Tag Archives: Crime

Mr Bowling Buys a Newspaper by Donald Henderson

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I can’t quite recall where I first heard about Donald Henderson’s excellent novel, Mr Bowling Buys a Newspaper – a wickedly satirical portrayal of a murderer operating under the cloak of the London Blitz. It may have been Backlisted, always an excellent source of lesser-known gems, or possibly during a discussion about boarding-house novels, a genre close to my heart. Either way, I’m very glad to have discovered it. That said, this pitch-black wartime gem might not be to everyone’s tastes. If you’re a fan of Patrick Hamilton’s Hangover Square, William Trevor’s The Boarding-House or Patricia Highsmith’s The Blunderer, chances are you’ll enjoy this book. If not, you might want to steer clear!

Henderson’s central character, the eponymous Mr Bowling, is down on his luck. Having failed to make a go of things with his music, Bowling is stuck in an unfulfilling job as an insurance salesman and an even more unfulfilling marriage to his wife, Ivy.

When the couple get caught in an air raid during the Blitz, finding themselves covered by fallen masonry, Mr Bowling takes the opportunity to suffocate Ivy, largely to stop her from screaming relentlessly. The trouble is, with one successful murder under his belt, Bowling has acquired a taste for it, satisfying a deep-seated need, rooted in his psyche…

Before he killed his wife, which in a sense had not been premeditated, not really, Mr Bowling had reached such an intense pitch of despair about life, that he had thought of doing a murder and more or less making it reasonably easy for the police to catch him and arrest him. It was quite an honest thought, and it recurred now and then when he had had a drop of gin. After all he had been through since leaving school, all the bitter disappointments, and above all the drabness and the poverty, and his awful marriage, he had frequently and honestly felt that to get into the public eye in this way would be better than dying at last utterly unknown and exhausted spiritually. (p. 5)

With the payout from Ivy’s life assurance policy to draw on, Mr Bowling has money in his pocket for the first time in his life, giving him the flexibility to pursue his ‘hobby’ relatively freely. But from now on, he will focus purely on killing men, particularly those who annoy or bore him for whatever trifling reason.

One of the most fascinating aspects of this novel is Henderson’s focus on his protagonist’s psychology. Somewhat perversely, Mr. Bowling is not afraid of being caught and sentenced to death for his actions; rather, he welcomes the prospect, seeing it as a release from the interminable suffering of life on Earth. In other words, the idea of death by hanging represents a kind of freedom for him, a deliverance from ‘the horrors of peace and war, chiefly peace’.

Why was it? Why was he doing it? And why did he now know he was going to do several more murders? Murders? Don’t call them that–such a vulgar word.

Then it came to him swiftly and clearly that he was doing it because he was so thoroughly disappointed in himself and his life; he wanted to be caught.

He wanted it. (p. 36)

As the book unfolds, Henderson sheds light on Mr Bowling’s backstory, highlighting some reasons for his protagonist’s despair with life. The death of Bowling’s mother during childbirth, followed by his father’s passing some thirteen years later, are both significant here – as is his lonely adolescence, presided over by a stepmother who positively loathed him. School had not been kind to our protagonist either. Shunned by his classmates, most of whom considered him mad, Bowling had no real friends at school, leaving him hungry for friendship and love.

Henderson also helps us understand why Mr Bowling is targeting the poor, unfortunate individuals he chooses to dispatch. (Before you know it, you’ll be cheering him on!) From Mr Farthing, the loathsome caretaker Bowling encounters as he moves up in the world, to Mr Winthrop, a desperately dull fellow resident at his down-at-heel boarding house, forever trying to befriend him while banging on about the war, we can see why these people are getting on Mr Bowling’s nerves, even if his method of dealing with them is wildly out of proportion!

So far from being amused, however, Mr Bowling became suddenly aware that there would be no party upstairs for Mr Winthrop on Thursday and that in that case it was safe to accept the invitation. A black, black mood had descended upon him, and he sat trying not to glower at Mr Winthrop’s button. Mr Winthrop, completely unaware of how very fateful his intrusion was being for himself, leaned to and fro and tried to run the World War and bring it to a successful conclusion for democracy and freedom, and of course Capitalism. (pp. 48–49)

Every time Mr Bowling commits another murder, he rushes to buy the papers (hence the novel’s title), scouring the pages for reports of the dreadful deed while hoping the police are closing in. Nevertheless, despite leaving a whole plethora of clues in his wake, our protagonist seems incapable of being caught; he is, in fact, literally getting away with murder, much to his frustration!

While this probably sounds unremittingly bleak, Henderson is mindful of tempering the story’s tone, injecting Mr Bowling’s loathing of life and those sent to try him with a wicked seam of humour. If you like your comedy pitch-black and caustic, there’s plenty to relish here.

He told Mr Gunter that he was frightfully sorry to disturb him, but the poor chap upstairs [Mr Winthrop] had kicked the bucket and fallen downstairs or something.

Mr Gunter covered his queer looking nipples with his brown jacket, and looked scared stiff. Mr Bowling wondered whether he was scared at being seen with nothing on, or at anyone knowing he hadn’t got any pyjamas, or at the hearing of somebody having died. (p. 64)

Moreover, the novel has a wonderful sense of time and place, evoking the wartime era vividly and convincingly.

Mr Watson had a married daughter called Mrs Heaton who came up from Kingston about twice a year. She wore rather cheap furs and ran a baby Austin. Mr Bowling was very interested because he knew she wouldn’t get a penny when Mr Watson died, although she fondly thought she was going to get everything. Mr. Watson had one day confided his will. The money was going to a dog’s home. (p. 7)

The wartime setting seems particularly significant here, a time when millions of people were effectively given licence to kill one another under the banner of war. By setting his story in this context, Henderson seems to be inviting the reader to compare the morality of Mr Bowling’s actions to those underpinning such a bloody and widespread war. There is a certain degree of irony in the murders committed by Mr Bowling when viewed against this backdrop. For instance, is what Mr Bowling is doing really that different from the wilful killings which inevitably occur during a war? If so, what makes one type of murder more morally acceptable than another? Who decides this, and on what grounds? Can the taking of another person’s life ever be morally acceptable, even when it happens in the act of war? While the novel doesn’t pose these questions directly, they might to occur the reader as they consider Bowling’s actions.

As the novel approaches its intriguing conclusion, there’s a surprise in store for Mr Bowling in the shape of a chance encounter. Having spent months trying to get himself caught, tried and hanged for murder, our protagonist suddenly finds himself with a reason to live. But has he left it too late to evade capture? You’ll have to read the novel to find out…

I loved this darkly satirical portrayal of Henderson’s twisted, opportunistic killer, and the Patrick Hamilton-style vibe really drew me in. Not for the sensitive or faint-hearted, but a wickedly compelling novel nonetheless. Interestingly, the book was enthusiastically championed by the great Raymond Chandler, who gave copies to his friends left, right and centre. The recent Collins Crime Club edition also comes with an informative introduction by vintage crime aficionado Martin Edwards, always a bonus given his extensive knowledge of the genre.

A Spring of Love by Celia Dale

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Celia Dale is fast becoming a regular feature in my annual reading highlights. Having made the list in 2022 with A Helping Hand and again in 2023 with Sheep’s Clothing, she looks set for another appearance this year with the reissue of A Spring of Love, another utterly compelling story of suburban deception, similar in style to Patricia Highsmith’s best domestic noirs.

Dale specialises in showing us how vulnerable individuals – particularly the elderly and the naïvely trusting – can be preyed upon by malicious confidence tricksters in the safety of their own homes. There is something particularly chilling about a seemingly innocent figure inveigling their way into the domestic space, and Dale leverages this violation to the hilt with her icily gripping tales of greed and deception. In A Helping Hand and Sheep’s Clothing, the scammers’ victims are female pensioners, often reliant on care and support; but in Spring, the predator targets a much younger single woman – thirty-year-old Esther Wilson, who lives in London with her widowed grandmother, affectionately known as Gran.

