A review of Still Waters by E C R Lorac – 251216
A reissue of another book by E C R Lorac, one of the pen names of Edith Caroline Rivet, as part of the British Library Crime Classics series is a moment to be savoured. This, the thirty-second novelin her long-running series featuring Inspector Robert Macdonald and originally published in 1949, is no conventional piece of crime fiction. Instead, rather the geological processes that have slowly created the Lunesdale landscape that is clearly so close to her heart, it builds up an intriguing story from layers of information and supposition before exploding into life as we approach the denouement.
It is a bit of a slow burner, but that characteristic fits perfectly the pace of life in a remote farming community where everyone knows everyone and a stranger sticks out like a sore thumb. Farms have been kept for generations and there is a stock of itinerant labourers, young guns with a tractor to hire.
Into all this steps Caroline Bourne, an artist who wants to escape to the country to enjoy a “serene old age” and successfully buys at auction a derelict cottage close to a large deep pool, the still waters of the novel’s title, although as we learn almost on the final page there is an amusing double play in Rivett’s choice. The behaviour of the auctioneer, who seemed to want to ignore Caroline’s bids except she thwarted him by bidding in a loud, clear voice, is the first unusual aspect upon which the plot is built. There is clearly some keenness to buy what seems an unprepossessing property as she receives a generous offer immediately after the auction.
Caroline is the cousin of Kate Doggett, whom, along with her husband, Giles, we have met before in The Theft of the Iron Dogs (1946) and will again in the later Crock O’Lune (1953). Giles fancies himself as a detective but he proves to be more of a Watson than a Holmes, although he is able to put two and two together and be a diligent accomplice. It is Kate who makes the telling observation that there has been plenty of foot traffic up to the pool recently, unexpectedly so and perhaps denoting fishy.
The third ingredient is provided by Caroline’s architect, Francis Rolph, who has the misfortunate to receive a sharp blow to the head when he was out late at night near the pool. Clearly, someone did not want him potentially snooping around. There is another blow to the head, although the victim this time, the local Inspector, Bord, is amusingly the author of his own misfortune.
Add into the mix the disappearance of David Wynne after an altercation with an itinerant farm hand, Tom Field – murder? – , Field’s suspicious behaviour, and Robert Macdonald’s unannounced arrival in the area, partly to visit his friends, the Doggetts, and partly, and more importantly, on the trail of a smuggler, William Maredeth, and the ingredients of a fascinating puzzle are in place.
The glory of the book, which its languid pace allows Rivett to develop, is her characterization and her deep affection for a remote part of Lancashire with its glorious scenery, treacherous sands, and its network of ancient by-roads and footpaths and its proximity to a main link from Carlisle to Liverpool and Manchester, ideal for nefarious operations. There may not be much of a whodunit, the eminence grise, a man of many talents, is fairly obvious but it is a satisfying tale which hangs together and is ultimately satisfying.
Entertaining, beautifully written, touching, a paean to a beautiful part of the country, it is a welcome addition to the canon of Rivett that is easily accessible, even to those whose wallets are as tightly guarded as the archetypal Scotsman.
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