It’s always a pleasure to come across a well-written novel. But good writing doesn’t necessarily mean the reader will like the novel, and in We Are the Hanged Man I find a work of literature that not only leaves me, personally, cold, but repels me. Your liters per kilometer may vary.

Robert Jericho is a police detective in the small city of Wells, in England. At one time he was very famous as a London detective, but he didn’t enjoy that, and voluntarily retired to a quieter town to serve out his time until retirement. He suffers from profound, chronic depression, dating back to the unsolved disappearance of his wife, years ago. He is puzzled when he starts getting envelopes delivered to him, each one containing a Tarot card — “The Hanged Man.”

Meanwhile, his supervisor (who loathes him) has come up with a delicious plan to force him to resign. A TV reality show, “Britain’s Got Justice” is looking for a bona fide detective to serve as a judge, and she manages to get Jericho that post. So he is plunged into the passionately shallow world of television production, a world author Lindsay takes great pleasure in verbally drawing and quartering. Jericho’s congenital misanthropy is well justified in this environment, but that doesn’t make his discomfort less.

Then one of the contestants disappears. The program suddenly becomes deadly serious (though the production team doesn’t notice), and Jericho finds himself drawn into a personal struggle with a monster from his own past. Continue reading We Are the Hanged Man, by Douglas Lindsay →

St. Louis Cathedral is in a class by itself. Take away the ornate altar, and it could be a Protestant church built during the baroque. Despite all its popish flummery, plaster statues, and overreaching painted motifs, it is austere, chaste, a masterpiece of design and grace. If I were God, I’d stay there a lot.

Occasionally, when trolling among the books offered free for a day for Kindle, I run across a gem. So Small a Carnival, by John William Corrington, is one of those. Aside from being a mystery, it’s a New Orleans novel, almost a genre in itself. Author Corrington can take his place alongside Walker Percy, if not on equal terms, at least without embarrassment. This is a fascinating story with a tremendous sense of place. And possibly—I’m not sure—a subtextual Christian message. Or something.

Wes Colvin is a reporter for a New Orleans newspaper. He receives a mysterious phone call from a stranger who wants to meet him in a local restaurant and tell him a story. Instead, when Wes arrives with his friend Jésus (which Wes insists on pronouncing “Jesus”), he finds the place shot to pieces just a moment before, all customers and employees dead.

Including someone who meant a lot to Wes.

Composing a story about the massacre, Wes comes into contact with the powerful Lemoyne family and the beautiful Denise Lemoyne, granddaughter of one of the victims, with whom he falls suddenly and sharply in love. Poking into the swamp waters of Louisiana politics with the help of his cop friend, “Rat” Trapp, he begins to discover some very old and dangerous secrets.

I liked many things about So Small a Carnival. One is that it was a smart book. There are certain dumb things that mystery heroes tend to do, like walking into dangerous situations alone, that Wes is smart enough to avoid. Corrington manages to keep the tension up without resorting to such cheap tropes. The heart of the book is the question of whether history is “real” or not. I tend to disagree with what the characters conclude (and I found the final resolution difficult to wrap my mind around), but it may possibly be grace and forgiveness that are really in view here.

Highly recommended. Cautions for language, violence, and adult themes.

Here’s a first class historical mystery. Mark Dawson’s The Black Mile takes place against the dramatic backdrop of the London blitz in 1940. Things are chaotic enough in the city, and plenty of people are dying, without the Blackout Ripper running around murdering prostitutes.

Charlie Murphy is the youngest son of a highly honored, almost legendary, London police detective, now a highly ranking officer. We first meet him in a squad of bobbies trying to put down an anti-Italian riot. Completely out of his element and disoriented, he ends up running away. Back at the station, he observes the abuse of some Italian prisoners by other policemen, and reports them, leading to the dismissal of two of them. This earns the anger of his older brother Frank, their superior.

Frank is a hard man, but no villain. A World War I veteran with facial scars from mustard gas, he orders his teenage daughter to stop seeing her Italian boyfriend, and she responds by running away. For the rest of the story he searches the streets for her, remorseful and terrified that she might be the next victim.

There’s also a newspaper man, only moderately honest, who sees the Ripper story as his ticket back to the front page. He knows things the police don’t, but he’s not sharing.

The most fascinating thing about this story (which is not to say the drama is weak—this is a book fit to be made into a thriller movie) is the depth of the character depiction. These are the kind of people we all know—essentially decent but flawed in various ways, caring for each other but wounded in their pride.

The prose slips occasionally, in terms of word choice. I noticed two instances where author Dawson repeated the same descriptive metaphor twice.

But those are minor problems. All in all a gripping, fully rounded, well-told story, which I recommend.

Cautions for language, violence, and sexual situations.