Esther’s life is a narrow one, governed by regular routines. She works full-time in the invoice department of a local store, leaving Gran – a somewhat petulant, overbearing woman – to amuse herself during the day. Luckily for Esther, money is not a worry. Her late grandfather left her the house – including the upstairs rooms, which she rents to a lively young couple, Gloria and Terry – plus a newsagents’ shop, efficiently managed by Mr and Mrs Grover. Esther’s only concessions to frivolity are her Thursday nights out alone, typically spent over a solo meal at a tea shop followed by a film at the cinema. Gran resents Esther’s Thursday nights as she hates feeling left out; nevertheless, Esther needs an escape, even if it soon becomes another one of her routines.

Everything changes one Thursday night when Esther meets Raymond in what appears to be a chance encounter at the tea shop. They start chatting, go to the cinema together, and meet again the following Thursday, seemingly by chance. At first, Esther is somewhat reticent; no other man has ever shown much interest, and her life experience is limited to say the least. Nevertheless, Raymond’s polite, chatty manner soon wins her over.

He was obviously so pleased to have found her, a lonely, nice-spoken young man with no friends; and she – after all, what was she herself but a lonely, nice-spoken young woman in just the same case? There could be no harm in it. You could see he wasn’t a nasty type at all. (p. 25)

In the past, Esther had not considered the possibility of a relationship with a man, steeling herself against the world and any emotional attachments. But now, with Raymond on the scene, she is swept along by the attention, opening a world of possibilities that didn’t exist for her before.

It was as though until now she had wilfully blinkered herself against living humanity because she was afraid that to look at it would hurt her. She had thought she was content, a woman without much need for love, envying no one, desiring nothing; now she stared about her hungrily, amazed by the joy of possessing what she had not known she lacked. (p. 78)

With his old-fashioned manners and kind, chatty approach, Raymond charms Gran, quickly getting her onside. Gran, for her part, takes to Raymond immediately (initially at least), viewing him as a sort of son or nephew to joke with. A masculine man conscious of his status, but not one to be feared. Only later, as Esther and Raymond become closer, does Gran start to feel left out…

At first, everything in the garden seems rosy. Esther and Raymond get engaged, and preparations for a quiet wedding are soon underway. Gradually, however, alarm bells start ringing – certainly for the reader and possibly for Esther herself, although somehow Raymond seems to be able to explain them away without arousing too much suspicion. It all starts when Raymond shows signs of wanting to control Esther’s money, ostensibly because it’s the man’s domain to manage – a small ‘loan’ at first and hints about wanting a car for his job as a travelling salesman. Nevertheless, Esther persuades him to wait for his bonus, which is due fairly shortly.

She saw with clear eyes, as he justified and excused, that he loved money, deeply, obsessively, and the knowledge seemed to her quaint and sad, growing from a past of which, although he told her much, she knew so little. (p. 108)

Raymond also tries to convince Esther to convert the upstairs flat, currently occupied by Gloria, Terry and their baby daughter, Kim, into two single bedsits, doubling the potential rent. But Esther is against this too, recognising how hard it is for a young family to find lodgings, especially with a young baby to consider.

As Esther settles into her marriage with Raymond, Gran begins to feel increasingly like a gooseberry in the relationship. At first, she is delighted with Raymond, enjoying his flattery and jokes, but over time she begins to see him as a usurper. Before Raymond’s arrival, Gran had Esther to herself, but now she must share her, at least when he’s around.

Slowly and stealthily, Raymond continues his attempts to gain access to Esther’s finances, leveraging her belief in fairness and equality to his own personal advantage. By claiming he has converted his bank account into a joint facility, Raymond knows Esther will follow suit, which she duly does, and likewise with drafting new wills. It’s all very subtly done, of course, but the reader can see what’s happening, even if Esther can’t. Occasionally though, Esther glimpses the intense bitterness inherent within Raymond, the blazingly blue stare she recognises as a sign of danger…

His voice was so utterly without expression that Esther glanced at him. His face was without expression too, but his eyes were blazingly blue, the blue she had seen only once or twice before that seemed to have a fire behind it, of excitement or rage or – hatred? He was perfectly still, but behind his back the hands clasped one another as though locked together and in amazement she perceived that he was petrified with anger, blind and numb to everything but what he saw with that blue stare. (p. 138)

Gran also picks up on Raymond’s dark side, sharing with Esther her belief that he possesses a hard streak – a view shared by Mr Grover, who manages Esther’s shop. But once again, Esther explains it all away, putting it down to a combination of Raymond’s troubled childhood and Gran’s jealousy and loneliness at being neglected.

What Dale does so well here is to show us how Raymond – who we strongly suspect all along is a scammer/confidence trickster – inveigles his way into Esther’s world, preying on her naivety, trusting nature and willingness to fall in love. In A Helping Hand and Sheep’s Clothing, the scammers work in pairs, allowing Dale to partly convey their motives through dialogue between the two characters. With Spring, however, Raymond is operating alone, which enables Dale to keep an element of mystery about his motives, actions and earlier life. That said, there are clear hints along the way – noticeable red flags signalling Raymond’s intense hatred of ‘wayward’ women.

‘Self, self, that’s all women ever think of – I know, I’ve had some!’ (p. 141)

‘I’ll tell you why – because women are animals, that’s why. They think of nothing else but men, men, men, morning, noon and night. That’s the only thing they want. That’s why I don’t want your precious Gloria here, chasing off after her good time when she’s tired of Terry and never mind what happens to the kid.’ (p. 143)

Once again, Raymond has a way of rationalising these outbursts to Esther, putting them down to his feckless mother, who abandoned him as a little boy. In some respects, Esther and Raymond come from similar backgrounds, both having been raised by relatives due to absent or deceased parents. For Esther, this upbringing has built up her reserve; but for Raymond, it has come out in bitterness (especially towards certain types of women) and a lack of trust.

The denouement, when it comes, is more shocking than I anticipated but sadly believable nonetheless – as are Esther’s responses, especially given the era. (The book was first published in 1960 and remains highly relevant today.)

Alongside the unknowability of others – one of the novel’s key themes – Dale also explores the nature of love. What, for instance, does it feel like to be in love, especially if we haven’t experienced it before? How can we recognise it when it happens? In her naivety, Esther instinctively feels there must be peace and happiness in love, alongside tolerance and trust. Other than that, she has little idea. She is devoted to Raymond, and he certainly succeeds in opening up her world, for a few years at least.

There’s also the question of whether Raymond falls in love with Esther as he is trying to fleece her. It’s probably too much of a spoiler to discuss here, but I think there’s a turning point in the narrative which only becomes completely clear once the reader reaches the end. From their emotionally barren childhoods, Esther and Raymond manage to forge a strong bond – a kind of love, despite rarely using that term with one another.

In summary, then, this is another masterful novel by Celia Dale – a gripping story of greed, deception, misogyny and horror, all the more terrifying for its seemingly innocent trickster and grounding in normality. As ever with Dale, there are some wonderful notes of humour to balance the darkness. I’ll finish with a short quote that illustrates a touch of this skill.

Terry’s mother was like a horse-hair sofa, massive, tightly upholstered, glossy. She dominated. (p. 133)

A Spring of Love is published by Daunt Books; personal copy  

Twice Round the Clock by Billie Houston

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In his introduction to this entertaining Golden Age mystery, Martin Edwards explains that the book’s author, Billie Houston, was best known as one half of a successful vaudeville act in the 1920s. It’s a background Houston puts to good use, peppering her novel with some well-judged humour amid the darkness swirling around the crime. First published in 1935 and recently reissued as part of the British Library’s Crime Classics series, Twice Round the Clock was Houston’s only novel, written between her appearances on stage. As other reviewers have noted, it’s a shame she never went on to write more books because her first foray into crime writing seems very promising indeed. Twice Round the Clock is an atmospheric country house murder mystery, the kind of thriller where almost everyone’s a suspect, and the victim himself is universally disliked. It’s an ideal read for a bitterly cold weekend…

The novel opens with a short prologue to set the scene. Just before 4 am on the night of a violent storm, Bill Brent is woken by a scream and the sound of glass breaking beneath his room in Treeholme, Horace Manning’s house. After making his way downstairs to the study, Brent finds a dead body slumped across the desk with an ivory-handled carving knife sticking out of its back. The victim is Brent’s host for the night, Horace Manning, an eccentric, reclusive scientist with a noticeable sadistic streak. Outside, the storm continues to rage – an inconvenience that has forced Brent and the other guests to spend the night at the Manning residence following a tense celebratory dinner.

