Furious Old Women. What a wonderful crime story title, both evocative and a great antonymic turn on the phrase “angry young men”. Indeed, an infuriated 71-year-old named Mrs. Bobbin accuses an unknown group of male hooligans of waylaying, robbing, and clubbing her sister Millicent to death on her way to church. But as schoolmaster and amateur detective Carolus Deene listens to the tale, he concludes that the killer’s gender, age, and motivational outlook might not be so obvious. He takes the case with reservations, and starts not by harrying the town’s juvenile delinquents but by investigating the assorted characters who had appeared in the wealthy victim’s life.
Although I had hoped this mid-career mystery from Leo Bruce would start off with an energetic flourish, the first chapter – consisting almost exclusively of dialogue between detective and client – is one of those where the author chooses to introduce the entire cast to come over a few preliminary pages. (I counted eleven future suspects namechecked and described, superficially and in turn, by Mrs. Bobbin in Chapter One.) The effect of this type of everyone-all-at-once opening frustrates me because there is no room for the reader to meet characters initially on their own defining turns. Ideally (and in my opinion), suspects in mystery fiction should be introduced sequentially in settings that let us infer personalities and relationships in a more organic, and less compacted, way.
Far more satisfactory is the author’s handling of the revelations and solution in the book’s final chapter, which is arguably what matters most in this genre. Not only do the clues of timeline and character that Bruce’s detective gathers during his investigation prove to be scrupulously fair play, but Carolus Deene arrives at his conclusion and then decisively walks away from the case. He only reveals his findings to friends at an informal dinner party months later, after no arrest has been made and interest in the tragedies at Gladhurst has abated within the village. Deene’s parting shot to Detective Inspector Champer, a hostile Yard official who treats the amateur sleuth with contempt throughout the book, scores a bullseye with the reader:
Although I had hoped this mid-career mystery from Leo Bruce would start off with an energetic flourish, the first chapter – consisting almost exclusively of dialogue between detective and client – is one of those where the author chooses to introduce the entire cast to come over a few preliminary pages. (I counted eleven future suspects namechecked and described, superficially and in turn, by Mrs. Bobbin in Chapter One.) The effect of this type of everyone-all-at-once opening frustrates me because there is no room for the reader to meet characters initially on their own defining turns. Ideally (and in my opinion), suspects in mystery fiction should be introduced sequentially in settings that let us infer personalities and relationships in a more organic, and less compacted, way.
Far more satisfactory is the author’s handling of the revelations and solution in the book’s final chapter, which is arguably what matters most in this genre. Not only do the clues of timeline and character that Bruce’s detective gathers during his investigation prove to be scrupulously fair play, but Carolus Deene arrives at his conclusion and then decisively walks away from the case. He only reveals his findings to friends at an informal dinner party months later, after no arrest has been made and interest in the tragedies at Gladhurst has abated within the village. Deene’s parting shot to Detective Inspector Champer, a hostile Yard official who treats the amateur sleuth with contempt throughout the book, scores a bullseye with the reader:
[Champer, after learning that Deene accepts the Inspector’s general view of the case:]
“We don’t seem to disagree on a point.”
“I don’t think we do,” said Carolus; then, unable to resist a somewhat petty triumph he added: “There’s only one difference. I know who was the murderer and you don’t. Good-bye, Inspector. We shan’t meet again, on this case, anyway.”
Like any good murder mystery, as the plot progresses other dangerous and deadly incidents occur, and Deene (and the reader) seeks context for these new events that stems from our initial victim’s fate. One middle-aged villager, once seen as a rival of the dead Millicent Griggs, dies from poisoning, while another is injured after a fall inside the church’s bell-tower. And the author lets his detective end the tale with a clever bit of summary that shows how a simple shift in perspective makes all the evidence align.
Leo Bruce has always enjoyed approaching his mystery stories from a comedic, often satiric perspective. He is most well known for his books featuring the stolid Sergeant Beef, with the most famous being Case for Three Detectives (1936). His output of the Carolus Deene series nearly triples that of the Beef books, however, and those titles featuring the Senior History schoolmaster who is an amateur investigator on the side – or is it the other way round? – may be underrated by many fans of mystery fiction.
Perhaps the humor is not for all tastes: there is a Dickensian trend to use evocative surnames that can promote caricature more than characterization. In this book alone, we find various souls named Mugger, Slipper, Rumble, Stick, Chilling, Slatt, and Waygooze, whose personalities are all given a comically broad varnish. Then there is Flo, a denizen of the pub who is always up for a laugh – anyone who discusses her to Carolus invariably adds, “But Flo doesn’t mind.” And apparently she doesn’t, as the boastful poacher and philanderer Mugger, proud of both vocations, occasionally steps out with Flo:
Leo Bruce has always enjoyed approaching his mystery stories from a comedic, often satiric perspective. He is most well known for his books featuring the stolid Sergeant Beef, with the most famous being Case for Three Detectives (1936). His output of the Carolus Deene series nearly triples that of the Beef books, however, and those titles featuring the Senior History schoolmaster who is an amateur investigator on the side – or is it the other way round? – may be underrated by many fans of mystery fiction.
Perhaps the humor is not for all tastes: there is a Dickensian trend to use evocative surnames that can promote caricature more than characterization. In this book alone, we find various souls named Mugger, Slipper, Rumble, Stick, Chilling, Slatt, and Waygooze, whose personalities are all given a comically broad varnish. Then there is Flo, a denizen of the pub who is always up for a laugh – anyone who discusses her to Carolus invariably adds, “But Flo doesn’t mind.” And apparently she doesn’t, as the boastful poacher and philanderer Mugger, proud of both vocations, occasionally steps out with Flo:
“This is a handy place,” confided Mugger, “if you’ve got one with you on a wet night. No one’s going to disturb you here. They keep away from churchyards after dark. I remember…”
“Come along,” said Carolus.
And speaking of churches in their more traditional, respectable role: in Furious Old Women, Leo Bruce amusingly pits a Catholic-influenced “High Church” mentality against a Protestant-practical “Low” one as Grazia Vaillant and Millicent Griggs each battle to bend the parish church to their own desired image. Vicar Waddell explains how he kept the more ornate additions away while appeasing both ladies:
“Well, I had liturgical colours, you know, and we turned to the East for the Creed. I had to draw the line at holy water but I allowed those of the choir who wished it to make the sign of the cross. I had six candlesticks on the altar but kept a plain cross and felt bound to refuse the large crucifix presented by Miss Vaillant… I agreed rather reluctantly to the choir wearing the lace cottas which Miss Vaillant presented after their surplices were worn out but I would not go so far as scarlet cassocks…”
Personally, I appreciate the playfulness of the writing, although often less is more. Bruce is not immune from overplaying his joke, as with a repetitive gag where Constable Slatt insists that Deene use the term “police officer” as a title of respect, even when the “copper” in question refers to the mineral or “policeman” pops up in a Kipling quotation.
Taken in all, though, Furious Old Women is an enjoyable tale from detective fiction’s Silver Age with an admirably uncomplicated and satisfying fair-play puzzle at its heart. Leo Bruce’s witty mysteries, and perhaps the Carolus Deene books in particular, deserve to be rediscovered.
Taken in all, though, Furious Old Women is an enjoyable tale from detective fiction’s Silver Age with an admirably uncomplicated and satisfying fair-play puzzle at its heart. Leo Bruce’s witty mysteries, and perhaps the Carolus Deene books in particular, deserve to be rediscovered.
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