I’ve skipped a few episodes in Colin Conway’s excellent The 509 series of police procedurals. That was because The Only Death That Matters became available free. But they’re stand-alones, so it was all right. I enjoyed this book just as much as its predecessors.
Ray Christy is a police volunteer. He’s 72 and an army vet. Every day he visits his wife, who’s in a care facility for memory loss. His only son became a cop and died in the line of duty; Ray volunteered to help the Spokane police in an effort to understand his son’s commitment. He doesn’t carry a badge or a gun; he does routine work to take pressure off the real cops. It fills his time and gives his days a purpose.
One day he’s called to pick up a “found” item, a woman’s wallet found in a parking lot. On a whim, he decides to take it back to the owner, at the address on the ID. But when he gets there, he learns the woman is dead, drowned in a bathtub. This is a group home for the elderly, and the owner treats him rudely. Surprisingly, that owner is a cop.
Ray is immediately suspicious. He starts doing research on the man and his business dealings. And then everything blows up…
The 509 series, set in eastern Washington state, is a top-rank mystery series, in this reader’s view. Emphasis is heavily on character. The people in the story are faceted and relatable; I wanted to see how things worked out for them. Detectives Quinn and Burkett are here again, welcome like old friends.
The Only Death That Matters is highly recommended.
The other day I reviewed Machinations of a Murderer, by Peter Zander-Howell, a straight-up serious English police procedural mystery set in the 1940s. I enjoyed it immensely, and straightaway bought the first book in the series, The Bedroom Window Murder.
We meet our hero, Inspector Philip Bryce, as he drives to a country house in Hampshire along with his new partner, Sergeant Haig. In the classic tradition of British fiction, these two Scotland Yard detectives have been dispatched from London to investigate a baffling murder out of town. The justification for this official trip (which I understand never happens in real life), is that the victim, Sir Francis Sherwood, was a friend of their boss.
Sir Francis was found dead at his bedroom window, shot in the head by a .22 bullet. The problem that baffles the police is that there seems to be no one in the world – nobody – who hated Sir Francis. He was famously good to his employees, and as a magistrate he was notoriously lenient in sentencing. Everyone who knew him appears genuinely distraught at his death. A rifle found abandoned on the lawn appears to be the murder weapon, but to whom did it belong?
Solving that problem will involve a process of elimination – excluding the impossible, though (as Bryce emphasizes) identifying the impossible is often harder than Sherlock Holmes stories suggest. It will also give Inspector Bryce the opportunity to meet an attractive, available woman – who is, alas, also a suspect. The final resolution presented a moral problem for this reader, but a twist at the end made even that ambiguous.
I didn’t enjoy The Bedroom Window Murder quite as much as the Machinations book, but that’s because this is a classic country house mystery, and lacks the originality of MoaM. But it’s very good of its kind. It plays no modernist games and is faithful to its time and place.
For me, one educational benefit of this book was learning about a landscaping feature called a “ha-ha,” of which I’d never heard before. It’s a wall behind a recess in the earth, intended to block entry to a flower garden without cutting off the view.
A little while back I reviewed Cost of Arrogance, by H. Mitchell Caldwell. I found that novel delightful. It was a legal thriller composed with the authority of actual courtroom experience. Highly educational, and well-written to boot.
Could author Caldwell keep that standard up for a second novel, Cost of Deceit? We shall see.
Our hero, Jake Clearwater, teaches courtroom law at a small California university. Before that he was a successful prosecuting attorney. In the last book he was enticed out of the classroom to work the other side of the street – to defend a client on death row.
Now he gets an invitation to do a prosecution again. Lieutenant Cort, a sheriff’s officer, has been tried once already for the murder of his wife. He is known to be angry and brutal, and confesses to striking his wife at least once. According to the wife’s sister, he explicitly threatened her life. Then she disappeared, and no one has heard from her since. The prosecutors can work out a timeline for how Cort could have killed her. No one questions his capacity to kill her. But no body has been found. It’s notoriously difficult to get a conviction in a murder case in the absence of a corpse, so there was a hung jury. The county has decided to hold another trial, and they want Jake to prosecute. It will be during summer break, so he has time, and he can’t resist the challenge. Also, he watched the trial closely, and he wants to see this guy put away.
Over the course of the trial, Jake will come to care very much about the victim’s family, especially her distraught sister, but even about the hapless stripper Cort wants to use as an alibi. Their lives may be in danger if a way can’t be found to get this very dangerous man out of circulation.
I wish I could say Cost of Deceit was as good as the first book. But alas, no.