Brent is soon joined in the study by Dr Henderson, who has also been disturbed by the scream; but when the pair try to call the police, they discover the phone line is dead – either brought down by the storm or sabotaged on purpose, the exact cause is unclear. So, with the scene set for a tantalising mystery, the narrative rewinds to 4 pm the previous afternoon, revealing various events leading up to Manning’s death…

Here, we are introduced to the cast of characters that ultimately find themselves stranded at Treeholme for the night. First amongst them is Tony Fane, who drives to Treeholme to ask Manning for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Given that Manning strikes the fear of God into everyone he encounters – his daughter Helen included – Tony can’t quite believe it when the old man says yes. In fact, Manning goes as far as to invite Tony’s family and close friends over for a celebratory dinner that evening, much to everyone’s surprise. Nevertheless, all this is delivered in such a creepy manner that the reader suspects something untoward is afoot…

What was there about this man which was so elusive? What exactly was the strange impression he made, the undefinable effect he had upon one? Was it something in those eyes which were never more than half-open? Or something in the little smile which played about the corners of the tight-lipped mouth; or in those long, tapering fingers which, at times, seemed to move like tentacles with an intelligence of their own; something perhaps in the curious habit he had of stroking his cheek with one long, thin finger… (pp. 23–24)

So, dining at Treeholme that night, we have: Helen Manning and her fiancé, Tony; Tony’s sister, Kay, an impetuous, forthright young woman who says exactly what she thinks; Tony’s friend, Teddy Fraser, who only has eyes for Kay; Sir Anthony Fane, Tony and Kay’s blustering father; Lady Fane, who defers to her husband, Sir Anthony, on most matters; Bill Brent, Sir Anthony’s solid, dependable secretary; and Dr Henderson, a family friend and the local GP. Not forgetting Horace Manning, of course, who despite being a leading scientist, is possessed of a cruel, vindictive streak.

The whole evening has a sinister atmosphere, heightened by Manning’s creepy behaviour and malevolent experiments involving a deadly gas, which he outlines to his guests during a tour of his lab. Consequently, the diners are left with no illusions about their host’s capacity for cruelty, laying bare his twisted state of mind. Meanwhile, a storm is brewing outside, adding a touch of Gothic melodrama as it erupts overheard…

Sleepwalking servants, midnight assignations and other disturbances add to the action as the night unfolds, casting doubt on various members of the party, particularly after the discovery of Manning’s body. Moreover, with the phone lines down and no easy way of getting outside help, Bill Brent adopts the role of amateur detective, hypothesising about various scenarios based on the guests’ personalities and movements while also looking for clues.

The book takes its name from the timeframe for the story, which runs from 4 pm on the afternoon of the fateful dinner to 4 pm the next day. Huston makes good use of the ticking of the clock as the narrative unfolds, breaking her story into hourly segments covering the twelve hours before the murder and the twelve hours after. This structure helps to give the novel a sense of momentum, adding to the tension and suspense. While the characters are all reasonably familiar types, Houston draws them with enough care and attention to engage the reader. Kay is by far the most interesting figure here, a sharp, quick-witted young woman with the capacity to disrupt. 

Kay swung two shapely, silk-clad legs over the side, heaved the rest of herself after them, and surveyed the house while she finished her cigarette.

“The ogre’s castle,” she remarked, dropping the ash from her cigarette into the hat which Mr Fraser was holding in his hand. (p. 57)

The plot gets a little far-fetched towards the end, with elements of espionage, concealed identities and family secrets adding to the mix. Nevertheless, it’s all delivered in such an engaging manner that questions about credibility feel somewhat secondary to the reader’s enjoyment. All in all, this is a very atmospheric mystery with touches of Gothic horror and melodrama to heighten the mood. There’s also a sprinkling of romance between Bill Brent and Kay Fane to add to the intrigue.

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

A Helping Hand by Celia Dale

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There is something deeply unnerving about a crime novel featuring an ordinary domestic setting – the type of story where sinister activities take place behind the veil of net curtains in the privacy of the protagonist’s home. The English writer and book reviewer Celia Dale was clearly a master of this genre, certainly if her 1966 novel A Helping Hand is anything to go by. It’s an icily compelling tale of greed and deception, stealthily executed amidst carefully orchestrated conversations and endless cups of tea. An absolute shoo-in for my end-of-year highlights, I devoured this brilliant, terrifying novel in my eagerness to reach the end.

Central to the novel are former nurse Maisie Evans and her husband Josh, a middle-aged couple living quiet lives in the heart of suburbia. As the story gets underway, we find the Evanses on holiday in Italy, ostensibly as a bit of a break following the death of Auntie Flo, whom the couple had been looking after in their home before the old lady’s death. With Maisie’s background in nursing, the couple like to offer ‘a helping hand’ here and there, acting as caretakers to people in need, especially those with no relatives or other support.

During their break, Maisie and Josh attach themselves to another pair of British holidaymakers – the elderly widow Cynthia Fingal and her rather selfish niece, Lena. Right from the very start, Dale hints at the Evanses’ true motivations for befriending these fellow Brits, with Maisie targeting Lena while Josh works his magic on Mrs F. With her beloved husband, Stanley, long deceased, Mrs Fingal has missed the little attentions of a male companion – a role that Josh is only too willing to pick up. So, while Maisie accompanies Lena on various shopping trips around town, Josh begins to charm Mrs Fingal, flattering her with the attentiveness and conversation she is eager to lap up.

As Maisie soon discovers, Lena feels she has been saddled with taking care of her aunt – a burden she so clearly resents as it prevents her from living a more exciting life. In truth, Lena is selfish, irritable and impatient – qualities that Maisie soon turns to her own advantage by listening to Lena’s woes. Moreover, Mrs Fingal is equally unhappy with Lena, viewing her as common, self-centred, and hard – a perception she duly shares with Josh.

‘…I can’t talk like this to Lena. She shuts me up. She can’t see outside herself, you see. And she’s common. There’s never any conversation, she hasn’t the patience to listen to anyone but herself.’ (p. 55)

One of the things Dale does so well here is to let the reader in on what the Evanses are up to, slowly but surely as the narrative unfolds. For instance, we see them sizing up Mrs Fingal’s situation, working out how much the old lady might be worth and establishing whether there are any other living relatives besides Lena. It really is quite calculated and cold…

By the end of the holiday, a plan is in place for Mrs Fingal to go and live with the Evanses – an arrangement that seems to suit everyone concerned. After all, with Maisie’s training in nursing, the Evanses are perfectly placed to accommodate Mrs F in their spare room – the one previously occupied by ‘Auntie’ Flo. Lena, for her part, is delighted to have an opportunity to offload her aunt onto someone else, leaving her free to focus on her work and entertaining men, while Mrs F can look forward to mild flirtations with Josh and some much-need company to stave off her loneliness. It’s the perfect solution all round, or so it appears on the surface…

At first, all is sweetness and light at the Evanses following Mrs Fingal’s arrival; but slowly and stealthily, the tone beings to change. In essence, Maisie treats the old lady like a child, confining her to bed for long periods and scolding her for the little accidents and spillages that occur.

[Mrs Fingal:] ‘Not go out? Oh, but I must go out.’

[Maisie:] ‘What d’you have to go out for? Oh, look what you’ve done, spilled egg on my nice clean tray cloth!’

