The shadow of Inspector Morse overhangs the landscape of British detective fiction. Morse may have been the most successful English mystery protagonist since Sherlock Holmes. I have a suspicion that the thirst for a new Morse may be behind H. L. Marsay’s creation of Inspector John Shadow of York, whose first adventure is A Long Shadow. Shadow does crossword puzzles (though he doesn’t seem to ever finish them). He listens only to old music (though it’s 20th Century standards, not opera). He grumps at his younger partner. He’s not Morse’s clone, but he seems related.
One cold night a young homeless woman dies on a street in York. The very same day a skeleton is uncovered by an excavation crew – a murder victim from more than 30 years ago. And soon more homeless turn up dead – all poisoned by cyanide in vodka. Inspector Shadow has an intuition that the present-day murders have some connection to the old one. But who has a motive? The business owners who want the homeless people cleared out? Drug dealers? Some psychopath?
I have to tell you I figured out who the murderer was fairly early on – and I’m not all that good at solving these things. The author needs to work on her (she’s a she) red herring skills. But I liked Inspector Shadow himself, and enjoyed the reading experience. York is an interesting historical city, so I appreciated the setting too. I went ahead and bought the sequel, A Viking’s Shadow, for reasons too obvious to explain.
A Long Shadow doesn’t get my highest recommendation, but it wasn’t bad. I don’t recall the language being too foul.
Jack Lynch’s series of mysteries about San Francisco private eye Pete Bragg continues with Speak for the Dead. I’m not sure what the title means in terms of the plot, but the book was enjoyable.
Pete Bragg gets a call from an old friend from his newspaper reporting days. There’s a bad situation at San Quentin prison. A prisoner named Beau Bancetti, a biker gang leader, has attempted to escape with some buddies. The attempt failed. Now he and his friends are barricaded in an activities center, with two guards and two women as hostages. He demands that somebody go up to his home town and help his brother Buddy, who’s been charged with murder. Buddy isn’t like him, he explains. He’s painfully shy and gentle. He couldn’t kill anyone.
Ordinarily the prison administrators wouldn’t worry about hostages being killed. It’s one of the rules – civilians who go inside know the risk. But in this case, one of the hostages happens to be a popular female movie star incognito; they don’t want the bad press. So they need a private eye to go to Beau’s home town and investigate the murder. Would Pete do it?
Of course he will. And from the time he shows up in town he knows something screwy is going on. Nobody believes Buddy Bancetti could murder anyone. But a lot of them are hiding something too. Pete will be attacked by thugs, and shot at by a sniper. Then he’ll uncover a nasty conspiracy.
The story moved along well and kept my interest. My constant complaint in reading this series has been that Pete rarely actually solves a case – he’s usually a step behind and only puts it all together just in time to avoid getting killed. This time he actually solves one – and it’s pretty complicated.
Author Lynch seems (he’s gone now) to have had a thing about marijuana – this story includes an argument for legalization, which annoys me. But I guess that ship has sailed.
Another concern was a scene where he allows himself (purely for information-gathering purposes) to get into a semi-sexual situation with an underage girl. I think that’s the kind of scene you could get away with back in the 80s – you couldn’t do it today.
But generally it’s an okay book. I don’t give it highest marks, but it passed the time and did not bore me.
But he was wrong, you know. Eddie-My-boyfriend got it wrong altogether, evil little troll that he was. That wasn’t what the look on my face was expressing, not at all. I wasn’t feeling shock and horror at the hypocrisy and phoniness and decadence of modern life. In fact, in that moment, it didn’t seem hypocritical or phony or decadent to me at all…. The one solid reality I could cling to… was, again, our Christmases, our past together, my love.
It was a strenuous weekend, by my declining standards. We got a heavy snow Friday night – I’m not sure exactly how much, but I think I read it was about 7 inches. Heavy stuff, too. And my kindly neighbors, who always move the snow for me (we share the driveway) suffered a failure of their snowblower. So they hired some neighbor kids, whose snowblower broke down too. Thus, there I was, with the neighbor lady, shoveling in front of my garage for about a half hour. Somewhat to my own surprise, I didn’t collapse of a heart attack.
Then I had to go and buy a new inkjet printer. Because for the life of me I couldn’t make the old one work with the new wifi. Also the tray has been broken for some time. That meant a trip to my favorite computer store and a long wait in line. And then the inevitable siege, trying to make it talk to the wireless network. I succeeded at last (this always feels like sorcery, employing incantations I don’t understand at all). Which made it possible, at last, to print my Christmas newsletters.
