sister in Greece, Jane seems determined to stay, irreverently dismissing any practical concerns.

During her trip, Barbara becomes friendly with Roland, a married architect from Hampstead, holidaying by himself on the island. Nothing sexual or romantic happens between the pair as they spend their afternoons together exploring the island’s quiet charms. Nevertheless, away from the familiar, mundane routines of their daily lives back in the UK, Barbara and Roland form an unlikely attachment to one another, a bond that leaves both parties somewhat unsettled and changed by the experience.

Where this story really excels, though, is in the final pages when Roland and his rather dreadful wife, Iris, visit Barbara’s family for Sunday lunch. It is here that Taylor reveals the sadness of Roland’s life, an emptiness and lack of fulfilment that have coloured his world.

These weeks, since his [Roland’s] return from the island, must have been worse than hers [Barbara’s], she realised—as the rest of his life would be worse. His experience must have been deeper, his brief escape desperately planned and wearily paid for. It was something for her—for Iris—to deride along with the other things. Once he had liked music, he had told Jane in answer to one of her off-hand enquiries: later the sisters had laughed about it, but Barbara could not have laughed now. She could see too clearly the history of discarded interests. (pp. 154–1 55)

In Phyllis Bottome’s The Shark’s Fin, a young honeymooner named Dorothy gets into a huff when her husband, Jo, decides to accompany a friend to a nearby island, leaving her alone. In a fit of pique, Dorothy decides to swim to the island to prove a point; however, her plan backfires when the journey proves more hazardous than anticipated…

Something, probably a jellyfish or a piece of floating sea-weed, brushed against her thigh. It didn’t even sting her; but it did worse. Fear slid from that light touch through Dorothy’s whole body. It rushed full tilt into her shallow heart. (p. 79)

Water also plays a significant role in Daphne du Maurier’s excellent story, The Pool, in which two young children, Deborah and Roger, stay at their grandparents’ country house during the summer holidays. This story opens with a glorious scene, heralding the pleasures that surely lie ahead.

The children ran out on to the lawn. There was space all around them, and light, and air, with the trees indeterminate beyond. The gardener had cut the grass. The lawn was crisp and firm now, because of the hot sun through the day; but near the summer-house where the tall grass stood there were dew-drops like frost clinging to the narrow stems. (p. 98)

As this disquieting story unfolds, a palpable sense of darkness creeps in, reflecting Deborah’s fascination with a nearby woodland area and pool, to which she offers small tokens, such as a pencil stub, as ritual sacrifices. Du Maurier is known for her unnerving, atmospheric short fiction, and The Pool is very much in this vein, casting an unsettling spell over Deborah’s secret visits.

Her reflection wavered up at her, and it was not the face she knew, not even the looking-glass face which anyway was false, but a disturbed image, dark-skinned and ghostly. The crossed hands were like the petals of the water-lilies themselves, and the colour was not waxen white but phantom green. The hair too was not the live clump she brushed every day and tied back with ribbon, but a canopy, a shroud. When the image smiled it became more distorted still. (p. 104)

As with many of this author’s stories, the symbolism in The Pool is mysterious and open to interpretation, hinting at themes of loss, grief and sexual awakening in adolescence.

Elsewhere, the reasons for an English woman’s presence in Florence – and her fascination with developments in London society – are alluded to in Sylvia Lynd’s aptly named story, Exile. A white lie kickstarts a complex sequence of entanglements in G. B. Stern’s sprightly and surprising tale, Black Cat for Luck, and a day on the beach presents a microcosm of family dynamics as three siblings build a fortress in Mary Lavin’s story, The Sand Castle. Here, selfishness, competitiveness and rejection give way to inclusion and teamwork in this charming story reminiscent of simpler times.

Finally, a mention for Muriel Spark’s memorable tale The Fortune Teller, in which a young woman, Lucy, encounters a clairvoyant while holidaying in France with a couple whose marriage is crumbling. Somewhat ironically, Lucy herself tells fortunes for a hobby, using a pack of cards to discern her subjects’ potential futures. This excellent story has a delicious twist, indicating that our futures are not set in stone but open to alteration.

So, all in all, a terrific anthology of summer stories from the 20th century, ideal for seasonal getaways or chilling out at home. As ever with the BL’s Women Writers series, the book comes with an informative and enjoyable introduction/afterword by series consultant Simon Thomas, highlighting each author and the stories featured in the collection. (My thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.)

Fear Stalks the Village by Ethel Lina White

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Last year, I very much enjoyed Ethel Lina White’s dramatic mystery The Wheel Spins, which Alfred Hitchcock successfully adapted for the screen in 1938 as The Lady Vanishes – still one of my favourite films by the master of suspense. Now the British Library has reissued another of White’s novels, the thoroughly engrossing poison pen mystery Fear Stalks the Village, which I found just as absorbing as The Wheel Spins – in fact, it kept me guessing almost to the very end. 

The setting is an idyllic English village in the Downs, which White portrays as serene and picturesque in the novel’s opening chapter.

As the two women emerged from the gloom of the avenue they saw the village with its ancient cottages and choked flower-gardens, all steeped in the carnation glow of sunset. At each step they seemed to turn a fresh page of a fairy-tale, with illuminated borders jumbled with box-edging, sage, damson-trees, bee-hives and a patchwork quilt of peonies, pinks and pansies. Golden girls and boys skipped in the street, while cats were growing mysterious as they awaited the herald—twilight. Soon their real life would begin. (p. 16)

Purley, a successful novelist from London, has travelled here to visit her friend, Joan Brook, who adores living in the Downs. As far as Joan and her fellow residents see it, the village is perfection itself. Everyone is kind, friendly and sociable with not a hint of scandal or unpleasantness to spoil the comfortable atmosphere. The social season takes in a sequence of garden parties, tennis matches and afternoon teas, all hosted by various residents with generosity and aplomb. Nevertheless, Purley, who has an imaginative mind, begins to speculate about the existence of something more poisonous in the village, largely as a light-hearted joke. Little does Joan know that her friend’s suppositions about each resident’s hidden secrets – the covert scandals lurking beneath the pristine veneer – prove to be augers for the unpleasantness ahead…