‘Oh, surely not? I mean…’

‘And on the sheet too. You are a mucky pup and no mistake. We’ll have to give you a bib.’ (p. 96)

Gradually we release the horror of what’s unfolding here. By prescribing extensive periods of bed rest for Mrs Fingal, Maisie is deliberately pursuing a plan to weaken the old lady’s muscles, whittling away her independence in the process. Moreover, Maisie does everything in her power to carefully discourage any contact between Lena and Mrs Fingal, citing the desire for stability as a cover for her actions. After all, the Evanses don’t want Lena getting a whiff of what’s actually happening back at the house in case she disturbs things. Better to leave Auntie Cynthia alone to avoid upsetting her routine…

[Lena:] ‘We haven’t talked much about Auntie.’

[Maisie:] ‘There’s not much to say. You get on with your life and leave the worrying to me – when there is any.’

‘D’you think I ought to come over?’

‘Frankly, dear, I don’t. It would only unsettle her. She’s settled into our little home so well that I think it’s really only kind to leave her to her own little ways and routines. You know what old folk are, they get used to things being just as they like them, just as they’re used to. She’s as happy as a sandboy with me and Josh knowing just what she likes, and anything coming in new from the outside might only upset her again.’ (p. 118)

While Maisie proceeds to wear down Mrs Fingal by restricting her movements, Josh can be equally sinister in his own chilling way, neglecting his charge for other, more interesting activities. As such, Mrs Fingal is left feeling lonely and confused, declining mentally and physically under the Evanses’ ‘care’.  

[Mrs F:] ‘Is it night-time?’

[Josh:] ‘No, it’s not long gone five. I’ll bring you your tea in a minute.’

I thought I’d had my tea. When you didn’t come, I thought it must be night but then I heard voices and I thought it was strangers…’

‘You think a lot, don’t you…’ (pp. 148–149)

Just as the Evanses’ plan is ticking along nicely, another player comes into the mix in the shape of Graziella – a sweet-natured Italian waitress from their holiday – in need of a place to stay. While Maisie is somewhat reluctant to have an outsider in the house, potentially disrupting their treatment of Mrs F, Josh is more willing, particularly given the girl’s attractiveness. (In truth, Josh has a hideously lecherous side to his personality, an unsavoury edge that Dale gradually reveals through the book.)

As Graziella bonds with Mrs Fingal, encouraging the old lady to build up her strength by walking again, she senses that something is decidedly off. While the Evanses may be in charge of Mrs Fingal’s wellbeing, they don’t seem to care for her, not in the way Italian families would…

‘It’s just a feeling. They take care of her, there’s no one else, poor thing. But I don’t know why they do it. They seem kind, they take care of her – but they don’t care for her.’ (p. 214)

A Helping Hand is a remarkably compelling slice of suburban horror, ideal for fans of Patricia Highsmith and Shirley Jackson – it really is that good. What Dale does so well here is to subtly reveal to the reader the true malice behind the Evanses’ actions. A little hint dropped here, a calculated word or two there – it’s all very cleverly done. As the narrative unfolds, the reader can clearly see how the tone of Maisie’s behaviour towards Mrs Fingal changes over time, from gentle chivvying and chiding to downright bullying and neglect. And yet, everything is so carefully orchestrated to seem caring in front of others – this is where the skill really comes in.

In summary, then, an icy, utterly terrifying domestic noir that will chill you to the bone. All the more haunting for its grounding in apparent normality – the flat, characterless feel of the suburban setting is brilliantly evoked.

A Helping Hand is published by Daunt Books. My thanks to the publishers and the Independent Alliance for kindly providing a review copy.

Two of the Best Vintage Crime Classics – Crossed Skis by Carol Carnac and Due to a Death by Mary Kelly

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I have two crackers for you today – not necessarily Christmas crackers, but well suited to the season nonetheless.

Crossed Skis by Carol Carnac (1952)

This delightful mystery, written by Edith Caroline Rivett – who also published books under the pen-name of 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. While some members of the group are known to one another, various last-minute dropouts and replacements have led to others being less familiar – typically friends of friends or fellow members of social clubs. Most of the party are relatively young, and everyone seems to be glad of the chance to swap the doom and gloom of Britain, with its food rations and damp weather, for some much-anticipated merriment in the Australian mountains. The extended journey, by train and sea, serves as a good ice-breaker, offering the participants the opportunity to get to know one another as the banter flows back and forth.

On their arrival in Lech am Arlberg, the holidaymakers settle into their rooms. The available accommodation is tight, leading to some scattering of the party amongst various chalets and hotels; however, all are within easy reach of one another. The skiing soon gets underway, with the crisp, wintry landscape providing the perfect backdrop to the group’s activities. All seems to be progressing well until some money goes missing from the suitcase of one of the travellers – the Irishman Robert O’Hara, one of the lesser-known members of the group. Inevitably suspicion falls on various other members of the party, particularly the last-minute replacements, including O’Hara himself – a doubt that only strengthens when a second theft is discovered.

Meanwhile, back in foggy London, the burnt body of an unidentified man is found in the remains of a boarding house gutted by fire. The circumstances surrounding the fire are distinctly suspicious, and when the police find what appears to be the imprint of a ski stick in the mud outside the house, a possible connection to skiing is mooted. As the case unfolds, some clever detecting and fingerprint analysis by Chief Inspector Rivers leads the police to the skiing party in Lech am Arlberg, where the two narrative threads ultimately combine.

This is a lovely enjoyable mystery with just the right amount of intrigue and atmosphere. As ever with this author, the settings are beautifully evoked, with the crisp brightness of the Austrian ski slopes contrasting nicely with the gloomy darkness of a British winter. Julian Rivers makes for an engaging detective, while Kate, an observant member of the skiing party, makes an amiable amateur sleuth. With its winter holiday setting – the skiing party depart on New Year’s Day – Crossed Skis is an ideal January read. Very highly recommended for fans of vintage mysteries.

Due to a Death by Mary Kelly (1962)

From the bright and frothy to the dark and brooding…I think this might be the bleakest book I’ve encountered in the BLCC series. Absolutely brilliant, but as dark as a desolate wasteland on a cold winter’s day.

The novel’s setting is Gunfleet, a fictional town inspired by Greenhithe in the marshlands area of Kent. It’s the perfect backdrop for Kelly’s story, a slow-burning tale of hidden affairs, family tensions and existential despair. Noir lovers will likely enjoy this one – it really is that bleak.

After a Hitchcockian opening, mysterious enough to grip the reader from the start, the story is told as a flashback, narrated by the central character, Agnes, who sometimes works as a teacher. Agnes, we soon learn, is a troubled, frustrated soul. Stuck in a marriage with Tom, a man she doesn’t love, she has always held a deep affection for her step-brother-in-law, Ian, who lives nearby. However, Ian’s parsimonious wife, Helen, openly dislikes Agnes, disapproving of the latter’s impulsive behaviour and ‘fast’ dresses, much to Agnes’s annoyance. Also friendly with the two couples are Tubby, a pathologist, and his easy-going wife, Carole. Personality-wise, they are much more relaxed than Helen, certainly as far as Agnes is concerned.

The other central character of note is Hedley, who has come to Gunfleet to retire early (he’s mid-forties) and learn Russian. At first, Hedley lodges in the local pub, but then moves into Tom and Agnes’s caravan as a more convenient arrangement – one that also suits Tom, who seems worried about money. As the summer unfolds, Agnes becomes increasingly close to Hedley while he teaches her how to drive – a doomed romance that seems made for the silver screen.

The novel’s mysteries revolve around the discovery of a body, an incident that happens near the beginning of the narrative. However, the book is more of a drama or psychological character study than a police procedural – readers looking for the latter may well need to try elsewhere. The dead body is Livia, a young Italian woman who worked at the local garage and was known to all three couples. While Agnes and Carole liked Livia, Helen disapproved of her, judging the young woman to be loose and of dubious morals.

