Category: Book Review

Book Review: THE MERRIVALE MYSTERY (1929) by James Corbett

9/8/2019

British author James Corbett, I have learned, was a moderately popular crime fiction and thriller writer in his time, and his books were a staple of subscription library lists in the 1930s and '40s. It also appears that his début title, 1929's breathless and remarkable The Merrivale Mystery, is a fair example of the quality of work he would produce over the next two decades. And that quality is striking indeed, a mix of overheated prose, cardboard characters, and an ineptitude of plotting that will leave the discerning reader delighted, bemused, or in agony. Or possibly a combination of the three.

Full disclosure: I knew what I was getting into with this author. Corbett's reputation and infamy precede him, as Bill Pronzini singles out The Merrivale Mystery as an "alternative" crime classic in his 1987 study of bad genre writing, Son of Gun in Cheek. Even better, the late Bill Deeck has given the world The Complete Deeck on Corbett (2003), where he amusingly analyzes a number of Corbett's titles. The site Mystery*file has a couple wry reviews from Deeck on this singular author, including a very funny look at a very peculiar supernatural thriller called The Vampire of the Skies.

As I have always had an affinity for the earnest but incompetent genre story, likely in part from an adolescence spent absorbing the wonderfully terrible movies featured on Mystery Science Theater 3000, I wanted to try James Corbett. I was not disappointed, which is to say that I was thoroughly expecting disappointment in the conventional sense. But what makes this author's work so notably bad? I can't state it any more succinctly and accurately as Mr. Deeck does here, so I offer this quote:

There are certain types of readers to whom Corbett will not appeal. He should be avoided by those who like fine writing; by those who appreciate good description; by those who enjoy characterization and who think it helpful to be able to tell the characters apart; by those who do not appreciate non sequiturs or the almost-right word; by those who think real clues are essential in a mystery; by those who want detection and fair play; and by those who expect a writer to remember what he has written just a page before.

Deeck covers all the bases when it comes to Corbett's shortcomings, and in The Merrivale Mystery these failures are on abundant display. If it were merely lackluster prose or poor plotting, the work could be dismissed and forgotten about. But it takes a special kind of zeal for an aspiring artiste to deliver something that isn't just poor but spectacularly, gloriously unsuccessful; think Ed Wood or the woman who tried to restore a faded Renaissance painting by giving its saint a smiley face. With Corbett, one gets the impression that he's the perfect inexperienced amateur, someone who recognizes the general elements of mystery fiction that create excitement – sensational murders, a brilliant detective, belligerent suspects – but hasn't really thought about how it's all going to work. Accusing Corbett of a lack of talent is too easy; when it comes to mangling plot, characterization, and the English language, he is positively inspired.

Here we have brilliant detective Victor Serge, brought in to investigate the murder of Sir Philip Merrivale of Merrivale Hall. The reader is reminded repeatedly that Serge is "famous", "brilliant", and "an agent of Justice", and perhaps we should be reminded of this, since the great man doesn't really do anything to prove his reputation. Certainly he will solve the mystery (after two more murders occur in exactly the same fashion, with a family member alone in the library killed by a revolver shot to the head through an open terrace door), but his methods of deduction are head-scratchingly incomplete. As Bill Deeck writes, it's tempting to just quote the entire Corbett book and be done with it, but here is one passage that shows the unintentionally comical prose which courses through the entire novel. The author has provided his detective with a sort-of Watson, a credulous and rather ineffective novelist (!) named Ralph Moreton:

Moreton, fascinated by the scene, made no effort to speak, but his brain surged with a thousand ideas. He still watched every movement, saw Serge's wonderful instruments pass over the body, the magnetic lens and gleaming microscope, the powerful hand-torch and measuring tape. During the inspection, Moreton knew he was watching a genius. He saw it in the systematic method of the examination, in every movement of those limbs, in every flash from Serge's eye.

Corbett has a penchant for exclamation points, both in dialogue and in prose, and I found myself wondering how characters might deliver a punctuated statement that otherwise would have warranted a humble period. Apparently, he is also a writer not to turn down a question mark; here we find this interrogative run in a chapter titled, "Bancroft Blunders!" [sic]

"The words were pregnant with meaning, and Serge noted them carefully. What was the pact between these two? Why did they comprehend each other so thoroughly? Were they in league? Was Sybil the helpless agent of this evil genius? Was this helpless, spine-stricken invalid a devil incarnate? Were all these horrible things emanating from his brain?"

