Triple Quest

A review of Triple Quest by E R Punshon – 240409

The thirty-fourth and penultimate novel in Punshon’s long running Bobby Owen series was originally published in 1955 and has been reissued by Dean Street Press. As I approach the end of the series I have been eking the books out, savouring them like a gourmand, and in this novel Punshon does not disappoint. It is a complex story that has some twists and turns and a culprit whose identity is not obvious until the end.

Whether Punshon knew the end was nigh, by this time he was eighty-three, but he pulls out all the stops. There are some memorable characters, not least the wonderfully named Marmaduke Groan, a private investigator who comes to Owen with a story of a missing arts critic, Alfred Atts, but who is unable or unwilling to disclose the whole truth, and the art gallery attendant, Early Hyams, who reveres the paintings under his charge and despises the hoi polloi who give them barely a glance. There are also some picaresque characters like Monkey Baron and Irish Joe who aare no stereotypical ciphers but light up the page when they appear.

The dialogue is on occasions witty and there are some dramatic and thrilling episodes to enjoy. Owen is never one to pull out of a physical confrontation and manages to get the better of his unsavoury opponents from the demi-monde when he is set upon. He also is willing to risk his life by entering into a burning building to save Mrs Taylor who had only just finished demonstrating her displeasure at his appearance by launching a hail of missiles at him and threatening to shoot. Owen is also given the opportunity to demonstrate his proficiency as a lock picker.

Punshon’s narrative also shines a fascinating light on the times. The Owens have a new toy, a television set, and Atts is a new breed of person, a television celebrity who has graced the new fangled screens to talk about art. Not that Bobby Owen needs any crash course on how to appreciate art. Punshon’s sleuth has always been a little different from the normal policeman, educated, albeit with a third without honours from Oxford, from an aristocratic background, a connection that he has fought hard to play down during his career, with a tenacious desire to uncover the truth and the invaluable ability to be at the right place at the time.

He is also highly cultured with a love of art, a trait that pays dividends in a book which, following on from The Golden Dagger and Diabolic Candelabra, has an objet d’art at its heart. He remembers on a previous visit to the South Bank Gallery that Rembrandt’s Girl Peeling Apples made a deep impression upon him, but looking at it now it seemed an inferior work. Owen’s nose for the discrepancies in these feelings, coupled with a tip on mahogany – the work was painted on a mahogany panel, the wood not being available during the painter’s lifetime – leads him to realise that there is something odd going on at the gallery, most likely the substitution of fakes for the real thing.

Was this what Arthur Atts had rumbled and was about to reveal in a much hyped lecture, bringing disrepute to the gallery and getting revenge on its director, Sir Walter Wyatt, who had beaten Atts to discovering the painting in the first place? Was this why he conveniently disappeared just before delivering the lecture and where was Jasmine, the impoverished artist with a talent for reproducing masters but an even greater talent for original works, and where was the original painting? A meaty triple quest for Owen, aided by the faithful Ford, to get his teeth into.

Atts has his own dark secret, an emotional entanglement, and Wyatt’s suspicious behaviour adds some complexity to the plot, resolved amusingly and embarrassingly for the director and prompting Owen to exercise an astonishingly direct form of art criticism. As the story settles down and moves towards its thrilling finale another two bodies are added to those of Atts and Jasmine who, unsurprisingly, have been murdered. The book ends on a pleasing emotional high as Bobby Owen is able to ensure pride of place for Jasmine’s astonishing portrait of the Montgomery’s children and a source of income for the impoverished couple.

As a book it is one of Punshon’s best, an astonishing achievement and a veritable tour de force.

Israel Rank: The Autobiography Of A Criminal

A review of Israel Rank: The Autobiography of a Criminal by Roy Horniman – 24040

Originally published in 1907 and reissued by Dean Street Press, this book will be better known for being the basis of the 1949 Alec Guinness tour de force and the best Ealing Comedy film, Kind Hearts and Coronets. However, the book is radically different from the film. Instead of a farce we are presented with a deep dive into the mind of a social climbing serial killer and, perhaps more disturbingly, the forerunner of the murderous half-Italian of the film is a man who is undisputedly Jewish on his father’ side. His link to the Gascoyne aristocracy is through his mother.