As Agnes tries to make sense of the summer’s events, we learn more about how these three couples are bound together and the connection to Livia’s death. The central characters – Agnes, Tom and Hedley – are particularly finely drawn, each with their own personal hopes, troubles and disappointments that reveal themselves over time. Moreover, Kelly infuses the novel with a strong sense of despair, a tone she accentuates in her descriptions of Gunfleet, a place that time seems to have forgotten, as if it were trapped in an airlock of loneliness and pain.

At the end of the lay-by the thickets behind the barbed wire thinned to a curtain of creeper, then stopped, where the chalk was clawed to within yards of the trunk road. A hundred feet below was the roof of the cement works; one of the cement works, for there were many. The rain had pasted its dust to khaki mud, which in patches was dried by the sun. Beyond the works lay the marsh, and in the middle distance the river, a flat aluminium sheet: the brightest sky could never make it blue. (p. 13)

Alongside the desolate sense of place, Kelly also paints a realistic picture of life for many women in rural communities in the early 1960s, where fulfilling jobs are few and far between. Museum wives who work are frowned upon, so Agnes must content herself with marking school work at home rather than teaching in a classroom. Other social issues are also integral to the story, including extra-marital affairs, unwanted pregnancies, illegal abortions, stigmas surrounding orphans, broken homes and mental illness.

This is a beautifully written, intelligent drama featuring realistic, complex characters with secrets to conceal. In terms of style, the book reminded me of some of Margaret Millar’s fiction – maybe Patricia Highsmith’s too. Either way, this is an excellent book, shot through with a sense of bleakness that feels well suited to winter. (My thanks to the publisher for kindly providing a review copy.)

Cosy and Not-So-Cosy Crime – E. C. R. Lorac and Ross Macdonald

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I have two crime fiction novels to share with you today – both of which were written in the late 1950s, albeit in very different tonal registers. E. C. R. Lorac’s Two-Way Murder is a thoroughly entertaining cosy crime novel, ideal escapism from 21st-century Britain; however, I’m going to start with its not-so-cosy counterpart, Ross Macdonald’s compelling California-based mystery, The Galton Case.

The Galton Case by Ross Macdonald (1959)

Regular readers of this blog may know that I’ve been reading Ross Macdonald’s ‘Lew Archer’ novels in order over the past five or six years. (For those of you who are new to Ross Macdonald, he’s in a similar vein to the great hardboiled detective novelists, Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett – i.e. a writer whose work transcends the traditional crime fiction genre.)

The Galton Case – the eighth book in the series – sees the world-weary private eye being drawn into a cold case investigation which naturally turns out to be far more complex that it appears at first sight. As a novel, it contains many of Macdonald’s hallmarks: a powerful dysfunctional family; various individuals motivated by greed; and current crimes with a hidden connection to the past. While it’s probably not my favourite book in the series, The Galton Case still makes for a highly compelling read. A very solid entry, barring a couple of caveats regarding the ending.

Mrs Galton, a wealthy widow with a significant heart condition, wishes to reconcile with her estranged son, Anthony Galton, before it is too late. Some twenty years earlier, Anthony Galton disappeared from the family home (together with his pregnant wife and a significant amount of money) following a rift with his mother. In short, Mrs Galton hadn’t approved of her son’s marriage, often the cause of tension in a Lew Archer novel.

The old lady’s lawyer, Gordon Sable, hires Archer to find Anthony, even though he has already been declared legally dead. Mrs Galton, however, remains convinced that her son is still alive, possibly making a living from writing as he had hoped to do at the time of his disappearance.

Despite his initial scepticism about the chances of finding Anthony alive, Archer takes the case; however, just as he is about to get started, a murder takes place, the victim being a rather ill-tempered servant by the name of Culligan, whom Archer had met at Sable’s home. Unsurprisingly, these two cases – the disappearance of Anthony Galton and the murder of Peter Culligan – turn out to be connected, signalling another complex tangle of crimes for Archer to unravel.

As ever with Macdonald, the descriptions of the locations are marvellous, from the melting pot of San Francisco to the comfortable enclaves of California.

Arroyo Park was an economic battleground where managers and professional people matched wits and incomes. The people on Mrs Galton’s Street didn’t know there had been a war. Their grandfathers or great-grandfathers had won it for them; death and taxes were all they had to cope with. (p. 11)

However, what’s particularly interesting about this novel is the psychological aspect – the exploration of human behaviour that takes place as Archer digs deeper. There are questions of identity to be resolved, instances of wish fulfilment and delusion alongside the more traditional motives of resentment and greed.

In Archer, Macdonald has created a highly engaging investigator who veers between pragmatism, sarcasm and compassion – a protagonist the reader can invest in for the duration of the series. While the ending feels a bit rushed, leaving a couple of loose ends unresolved, these are relatively minor quibbles in the scheme of things. In summary – a very solid mystery with some interesting insights into human nature.

Two-Way Murder by E. C. R. Lorac (written in the mid-late 1950s, published in 2021)

While Two-Way Murder is a much lighter, less menacing mystery than The Galton Case, the two novels share some similar characteristics – namely, tangled dysfunctional families and current crimes with potential links to suspicious incidents from the past.

Lorac’s novel – which has the air of a classic Golden Age Mystery – is set in the coastal resort of Fordings in the mid-late 1950s. Local innkeeper Nicholas (Nick) Brent – an ex-Navy man in his early thirties – has offered to drive his friend, the lawyer Ian Macbane, to the Hunt Ball, the major event in Fordings’ social calendar. Macbane is down from London for the Ball, where he hopes to get the opportunity to dance with Dilys Maine, the prettiest girl in the locality. Dilys, however, has a fondness for Michael Reeve, a prickly farmer and landowner whose family has something of a chequered history.

The action gets going towards the end of the Ball when Nick drives Dilys home, just before midnight. It’s a pre-arranged departure, conveniently timed to enable Dilys to get back without her absence being detected – by either her puritanical father, Mr Maine, or the family’s housekeeper, Alice. During their journey home, Nick and Dilys come across a dead body lying in the road, at which point Nick suggests that Dilys should walk home across the fields to avoid being dragged into the inevitable investigations. To complicate matters further, Nick is then attacked while phoning the police to report the dead body. There are further suspicious goings-on too, but I’ll leave you to discover those for yourself should you decide to read the book…

Needless to say, the police suspect the man on the road has been murdered, prompting investigations into various persons of interest in the vicinity and their movements on the night in question. There are some very interesting characters in the mix, including Dilys’ father, a tyrannical man obsessed with keeping a watch on Mr Hoyle, a local landlord whom Maine suspects of smuggling; Michael Reeve, of course, whose house Nicholas Brent was phoning from when he was attacked; and Michael’s elder brother, Norman, who may or may not be the dead body.

One of the things I particularly like about this mystery is the contrast between the different policemen investigating the murder. The initial enquiries are conducted by Inspector Turner, a methodical, practical-minded chap whose insensitivity and disregard for local networks tend to put him at a disadvantage. Inspector Waring, however, adopts a more intuitive approach to the case, his lively and imaginative mind remaining alert to the patterns of human nature. Ian Macbane is another interesting addition to the ‘team’, aiding Inspector Waring (who has been brought in from CID) with a spot of amateur detecting of his own.

In summary, Two-Way Murder is an excellent vintage mystery with a rather clever resolution – eminently believable at that, which isn’t always the case in these things. Attention to detail is key here, with elements of timing, the weather and the geographical layout of the area all playing important roles in pinpointing the culprit. There are some wonderful characters here too, from the likeable Inspector Waring to the thoughtful Ian Macbane to the Maine’s astute housekeeper, Alice. As ever, Lorac does a great job in conveying a sense of the local community and the importance of longstanding grudges. I’ll finish with a final quote that gives a feel for the location and Lorac’s flair for descriptions.

The car had topped the last rise of Bramber Head, the great chalk ridge which jutted out into the Channel; below, the ground dropped steeply to the wide basin of Fairbourne Bay, and the lights of Fordings were stretched out like jewelled necklaces, crossing and intertwining, with coloured lights along the seafront and a blur of chromatic brilliance over the cinema on the pier. (p. 18)

Karen has also written about this novel, including more info on Lorac and the discovery of this book – do take a look! My thanks to the British Library for kindly providing a review copy.

