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Book Review: GALLOWS COURT (2018) by Martin Edwards

9/2/2019

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 CROUCHING HILL (1941) by Winifred Blazey

7/12/2019

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Cover of the 2015 print-on-demand edition from Isha Books, India.

Of Winifred Blazey’s four published novels, 1941’s The Crouching Hill is the only one that is overtly structured as detective fiction. The book is dedicated to friend and companion Gladys Mitchell, “who supplied the setting for this book and suggested it should be written as a detective story.” And while the novel may provide all the elements of a traditional whodunit, including the discovery of a body, an investigator, multiple suspects, and a solution in the form of a confession, the sum total adds up to something more peculiar, off-key, and, unfortunately, ultimately disappointing.

I had high hopes for The Crouching Hill not only for its deliberate genre choice but also because the author’s two earlier efforts were compelling and rewarding reads.

Dora Beddoe (1936) was a marvelous first effort, a moody character study of a woman treated unfairly by life and family until she reaches a murderous breaking point. To me, 1938’s Indian Rain was even more impressive, an epic story of a man trying to make sense out of life and find peace in a world filled with misery and injustice. The Crouching Hill, in contrast, never focuses on a single character for which the reader can feel pathos or experience change. Many aspects, from continuously revolving characters being interviewed to the murder victim remaining a cipher through to the final pages, contribute to keep this mystery operating academically and artificially, but never truly organically.

The plot is a strange blend of sordid realism and Golden Age-era whodunit, with neither type landing satisfactorily. Schoolteacher Marion Francis is one of four staff members accompanying a group of girl students to the country, where the girls are to spend their holiday “billeted” with local villagers. After their charges have been paired with their host families, the teachers take rooms at the Rose and Thorn Inn, where Miss Francis and colleague Ursula French drink heavily and mix with the men in the pub. In the morning, Miss Francis is found “suffocated and strangled” in her bed; a post-mortem reveals that she was pregnant. The inspector immediately suspects her roommate Miss French (of the murder, that is), and those suspicions are heightened when a pair of local schoolboys claim to have interacted with the woman earlier that day, then disguised as a male motorcyclist.

While Blazey is quite good at crafting observations of social attitudes and human quirks, the tone of this book never quite settles. The details are too often squalid and grim – a pregnant woman’s death, a hasty tumble in the pub with a travelling salesman, a lecherous, rheumatic old man who relates his eavesdropping to the inspector with a leer and a wet-eyed wink – and the plotline (and certainly the story’s resolution) offers little joy or catharsis.

Taken as a novel of detection, well… It’s a litany of endless interviews, and there is no real fair play at work because the motive remains hypothetical until the killer steps forward to confess and explain. (There’s also an alibi reversal in the final chapter that feels like quite a cheat.) I get the feeling that, although she is using a familiar genre structure, Blazey isn’t interested in presenting a game to challenge the reader. The problem is that no larger theme is allowed to resonate, in part because no character is explored to a depth that makes us feel we understand him or her.

If her earlier, better books are an indication, I think the author is most interested in sending her fictional protagonists through a crucible, coming out either strengthened or defeated on the other side. In The Crouching Hill – even the title’s imagery of a landscape waiting to spring is referenced but never successfully activated in the story – Winifred Blazey’s true protagonist, the fated Marion Francis, is dead on the first page, her motivations and character a muted mystery, and no one, including the author, is quite able to bring her back to life.

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Book Review: GALLOWS COURT (2018) by Martin Edwards

Book Review: NIGHTFALL (1947) by David Goodis

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

Book Review: THE CROUCHING HILL (1941) by Winifred Blazey

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