As spring moves into summer, a sequence of poison pen letters begins, disturbing the tranquil atmosphere in the Downs. First to receive an unpleasant note is the saintly Decima Asprey, widely regarded as queen of the village. The anonymous letter, however, begs to differ, attacking her seemingly upright moral character in a most unpleasant manner. Miss Asprey, who used to run refuges for fallen women, shares her grand home, the Sprout, with live-in companion Miss Mack, an outwardly meek, deferential woman. However, as the novel unfolds, a mysterious, complex and somewhat strained dynamic emerges between Miss Asprey and her employee. Also living at the Spout is a maid, Ada, whose personal items appear to be going missing…
Following receipt of the letter, Miss Asprey confides in the local Rector, the highly dependable Simon Blake, who is troubled by this unsettling development, especially as he considers Miss Asprey a positive influence in the village. Joan Brook, who herself works as a companion to another resident, Lady d’Arcy, has designs on the Rector – and happily for her, the feeling seems mutual. 

All too quickly, news of Miss Asprey’s letter spreads around the village, generating gossip and speculation about the potential source. Miss Corner, a jolly, middle-aged lady novelist and president of the local Temperance Society, comes under suspicion, possibly because she finds her fellow residents’ worship of Miss Asprey somewhat misplaced. (Joan, too, is no fan of queen Decima, finding her somewhat cold and unfeeling.) Nevertheless, when Miss Corner is next to receive a poison pen letter, the suggestion that she might be the sender is undermined. As with Miss Asprey, Miss Corner is accused of hypocrisy, in this instance, by covering up a secret addiction to drink; however, the drama really steps up a notch when a suspicious death is discovered the following morning. Possibly an accident, possibly deliberate – it’s rather hard to tell.

Next to come under suspicion is Dr Perry, who mixed a sleeping draught for the deceased (I’ll keep their identity a secret) the day before their death. Moreover, it transpires that Dr Perry stands to gain a substantial inheritance through the deceased’s will, adding to the speculation about his intentions with the draught. The doctor’s wife, Marianne, is also worthy of a mention here. Highly strung and extravagant with her husband’s money, Marianne is devoted to her two babies and will stop at nothing to ensure they are as cosseted as possible. On her arrival in the village, Marianne was considered an outsider by longstanding residents, but now she has been accepted, mostly by virtue of her marriage to the doctor. 

Other residents include the Scudamores, a perfect but somewhat dry married couple with impeccable manners, largely seen as the arbiters of the village’s convivial social tone. A respected lawyer by trade, Mr Scudamore is well-known to all in the area. Then we have the Squire, his wife and their grown-up daughter, Vivian – once romantically attached to Dr Perry (before his marriage to Marianne) but now hoping for a match with Major Blair. Finally, there is Lady d’Arcy, Joan’s elderly employer, who seems content to fade into the background.

Something that White does particularly well here is to show how the impact of the poison pen letters seeps into the social fabric of the village, destabilising the secure and comfortable atmosphere that characterises the area. In a similar way to some of Shirley Jackson’s fiction, darker more poisonous thoughts are lurking beneath the veneer of respectability here, waiting to be unleashed by any unnerving developments. 

With the insolence of youth, Joan thought she [Miss Corner] was rather pathetic. And the novelist, from her safe vantage of experience, pitied Joan. ‘No beauty, no money, no talent,’ she reflected. ‘If she grabs the parson, her market’s made. If she doesn’t, Heaven help her.’ (p. 55)

Fear and suspicion are everywhere, either curtailing the usual round of summer gatherings or, at the very least, making them feel strained. No one knows who will be next to receive a letter, especially as several residents would prefer to keep these incidents private rather than risk any questions being raised over their respectability. Several villagers are fearful of their secret lives being uncovered, exposing their dirty linen in public. Consequently, trust and confidence are swiftly undermined, tainting the village atmosphere during what is usually the most sociable of seasons.

With the entry of Fear, Miss Corner’s party was practically killed, for its spirit had soured and died. The continual hum of conversation was now broken by sudden awkward pauses. Immaculate men and elegant ladies stood in the usual little clusters, but each one gave the impression of whispering to his friend, while he tried to overhear his neighbour. (p. 79)

Even the close friendship between the Rector and Dr Perry is destabilised and undermined by minor suspicions. As unrest mounts, the Rector decides to call on his friend Ignatius Brown for help. Ignatius, who fancies himself as a bit of a Sherlock Holmes, has a sharp, analytical mind, and his amateur sleuthing skills are soon put to the test…

In his introduction to the book, Martin Edwards highlights White’s interest in using character and setting to build psychological suspense. Sometimes, characters in Golden Age mysteries can be a little thin or underdeveloped; however, White does a great job of fleshing out her main players here. She also proves herself adept at shifting the finger of suspicion from one village resident to another as the mystery unfolds. Everyone, it seems, has a secret they wish to keep hidden, some indiscretion or misdemeanour from the past, however large or small. While some of these incidents might seem pretty innocuous to 21st-century readers, the moral landscape was very different at the time of the book’s publication in 1932, especially in a close-knit community where reputations and respectability were paramount. There’s some relevant social commentary here – for instance, the double standards for men and women when it comes to sex before marriage.

The setting, too, is brilliantly evoked. The village is so idyllic, so pristine and perfect, that everything seems too good to be true. Just like Joan’s friend, Purley, it’s hard not to feel a frisson of something darker lurking in the mix. If anything, the surface perfection is too much, particularly to outsiders such as Purley and Ignatius, who probably see the village as a little too suffocating and overwhelming to embrace.

The novelist [Purley] did not reply, for she was suddenly gripped with overwhelming nostalgia. At that moment, London seemed so far away—a place to which she would never return. She felt as though she were being held by the village—no longer a sunset pool of beauty—but a witched, forgotten spot of whispers, and echoes, and old musty twilight stories. (p. 22)

Happily, there are some lovely touches of humour here too, especially in White’s descriptions of the Scudamores’ dapper cat, Jeremy, and the Rector’s dog, Charles Dickens, who takes quite a fancy to Ignatius’ car.