Nada by Jean-Patrick Manchette (tr. by Donald Nicholson-Smith)

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I think I have Max (at Pechorin’s Journal) to thank for introducing me to Jean-Patrick Manchette, the French novelist, screenwriter and translator credited with reinvigorating the crime genre in the 1970s and early ‘80s. As an author, Manchette was instrumental in developing the ‘néo-polar’ noir, a strand of crime fiction characterised by an engagement with political and social radicalism. Before starting this blog, I read three of Manchette’s novels, Three to Kill, Fatale and The Prone Gunman, all of which I would thoroughly recommend. (Max and Guy have written about them in detail, so do check out their reviews if you’re interested in discovering more.)

Nada, Manchette’s fourth novel, is the tense and gripping story of a kidnapping that turns sour. Like this author’s other books, there’s a strong political edge to the narrative, highlighting the corruption that remains endemic within the country’s authorities.

The Nada of the book’s title relates to a criminal gang – an ill-assorted bunch of revolutionaries, intellectuals and disaffected alcoholics – who decide to kidnap the US Ambassador to France during his weekly trip to a Parisian brothel. It’s not entirely clear what the Nada collective hopes to achieve from this stunt – revolution, money, notoriety, martyrdom? – maybe it varies for different members within the group. What is evident though is the unmistakable air of self-destruction hanging over the mission, which seems destined to implode, virtually from the very start.

Central to the gang is Andre Épaulard, a fifty-year-old trained killer with links to the Communist Resistance, stemming from the time of Germany’s Occupation of France. At first, Épaulard is somewhat reluctant to join the group but is finally lured in through a connection with one of the other members. A lone wolf at heart, Épaulard is also the one most likely to stay focused when the situation blows up. By contrast, Buenaventura Diaz is something of a hothead, a professional revolutionary from Catalonia in Spain – liable to go rogue at any given moment.

Also of significance is Treuffais, a disaffected philosophy teacher in his mid-twenties who loathes the college establishment, particularly the bourgeoisie with their conventional middle-class attitudes. As the group’s resident intellectual, Treuffais is responsible for drafting the Nada manifesto; and while not an active participant in the Ambassador’s abduction itself, he remains a vital connection to the group as the aftermath unfolds.

Completing the group are D’Arcy, the gang’s alcoholic driver; Meyer, a somewhat aimless waiter whose role in the mission appears somewhat unclear; and Veronique Cash, a gritty young woman whose farm will be used as the gang’s main hideout.

D’Arcy left the building carrying a screwdriver with a set of interchangeable heads. He stopped at the end of the street to toss down a double Ricard in a dive, then walked on to Place de la Concorde and thence towards Place de l’Étoile. He inspected the parked cars. Not far from the Petit Palais, he came upon a Consul station wagon with an open window. He got into the vehicle and spent a good ten minutes hot-wiring it and unlocking the steering wheel. He set the car in motion, merged into the still fairly heavy traffic, made a detour so as to get onto Rue de Rivoli westbound, found a parking space, popped in for another double Ricard and went back up to Épaulard’s. (p. 57)

There is a brutal efficiency to Nada as it hurtles towards its inevitable destination at a lightning-fast speed. The writing is tight, pared-back and relentless, clearly portraying a world caught up in the politics of corruption. And yet, there is a touch of facetiousness in Manchette’s prose, a mordant note of humour which accentuates the absurd.

Meyer wanted to shoot himself or just go to work – it was hard to say which. He looked at his watch. Two fifteen. Just time enough to avoid being late. (p. 16)

“I’m a murderer,” said D’Arcy.

“Settle down,” said Épaulard. “You ran down an American agent and knocked out a cop. That’s all.”

“I killed that cop.”

“With a slingshot?”

“I killed him,” D’Arcy repeated calmly. “I want to drink myself to oblivion.” (p. 67)

When the Ambassador’s abduction comes to light, the police see an opportunity to dictate the narrative, even at the expense of preserving the victim’s life. In essence, the desire to pin the blame on the terrorists seems to trump any other, more humane considerations – thereby highlighting how the story is likely to play out, especially in the media.

What’s interesting about this novel is how it feels at once both modern and a product of its time – particularly in its depiction of the authoritarian corruption that characterises the era. A reflection perhaps on life in the early ‘70s, the period following the civil unrest triggered by the Paris uprising of ’68 when students and unions alike were pushing for significant change. Nevertheless, there is a strong sense of fatalism running through the narrative, an acceptance of there being little point in trying to transform political policy, irrespective of means. Each member of the Nada gang has their own individual frustrations with the system, fuelling their sense of desire to gain redress or retribution for their grievances.

In summary, then, Nada is a ruthlessly efficient noir with a strong political edge, the kind of fatalistic narrative destined to end in frenzied self-destruction. Recommended for fans of Simenon and Leonardo Sciascia, both of whom have also been published by NYRB Classics.

Two terrific vintage mysteries by Josephine Bell and John Dickson Carr (British Library Crime Classics)

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Some fairly brief thoughts on a couple of very enjoyable mysteries from the British Library Crime Classics series – both set in London, both initially published in the 1930s, but very different from one another in terms of style.

The Port of London Murders by Josephine Bell (1938)

A dark and gritty mystery set amidst the London docklands, a location steeped in atmosphere and squalor.

When local resident Harry Reed rescues June Harvey and her young brother, Leslie, in a riverside accident, all three become embroiled in a network of shady events in the heart of the community…

An unemployed former dressmaker, Mary Holland, is found dead in her lodgings, presumably from suicide given the bottle of Lysol found nearby. Nevertheless, when Detective Sergeant Chandler begins to investigate, he quickly establishes that the case might not be quite as simple as it first appeared. A post mortem reveals traces of heroin in Mrs Holland’s body, but no syringes were found in her room, a point that the detective finds puzzling to say the least.

Events take a more sinister turn when Sergeant Chandler himself disappears without a trace, possibly having discovered some vital clues to the case. As a consequence, Inspector Mitchell of Scotland Yard is called in to take over the investigation, including the question of whether these incidents are connected.

What follows is less a whodunnit (the guilty parties are all pretty clear early on), but more an exploration of the criminal network, complete with all its threads and complexities. Murder is not the only crime being committed here. There are instances of blackmail, drug smuggling, shady importation deals and other nefarious activities, with chiffon nighties passing from one part of the dubious chain to another.

Where this mystery really excels is in the portrayal of dockside neighbourhood, the dark, grimy streets, the fog-bound quayside, and the shabby houses due to be demolished once the remaining tenants are evicted.

The light faded rapidly as the Fatima churned upstream. The fog was patchy now, for the wind had risen and cleared those parts of the river where the banks were low and the water exposed. Here the boats could move freely, guided by one another’s lights and the various familiar landmarks on shore. The intervening banks of fog, by contrast, seemed all the thicker and more menacing. (p. 65)

Bell captures the lives of her working-class characters with just the right notes of sympathy and compassion, illustrating their day-to-day troubles and preoccupations in a very believable way. These are ordinary, everyday people living in dismal conditions, often relying on Public Assistance as a vital part of their welfare.

Bell has created some memorable figures amongst her large cast of disparate individuals, whose lives intertwine as the narrative unravels. June Harvey and her younger brother, Leslie, are particularly engaging – the latter drawing on his curiosity and enthusiasm to assist the police with their enquiries. The more upmarket criminals are equally well portrayed, illustrating both their weaknesses and their ruthlessness when faced with adversity. Alongside the darkness of the narrative there are some lighter moments too, touches of humour in the feuds between neighbouring families, and in the views of Sergeant Welsford, Inspector Mitchell’s rather presumptive sidekick.

In summary then, this is a very enjoyable mystery, strong on authenticity and atmosphere. Definitely one I would recommend to other readers with an interest in this period.