The name of the protagonist, Israel Rank, has been chosen with great care. The forename leaves no question in the reader’s mind that he is of semitic stock, or Oriental as he prefers to call himself in the text, and the surname Rank speaks of his obsession with the class system and his overpowering desire to better himself and reclaim the aristocratic title that seemed so far from his grasp when he pored over the genealogical table that his father had preserved.

However, the overt Jewishness of the central character makes this book a rather uncomfortable read. Did Horniman intend it to be an antisemitic tale, designed to draw gasps of dismay and outrage from his Edwardian readership as a cynical outsider uses charm, trickery, and murder most foul to worm himself into the hear of the English aristocracy or was it intended to be a satire of antisemitism? At this distance it is hard to be sure and the way Rank introduced the deadly scarlet fever bacteria to a baby by wiping its face with an infected cloth reminiscent of the blood libel made me doubt my original feeling that it was satire. There is little doubt that antisemitic feeling was rife in Edwardian England and when satirical intent is not obvious or misses the mark, it can be as bad, if not worse, than its original target.

The book takes a long time to get going as it is as much about his social maneuverings to better himself by ingratiating himself into circles of increasing influence and importance, primarily through his association with three women, his childhood sweetheart, Sibella, his wife, the former Miss Gascoyne, whose brother he murdered, and his salvation, Esther Grey. Although we think we know how the book is to intend, and despite all his cleverness, Rank makes a series of catastrophic errors that quickly leads to his detection, Horniman does have one great surprise up his sleeve which he leaves until the last pages of this 400 plus page novel to reveal.

The problem with his plan, as Rank quickly begins to realise, is that the nearer he gets to the top of the succession tree and the more of the heirs who die in suspicious or unnatural circumstances, the greater the suspicion that will rest on the outsider who is charging towards the winning post from the back of the field. Not everything goes smoothly; an innocent verger is killed, drinking a cup of water laced with poison intended for the vicar.

Rank’s ruminations reveal a complex character. He abhors blood sports but is content to set about slaughtering his own limited field of victims, although almost, but not completely, drawing the line at physical violence. His preferred modus operandi is to set in motion a sequence of events that will lead to a fatal event, whether it is by poison, fire, or disease. Only in one instance does he deliver the final coup de grace.

Given the book’s age, it is clearly the forerunner of and likely to have been influential in later developments of the crime fiction genre such as the inverted murder mystery and the psychological murder mystery. For that reason alone it is worth a read. But it is also an entertaining enough story with a dramatic twist that, largely, stands on its own merits.

For those with highly attuned sensitivities, though, it comes with a health warning. Whether the anti-Italian sentiments in Robert Hamer’s film version occupy a higher moral high ground than Horniman’s antisemitism is a question for media studies students. DSP, in marketing it as Kind Hearts and Coronets, clearly think it does.

The Case Of The Happy Warrior

A review of The Case of the Happy Warrior by Christopher Bush – 240313

In delirio veritas. The fear of someone with a secret to hide is that the truth will emerge when their subconscious takes over as happens in the thirty-seventh novel in Christopher Bush’s Ludovic Travers, originally published in 1950 and reissued by Dean Street Press. In her feverish state, Alice Stonhill mutters a phrase repeatedly which, when he untangles the homophone it contains, allows Travers, at the second attempt, to unravel the truth and discover who killed Peter Wesslake. It is also another case where a physical characteristic betrays an identity.

