“Honest” John is a former London bobby who now operates as a private investigator, keeping a sort of an office in the back booth of a pub. He’s jealous of the famous Sherlock Holmes, but doesn’t work very hard to compete with him. Hunting up business would eat into his valuable drinking and woman-chasing time. He’s big and strong and smart, but essentially a slob.
The book Honest John Churchfield is a collection of seven short stories about his cases. The tone is generally light.
Reading the first story, I thought the author had done some research (though not enough) into life in Victorian London. As I read the further stories I realized that, just as the hero doesn’t work very hard at his trade, the author didn’t work very hard at historical recreation. He knows enough to call cookies “biscuits,” but uses “vacation” where the English would say “holiday,” and has characters call men “guys,” which is an idiom that existed in England but wasn’t as common as it is in American speech. And (21st Century) American speech is what most of the dialogue sounds like. He also doesn’t know how to spell “Hampshire” or “Devon.”
There are many narrative peculiarities. A character in East Indian dress wears “a turban big enough to crack a walnut.” (What does that even mean?) “A disturbingly somber pall descended upon the Rasby household.” (As opposed to a cheerful pall, I guess.)
The puzzles themselves weren’t bad, I thought – except for one that involved mass mesmerism – something the Victorians probably believed in but most modern readers know better than to swallow.
All in all, Honest John Churchfield is not much recommended.
Here we have a book that impressed me up till the very end. Keith Nixon’s Dig Two Graves is the first in a series starring Detective Sergeant Solomon Gray in the Thanet area of Kent. I thought I detected echoes of Scandinavian Noir in it.
Sol Gray reminded me a little of Jo Nesbø’s Harry Hole – a dysfunctional cop barely holding onto his job. Only Sol doesn’t have the big successes that keep Harry Hole’s career afloat. Sol lost his six-year-old son ten years ago – literally. He took the boy to a carnival and he vanished forever. No trace of him was ever found. Five years after that, his wife committed suicide. He struggles with alcoholism and his colleagues cover for him a lot. But, to be honest, there’s not a lot of crime to solve in their part of England.
Then one day a young man falls to his death from an apartment balcony. It looks like suicide at first, but there are indications he was pushed. It hits Sol hard when someone tells him the boy had looked a lot like him, and he is the right age….
Then an important member of the community is shot to death, and the Thanet police are plunged into their first serial killer case. As clues develop, they all seem to have one common link – Sol himself. He’ll find himself arrested for murder before the whole mystery gets unraveled.
I liked Dig Two Graves quite a lot. The prose was tight and smart, not very quotable but efficient. The characters were vivid, and I cared about them. What disappointed me was the final solution. It seemed to me melodramatic and implausible – but maybe that’s because it intruded on my personal belief set.
This is a God-haunted book – for pete’s sake, it has a character named Jonah Pennance (!). Sol reflects quite a lot, bitterly, on God’s non-existence. The Christian characters seemed sympathetic and decent, so I was looking for some kind of affirmation of faith. Which didn’t come. That’ll teach me to make assumptions.
Still, Dig Two Graves was a well-written mystery that kept me fascinated to the end.
“I’m angry. I’m furious.” I bent forward on my chair to look at the floorboards, hands in my coat pockets. I looked at the floorboards and through them to the solid earth below. “I’m furious with Doyle. But also at myself. At men. And women. At the 1960s and moral relativism and Atlanta.”
I’ve been liking Alan Lee’s Mack August books right along, but Broken Symphony is my favorite by far. But that’s probably because it echoes my beliefs so well, so your mileage may vary.
Mackenzie August, Roanoke, Virginia private eye and former extreme martial arts fighter, is lying on his office floor one day (to relieve sciatica) when a young woman comes in to ask for help – with plumbing. She’s one of a group of ex-prostitutes who live in a building owned by Mack’s lawyer wife, Ronnie. She says the drains aren’t working and the caretaker is useless. Not being busy just now, Mack goes with her.
But when Mack gets there, there’s no drain problem. Instead, there’s a gangster from Boston named Doyle, with a thug for backup. Doyle is looking for a girl called Lemonade, who has run away. He also seems to think the girls are now working for him. So Mack throws him down the stairs, along with the thug.
Not long after, Doyle shows up at Mack’s office. He says he doesn’t want to fight with him. He’s going to kill Mack’s gangster friend Marcus, he says, but that’s just business; he doesn’t want Mack involved. In fact, he’d like to hire Mack to find Lemonade for him. Mack refuses, they fight, and Doyle breaks Mack’s little finger.
Then Lemonade’s parents show up. They also want to hire him to find the girl. Mack accepts the job from them and starts hunting for her. What he finds is a baby, Lemonade’s baby, abandoned. Further investigation will lead him to a final confrontation with the ruthless, psychopathic Doyle.