Vampire of the Skies (1932)

The characters are certainly poorly drawn and alternately melodramatic and wooden, but the sparkling jewel of ineptness is surely the plotting and narrative structure that the enthusiastic Corbett offers up. Apparently, amateur detective Serge has complete run of the murder scene, and the police let him take over the library so he can literally question the suspects while standing over Sir Philip's uncovered body. (By the way, based on the timeline of when the body was found, the dead man still had not been removed after 12 hours of police investigation…) I was struck early on by the fact that three successive chapters have exactly the same arc: a suspect arrives, doesn't really answer Serge's questions, doesn't acknowledge the dead body on the floor, warns that Serge will never discover the baffling mystery of Merrivale Hall, and then accuses another family member of the crime. Serge starts the next chapter with this new suspect, and the cycle repeats itself.

SPOILER, IF YOU CARE: There's later-chapter talk of a ".449 bullet" that never amounts to anything, and when a gun is found there's no interest in fingerprints: "He held it in one hand." Finally, there's the slap-in-the-face reveal of the murderer, who turns out to be a character who has not been introduced before! The amazing thing about this bit of decidedly unfair play is that the details could have easily been set up and clued so the killer's identity wouldn't feel like a completely arbitrary surprise, although maybe that was what Corbett wanted to do.

(End of Spoiler.) So, if you pick up a James Corbett mystery, this is what you're in for. Me? I find it amusing, in moderation. And you have to admire a neophyte mystery writer who lets his detective dismiss three carousing half-brothers as suspects (more through caprice than any deductive logic) by stating, "They are eliminated from the mystery zone."

I must quote the genius Victor Serge one more time as he evokes the brooding mood of Merrivale Hall as only he (and his creator James Corbett) can do:

"I advanced another step, but it led to a wilderness of suspicion, intrigue, and hate. It is a horrible undergrowth of hate, Bancroft, and the hate emanates from the walls itself!"

I laughed three times while typing those two sentences, and that's pretty darn impressive. Here's the coda: As far as I know, after The Merrivale Mystery, detective Victor Serge never appeared in print again. James Corbett would go on to publish 42 more novels.

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Book Review: GALLOWS COURT (2018) by Martin Edwards

9/2/2019

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One of the biggest surprises for the reader of the highly enjoyable Gallows Court is the discovery that prolific author Martin Edwards has delivered a thriller instead of the classically clued mystery story that might be expected. I have no complaints, since the plot gallops along and there are more than enough puzzles to work out regarding hidden motives and lurking dangers. But because Edwards is a leading scholar of Golden Age Detective fiction – his thoroughly researched history of The Detection Club, The Golden Age of Murder (2015), is a delightful and formidable achievement – and because of the story's plum setting of 1930 London, I had expected a whodunit in the Christie cosy tradition. Instead, Gallows Court fuses the immediacy and intrigue of a John Buchan thriller with a 21st century tolerance (and thirst?) for grimmer, grittier stakes in both politics and crime drama.

Jacob Flint, an underdog reporter for The Clarion, is beguiled by a mysterious woman. Rachel Savernake has apparently been a part of the machinations that brought two wealthy murderers to justice, men who killed and disposed of women who were no longer of value to them. One burning question, however, is just what Rachel's role may be: is she a detective or an avenging demon? The daughter of a rich, severe, and (if the rumors are true) insane judge, Rachel Savernake might have a longer game to play, and one that could very likely use and dispose of Jacob the journalist like a pawn in a chess match. As more deaths occur and some violent attacks are made on Jacob Flint and his allies, the vulnerable reporter needs to discover who Rachel Savernake is and what her dangerous endgame might be.

With Gallows Court, the author has constructed an engrossing genre hybrid that makes the most of the narrative elements that keep mystery and suspense fiction humming along. An atmosphere of genuine menace builds as amateur detective proxy Flint travels deeper into the trap and those around him begin to meet brutal fates that he just narrowly avoids. Edwards populates his novel with many smartly sketched supporting characters, and, like Jacob, the reader must decide who can be trusted and who might turn deadly. The narrative is interlaced with diary entries from Juliet Brentano, a captive on Judge Savernake's isolated island, and she accuses Rachel Savernake of killing her parents (no spoiler; we read this passage before Rachel appears). It's a masterful setup, and one that keeps the reader guessing about whether the enigmatic Rachel will prove to be a sympathetic heroine or a loathsome villain… or even a combination of the two.