The Lost Gallows by John Dickson Carr (1931)

This colourful mystery, written when Carr was just twenty-four-years old, is an altogether more melodramatic affair than Bell’s Port of London. Almost Victorian Gothic in style, The Lost Gallows is a hugely enjoyable revenge story, primarily set in a notorious gentlemen’s club in central London.

When the Parisian detective, Henri Bencolin, meets up with his old friend, Sir John Landervorne, at London’s Brimstone Club, he is quickly drawn into a complex mystery involving another club resident, the Egyptian, Nezam El Moulk. In recent weeks, El Moulk has been spooked by the appearance of a series of macabre items at the club, the latest of which is a tiny model of a gallows, sent directly to the Egyptian by post. It seems the perpetrator is operating under the pseudonym ‘Jack Ketch’, a nickname or common shorthand for the public hangman, but his real identity is a closely guarded secret.

The main mystery that Bencolin must turn his mind to here is to identify Jack Ketch, who seems to be seeking revenge for a crime allegedly committed by El Moulk some ten years earlier. In short, the race is on to find Ketch before he can claim payback, presumably on the 10th anniversary of the original deed.

Also swirling around in the mix are several other gruesome incidents for Bencolin to get his teeth into. The sighting of a shadow showing a man ascending the gallows; the mystery of the infamous ‘Ruination Street’, a location that cannot be found on any London map; the vision of a car being driven by a corpse. These are just some of the ghastly goings-on at play here.

It loomed up out of Jermyn Street soundlessly. Distorted by the muddy fog, it had a devilish life of its own, and its staring lamps bounded towards me as I turned. I heard the officer’s cry and the shrilling of his whistle. Then the great green limousine swept past me into the Haymarket. (p. 34)

This is a complex mystery with a lot going on, particularly in the first half of the book. Nevertheless, these seemingly disparate threads do eventually come together as the narrative approaches its end. As in Bell’s mystery, the London location is vividly portrayed, the city bustling with activity amid the fog-bound streets.

London that night was a wet chaos of fog, screeching with taxis and smeared on the sky with a blur of electric signs round Piccadilly. But as we turned down the Haymarket, there was a sense of intimacy crowded into these dun-coloured walls. The heavy-footed traffic rumbling past, the shine of light on wet pavements—clank, babble, shrill policeman’s whistle, and loom of big arm in water-proof—all carried a suggestion of companionship through mere virtue of the fog. It was not until we entered the theatre, until the house darkened and the curtain rose on that pale mimic world of terror which was Vautrelle’s play, that the afternoon’s devils returned… (p. 31)

There is a real sense of melodrama in Carr’s portrayal of events as the ghoulish atmosphere is dialled up at every given opportunity. And while the characterisation is a little thin and clichéd in places, the actual story itself is never less than entertaining. Great fun for lovers of gothic-style mysteries, as long as they’re prepared to suspend belief!

My thanks to the British Library for kindly providing review copies.

Call for the Dead and A Murder of Quality by John le Carré

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Something a little different from me today. Less a review as such, more a sequence of observations on the early George Smiley novels from John le Carré. I’ve been reading (and in some cases re-reading) them recently, broadly in chronological order, although I’ve skipped The Spy Who Came in From the Cold, a classic Cold War spy thriller which I read back in 2018.

For those of you unfamiliar with le Carré’s work, George Smiley is a career intelligence officer within the British overseas intelligence agency, commonly known as ‘the Circus’ due to its base in London’s Cambridge Circus. His first appearance comes in Call for the Dead (1961), a very enjoyable novella that serves as a good introduction to Smiley and certain elements of his backstory – in particular, the troublesome nature of his relationship with flighty ex-wife, Ann.

Following a routine security check by Smiley, Foreign Office civil servant, Samuel Fennan, apparently commits suicide, triggering a meeting between Smiley and Maston, the Circus’s head. All too soon, Smiley realises he is being set up to take the blame for Fennan’s death, something he finds both troubling and suspicious, particularly as his interview with the civil servant had ended quite amicably.

The arrival of a letter from Fennan, posted shortly before the man’s death, adds to the mystery, suggesting that Fennan had something pressing to pass on to Smiley following their initial meeting. When Smiley is warned off the case by Maston, he begins his own investigation into Fennan’s network, bringing him into contact with the East Germans and their agents.

Le Carré clearly has points to make here about the intelligence agencies – for instance,  the way they use people as pawns on a chessboard, illustrating a lack of humanity at the heart of the system. In this scene, Fennan’s widow is expressing her views to Smiley, not holding back in her perceptions of the institution.

The mind becomes separated from the body; it thinks without reality, rules a paper kingdom and devises without emotion the ruin of its paper victims. But sometimes the division between your world and ours is incomplete; the files grow heads and arms and legs, and that’s a terrible moment, isn’t it? The names have families as well as records, and human motives to explain the sad little dossiers and their make-believe sins. (pp. 20-21, Call for the Dead)

The third book in the series, The Looking Glass War is particularly strong on this theme – the way that agents can end up as collateral, ultimately viewed as expendable in the cut-and-thrust of the game.

The descriptive passages are excellent, something I had completely forgotten about until I went back to the first book. Moreover, there are some marvellous touches of humour in le Carré’s writing, another aspect of his craft that had temporarily slipped my mind.

The Fountain Café (Proprietor Miss Gloria Adam) was all Tudor and horse brasses and local honey at sixpence more than anywhere else. Miss Adam herself dispensed the nastiest coffee south of Manchester and spoke of her customers as ‘My Friends’. Miss Adam did not do business with friends, but simply robbed them, which somehow added to the illusion of genteel amateurism which Miss Adam was so anxious to preserve. (p. 26, Call for the Dead)

While Call for the Dead might not be le Carré’s most polished novel, it is still highly compelling and convincing. A well-crafted literary spy novel with some memorable moments of tension along the way. Plus, it’s a great introduction to Smiley with his quiet, perceptive disposition and expensive yet ill-fitting clothes! As something of a segue into the second novel in the series, here’s a description of the man himself, taken from a passage near the beginning of book two.

‘Looks like a frog, dresses like a bookie, and has a brain I’d give my eyes for. Had a very nasty war. Very nasty indeed.’

Well, he looked like a frog, right enough. Short and stubby, round spectacles with thick lenses that made his eyes big. And his clothes were odd. Expensive, mind, you could see that. But his jacket seemed to drape where there wasn’t any room for drape. What did surprise Rigby was his shyness. Rigby had expected someone a little brash, a little too smooth for Carne, whereas Smiley had an earnest formality which appealed to Rigby’s conservative taste. (p. 28, A Murder of Quality)

A Murder of Quality (1962) is somewhat atypical in style for a le Carré. In short, it is a murder mystery as opposed to a spy novel, the type of detective story that wouldn’t be entirely out of place amongst the British Library Crime Classics. The book can also be viewed as a barbed commentary on the English class system – particularly boarding schools with their cruelty and elitist attitudes.

As the novel opens, Smiley is contacted by a former colleague, Ailsa Brimley (aka Brim), who now runs a small journal, The Christian Voice. Ailsa is worried about a letter she has received from a loyal subscriber, Stella Rode, in which Rode claims that her husband intends to kill her. The fact that the Rode family have supported the Voice for several years only adds to Ailsa’s feelings of responsibility towards Stella. Consequently, Ailsa asks Smiley to investigate what’s behind the letter before she alerts the police.

When Smiley contacts Carne, the public school where Stella’s husband works, he discovers that the murder has already been committed. All the more reason for Smiley to pay a visit to the school to uncover the events surrounding Stella’s death…

What le Carré captures so brilliantly here is the snobbishness that exists within the school environment, the internal politics between the masters and, perhaps more tellingly, between their wives. It seems that Stella Rode did not conform to Carne’s traditional conventions and high standards. In short, she had lowered the tone with her doyleys and china ducks, much to Shane Hecht’s dismay.

‘…Stella Rode was such a nice person, I always thought…and so unusual. She did such clever things with the same dress…But she had such curious friends. All for Hans the woodcutter and Pedro the fisherman, if you know what I mean.’