And I’ve got to say, that final confrontation was just splendid. It wasn’t what I expected at all, and it was delightful.
But what I liked best was Mack’s personal meditations as the story proceeds. In the midst of all the sordid details of the lives of addicts and prostitutes and traffickers, he ponders the societal ills brought on by our abandonment of family and of traditional sexual roles (although his own household is scarcely a traditional one). I suppose people on the other side of the cultural divide may find Broken Symphony preachy – I reveled in it.
Highly recommended. Cautions for language and mature themes.
Sunshine pierced the haze that enveloped London. It came down Fleet Street, turned to the right, stopped at the premises of the Mammoth Publishing Company, and, entering through an upper window, beamed pleasantly upon Lord Tilbury, founder and proprietor of that vast factory of popular literature….
Considering what a pleasant rarity sunshine in London is, one might have expected the man behind the Mammoth to beam back. Instead, he merely pressed the buzzer. His secretary appeared. He pointed silently. The secretary drew the shade, and the sunshine, having called without an appointment, was excluded.
As you may recall, I’ve been following the adventures of P. G. Wodehouse’s character Monty Bodkin through the two novels in which he stars. I was then reminded that he actually shows up for the first time (as far as I’m aware) in the novel Heavy Weather, so I went back to that one. And it turns out HW is in fact a sequel to an earlier novel, Summer Lightning. So now I’ll have to read that one too (regretfully leaving Monty behind), caught like T.H. White’s Merlin in a reverse chronology.
This is one of Wodehouse’s more complex tales, so find a comfortable chair and pour yourself a cup of tea if you like.
Monty Bodkin, you’ll recall, tall, handsome, and rich, is in love with Gertrude Butterwick (who does not appear physically in this book; her character is still gestating). But she won’t agree to be married until she gets her father’s blessing. And her father has decreed that Monty won’t be given Gertrude’s hand unless he shows the enterprise to hold down a paying job for a full year.
He’s wangled a position at Lord Tilbury’s Mammoth Publishing, as assistant editor of Tiny Tots Magazine. In that capacity he commits the kind of blunder only a member of the Drones Club could make, and gets cashiered. However, he learns from a friend that Clarence (Threepwood), Lord Emsworth of Blandings Castle in Shropshire, needs a secretary. Monty is an old family friend, so he calls Lord Emsworth’s imperious sister Constance, who is happy to hire him on her brother’s behalf.
Meanwhile, the other main plot picks up from the previous novel – Ronnie Fish, Lord Emsworth’s nephew, wants to marry Sue Brown, a charming chorus girl. Lady Constance firmly opposed the match, but agreed to it in return for a concession from her other brother, Galahad Threepwood. Gally, who was a notorious rake and London clubman in the 1890s, has written his memoirs, which contain enough old skeletons belonging to eminent English families to wreck numerous political careers and destroy the Threepwood family socially. Gally has agreed to withdraw publication of the memoirs (which were contracted to Lord Tilbury’s Mammoth Publishing) in return for Constance agreeing to the match and allowing her wooly-headed brother Clarence to release Ronnie’s trust fund.
Clarence, however, is barely aware of all this drama. His concern is with his suspicions that their neighbor, a fellow-pig fancier, is planning to poison the Empress of Blandings, his own beloved prize sow. When Lord Tilbury, who is not a man to let a certain bestseller slip through his fingers, arrives at Blandings Castle to pressure Uncle Galahad, and Lord Emsworth mistakes him for a pig poisoner, complications ensue. Which are not decreased by the arrival of Ronnie Fish’s mother Julia, who doesn’t care a fig about Gally’s scandals, but definitely does not want her son marrying some chorus girl. And, oh yes, Lord Emsworth thinks Monty Bodkin is a pig poisoner too.
What Heavy Weather offers that sets it apart from most of Wodehouse’s peak work is a small strain of pathos. Pathos doesn’t happen much in this fictional world; the reader doesn’t want it. Tragedy might be mentioned in passing, but it’s not dwelt on. However, here for once we do have a tragic subplot. There’s a reason Uncle Galahad is so strongly in favor of Ronnie’s and Sue’s wedding. Once, in his youth, he was in love with Sue Brown’s mother, but the family quelched their hopes and packed Gally off to South Africa. In Heavy Weather we get a rare glimpse into the regrets of an old man’s heart. I don’t think it’s overdone – I identified strongly and was moved. But I don’t recall a similar theme in any of Wodehouse’s other mature stories.