Ignatius merely smiled in an acid manner. He drove the Rector, and his inevitable dog, over to the Court, that afternoon, when his car covered the distance so quickly that Charles—who expected an outing—was plainly disgusted at this misuse of his property. (p. 241)

The resolution, when it comes, is an interesting one – not something I could have guessed in its entirety, although I had my suspicions about certain elements. If anything, the journey is more absorbing than the denouement here, which is how I like my mysteries, particularly given White’s focus on fleshing out her characters and their motivations. So, all in all, a first-class poison pen mystery from a writer I look forward to exploring further. (My thanks to the British Library for kindly providing a review copy.)

Suddenly at His Residence (aka The Crooked Wreath) by Christianna Brand

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A few years ago, I read and thoroughly enjoyed Christianna Brand’s Green for Danger (1944) ,a very clever ‘closed circle’ mystery set in a military hospital in Kent in the midst of WW2. The novel features Brand’s regular detective, Inspector Cockrill, played in Sidney Gilliat’s excellent film adaptation by the formidable Alastair Sim.

First published in 1947 but set in 1944, Suddenly at His Residence is a country house murder mystery in which the culprit is one of a small pack of potential suspects Brand shuffles during her story, shifting the focus from one person to another until the perpetrator is finally revealed. Inspector Cockrill makes another appearance here – and while the novel doesn’t hit the heights of Green for Danger, there’s still a good deal for Golden Age crime fans to enjoy.

As the London bombings rage away in the background, Sir Richard March gathers his remaining family around him at Sawnswater Manor in Kent. The occasion is the anniversary of Sir Richard’s first wife, Serafita, a former ballerina who died many years ago at the age of fifty. The elderly patriarch – a rather impulsive, truculent man – has made certain areas of the Manor into a kind of shrine for his late wife, particularly the lodge house where she died. Now the family must come together at Swanswater for the annual ceremony to mark Serafita’s death, after which Sir Richard will spend the night alone in the lodge house as a mark of respect. It’s a time-honoured ritual he repeats year after year.

Present at the gathering are Sir Richard’s second wife, Bella (his longstanding mistress before Serafita’s death), family friend and lawyer, Stephen Garde, and the patriarch’s four grandchildren, Peta, Philip, Claire and Edward – more about them shortly. Sir Richard’s children are all dead, hence Bella and the four grandchildren are the patriarch’s only living dependents.

While all four grandchildren are named as beneficiaries in Sir Richard’s will, Peta (who is in love with the family’s lawyer, Stephen, and vice versa) stands to inherit the most due to her deceased father’s position in the family hierarchy. Peta (currently working as a VAD), Philip (a doctor) and Claire (an aspiring journalist with limited talent) are directly related to Sir Richard and Serafita. However, Edward, the fourth grandchild, is Bella’s descendant, which differentiates him from his cousins. (If that all sounds rather complicated, Brand helpfully includes a compact family tree, which illustrates the connections succinctly.)

Another noteworthy point about Edward is his tendency to fall into a temporary fugue state every now and again, where he remains conscious and active but recalls nothing of his actual actions afterwards – a complication that proves troublesome to the family as this mystery unfolds.  

Also in attendance are Philip’s wife, Ellen, who is well aware that her husband is having an affair with his cousin, Claire, and the Manor’s servants – Brough, the gardener, and his wife, Mrs Brough, who helps the cook at the main house.

While we get the feeling that Sir Richard enjoys playing up to his role as the rather grumpy patriarch of the family, the old man is furious when he learns of Philip and Claire’s affair. Moreover, Peta’s girlish flippancy and Edward’s general flakiness only exacerbate the situation, prompting Sir Richard to declare his intention to alter his will, disinheriting all four of them as soon as possible. Usually, this wouldn’t be too troublesome for the quartet, largely because they know their grandfather is an impulsive man, liable to reverse this decision once the dust has settled. However, with a serious heart condition affecting his health, Sir Richard may not live long enough to change it back again – it’s difficult to tell.

Naturally, the inevitable happens, and Sir Richard is found dead at the lodge house early the next morning, having spent the night there alone. Enter Inspector Cockrill, who is called in by Stephen Garde to investigate the situation. The post-mortem points to a lethal overdose of Sir Richard’s heart medication, a supply of which was taken from Philip’s medical bag, along with some strychnine and a hypodermic syringe.

So, with one murder down and the potential for another (should the missing strychnine be used), Cockrill must unravel the mystery, disentangling a complex web of family dynamics while he does so. The Inspector’s main approach seems to consist of watching and listening as the occupants of the manor house start to speculate about who could have murdered Sir Richard, encompassing elements of motive, means, and opportunity. Various hypotheses are generated and aired, creating tensions and exposing fault lines within the group.

And while, miserably, the family eased their tortured nerves in accusation and argument, wrangling unceasingly among themselves, siding now with one and now with another, irritable, dejected, over-excited, ashamed, Inspector Cockrill prowled, ever watchful, through the house and grounds. Now and again he put a sharp question; now and again he stood unblushingly outside a door to listen; now and again he appeared among a group of them, stirring up with a sort of mischievous joy those easily-ignited fires… (p. 183)

While some characters feel a little stereotypical – Peta, for instance, with her fluttering hands and girlish behaviour – they’re well drawn and recognisable. Edward, with his troublesome fugue states, is particularly interesting as we don’t quite know what he might have got up to without realising it himself, and Brand cleverly keeps this under wraps until the end. The other grandchildren are desperate to find an explanation for the murder that will rule Edward out, knowing that his fugues make him a convenient suspect.