‘What is she popular at Carne?’

Shane Hecht laughed gently: ‘No one is popular at Carne…but she wasn’t easy to like…She would wear black crêpe on Sundays…Forgive me, but do the lower classes always do that?’ (p. 93, A Murder of Quality)

There is some nice development of Smiley’s character in this book, with the retired intelligence office emerging as a man with a conscience, someone who can find it difficult to reconcile the means with the end. He also knows the value of being able to assimilate, to blend into the background without being noticed. His quiet, perceptive manner coupled with an innate insight into human nature and motivation makes him an excellent spy – a keen observer of people, alert to signs of danger and duplicity. His understated investigative style is a pleasure to see in action, laying some of the groundwork for the subsequent novels.

This is a very well-written, satisfying mystery with just enough intrigue to keep the reader interested – needless to say, there is more to the case than meets the eye. Moreover, it’s a darkly humorous book – worth reading for the satirical sideswipes at the upper classes, particularly the public-school set.

The George Smiley novels are published by Penguin; personal copies.

A Suspension of Mercy by Patricia Highsmith

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The novels of Patricia Highsmith, with their focus on the darker side of the human psyche, continue to be a source of fascination for me. First published in 1965, A Suspension of Mercy is another of this author’s domestic noirs – probably not quite in the same league as the marvellous Deep Water or The Cry of the Owl, but still very enjoyable nonetheless.

The novel revolves around Sydney Smith Bartleby, an American writer of crime fiction, and his wife, Alicia, who dabbles in painting. The couple have been married for around eighteen months and live in a quiet neighbourhood near Framlingham in Suffolk – the idea being that a remote countryside cottage would prove a suitable environment for them to engage in their creative pursuits.

While the Bartlebys’ lifestyle may on the surface sound very appealing, it soon becomes clear that the marriage itself is far from ideal. Following a series of rejections from publishers, Sydney is struggling to finalise his latest novel; furthermore, the TV scripts he has developed with his writing partner, Alex Polk-Faraday, have also proved difficult to place. Moreover, Alicia has little faith in her husband’s ability to write successful fiction. This, together with the Bartlebys relatively meagre income – mostly the allowance Alicia receives from her devoted parents – means relations between the couple are somewhat strained.

Sydney, however, has a very active imagination, perhaps too active given the nature of his fantasies. He is continually thinking up scenarios for the demise of both Alex and Alicia, the latter proving to be a particularly rich seam of morbid fabrications.

Alex had died five times at least in Sydney’s imagination. Alicia twenty times. She had died in a burning car, in a wrecked car, in the woods throttled by person or persons unknown, died falling down the stairs at home, drowned in her bath, died falling out the upstairs window while trying to rescue a bird in the eaves drain, died from poisoning that would leave no trace. But the best way, for him, was her dying by a blow in the house, and he removed her somewhere in the car, buried her somewhere, then told everyone that she had gone away for a few days, maybe to Brighton, maybe to London. Then Alicia wouldn’t come back. The police wouldn’t be able to find her. (p. 33)

The couple’s problems are evident to those closest to them, their quarrels having being observed by Alex and his wife, Hittie, during their occasional trips to Suffolk – and by Mrs Lilybanks, the gentle old lady who has just moved in next door.

Now and again, Alicia goes away on her own for a few days, just down to London or Brighton for a breather from Sydney. It is on her return from one of these trips that she wonders if a more extended break might be in order, particularly when she suspects Sydney of deliberately refusing to come to a party just to annoy her.

‘You’d really like to kill me sometimes, wouldn’t you, Syd?’

He stared at her, looking tongue-tied.

She could tell she had touched the truth. ‘You’d like me out of the way sometimes – maybe all the time – just as if I were some character in your plots that you could eliminate.’

He looked at the half-peeled potato in her left hand, the paring knife in her right. ‘Oh, stop being dramatic.’

‘So why don’t we pretend that for a while? I can be gone for weeks. Work as hard as you like—’ Her voice shook a little, to her annoyance. ‘And we’ll see what happens, all right?’

Sydney pressed his lips together, then said, ‘All right.’ (pp. 69–70)

Having floated the plan, Alicia insists that Sydney should not try to contact her while she is away; she will get in touch with him when she wants to, but not before. Somewhat nonchalantly, Sydney agrees.

With Alicia gone, Sydney is free to immerse himself in the mindset of a murderer – possibly for research purposes, possibly for more sinister reasons. Allowing his fantasies to play out to the full, Sydney imagines that he has killed Alicia by pushing her down the stairs on the day of her departure. Moreover, the following morning, Sydney gets up at the crack of dawn, carries a rolled-up carpet (large enough to conceal a body) to his car, drives five miles to a secluded spot of woodland and buries it in a shallow grave. All the while, he behaves as if the carpet contains Alicia’s body, stiff and heavy following a night in the house.

As the weeks go by, many of the couple’s friends begin to express concern at not having heard anything from Alicia – surely she would have called or written to them by now? At first, Sydney implies that his wife has probably gone to stay with her parents, the Sneezums, down in Kent; but it turns out they haven’t heard from her either. (Alicia, as it happens, is holed up near Brighton, happily playing ‘house’ with her new lover, Edward Tilbury, whom she first at met a party some months earlier.)

Mrs Lilybanks too has her doubts, particularly as she was birdwatching from her bedroom window on the morning of the carpet episode, something she hints at when she drops over to see Sydney one evening. In this scene, Mrs L is enquiring about the carpet that used to be in the Bartlebys’ lounge, the very one she’d seen Sydney take to the car the morning after Alicia’s disappearance.

Mrs Lilybanks sat down slowly on the sofa, watching Sydney. ‘I really quite liked the old one you had here. I’d buy that from you,’ she said, forcing a chuckle.

‘But we haven’t got it. I took it–’ he smiled. ‘I took that old carpet out and dumped it. We didn’t want to give it house-room, and I doubt if anyone would’ve given ten shillings for it.’

Mrs Lilybanks heard her heart pounding under her green cardigan. Sydney had turned a little pale, she thought. He looked guilty. He acted guilty. Yet her unwillingness to believe he was guilty was keeping her from labelling him guilty, definitely. Now he was watching her carefully. (p. 116)

Soon the police become involved, and the finger of suspicion falls squarely on Sydney. The Polk-Faradays and Mrs Lilybanks are questioned about the nature of the Bartlebys’ marriage and Alicia’s state of mind at the time of her disappearance. The deeper the police dig, the worse it begins to look for Sydney: reports of the couple’s quarrels emerge, the burial of the carpet – albeit empty – comes to light; and Sydney’s notebook is found, a book which contains all manner of macabre fantasies on how to do away with one’s wife.

That’s probably all I ought to say about the plot; to reveal any more would spoil it, I think…

What I like about this novel and this author’s work in general is the exploration of the characters’ psychology and motives. In her 1954 novel, The Blunderer, Highsmith considers the possibility that any of us might resort to murder if pushed far enough. There is perhaps an element of that here too, although Sydney is not quite the ‘everyman’ we see in The Blunderer. There is something unhinged about Sydney and his overactive imagination, a blurring of the margins between the fantasies of his crime fiction and the mundane realities of everyday life.

While I couldn’t quite rationalise some of Sydney’s behaviour – there are several opportunities when Sydney could put a stop to the game that he and Alicia are playing, and yet he refuses to do so – I ended up going with it, largely under the assumption of there being some troubling mental health issues at play. Alicia ends up getting out of her depth, too. There comes a point when she can no longer face the shame of admitting she has been living in sin for several weeks, knowing that it would ruin her reputation and cost Edward his job.

In summary, this is a very intriguing novel, one that explores the dangers of allowing one’s fantasies to play out in real life. Definitely recommended for fans of this writer’s work.

A Suspension of Mercy is published by Virago; personal copy. Should you wish to buy a copy of this book, you can do so via this link to Bookshop.org (see the disclosure on the home page of my website).