As an extra treat, I embed below a dramatic production of Heavy Weather done for the BBC in 1995. It features no less than the great Peter O’Toole as Lord Emsworth. I wasn’t entirely happy with it – I thought O’Toole (doing what seems like an imitation of Dame Edith Evans) insufficiently sympathetic here. And Richard Johnson, who was a fine actor, overdid the mugging, I thought, in the role of Lord Tilbury. In my opinion it’s almost always wrong to mug with Wodehouse – his humor depends on more subtle effects. (Though, come to think of it, Hugh Laurie mugged quite a lot as Bertie Wooster and I didn’t mind that.)
By the old, abandoned docks on the Mersey River in Liverpool, where first water and now sand has been receding for years, a skeleton is uncovered as A Mersey Killing by Brian L. Porter begins. There’s little to identify it other than a pair of expensive boots and a broken guitar pick, but the surrounding detritus indicates it comes from the mid-1960s.
Detective Sergeant Andy Ross and his female colleague “Izzy” Drake are assigned the case. It’s clearly a murder, as the skeleton shows gunshot wounds to the knees and a crushing blow to the head. But unless they can connect the skeleton to a name soon it will have to be dropped, because they need the resources for more pressing cases.
However, two middle-aged brothers come forward, asking whether the body might be that of their sister, missing since the ‘60s. They don’t know the skeleton has been identified as male. As Inspector Ross listens to their story (more patiently than I imagine would happen in real life in a busy police station), he realizes that another character in the story may just be their dead man. The story is told in two threads, one in the early 1960s, the other “today” (1999). The Sixties thread follows the story of Brendan Kane and the Comets, a rock ‘n roll group riding the wave of the Mersey Sound fad, hoping to achieve stardom like the Beatles. Although they achieve some local success, they never break out. But Brandon and Marie, the sister, a sort of unpaid roadie, fall in love. This is opposed by Marie’s father, a fanatical Irish Catholic who doesn’t want his daughter marrying any bloody Prod. Piece by piece (and with a lot of lucky breaks), the detectives put the true story together, leading to a poignant (if melodramatic and implausible) climax.
A Mersey Killing is another example of an amateurish work that shows some promise in terms of essential storytelling. I was interested to see how it all came out, so I stayed with it in spite of some pretty awful prose.
My main criticism of the writing is something I’ve been seeing a lot of in these days of self-publishing. The text needs cutting, badly. The author doesn’t know how to sharpen his prose, instead just piling words on, hoping one of them will stick. For instance:
Both the inspector and Sergeant Izzie Drake had found themselves being drawn inescapably into the past as they’d sat listening to Ronnie’s story. The man could certainly weave a good tale and had the knack of being able to communicate his thoughts in a way that gave the detectives a fascinating insight not only into the subject they were discussing but into another era, a period in recent history that only those who’d lived through it could perhaps fully appreciate. They were fascinated.
Everything in that passage could be deleted except for the first sentence, and we’d have all the author needs to convey without boring the reader.
Another problem I had with the book was the handling of religious issues. One of the characters is a religious bigot, and certainly not someone I admire. But the author (it seemed to me) wrote from the point of view – common in Europe – that religious faith itself is a kind of aberration that we’ve finally outgrown, thank Freud.
Yet another aspect of the story that troubled me – one you may not agree with me about – is what seemed to me a naïve admiration for the 1960s. The author sees it as a time of innocence and liberation, a wonderful time to live and love. I remember it as a time of drugs, escape from reason, and the first cracks of cultural disintegration.
Still, I finished the thing. You might like it better than I did.
It’s Friday, and I don’t have a book to review. What shall I do, what shall I do?
I note that yesterday was the anniversary of the Viking raid on Lindisfarne, off the coast of Northumbria, in 793. It would have been more appropriate to mention it yesterday, I suppose. The day before would have been even better, so you’d have time to plan your Lindisfarne celebrations. On the other hand, the Gregorian calendar reform of 1582 threw all our calculations off by 10 days anyway, so when we cite ancient dates we’re always approximating.
There’s some controversy among Viking scholars about the Lindisfarne raid. We have a strong movement going to downgrade the importance of the 793 date as the “official” beginning of the Viking Age. The Portland raid in 789 is often advanced as the true beginning — though there are disagreements whether that one should be considered a proper raid at all. Could have been just a harbor-side brawl with an officious customs officer. Some historians have begun pointing to the discovery of a ship burial containing dozens of men’s bodies on an island in Estonia and dated sometime between 700 and 750.
Personally, I’m inclined to continue accepting Lindisfarne and 793. When we consider the Viking Age as a historical period, we’re talking primarily about its impact on Western Europe. 793 was a 9/11 moment in that region, the moment when a previously disregarded threat suddenly became real and serious. The Portland raid didn’t have that effect, but Lindisfarne hit like a bomb. It was the equivalent of a raid on Oxford or Harvard today. It sent a message.