There are various other family dynamics in the mix, too – Philip and Claire’s affair, for instance, and the impact on Ellen. If Philip and Claire are to live together, they’ll need their shares of the inheritance to support Ellen and baby Antonia. Conversely, Peta would rather not benefit financially from her grandfather’s death, as her wealth could scupper her relationship with Stephen Garde. Meanwhile, Bella might not be quite as happy to remain at Sawnswater Manor as it initially appears…

If you prefer procedurals or investigative-style mysteries, this probably isn’t the crime novel for you, particularly as we never seem to get inside Cockrill’s head until the very end. Several hypotheses are floated, but these theories are all rooted in the family dynamics generated by various members of the group to shift the blame elsewhere. Nevertheless, if this style of mystery appeals, then Suddenly is a good example.

The pace picks up significantly towards the end with a dramatic denouement I didn’t see coming, reminding us that this is a wartime mystery where danger and destruction can erupt at a moment’s notice. It’s a very striking denouement to an enjoyable novel, albeit with the caveats noted above.

Suddenly at His Residence is published by British Library Crime Classics; my thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.

The forthcoming #1952 Club – some books I highly recommend!

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With mid-April on the horizon, we’re heading towards another of Karen and Simon’s highly enjoyable ‘Club’ weeks – focusing, in this instance, on 1952. Starting Monday 21st April, the #1952Club is a week-long celebration of books first published that year. These reading events are always great fun, with various tweets, reviews and recommendations flying around the web, giving readers an overview of the relevant period in literature.

Unsurprisingly, given my fondness for the ‘50s in general, I’ve reviewed a variety of 1952 books over the years, and they’re all excellent choices. So, if you’re thinking about taking part in the Club, here are my recommendations.

All Our Yesterdays by Natalia Ginzburg (tr. Angus Davidson)

This rich, multilayered narrative follows two very different neighbouring Italian families during the Second World War, charting the various challenges the turbulent period gives rise to. Ginzburg has written a truly remarkable novel here, a story of ordinary people living through extraordinary times, beautifully told with a warmth and generosity of spirit that reflects the Italian character. There are some lovely touches of dry humour throughout as the author maintains a wry sense of detachment from life’s absurdities despite the gravity of events. It’s also clearly a novel informed by personal experiences and memories, written by a woman who lived through the turmoil of a country at war – a point that adds a genuine sense of poignancy and authenticity to the story as it unfolds.

Excellent Women by Barbara Pym

Back in 2016, Excellent Women was my first Barbara Pym, and I’m glad to say it did not disappoint. (In fact, she’s now one of my favourite writers – so understated, perceptive and gently witty.) This charming novel focuses on Mildred Lathbury, a rather sensible, diplomatic and accommodating woman in her early thirties. In short, Mildred is one of those ‘excellent women’ who can be relied on to offer a kind word or a cup of tea whenever others are in need of support. In many ways, she finds herself getting drawn into other people’s business, particularly as it is assumed that her status as a spinster automatically means she has few commitments of her own. This is a wonderful novel, much more than just a comedy of manners, full of small but significant reflections on life as an unmarried woman in the 1950s.

The Umbrella by Tove Ditlevsen (tr. Michael Favala Goldman)

Originally published in Danish as Paraplyen (‘The Umbrella’), this is the first of two collections of short stories brought together in a beautiful Penguin edition, The Trouble with Happiness and Other Stories. These ten stories – many of which are superb – explore the suffocating nature of family life predominantly from the female perspective, the overwhelming sense of loneliness and anxiety that many women (and children) feel due to various constraints. Here we have stories of petty jealousies, unfulfilled desires, deliberate cruelty and the sudden realisation of deceit, brilliantly conveyed by the author with insight and sensitivity. In short, it’s one of the best collections I’ve read in recent years. Very highly recommended indeed.

Crossed Skis by Carol Carnac

This delightful mystery, written by Edith Caroline Rivett – who also published books under the pen name E. C. R. Lorac – has to be one of the most enjoyable entrants in the British Library’s Crime Classics series so far. Set in the snowy Austrian resort of Lech am Arlberg and a foggy central London in the middle of winter, Crossed Skis weaves together two connected narratives to very compelling effect. The novel opens with a party of sixteen holidaymakers – eight men and eight women – journeying from London’s Victoria Station to the Austrian Alps for a combination of skiing, mountain walking and dancing. There’s a lovely ‘jolly-hockey-sticks’ boarding-school-style atmosphere within the group as the travellers bunk up alongside one another in their couchettes on the train. A hugely enjoyable novel with just the right amount of intrigue and verve.  

Forbidden Notebook by Alba de Céspedes (tr. Ann Goldstein)

This remarkable rediscovered gem of Italian literature is a candid, exquisitely-written confessional from an evocative feminist voice. De Céspedes’ novel is narrated by forty-three-year-old Valeria, who documents her inner thoughts in a secret notebook with great candour and clarity, laying bare her world with all its demands and preoccupations. For Valeria, the act of writing becomes a disclosure, an outlet for her frustrations with the family she is tied to – her husband Michele, a somewhat remote but dedicated man, largely wrapped up in his own interests, which Valeria doesn’t share, and their two grown-up children who live at home. As the diary entries build up, we see how Valeria has been defined by the familial roles assigned to her; nevertheless, the very act of keeping the notebook leads to a gradual reawakening of desires as she finds her voice, challenging the founding principles of her life with Michele. I adored this illuminating exploration of a woman’s right to her own existence in the face of competing demands – probably my favourite book of 2023.

Vanish in an Instant by Margaret Millar

Set in a small town in Michigan in the midst of a snowy winter, Vanish in an Instant (1952) is a tightly plotted murder mystery in the classic hardboiled style. It’s a compelling novel, full of twists and turns with plenty to keep the reader guessing right to the very end. However, what really sets this mystery apart from others in the genre is the character development, aided by the attention to detail Millar brings to the narrative. Very few of her main players are as straightforward or ‘black-and-white’ as they might seem on the surface; instead, their personalities are nuanced with shades of grey and degrees of ambiguity reflecting a degree of reality. The small-town atmosphere is nicely captured too, adding a sense of unease and darkness to the story, which helps to convey the ‘feel’ of Millar’s setting. All in all, an engrossing, sharply plotted mystery by this award-winning author.