While the book is great, fast-paced fun and has much to recommend, I personally found the intriguing opening and first half of Gallows Court more engaging than its end chapters, after much has been revealed (I was ahead of a few of the twists) and the resolution is left to attend to the various plot threads. The observation is actually a credit to Martin Edwards, who delivered such a propulsive Act One and engrossing Act Two that one can forgive a little restlessness before the falling of the final curtain. I would have also enjoyed watching Jacob Flint actively put together the pieces that he has been astutely collecting on his own; instead he gets an assist from a deceased fellow detective (via a Dictaphone recording) who has already done the heavy lifting. But these are minor quibbles, and Gallows Court has many dark pleasures to discover for mystery fans who don't mind a walk down the wilder streets and alleys of 1930s London.

I am happy to report that the amazing Poisoned Pen Press will be releasing Gallows Court on September 17, 2019 for American eBook and print audiences. I received an advance reading copy via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review. My UK peers have already had a year to enjoy this tale, and you can find their positive prior reviews on their sites, from Kate at crossexaminingcrime, Sarah at CrimePieces, and The Puzzle Doctor at In Search of the Classic Mystery Novel.

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Book Review: NIGHTFALL (1947) by David Goodis

8/11/2019

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While the average pop culture consumer might view the American crime genres of hard-boiled detective fiction and noir as one and the same, the differences are worth noting. True, there are many elemental overlaps, including an often urban setting, an emphasis on action and violence (or the threat of it), and a thematic view that sees the world in a shadowy, cynical light. But the plot of noir is usually concerned with an innocent or honest character – notably not a detective, as in the hard-boiled genre – who gets caught in a web of criminal temptation or fateful destruction. In film, noir stories were a staple of American cinema in the 1940s and into the '50s, often adapted from novels within the genre (see Double Indemnity [1944] and The Postman Always Rings Twice [1946], both adapted from James M. Cain books).

Nightfall, first published in 1947, is an excellent example of noir fiction from a respected writer in the genre. David Goodis was an aspiring Hollywood screenwriter who the previous year had received success with his moody second novel Dark Passage; he would see this book adapted by director Delmer Daves into a film featuring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. But Goodis stayed busy with his own fiction and script projects, and in 2018 Stark House released a collection of three of his noir stories, each from a different decade: Nightfall is paired with Cassidy's Girl (1951) and the late-period Night Squad from 1961.

What's curious about Nightfall is its bucking of genre conventions even as it stays firmly anchored in a noir world. Certainly the overall plotline aligns perfectly with genre expectations: Jim Vanning is living a life of concealment in New York City, on the run from something in his past. A suave but dangerous criminal is looking for him, and a police detective named Fraser already has Vanning under surveillance. Soon the reader learns of a three-man bank robbery a few months ago in Seattle and a missing suitcase filled with cash, and we start to see why Jim Vanning might be the reluctant center of attention.

With this archetypal noir situation in place, Goodis pushes his characters and prose to go beyond the predictable. One effective example is that the author spends just as much time crafting detective Fraser's personality and worldview as he does the hunted criminal's. This is an atypical and very successful choice, as it simultaneously humanizes the conventional cop character and raises the stakes for all involved: Fraser feels like something is not right with the picture, and wants to give Vanning the chance to acquit himself if somehow he is innocent. But doing so places pressure on the detective, whose superiors are expecting a swift arrest and tidy resolution.

Vanning is given a noir-esque love interest, an empathetic ally named Martha, and Goodis keeps the reader (and the protagonist) guessing over whether the woman can be trusted; some disturbing evidence hints at collusion with John, the Seattle gunman. (It's interesting that the characters we are given the greatest access to, Vanning and Fraser, are referred throughout by their surnames while those whose inner thoughts remain concealed from the reader are allowed first-name familiarity.) Perhaps the most surprising against-the-genre choice Goodis employs in Nightfall is its potential for a comparatively "happy" ending; noir rarely lets its ensnared heroes wriggle out of Fate's trap intact.

Nightfall is far from perfect. There's a critical moment where the bad guys leave Vanning alone in a room with a revolver and the suitcase full of cash whose logic is never satisfactorily explained. Even if it's a set-up, why would the stage need to be set in that way? And there's some lovely sentences Goodis forms from commercial designer Vanning's attention to colors – so unusual for a genre world literally defined in scale tones of black and white – but the thread doesn't really tie to a larger cloth. One sample:

"There were considerable things that made life worth living. Luxurious things, rich, colorful things… There was deep rose against a background of rich tan. There was shining gold. There was blue, a good, definite blue, not bright, not at all watery, but deeply blue. And then the tan again. Healthy tan. And all that added up, and it became Martha."