Above, a very nice video, a few years old, describing an exhibition of the famous Lindisfarne Gospels (a treasure the Vikings never got their hands on) in England.
The sixth volume in Tony Dunbar’s Tubby Dubonnet series is Lucky Man. As usual with this series, I felt a bit disoriented as I read, like a newcomer to a social group trying to keep up with people discussing personalities and events I’m not familiar with.
Anyway, in the last book, Tubby, a New Orleans lawyer, served as campaign chairman for Judge Hughes. Now Judge Hughes comes to him with a problem. He’s been subpoenaed by the new district attorney, a fanatical reformer. The DA is threatening to indict Hughes for a sexual indiscretion at work unless he fingers other judges for corruption. The trouble is, Hughes says, he doesn’t know about any serious corruption (a little hard to believe in New Orleans, this reader thought) and he doesn’t want to perjure himself (or for his wife to find out).
Meanwhile, Tubby is dealing with the presence in his house of his friend Raisin, temporarily between addresses. Raisin turns out to be a difficult roommate, and he’s going through relationship drama. Tubby himself is contemplating moving to the country, under the influence of a girlfriend who hates the city.
The story involves a homeless man living under a house, an escort service, and a man who dies from swallowing poker chips. It features that favorite fictional trope of our age, the hypocritical born-again Christian. Lucky Man was colorful and entertaining, but left no major impression on me.
She twisted in her seat to reach her shopping bags, from which she produced a black Gucci purse. She twitched a check from it and laid it on my desk. The check was blank and hopeful, like the women’s eyes.
There’s a lot to like in Alan Lee’s Mackenzie August novels. Their relentless optimism is perhaps the best part – these are no noirs; when Mack or his buddy Manny Rodriguez, US marshal, start feeling down, they do something about it – and they’re more likely to work out than get drunk. There’s a lot of Robert B. Parker’s Spenser here, without the creeping wokeness that spoiled that great series for me.
I like some of the books better than others, but I think Dirty Deals may be my favorite in the series to date.
Mack is visited in his office by a group of wealthy, middle-aged ladies from a Baptist Sunday School in Lynchburg (Kentucky? Tennessee? I was never sure). By some obscure reasoning, she believes she can score heavily against her hated rivals in the Presbyterian Sunday School by hiring Mack to find the fugitive convict Caleb James. Caleb was convicted of murdering a Lynchburg police officer and crippling another while under the influence of crystal meth. But he managed to escape from a high security prison and has dropped out of sight.
Mack takes the case, discovering a story that doesn’t make a lot of sense. Why was a cop killer only convicted of second degree murder? Why do the Lynchburg cops – even the retired one whom Caleb crippled – want the whole business forgotten? Why do the descriptions of the crime make so little logical sense? As is his wont, Mack will stray from the narrow confines of his job description, determined to figure out the real story and to see that true justice is done. Which will force a very difficult decision on him.
Dirty Deals was well plotted and moved right along. The mystery was engaging, and the solution involved a surprise I really didn’t see coming.
The best part, though, was a moment in a sub-plot when Mack’s wife Ronnie delivers an impassioned defense of marital fidelity that will have social conservatives standing up and cheering.
I read and reviewed Thomas Benigno’s first Nick Mannino novel, The Good Lawyer, some time back. I liked it quite a lot, but I missed the sequel, The Criminal Lawyer. I’m making that up now.
In the first book, Nick gave up the practice of criminal law to please his wife, who hated it. But after they separated he went back to it, though he’s not doing it any more. He and she are still friendly (he hasn’t given up hopes for reconciliation), and he adores his two adult children, John and Charlotte. So he’s horrified when John’s fiancée is kidnapped, and taunting messages are sent by the kidnapper from her cell phone. The most puzzling thing is that this serial killer has been abducting prostitutes, which this girl is definitely not.
Nick has connections with organized crime. He’s not involved with their business, but he took the money when his mobster uncle left him his fortune. This means Nick has considerable resources to draw on in his effort to find this serial killer and rescue John’s fiancée. What he doesn’t expect is that it will lead him eventually to a violent, personal encounter with the monster – an encounter that could end his life – or transform it.
I have to admit I didn’t like The Criminal Lawyer as much as The Good Lawyer, though I did like it. The story was compelling, the plotting good, the characters interesting. I thought the prose was a little flaccid; it could have been tightened considerably. The author is also prone to misplaced and dangling modifiers. And the big scene where Nick unloads his deepest secrets to another person for the first time in his life seemed improbable and awkward to me. The epilogue was probably too long, but it provided satisfying closure.