The Village by Marghanita Laski

Opening on VE Day in May 1945, The Village an interesting exploration of Britain’s class structure during a time of significant social change – specifically, the months following the end of WW2. Laski cleverly uses the fictional Priory Dean as a microcosm of British society, exploring the tensions between tradition and modernity to interesting effect. In some respects, the novel is a snapshot of social history, highlighting the challenges and opportunities a new world presents. Here we have a village spanning all the social classes, from the impoverished gentry clinging to the rigid class structures of old to the working classes who, despite their lowly position in the social strata, have pride, dignity and money in their pockets. A very enjoyable novel that puts good old-fashioned storytelling to the fore – there’s also a cross-class romance in the mix, which works very well! 

Carol / The Price of Salt by Patricia Highsmith

Highsmith’s ‘underground’ novel centres on the development of an intriguing, complex relationship between Therese, a young aspiring designer, and Carol, an older woman in the midst of a divorce and custody battle for her child. The central characters are so well drawn here – in particular, the longing Therese feels for Carol is portrayed with great sensitivity and subtlety. While Carol is quite different to the other Highsmith novels I’ve read, it contains moments of real tension, both sexual tension and flashes of fear and anxiety. Familiar Highsmith themes such as obsession, desire and morally complex scenarios are central to the story, albeit in a different context from her later work – nevertheless, these tropes are just as compelling here. In 2015, the novel was adapted for the screen by Todd Haynes, and the resultant film (titled Carol) also comes with a high recommendation from me.

The Ivory Grin by Ross Macdonald

This is the fourth book in Ross Macdonald’s excellent hardboiled mystery series featuring the Los Angeles-based private eye, Lew Archer, and a very fine addition to the sequence it is, too! In short, it’s a story of fear, desire and the lure of money – there are links to mobsters and collection rackets rumbling away in the background. Moreover, the plot, which features two interconnected strands, is tight yet complex enough to keep the reader guessing. Macdonald’s lead characters are suitably intriguing and just a little different to the usual types one tends to find in this genre. Another highlight is Lew Archer himself, a detective I’m growing to love more and more with every novel in the series. On the whole, Archer treats people with respect. He’s a good judge of character, keen to observe and scrutinise people wherever possible, but compassionate, too. In short, a very compelling read, particularly for fans of classic hardboiled fiction.

Thousand Cranes by Yasunari Kawabata (tr. Edward G. Seidensticker)

The Japanese writer Yasunari Kawabata is perhaps best known for Snow Country, the story of a doomed love affair between a wealthy city-based man and an innocent young geisha who lives in a remote area by the mountains. It is a work of great poetic beauty and subtlety – and yet there is something strange and unsettling about this novella, a quality that makes it hard to pin down. The same could be said of Thousand Cranes, in which a young man, Kikuji, becomes entangled with two of his deceased father’s former mistresses with tragic results. This is a novel in which every gesture is meaningful, drawing the reader into a world where longing and regret mingle with jealousy and resentment. Central to the story is the notion that the sins of the parents are visited upon their children, highlighting the potential challenges in breaking this cycle in a conventional country such as Japan. (This haunting, elegant story first appeared in serialised form between 1949 and 1951, with the book following in 1952, so I’m hoping it qualifies for the Club.)

Do let me know if you like the sound of any of these books – and your thoughts if you’ve read any of them. Or maybe you have plans of your own for the week. If so, feel free to mention them here.

Lady Living Alone by Norah Lofts

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While the British writer Norah Lofts was best known for her historical novels, she also wrote four mysteries/thrillers under the pen name Peter Curtis. Lady Living Alone, which the British Library recently reissued as part of its fascinating Women Writers series, is one of these ‘Peter Curtis’ books, and very enjoyable it is, too!

First published in 1945 but set in the 1930s, Lady Living Alone starts out as a humorous piece of domestic fiction featuring a rather naïve protagonist, the novelist Penelope Shadow. Nevertheless, what makes this novel so interesting is its switch into noirish territory in the second half of the story. There are shades of Celia Dale (and possibly Celia Fremlin) here as Lofts introduces an element of jeopardy through foreshadowing, signalling trouble ahead for her muddleheaded heroine. It’s a very welcome addition to the BLWW series – darker than the other titles in the line-up, and all the more intriguing as a result.

Right from the start, Lofts paints thirty-five-year-old Penelope as a rather hopeless, scatterbrained creature, the sort of woman who is often thought of as ‘a poor little thing’ or a ‘funny little thing’. Her only talent is for writing, which some acquaintances view as one of her eccentricities.

…there was about her an undeniable smallness, an almost deliberate contraction, a matter more almost of soul than of body. She had the thin light bones of a bird, a low quiet voice, an almost noiseless method of walking, so that always she seemed to take up less room than other people. (p. 4)

After three unremarkable novels, Penelope suddenly strikes gold with her latest book, Mexican Flower, giving her more than enough money to buy a place of her own. Having benefited from the generosity of her half-sister, Elsie, whose home she has been living in for the past six years, Penelope now wants the family to move to a more comfortable house in the country with a garden for Elsie and her children to enjoy. Elsie, however, has plans of her own, leaving Penelope in the lurch. Penelope, you see, has a horror of being alone in any house after dark, a fear that has plagued her since childhood.

This phobia about being alone in a house had been the bugbear of her childhood, had extended into adolescence and now remained, obscenely, Miss Shadow thought, a fact to darken even her middle years […] she was not afraid of burglars, and drunken men held no terrors for her. But ten minutes alone in a house, especially after sunset, reduced her to a jittering senseless mass of terror. […] So soon as Penelope was alone in the house things happened. The empty rooms about her stretched wider; became menacing with a threat that was the more awful because it was unnameable… (pp. 20-21)

Before Elsie leaves to get married and a new life abroad, she encourages Penelope to find a suitable home and a housekeeper, which her half-sister duly does, but Penelope’s eccentricities and poor judgement mean that none of her employees last very long at Dower House…

Things come to a head when the latest housekeeper decides to leave while Penelope is staying with a friend for Christmas. Now she must return to an empty house, and the prospect proves too much for her to bear.