Still, the prose throughout the short novel shows thought and craft, and Goodis elevates his story from that presumably disposable genre of pulp fiction into something more resonant in terms of literary merit. According to the biographical introduction to the Stark House edition provided by Rick Ollerman, David Goodis himself was a misfit and a restless soul; his tales of misunderstood, luckless loners are well worth finding and exploring.

Nightfall was reprinted in 1953 as The Dark Chase and again in 1954 as Convicted.

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Book Review: THE DREADFUL HOLLOW (1953) by Nicholas Blake

7/30/2019

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There is something rather delicious about an outbreak of poison pen letters affecting a tranquil community, and I have always had an affinity for mystery fiction that uses this rather unpleasant method to shake up its characters. Part of the appeal lies in the fact that crime stories are all about concealment and revelation, about the hypocrisy of the public appearance against the private act, and there is the added bonus that a sprinkling of anonymous accusations (real or imagined) can upset guilty and innocent alike and puncture the artificial posturing of a proudly "normal" and "decent" society.

The villagers of Prior's Umborne, it seems, have a malignant agitator in their midst. Residents are receiving some very unflattering – and often inflammatory – anonymous letters, and financier Sir Archibald Blick hires Strangeways to find the source. He quickly realizes that there is a lot to investigate, as Prior's Umborne is home to its share of eccentric figures, including Blick's two sons, affable Charles and enigmatic Stanford; sisters Rosebay and Celandine Chantmerle, the former a scheming neurotic and the latter suffering from psychosomatic paralysis; and Daniel Durdle, a religious zealot and rumored illegitimate offspring of a powerful family.

Although Nigel believes he can identify the poison pen writer at an early stage, tensions and dangers escalate when Celandine is presented with a pair of binoculars rigged to shoot needles out of the eyepiece when the focus is adjusted. The Blicks have access to a machine workshop, but so does Durdle, and it's possible that the cruel gift was the result of a conspiracy. When the secret relationship between Charles and Rosebay becomes known, Sir Archibald – a fervent proponent of eugenics – flies into a rage and threatens to cut his son out of the family legacy. His objections are short-lived, literally: the next morning he is found dead at the bottom of a quarry.

The Dreadful Hollow finds Nicholas Blake poised perfectly between the puzzle plotting of his earliest books – plotting at which he excels far beyond the average mystery fiction author, by the way – and the brooding character psychology that will consume some of his later titles (see 1961's The Worm of Death, for example). But here, the twin interests are given the liberty to complement each other, and it is a mostly successful blending of classic detection and the character-based psychoanalysis that will largely replace it as crime literature moves through the 20th century.

I have always admired Blake's fair-play clue crafting, and it is still evident here. He refuses to condescend to the reader, and often I found myself making a deductive connection only to have Nigel Strangeways voice the same idea before extrapolating past it and continuing to connect the dots. Where a lesser writer may have left a clue observed but unexplained until the denouement, Blake underlines it and works out the possibilities on the spot.

One example: a row of crushed wildflowers near the quarry means a) that Celandine's electric wheelchair was here recently, and b) it might not have been manned by Celandine, since she is a lover of nature and would not drive over the flowers if she could help it. But then Nigel continues to hypothesize: c) the track is not deep enough if the wheelchair carried the weight of two bodies, Celandine's and Archibald Blick's; d) the chair's motor was drained the day of the murder, so Celandine could not use it to drive up to the quarry and back with a dead or unconscious Sir Archibald, et cetera. It is quite enjoyable to play Watson while the detective is doing some real-time theorizing; many mystery writers let their creations sit on their hypotheses until it's time for the drawing room reveal, but this has never been the case with Blake and Strangeways, and that's to be commended.

Even with strong deduction on display, Hollow still sounds a few hollow notes. There's a mid-book digression on the natural tendency of women to lie which creates a chauvinistic bump, and some readers over at Goodreads, reviewing the book this month in the Reading the Detectives group moderated by Judy, Susan, and Sandy, justly questioned a point of physiology Blake employs in the solution. Still, this tale of secrets coming to the surface in a village pushed to its breaking point is engaging and fun, and it builds to a satisfying and dramatic climax that feels quite cinematic in its approach. A worthy entry in the Nigel Strangeways series and a strong addition to the subgenre of poison pen plotlines in mystery fiction.

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Book Review: THE MERRIVALE MYSTERY (1929) by James Corbett

Book Review: GALLOWS COURT (2018) by Martin Edwards

Book Review: NIGHTFALL (1947) by David Goodis

Book Review: THE DREADFUL HOLLOW (1953) by Nicholas Blake

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