The first book did an excellent job of incorporating legal information into a well-realized story. Cost of Deceit is less successful. From time to time I got the feeling I was in the middle of one of those industrial training films, where people ask rote questions in such a way that the instructor can give the right answers at the proper place in the lesson plan. The prose was awkward in places too, this time out.
On the plus side, I was anticipating a big, overblown cinematic finale, but the climax was pretty realistic. I appreciated that.
Informational, but written with less care than the last book. Cautions for the usual stuff.
Another film project on which I worked as a script translator is now available in the US. War Sailor, a Norwegian film released last year (the most expensive movie ever made in Norway, I’m informed), has been expanded into a three-part miniseries for Netflix. I binged it last night and wish to recommend it to you.
After an opening set in Singapore after World War II, we go back to 1939 and observe our two main characters, Alfred (“Freddie”) and Sigbjørn (“Wally”). Freddie is a hard-working family man in Bergen, and Wally is his bachelor friend. Jobs are hard to find, and Wally encourages Freddie to join him in signing on to a merchant ship. Freddie’s wife Cecilia is concerned about the danger, as the war is going on, but Wally reassures her that they’re only going to New York. As both Norway and the US are neutral there’s minimal danger, he reasons. Anyway, he promises to keep Freddie safe.
By the time they reach New York, Germany has invaded and Norway is at war. The Norwegian government has nationalized the country’s merchant shipping (one of their major industries) and put it all at the disposal of the allies for carrying war munitions and supplies. The sailors are suddenly de facto members of the Navy (albeit unarmed), without the privilege of resigning.
What follows is a season in Hell. German U-boats are taking a desperate toll on the Norwegian ships (fully half of them were sunk over the course of the war) and casualties are high. Freddie takes an underaged sailor under his wing as a sort of surrogate son, and gives up a chance to escape from the service in order to protect the young man. When their ship is torpedoed, Freddie and Wally find themselves sharing a raft with a dying man and a madman.
Meanwhile, Freddie’s family at home is struggling to make ends meet, is worried sick about him, and is facing dangers of their own from Allied bombers. It all culminates in one of those bureaucratic snafus that start in mixed signals and end in ravaged lives.
It’s tempting to call the story a tragedy, but in fact it’s better described as aggravated irony. In the world of this war, virtue is never rewarded, and no good deed goes unpunished.
Brilliantly filmed, directed, and acted, War Sailor is not light entertainment. Be prepared for strong language, horrific violence, and dark themes. Not for the kids, but well worth watching for adults.
“Unto my Lord Jehovah said” piano accompaniment of the Elbing tune
This arrangement of Psalm 110 first appeared in the Irish Psalter of 1898. It’s paired with the Elbing tune in the Trinity Hymnal, which I’ve shared above, but other hymnals arrange this text with at least two more tunes.
I offer it here today in that strange Palm Sunday attitude of singing praise to Christ the King, even as the Jerusalem crowds shouted Hosanna in ignorance. They didn’t know the irony of their words. They wanted Jesus of Nazareth to be a political king who would overthrown Rome, but he was the king of kings whose kingdom was not of this world.
1 Unto my Lord Jehovah said: At my right hand I throne thee, till, at thy feet in triumph laid, thy foes their ruler own thee. From Zion hill the Lord shall send thy scepter, till before thee bend the knees of proud rebellion.
2 Thy saints, to greet thy day of might, in holy raiment muster; as dewdrops in the morning light thy youths around thee cluster. The Lord hath sworn and made decree, thou, like Melchizedek, shalt be a kingly priest for ever.
3 The Lord at thy right hand shall bring on rulers desolation; the Lord shall smite each heathen king, and judge each rebel nation. He, swiftly marching in his wrath, shall quaff the brook upon his path, and lift his head in glory.
As an alternative, let me also share this 9th century French hymn, “Gloria, laus et honor,” performed by Harpa Dei.
Disclaimer: You did not mistake the date on your calendar. This is a rare Saturday post by Lars Walker. Due to a certain weirdness in my life right now, I’m posting book reviews every day (two yesterday). What you’re reading now is a personal post, so I’m squeezing it in on the weekend.
March did not go out like a lamb in Minnesota last night. It went out like Mike Tyson, or Chronos the Titan, or a Frost Giant, or any kind of large, brutal mythological creature you might want to imagine. Yesterday the spring melt was well underway. Today it’s underway too, but with a difference. Nearly ten inches of snow fell overnight, even though the temperatures only slipped below freezing for a few hours. We woke to piles – sometimes towers – of thick, heavy white precipitate, already congealing into a dense, waterlogged mass. My neighbor with the snow blower cleared the driveway. But I had to clear the steps, front and back. And that meant hacking through knee-high piles of white stuff that looked like Styrofoam but weighed like sandbags.