Caught in a snowstorm on the way home, Penelope is forced to stay overnight at a rather creepy guesthouse, and it is here that she meets Terry Munce, a seemingly helpful young man who takes care of her needs. When Penelope learns that Terry is unhappy at Miss Beasley’s, she makes a spur-of-the-moment decision, offering him the role of housekeeper with her instead. After all, he seems to be taking care of pretty much everything at the guesthouse, and Penelope is desperate for someone reliable at home. Terry duly accepts and is soon installed at Dower House, running the household like clockwork while Penelope works on her books.

All is well for six months or so, at least as far as Penelope is concerned. Nevertheless, Penelope is so naïve and trusting that she fails to see how others might view her fondness for Terry. Her friend and fellow writer, Caroline, has an inkling that something might be afoot and tries to warn Penelope to be more careful with her new housekeeper. Penelope, however, has never been happier…

“You mustn’t spoil him, you know, Penelope. Young males are uppity creatures.” […]

“You rather let him see how much you depend on him, Penelope. That makes people take advantage, you know.” (p. 77)

At a key point in the novel, the relationship between Penelope and Terry changes, and Lofts does an excellent job of letting the reader in on the nature on the latter’s true intentions towards his employer and future wife. To say any more at this stage would be a spoiler, I think, so I’ll leave it there in terms of specifics. Nevertheless, like Celia Dale in her excellent novel A Spring for Love, Lofts shows us how a vulnerable, trusting woman can be preyed upon by a malicious confidence trickster in the safety of her own home. There is something particularly sinister about a seemingly innocent figure inveigling their way into the domestic space, and Lofts does a fine job of exploring this type of violation, even though her tone is somewhat lighter that Dale’s.

God, she thought with impatient disgust, I’m getting to be a suspicious, disapproving elder, thinking things like that about Terry. She looked at him dotingly as he took his place opposite her at the little table. No other woman in the room had so handsome and gay a companion; no other woman in the world, she was certain, had a husband so kind and thoughtful. What if he had lost money today? What if he had spent his time with those rather shady-looking people. God knew his life was dull enough, and his position as regards friends very difficult. (p. 98)

While there is often little in the way of comfort or escape for the victims of Dale’s scammers, Lofts offers more hope here, giving Penelope an inner steeliness to draw on in her darkest hour.

She was a fool and a coward, she had fallen weakly under Terry’s spell like any ageing, sex-starved spinster; she had been blind, and she had been silly. But she could be different. It was another moment like the one she had known when she had realised her dependence on Elsie. That moment had resulted in a metamorphosis and this was the same; it generated movement and decision. (p. 143)

As Simon Thomas mentions in his excellent afterword to the new edition, there is something cinematic about this story in its tense final stages – a nod to Hitchcock, perhaps, whose marvellous film Suspicion shares something of the story’s tropes. Even though Penelope has brought all this trouble on herself by making it easy for Terry to fleece her, the reader cannot help but hope she manages to outmanoeuvre him by finding a way out of this mess. She might be gullible and ditzy, but there’s something oddly appealing about her, too – enough to elicit the reader’s sympathy. Simon also sets the novel in the broader context of societal attitudes at the time, highlighting the limited options available to Penelope to extricate herself from a toxic marriage – especially for someone as eccentric and unstable as she appears to be.

All in all, a thoroughly enjoyable read and another welcome addition to the British Library’s Women Writers series. (My thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy, which I read for #ReadIndies.)

Independent Publishers – some favourite books from my shelves

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As some of you may know, February sees the return of #ReadIndies, (Reading Independent Publishers Month), a celebration of books published by independent presses. This annual event, established and hosted by Karen and Lizzy, aims to support independent presses as they continue to negotiate challenging trading conditions whilst competing with the big publishers for readers’ attention. Basically, the idea is to read and discuss books from independent publishers, posting about them on social media or blogs — whatever platform works for you.

It’s one of my favourite reading events – partly for the theme, which fits well with my interests, and partly for the flexibility. The event was set up in 2021 to support small presses during the COVID lockdown, and it proved so popular that Karen and Lizzy have repeated it every February since then.

So, if you’re still looking for ideas on what to read for this year’s #ReadIndies, here’s a round-up of some favourites – I’ve chosen one book from each of these excellent independent publishers.

The Home by Penelope Mortimer – published by British Library Publishing

This beautifully written semi-autobiographical novel follows an attractive but vulnerable middle-aged woman, Eleanor Strathearn, in the months following the breakdown of her marriage as she attempts to establish some kind of life for herself, while also delving into the meaning of ‘home’ with all its various connotations. The story opens with Eleanor and her youngest child, fifteen-year-old Philip, moving from their longstanding family home in London to a smaller residence near St John’s Wood. As her other grown-up children have flown the nest, Eleanor approaches her new life with a strange mix of emotions, oscillating wildly between stoic optimism and crushing grief – the latter largely winning out. Alongside the sadness, this excellent, slightly off-kilter novel has flashes of darkly comic humour throughout. Fans of Muriel Spark (and possibly Elizabeth Taylor) would likely enjoy this one.

A Summer Bird-Cage by Margaret Drabble – published by Canongate

This thoughtful, witty debut novel features an intelligent, educated young woman trying to find her place in an evolving world. Drabble focuses on two well-educated sisters here – twenty-one-year-old Sarah Bennett and her older sister, Louise, both Oxford-educated – exploring their different values and preoccupations. While Louise opts for marriage to Stephen, a wealthy but snobbish writer, Sarah tries to figure out what to do with her life. The writing is marvellous, encompassing chic 1960s fashions, hairstyles, and lifestyles, plus glimpses of Louise’s honeymoon in Rome. Drabble also gives us some wonderfully evocative descriptions of London, from Sarah waiting in the pouring rain to catch a bus at Aldwych to the messy glamour of backstage life in the city’s West End. A witty, hugely enjoyable book, shot through with some amusing touches, always beautifully judged.