Moving on to books, you may recall how intensely I disliked Trevanian’s The Loo Sanction, which I reviewed on Friday. Fortunately, I had the perfect antidote at hand. Andrew Klavan’s new book When Christmas Comes, which I adore and was planning to re-read anyway.
When Christmas Comes could almost have been written as a counter to The Loo Sanction (I’m not saying it was. I’m just saying they both deal with the same questions in drastically different ways.)
Both the heroes, Trevanian’s Jonathan Hemlock and Klavan’s Cameron Winter, are American academics who formerly worked in covert espionage operations. Dangerous men, skilled at killing.
And both of them walk into situations where hypocrisy is (or is apparently) rife. Hemlock into the world of cutthroat international politics. Winter into a seemingly idyllic American town where a clean-cut, decorated veteran is on trial for murdering his sweet wife. With the Christmas season as a backdrop, offering lots of opportunities for comment on commercialization and the emptiness of tradition.
But unlike Hemlock, who smashes fetishes and is himself smashed in return, Winter never closes his heart. Much of the book is taken up with his narrative – to a psychologist – of the story of his love for a girl named Charlotte, whom he spent time with every Christmas as he was growing up. And how the magic of those early Christmases was undermined and overwhelmed by old secrets of horrific ugliness.
And yet Winter has the wisdom to discern the truth, even in the midst of lies and hypocrisy. “The great good thing,” as Klavan describes it in his autobiography. As long as he still believes in the great good thing, he remains open to salvation.
A repeated theme in When Christmas Comes is “psychomachia,” the literary device where the characters in a story represent aspects of the storyteller’s own soul.
If that’s so, then in giving life to others, as Winter does at the end of the story, he may also be given life himself.
I don’t know whether it would be better for Andrew Klavan to write a sequel, or just leave us with that hope.
“God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” has no known author or melody smith. It’s listed as a traditional 18th century carol and appears in many hymnals with many variations in lyric. The recording above uses five verses that seem mostly familiar and a little unfamiliar. I don’t think I’ve ever sung the fourth verse offered here or this verse I see in Hymns for a Pilgrim People:
“Fear not, then,” said the angel, “Let nothing you affright; This day is born a Savior Of a pure virgin bright, To free all those who trust in Him From Satan’s pow’r and might.”
A line of severe storms with a chance of tornadoes is pressing in on my area of the world. It’s not raining here now, but it likely will by the time I publish this post. The storms have already prevented a roofing project I had planned to participate in this morning, which isn’t good (because that roof isn’t going to patch itself) but may be good for me, because I felt more worn out than usual after a church Christmas dinner last night. I mostly washed dishes, but lifting trays of 25 glasses into a dishwasher is moderate-level lifting and I’m just a puny office worker.
Anyway, nobody cares about that.
In this week’s World Opinion, Hunter Baker urges us to pray for the overturning of Roe and a better understanding of human life.
World Radio has released all four episodes in a long story on the abuse and recovery of the key witness against a wicked Mississippi church leader who abused many children over many years. It’s a story that reveals important truths many of us can use in our own communities. I’ll link to the first episode. You can find the rest by searching the website or your podcast app.
The estate of George Orwell has been looking for someone to write a sequel to 1984, telling the story from Julia’s point of view. Now author Sandra Newman will put it together. The Guardian states, “It is the latest in a series of feminist retellings of classic stories, from Natalie Haynes’s reimagining of the Trojan war A Thousand Ships, and Pat Barker’s The Silence of the Girls, a version of the Iliad from the perspective of Briseis, to Maggie O’Farrell’s Hamnet, which centres on the life of Shakespeare’s wife, and Jeet Thayil’s Names of the Women, which tells the stories of 15 women whose lives overlapped with Jesus.”
Arsenio Orteza writes, “Those seeking proof that everything old is new again need look no further” than a couple new releases from Warner Classics boasting a 3D orchestra and spatial audio. I’ve also heard this year’s shopping trends have Hot Wheels, Barbies, and board games at the top of the list.
Sarah Sanderson read Tolkien’s “Leaf by Niggle“ recently. “I too find myself living in an age of anxiety. Tolkien worried that the Nazis would drop a bomb on him before his work was done. I ‘doomscroll’ my national, state, and local COVID numbers daily.”