But I cleared it out, and didn’t have a heart attack. I went to a restaurant for lunch (went to the farther Applebee’s rather than the closer Applebee’s, because they just closed the closer Applebee’s forever. More fruits of scientific, infallible Progressive governance). It was a strange environment in the parking lot. The sky is clear and the sun shines with full force, producing that wonderful effect (it’s called “apricity”) in which one feels warmer than the actual temperature, due to the intensity of the light. Yet all around us were mountains of snow. Kind of an alien, fantasy world for a day, where the physical laws are different.
Anyway, that’s not what I came to post about. Just thought I’d mention it.
Thursday night I attended a lecture in St. Paul. I don’t generally go out at night anymore; I have gained that wisdom of age that tells me very little good is likely to happen to me after dark in the urban area. But a friend invited me and urged me to come, so I acquiesced. In the end I was glad I did.
The lecture was held at the Cities Church on Summit Avenue, which is the Beacon Hill of St. Paul. It’s where James J. Hill and F. Scott Fitzgerald lived. Where the governor has his mansion. (The roads, by the way, are full of potholes. Even plutocrats can’t get basic services in that city.) The lecture was part of a series sponsored by Bethlehem College and Seminary, a small Baptist school.
The lecturer was one of their professors, Professor Matt Crutchmer, who looked impossibly young to me. He spoke on “Hope Beyond the Walls of the World” in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings.
The core of his theme – as I understood it – was the nature of Christian hope, as portrayed by Tolkien. Hope for the Christian, he said, is not attached to any particular thing in this world (I wish I could recall the word he used for this idea, but it’s slipped my mind). Our hope isn’t for a good election result, or a military victory, or for rain or a successful business deal or a stroke of luck. Our hope is a more basic one – like the star Earendil that Sam spied through the clouds on the way to Mordor. Our hope is just there. It’s part of God’s creation and immovable. We may be defeated; we may suffer; we will surely die. That affects our hope not at all. “It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo.” We believe that God shapes all ends, regardless of what we do or what happens to us now. In that lies our peace.
I needed that message just now, for reasons I won’t detail. I was just glad I heard it.
Many weeks ago, I was in a small group that considered how we might tell we were conforming to the world (Romans 12:2). I suggested one way would be to notice where and how we self-censor, which is a touchy subject for the 21st century social media user.
On one hand, social media encourages us to say outrageous things and to share our opinion on every topic we can articulate into at least a gif. And Christians may recognize this danger and their own ignorance and regularly avoid hosing down the Internet. That’s good.
On the other hand, social media has enabled small groups of people to pose as massive mobs to shout down, dox, and ruin the lives of anyone they target, so we may avoid commenting on select hot button topics to avoid getting caught by such a mob. That’s the self-censoring I’m talking about. It makes me uneasy to talk about it even now.
I’ve argued with myself over whether I should state one of my opinions, well-founded and potentially life-changing as they usually are. I wonder if I shouldn’t stick to posts on books and writing in order to stay in my lane, as it were. But sometimes I just retweet a link or someone else’s opinion because it’s important and I want to amplify the reach. If I hold back because the topic is too hot, is that conforming to the world?
Here’s a troubling video on the censoring publishers are doing to select authors poke the bear by not conforming to unspoken expectations.
Also, a woman with experience in college diversity efforts couldn’t overcome the mindset of her own office. “Orthodoxy superseded all else: collegiality, professionalism, the truth.”
A proper feature: Esquire magazine has published its own feature of author Brandon Sanderson, and with over 5,000 words, it’s what you’d expect from a feature article. It’s good and interesting, pulls in some relevant criticism, and remains positive overall.
More sensitive:New Agatha Christie novels have been submitted to sensitivity readers and thus altered for modern, ahem, sensibilities. The copyright holder, Agatha Christie Limited, has the author’s great grandson at the helm and, I suppose, responsible for this.
Publishing among friends: Publisher Richard Charkin has written about his years in the British book business. “In fact, agent-editor ‘negotiations’ makes it sound more adversarial than it actually was. Editors and agents were usually friends, and had often worked together previously. All too often this led to an unhelpful tendency among some editors to see “management” as the enemy, and they would readily side with their authors and agents against the company that employed them.”
I do love a story of lost love and old mysteries. I found Elliot York’s Dark Lies a fascinating police novel, though not entirely successful.