Rhine Journey by Ann Schlee – published by Daunt Books

Set in Rhenish Prussia in 1851, this sublime Booker-shortlisted novel tells the story of an unmarried woman’s emotional awakening during a boat trip along the Rhine. Originally published in 1981, it’s an ideal summer read, quivering with latent energy just waiting to be unleashed. Schlee’s protagonist is Charlotte Morrison, an acquiescent, mild-mannered woman, financially independent but emotionally tied to her brother, Charles, a sanctimonious Church of England preacher, and his demanding wife, Marion. During the boat trip down the Rhine, Charlotte is assailed by vivid, transgressive dreams that blur the margins between reality and fantasy, reawakening emotions and desires long since buried in the past. This gorgeous, richly imagined novel is as precise and compelling in its psychological acuity as it is in its portrayal of a vanished world. One for fans of Black Narcissus, A Passage to India and Lolly Willowes, to name but a few.

Hackenfeller’s Ape by Brigid Brophy – published by Faber and Faber (Faber Editions)

By turns witty, playful, beautiful and sad, this highly original novella is a provocative exploration of man’s treatment of animals, particularly those closest to us on the evolutionary scale. For a book originally published in 1953, Hackenfeller’s Ape feels eerily prescient, particularly in a world where animal rights, sustainability and various environmental issues have risen in importance in recent years. Brophy’s mischievous story revolves around Professor Clement Darrelhyde, a scientist specialising in studying apes, but to say any more might spoil the fun – just read it for yourself!

Dandelions by Thea Lenarduzzi – published by Fitzcarraldo Editions

In Dandelions, the Italian-born editor and writer Thea Lenarduzzi has given us a gorgeous, meditative blend of family memoir, political and socioeconomic history, and personal reflections on migration between Italy and the UK. Partly crafted from discussions between Thea and her paternal grandmother, Dirce, the book spans four generations of Lenarduzzi’s family, moving backwards and forwards in time – and between Italy and England – threading together various stories and vignettes that span the 20th century. In doing so, a multilayered portrayal of Thea’s family emerges, placed in the context of Italy’s sociopolitical history and economic challenges. I adored this book for its themes and the sheer beauty of Lenarduzzi’s prose.

Things We Lost in the Fire by Mariana Enriquez (tr. Megan McDowell) – published by Granta Books

The Argentine writer and journalist Mariana Enriquez grew up during the country’s Dirty War. From 1976 to 1983, when Argentina was in the grip of the military dictatorship, several thousands of citizens were murdered or disappeared, many of whom were not formally documented due to the terrorist regime in place. In these macabre, deeply disturbing stories, elements of Gothic horror and surreal, otherworldly imagery are intertwined with insightful social critique, tapping into the collective traumas from Argentina’s atrocities, both past and present. Many of these stories begin in the realms of contemporary normality, only to shift into darker, nightmarish territory as they unfold. I was knocked out by this collection, which makes very effective use of imagery to augment the fear and tension lurking within.

The Girls by John Bowen – published by McNally Editions

First published in 1986, The Girls is a savage gem in which the cosiness of life in an idyllic English village is destabilised by domestic horror. Think Barbara Pym crossed with The League of Gentlemen/Inside No. 9 and you’re pretty much there – maybe with a smidgen of Lolly Willowes or Barbara Comyns in the mix, just for good measure. Early in the novel, a pedigree boar escapes while en route to service a local sow, setting the tone for this idiosyncratic story, which is flecked with touches of the absurd. It’s a wonderfully strange book, by turns, charming, funny, horrific and surreal, all wrapped up in a dark, dreamlike fairy tale with little nods to pagan myths and the supernatural here and there. But despite these otherworldly elements, much of the story remains rooted in realism, illustrating the limits of how far we might go to protect the people we love.

School for Love by Olivia Manning – published by NYRB Classics

Set in Jerusalem during the closing stages of WW2, this highly compelling coming-of-age story features a most distinctive character quite unlike any other I’ve encountered in literature or life itself. In Miss Bohun, Manning has created a fascinating individual who is sure to generate strong opinions either way. Is she a manipulative hypocrite, determined to seize any opportunity and exploit it for her own personal gain? Or is she simply deluded, predominately acting on the belief that she is doing the morally upstanding thing in a changing and unstable world? You’ll have to read the book yourself to take a view.

The Fortnight in September by R.C. Sherriff – published by Persephone Books

During a trip to Bognor in the early 1930s, R. C. Sherriff was inspired to create a story centred on a fictional family by imagining their lives and, most importantly, their annual September holiday at the seaside resort. This premise seems simple on the surface, and yet the novel’s apparent simplicity is a key part of its magic and charm. Here we have a story of small pleasures and triumphs, quiet hopes and ambitions, secret worries and fears – the illuminating moments in day-to-day life. By focusing on the minutiae of the everyday, Sheriff has crafted something remarkable here – a novel that feels humane, compassionate and deeply affecting, where the reader can fully invest in the characters’ inner lives. This is a gem of a book, as charming and unassuming as one could hope for – a throwback perhaps to simpler times.

Forbidden Notebook by Alba de Céspedes (tr. Ann Goldstein) – published by Pushkin Press

This remarkable rediscovered gem of Italian literature is a candid, exquisitely-written confessional from an evocative feminist voice. De Céspedes’ novel is narrated by forty-three-year-old Valeria, who documents her inner thoughts in a secret notebook with great candour and clarity, laying bare her world with all its demands and preoccupations. For Valeria, the act of writing becomes a disclosure, an outlet for her frustrations with the family she is tied to – her husband Michele, a somewhat remote but dedicated man, largely wrapped up in his own interests, which Valeria doesn’t share, and their two grown-up children who live at home. As the diary entries build up, we see how Valeria has been defined by the familial roles assigned to her; nevertheless, the very act of keeping the notebook leads to a gradual reawakening of her desires as she finds her voice, challenging the founding principles of her life with Michele. I adored this illuminating exploration of a woman’s right to her own existence in the face of competing demands – probably my favourite book of 2023.

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Let me know what you think of these books if you’ve read some of them already or if you’re considering reading any in the future. Maybe you have a favourite indie publisher and book to recommend? If so, please feel free to mention them below.