Mary Spencer attempts to find romance in romanticized Midwestern winters. “He looked at her and she blushed. At least, he thought she blushed. It could have been windburn.” [This post is on McSweeney’s, so let me add that I’ve come across hilarious posts on McSweeney’s before and have not linked to them here because at some point they got nasty. This post only veers toward that territory, so I’m sharing it, but you may see what I’m talking about in headlines to other posts.]
Photo: Fairyland Cottages, Detroit Lakes, Minnesota. 1980. John Margolies Roadside America photograph archive (1972-2008), Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division.
Jonathan Hemlock, who appeared in Trevanian’s earlier novel, The Eiger Sanction (which was filmed by Clint Eastwood), is a retired American art professor and world-famous critic. But he had a secret life as a “counter-assassin” for an espionage agency referred to, not so subtly, as the “CII.” He hated both his employers and his targets, but the job made it possible for him to indulge his passion for collecting Impressionist masters. As The Loo Sanction begins (1973) he’s retired and spending a year in London on a cultural visit for the embassy.
Then he’s kidnapped by a British Intelligence agency known as “the Loo,” roughly equivalent to the one he used to work for. He doesn’t want to work for them, but is extorted into doing so by threats against people he likes.
His job, he’s told, is to steal a package of films, films made secretly at an ultra-secret London sex club. The owner of these films will be in a position to blackmail the entire British government into doing what he wants (Jonathan can almost see the head of the Loo – the most hypocritical Church of England vicar imaginable – salivating at the prospect of controlling them).
Jonathan will come up against a formidable enemy, a grandiose crime lord who is both an aesthete and a sadist. Along with a supporting cast of equally appalling psychopaths. He will barely survive.
A lot of people won’t survive. Generally, the better you like a character in this book, the more likely they are to die horribly.
Trevanian can be amusing in his acerbic comments, at least when I agree with him. But the story of The Loo Sanction is a story of unremitting cynicism, where every ideal is laughable and all institutions are not only corrupt but satanically vile. The plot gets crueler and crueler as it goes along, and finally ends in Hell.
I have rarely disliked a book as much as I disliked The Loo Sanction. I’m not even going to link to it on Amazon. Someone depressed or suicidal could possibly happen on it, and I don’t want to risk the consequences.
I’m having a blast binge-watching the old BBC Lord Peter Wimsey series, with Ian Carmichael. It occurs to me that these adaptations are now far older than the original books were when I first watched these things. Life is cruel that way.
The philanthropist who posted the videos on YouTube (you can buy the DVDs here, but the price they want is extortionate) posted them in the wrong order, so I had to rearrange them for my own perusal. I watched “Clouds of Witness” first, as God intended, and then “The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club.”
I’m happy to report that they hold up extremely well. The scene design and costuming are unmistakably 1970s (hairstyles are always a giveaway), but within those parameters they’re very well done. Nowadays a lot of that stuff can be faked with CGI, but the BBC did well with real props and settings as they existed at the time.
The best part of the productions, of course, is Ian Carmichael’s portrayal of Lord Peter. He was, as he himself admitted, a little too old for the role. This creates awkward moments, especially in energetic scenes, or when his double chin makes itself too apparent.
And yet he does the role so brilliantly. He’d already played Bertie Wooster, who’s essentially the same character without the brains. The mannerisms are the same. But there’s a gravity underneath it all, and his human sympathy resonates with the viewer.
But my favorite character, I truly believe, is Mervyn Bunter, Lord Peter’s valet (think Jeeves) as portrayed by the Welsh actor Glyn Houston (another actor plays him, sadly, in “The Unpleasantness,” but fortunately that error was corrected in later series).
Houston is splendid in a layered performance. On the surface, his Bunter is the perfect gentleman’s gentleman, discreet, dignified, and proper in speech. But his extremely expressive eyes and delivery manage to convey all this pair’s unspoken history – how he saved his master’s life in the war, and has since nursemaided him through numerous bouts of shell shock and depression. Lord Peter will forever be in his debt, but it’s a matter they never speak about. Words would make it maudlin.
Or Magdalen (though Wimsey was a Balliol man, as I recall).
Today’s theme has been transition. Not a major transition in life, though that’s pretty much an everyday occurrence at my age, but a change of internet service, which in perspective shouldn’t loom as large as it seems to.
My old internet provider (which shall remain nameless) is cravenly withdrawing service from my area in a few weeks. So I went over to a cooler, more fashionable ISP, which shall also remain nameless, because if they want a plug they can pay for an ad.