Logan Cooper is a detective in Santa Cruz, California. He’s a good cop, but he has a tendency to lose control when he faces a particular kind of criminal – the kind who victimizes the innocent. In those cases he tends to black out and use his formidable fists pretty brutally. His superiors have ordered him to see a counselor. They’ve also assigned him to a new female partner, Reggie, and for the moment he’s reserving his judgment on her.
Then he gets called to view a body. A woman has been found in a local lake, drowned in a car with her hand cuffed to the steering wheel. Logan notices a tattoo on her wrist – it’s his own name. He recognizes this woman as Becca, the girl he fell in love with in high school. The girl who, up until today, he understood to have committed suicide more than 20 years ago.
As Logan and Reggie investigate the murder, clues will begin appearing that point to a single suspect – Logan himself. Even he will begin to wonder whether it might be possible that, in one of his blackouts, he might have killed the greatest love of his life.
Sometimes harrowing, Dark Lies kept me fascinated all the way through. Only at the climax did it fall into the pedestrian and predictable (in my opinion). Cautions are in order for foul language and expressions of contempt for religion.
Still, it was 90% a good novel. The follow-up volumes might be good too.
I was surprised to find an authentic, old-fashioned British mystery, set in the 1940s, when I picked up Machinations of a Murderer by Peter Zander-Howell. A very original book, I thought, in an un-original form. It’s a plain, point-by-point police procedural, following first the murderer as he plans and carries out his crime, and then the detectives as they deconstruct his too-clever-by-half alibis.
Dr Robin Whittaker is an Oxford PhD, once a promising scholar. But his weaknesses for alcohol and gambling doomed his academic career, and now he works at a lowly job in a provincial museum. His wife, who has some money of her own, keeps him on a short leash. He chafes at the clean living she forces on him, and decides his only reasonable course is to murder her. Confident in his superior intellect, he’s certain that the alibi he constructs, along with the frames he constructs for hapless alternate suspects, will fool the stupid police, leaving him free to drain the funds he’ll inherit.
It’s not at all certain that even the ordinary police would actually fall for his hubristic scheme, but in the event local detectives are not available, so the police call on Scotland Yard for help. They send Chief Inspector Bryce (himself an Oxford-trained barrister) and his assistant, Sergeant Haig. They quickly recognize the doctor as a wrong ‘un, and put themselves to the task of breaking his rather neat alibi. It would disappoint Whittaker to know that one of the key clues in the case will be uncovered by a young, fairly inexperienced policeman who’s assisting Bryce and Haig.
There are no mysteries here. The reader observes everything as it happens, step by step. The great pleasure of this book (and it was a great pleasure to read) is the moral thrill of watching as a prideful and thoroughly unlikeable criminal slowly weaves for himself the rope of lies that will eventually hang him.
In all of Machinations of a Murderer I detected only one hint of a modern sensibility, and that was an intentional irony. Otherwise the author plays it straight from the 1940s. This absence of wokeness and political correctness was entirely refreshing. Aside from the narrative being fascinating in itself.
I highly recommend Machinations of a Murderer. Thoroughly enjoyable.
Something about the voice enchanted Llun. It awoke forgotten images of sharp mountain peaks and waterfalls at dawn, images associated with a childhood longing that flared in his heart whenever he listened to his mother sing a ballad of Old Vasyllia.
“I will gladly pay the price of my life,” said Llun.
“You do not know what you are saying.”
The Curse of the Raven, the sequel to The Song of the Sirin, appropriately focuses on the oppression suffered by everyone who survived the fall of Vasyllia. Llun the Smith keeps his thoughts to himself, while almost everyone else in the city parrots approved words and tries not to upset the overseers or their enforcers, the “dog-men.” But he couldn’t keep himself from making beautiful things or adding unnecessary ornamentation.
He is pulled into the enemy’s chambers where they imply he would be useful to them for a project they won’t describe. He is fairly certain that any job they give him will be the last one he ever does, but the enemy won’t make a demand, preferring to hint. They give him time to think about it.
I could give you ninety percent of the plot in three more paragraphs, because the story takes only 84 pages. It’s a good side story that allows time to pass while Voran, the hero of the larger story, is doing small things offstage. Another twenty pages are given to the first chapter of book three, The Heart of the World.
In these few pages, we feel the significant dread smothering the kingdom and have an opportunity to wonder if their hope for salvation is in vain. The Russian spirit still comes through in the nature of the oppression and neglect of the people, which keeps this book in the spirit of its predecessor.