Death of an Author by E. C. R. Lorac

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It’s always a pleasure to read something from the hugely popular British Library Crime Classics series, and this 1935 mystery by E. C. R. Lorac is no exception to the rule. Lorac, whose real name was Edith Caroline Rivett, is one of the jewels in the BLCC crown, largely due to her clever mysteries, engaging characters and a strong sense of place. The fact that Rivett wrote under a pen name, possibly to disguise her gender, is relevant here, particularly because Death of an Author features a hugely successful crime writer whose true identity remains something of a mystery. It’s a thoroughly enjoyable book with plenty of ambiguities and different hypotheses to keep the reader guessing virtually to the end.

The story centres on Vivian Lestrange, celebrated author of the popular mystery The Charterhouse Case, published by Langston’s, who also have another interesting crime writer, Michael Ashe, on their books. Claiming his right to privacy, Lestrange is a recluse, declining any opportunities to meet with his publishers or other related associates, partly due to ill health. When Langston’s press Lestrange for a face-to-face meeting, he eventually gives in, persuading his secretary, Eleanor Clarke, to pose as the author. Naturally, when Eleanor arrives at Langston’s, claiming to be Vivian Lestrange, the firm’s principals are rather surprised.

“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the publisher. “To think I have been flattering myself for years that I could tell a man’s writing from a woman’s…”

“Well, it’s jolly good for you to know you can’t,” she [Eleanor] replied laughingly. I get so sick of that theory. The minute a reviewer learns from some gossip that’s so and so is a woman, he promptly writes ‘there is a touch of femininity about the writings of X.Y.Z. Her descriptions are above criticism, but her dialogue betrays her sex.’ It’s all my eye and Betty Martin!” (p. 22)

In the weeks that follow, the publishers arrange a dinner involving Lestrange and Michael Ashe, who is also taken aback by the author’s sex!

Three months later, Eleanor Clarke informs the police that her employer, Vivian Lestrange, is missing – as is his mysterious housekeeper, Mrs Fife, the only other person with access to the author’s house. No one else has ever seen Lestrange, and there are no family members or photographs to draw on to verify his identity, so Inspector Bond and Chief Inspector Warner of Scotland Yard soon find themselves with a complex puzzle to solve.

Eleanor swiftly confesses that Lestrange had asked her to pose as him for the publisher’s meeting, claiming she agreed to do it as a joke. While Warner is an imaginative, open-minded detective, Bond is more sceptical and quickly assumes Eleanor is playing the police for fools. In short, Bond thinks that Eleanor and Lestrange are one and the same, but Warner is not so sure…

Bond leaned back in his chair. “I think she’s abnormal,” he said. “I believe she [Eleanor] wrote those Lestrange books, and at first enjoyed being taken for a man, and was careful to conceal her identity. Then the fun began to pall, and she looked around for some other means of acquiring notoriety. It is quite reasonable psychology,” (p. 58)

As this intriguing mystery unfolds, taking in another crime in Ross on Wye (which may or may not be connected to Lestrange), much of the speculation depends on whether Eleanor Clarke is telling the police the truth. Various hypotheses are floated and discussed between the two Inspectors – an interaction that Lorac handles very well. A bullet-sized hole in a downstairs window at Lestrange’s London home suggests foul play, but Bond remains sceptical – after all, there is no definitive proof that Lestrange ever existed.

“[Bond:] There’s too much imagination flying around in this case. I’ve been investigating the life of a man whom no one’s seen but his secretary, and I’ve been investigating the life of a secretary whose past defies inspection because the only people who could answer questions about her are dead, and whose present acquaintances can’t tell you enough to make a half page report…” (p. 177)

Meanwhile, Warner is more open-minded and willing to consider all possibilities until the evidence can be verified.

It’s odd that in our job the very fact of a person being always in the right and hastening to do the right thing makes us look askance at them. (p. 235)

Lorac has a lot of fun with this one, particularly in her observations about the publishing world and the question of whether it is possible to determine an author’s sex based on their writing style alone. Opinions are divided on Vivian Lestrange in this respect with Bond believing that a woman could have written ‘The Charterhouse Case’, while Warner favours a man. Lorac is keen to highlight just how outmoded some of these attitudes are, using Eleanor, who is suitably sharp and bright, as a means of challenging various preconceptions. In this scene, Michael Ashe, the other crime writer on Langston’s books, is discussing this point with Eleanor (posing as Vivian Lestrange before his mysterious ‘disappearance’).

[Ashe:] “A woman sees only a limited amount of a man’s point of view, and she can–as a rule—interpret only a limited portion of a man’s mind.”

[Eleanor:] “…You envisage women still as the sheltered, emotional playthings of men. The woman of today is beginning to see through the fraud; in short, we are realising ourselves…” (pp. 30–31)

It’s hard not to draw the conclusion that some of these discussions were inspired by Lorac’s own experiences in the publishing world, especially given the neutral nature of her pen name.

The two detectives work well together, and their differing opinions on the nature of Eleanor Clarke’s character and the true identity of Vivian Lestrange allow them to formulate different hypotheses on the case to explore and debate. Chief Inspector Warner is especially engaging, and I would love to read more mysteries featuring him should they exist.

The explanation, when it comes, is a little convoluted, but that’s a minor quibble in the scheme of things, especially as the detecting elements are so enjoyable. As always, Lorac conveys a lovely sense of place here, especially when Warner travels to the Wye Valley to investigate a potential link with another case.

In places the soil and loose stones were all washed away and the living rock gleamed under the trickle of water which flowed across to drain into the ditch on the eastern side, for the drain was biased laterally as it descended the hillside. The banks were gay with primroses, anemones and violets, and white blackthorn shone among the yellow foliage of hazel and larch, the latter marvellously green in the tender afternoon light. (pp. 97–98)

All in all, this is another highly enjoyable vintage mystery with an intriguing puzzle at its heart. Ideal weekend reading at the end of a busy week. (I read it back in December when the pre-Christmas madness was approaching its peak.)

My thanks to the publishers for kindly providing a review copy.