They sent me a box with a modem, and told me about an app I could install on my cell phone, which would – they assured me – walk me through the installation process in about 20 minutes.
I knew it was a lie, of course. Surely they knew it was a lie too.
I floundered with the process for a while before figuring out they were telling me how to hook it all up through a coaxial cable. But I had no coaxial cable. I’ve never had cable in this house.
They don’t make it easy to contact an actual human being through their customer service page, but eventually I bulled my way through. That person, who communicated through online chat and seemed to be equipped with a pre-assembled list of positive affirmations (“I’m on this!” “I won’t fail you!”) soon deduced that I needed a technician to come out and drill a hole in my house. Amazingly, one was available today.
Long (and dull) story short, I now have cable internet. I had hopes of much faster speeds, but so far it seems about comparable to my old DSL service. I could get something better if I were willing to pay for it, of course, but that’s crazy talk.
In other news, I discovered yesterday, to my rapturous delight, that you can watch the old Ian Carmichael Lord Peter Wimsey productions from the BBC on YouTube. The first episode of “Clouds of Witness” is embedded below, for your convenience and cultural enrichment.
“An official personage like you might embarrass them, don’t you know, but there’s no dignity about me. I’m probably the least awe-inspiring man in Kirkcudbright. I was born looking foolish and every day in every way I am getting foolisher and foolisher.”
The seventh novel in Dorothy Sayers’ Lord Peter Wimsey series is The Five Red Herrings, a book that, I fear, has not aged well. The Amazon reviews suggest that most other contemporary readers agree.
Back in the 1930s or so, readers loved their puzzles, and spent time on them. Crossword puzzles were a relatively new innovation, and they took the country by storm. A corollary was the railway timetable mystery, in which the culprit’s alibi is based on a clever manipulation of train times, and the detective must figure out the trick. I assume readers worked at these books the same way they did with their crosswords, attacking them with pencils and pads of paper. Railroad timetables were familiar and interesting to them, because that was how urban people traveled back then.
The town of Kirkcudbright, in the Scottish county of Galloway, is home to a renowned, picturesque artistic colony. These people are generally friendly and amiably competitive, but they all share a loathing of Campbell, a black-bearded semi-talent with a massive, defensive ego, a drinking problem, and a reflexive tendency to resort to his fists.
So no one is much grieved when Campbell’s corpse is found one morning in a river at the foot of a steep bank, below an unfinished painting on an easel surrounded with artist’s supplies. But Lord Peter, examining the site, notices something the police have missed. One object that ought to be there is not there – and it can’t be found. So it’s not an accident but murder, and the investigation begins. Suspects are not lacking. The problem is that they all have alibis that seem solid. Several of them involve travel on trains.
For a reader not willing to work the puzzle by means of transcribing timetables and comparing them closely, reading The Five Red Herrings involves a lot of taking things as given that you don’t quite follow. This makes for some fairly opaque reading for long stretches. But Lord Peter is as amusing as usual, and he does get some good lines off. And there’s some very clever work in the final solution to the mystery.
Most readers today find The Five Red Herrings the least interesting of the Wimsey series. But if you’re reading the books and enjoying them, you should probably not skip it.
Yes, you’re in the right place. This is where you get my occasional book reviews, but more often you get excuses for why it’s been several days since the last review. Not that you’d expect me to read a book every day. I know you pretty well by now, Gentle Reader, and you’re not unreasonable. As a matter of fact, I think you’re pretty gosh-darn patient.
It was a weekend full of translation work for me. Which is good. I approve, and am grateful. Only Christmas’ wingéd chariot keeps drawing near, and I haven’t started my cards yet. No, that’s not quite true. I gave the address labels a start yesterday. And then got confused and lost all my work. I shall resume, Sisyphus-like, tonight. If I can work up the energy. (My cold is better, but I’m still a little tired.)
The book I’m reading at the moment is Dorothy Sayers’ classic Five Red Herrings, which is considered a masterpiece of the railroad timetable school (which was very popular at the time). But I feel I’m not doing it justice, because I’m not making spreadsheets of all the data. Thus, my progress is slow.
But I share the little video above, which is the original titles for the BBC production of Clouds of Witness, back in the 1970s. Broadcast in the US on Masterpiece Theater. I always liked that music.
By the way, have I mentioned I did translation work on a production that was broadcast on Masterpiece Theater last spring? I’ll tell you about it if you insist…
