As both an avid reader and a practicing writer of fiction, I am especially attuned to the spell an author can (and ideally should) cast. When I start to read a novel, I always wait for that moment, hopefully early on, that signals I’m in the hands of a capable storyteller. Whether it is an evocative description of setting, the introduction of an intriguing character, or a surprise in plot or tone that runs counter to expectations, if there is something in those early pages to assure me that the author knows his or her business and that continued reading will likely pay a satisfying return on investment, then I will happily continue the ride. And if it’s not a single element but multiple characteristics that augur well right from the start, then you have likely made a convert of me.
So I was thrilled when the first chapters of my first George Bellairs book, 1949’s The Case of the Famished Parson, showed so much promise in so many literary directions. Bellairs, the pen name of British banker Harold Blundell, presents in this Inspector Littlejohn mystery an atmospheric world peopled with idiosyncratic and marvelously detailed characters right out of the gate. At a shabby coastal hotel, a misanthropic after-hours night-porter combines and drinks up the dregs of the bar patrons’ glasses before begrudgingly cleaning the shoes lined up outside the guest rooms. This unhappy little man, Fennick, is destined to earn the wrath of Mr. Cuhady, a self-important and bellicose businessman whose shoes are discovered dirtier than when they were set out the night before. Cuhady, who is staying at the hotel with a doubtful “Mrs.” Cuhady, is happy to see a police presence there to investigate the Case of the Muddied Shoes – and to arrest the negligent night-porter for good measure – but Inspector Littlejohn is concerned with weightier matters: it seems the body of the malnourished Bishop of Greyle has been found hanging head down on the side of a cliff, his boot wedged into a crevice.
Characterization is excellent, the plot is off to a roaring start (Why is the bishop emaciated? Why was he killed? Who or what brought him outdoors in the middle of the night?), and those early chapters have a wonderful ribbon of dark humour running through them. But, perhaps appropriate for a story revolving around footwear, near the midway point of Famished Parson, the other shoe dropped with a rather disappointing thud. I can’t think of another detective story that started out so strongly only to arrive at such an underwhelming finish. There is no doubt that the engaging and enjoyable first half set my expectations high, and that had Bellairs’ book been merely mediocre throughout, the contrast (and therefore my disappointment) would have been far less pronounced.
Part of the problem, in my opinion, is that much of the potential of plot, character, and place is diluted by development and resolution that feels simultaneously blunt and generic, qualities that the setup neatly avoided. For example, the bishop’s eccentric family is never brought into focus enough or given enough stage time to be contenders as suspects, and the explanations of both the victim’s starved state and the motive for murder are oddly insignificant. In particular, I was frustrated by a very unconvincing monologue confession from the guilty party that runs on for pages; this is the kind of tin-ear philosophizing where the villain recounts every action and rationale to a hapless listener who is to be dispatched post-speech. At one point, this character actually says, “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.” In that artless moment, I knew narratively why it was happening but still wondered the same thing.
Curiously, the book as a whole is very reminiscent of the Inspector Maigret storylines penned by Georges Simenon, and similarities are found in The Famished Parson’s strengths and weaknesses alike. Inspector Thomas Littlejohn is quite Maigret-like, an intuitive outsider whose profession throws him into a crime-infused environment but who chooses to never fully integrate into that world. Like Simenon, Bellairs seems to be less interested in fair-play narrative structure (i.e., presenting interpretable clues to the reader) than in releasing regimented information (e.g., through witness interviews and predicting human psychology) that gradually brings a sequence of events into focus. In particular, the solution to this Bellairs mystery feels very much a Maigret case: it is rooted not in the fantastical but in the ordinary, and not in the mystical but the mundane. Because the story started out so exceptionally, however, the reveal of a surprisingly common motive ended the tale on an anticlimax.
Part of the problem, in my opinion, is that much of the potential of plot, character, and place is diluted by development and resolution that feels simultaneously blunt and generic, qualities that the setup neatly avoided. For example, the bishop’s eccentric family is never brought into focus enough or given enough stage time to be contenders as suspects, and the explanations of both the victim’s starved state and the motive for murder are oddly insignificant. In particular, I was frustrated by a very unconvincing monologue confession from the guilty party that runs on for pages; this is the kind of tin-ear philosophizing where the villain recounts every action and rationale to a hapless listener who is to be dispatched post-speech. At one point, this character actually says, “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.” In that artless moment, I knew narratively why it was happening but still wondered the same thing.
Curiously, the book as a whole is very reminiscent of the Inspector Maigret storylines penned by Georges Simenon, and similarities are found in The Famished Parson’s strengths and weaknesses alike. Inspector Thomas Littlejohn is quite Maigret-like, an intuitive outsider whose profession throws him into a crime-infused environment but who chooses to never fully integrate into that world. Like Simenon, Bellairs seems to be less interested in fair-play narrative structure (i.e., presenting interpretable clues to the reader) than in releasing regimented information (e.g., through witness interviews and predicting human psychology) that gradually brings a sequence of events into focus. In particular, the solution to this Bellairs mystery feels very much a Maigret case: it is rooted not in the fantastical but in the ordinary, and not in the mystical but the mundane. Because the story started out so exceptionally, however, the reveal of a surprisingly common motive ended the tale on an anticlimax.
All that said, I will certainly try another Inspector Littlejohn mystery at some point. If any readers wish to suggest titles they consider strong work from George Bellairs, I welcome their input. Thank you to Agora Books for providing an advance reading copy, and for making so many Bellairs titles available once more in digital editions.
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