In this story Travers is still in a state of limbo, waiting for his mukker, George Wharton, to retire from the Yard and join him in taking over Bill Ellice’s detective agency. To fill in time he helps at the agency and is present, albeit lurking in an ante-room, when Alice Stonhill calls to ask for help, fearing that someone is trying to kill her nephew’s second wife, Camille. There have been a couple of near misses, a shooting incident and a case of poisoning, but cautious Bill, fearful for his agency’s reputation, is reluctant to do anything. However, that does not stop Travers operating in an unofficial basis.

The story is narrated by Travers and falls into four parts. It is only in the fourth part that Wharton makes an appearance as Peter Wesslake’s body has been discovered and the case is now a murder investigation. As a consequence, the tale lacks a little of the usual cut and thrust between the amateur and professional sleuth and when the two do get together Travers is content to take more of a backseat, although, of course, Wharton naturally misinterprets what really happened and Travers is left to save his bacon.

As we are now firmly in the post-war era, some aspects of travel have become easier and some of the action takes place in Denmark where Peter Wesslake is supposed to have gone to attend a conference. Travers’ suspicions that this might be an elaborate alibi are confirmed by what he finds out there. Nevertheless, the signs that Britain is still recovering from the consequences of war are still there as longer-term guests at the Malfroi Arms still have to surrender their ration books.

A curious features of the book is the two references to Aneurin Bevin’s jibe that the Tories are “lower than vermin”. With relatively few notable exceptions, Golden Age detective writers tend to be conservative at heart, often wistfully looking back to an era of country houses, extravagant parties, and legions of servants, and, indeed, the essential premise of a cosy murder mystery is that out of chaos order will be restored. For the moneyed classes, the arrival of a socialist government and a high level of taxation was a source of concern and Bush, more than any other novelist of the genre I have read, seems particularly disturbed by a government that puts the interests of the workers first. He even misrepresents Bevin’s jibe; it was aimed at the Tories’ opposition to the establishment of the NHS – nothing ever changes – rather than the upper classes in general.

The action hots up at the Malfoi Arms where Alice Stonhill is celebrating her eightieth birthday. Camille is attacked and left for dead, Alice discovers an intruder in her room and, some time later, the body of Peter Wesslake is found in the woods. While there are very few credible suspects, in true Bush style, there is a much more intricate plot where an elaborate plan goes awry. Despite a confession, Travers is not convinced that it adds up and persuades Wharton to make a trip to the countryside to confront the Happy Warrior, a character who will fight for what they believe to the last.

The ending is as poignant as it is dramatic and rounds off what is an entertaining story, crisply told and a complex plot that is amongst Bush’s best.      

Power On The Scent

A review of Power on the Scent by Henrietta Clandon – 240307

I seem to be on a random sort of thematic chain at the moment. Having just finished two books that involved a poison despatched by dart I now have two books, of which this is the second, where a wasp, one actual and in this case putative, make an appearance.

Originally published in 1937 Power on the Scent is another novel that John Vahey, better known as Vernon Loder, published under the name of Henrietta Clandon and is one of four novels reissued by Dean Street Press. I found it the weakest of the four for a number of reasons. It reads more as a social comedy than a murder mystery, nothing wrong in that per se, but the detection or gathering of information and clues takes a form of leisurely chats in social settings which, given their lack of variety, get a little tedious.

It also suffers from a lack of focus as there are too many sleuths involved. We have husband and wife detective writing duo who have an interest in criminology, Vincent and Penny Mercer, and Penny acts as narrator, penning her story under the name of Henrietta Clandon, a neat trick. The side of the well-meaning amateurs is completed by Mr Power, a lawyer-cum-detective. For the police we have Inspector Voce and Sergeant Bohm from the Yard and the local police led by Captain Hollick, who resents the presence of amateurs on his patch, and Inspector Hollick, both anxious to avoid local scandals.

Added to that the murder mystery itself is not very compelling. A retired stockbroker, Montague Mercer, is found dead in his own garden, wearing a rose which bears traces of cocaine. Mercer has an allergy to the drug and did he sniff the rose and with it the cocaine, causing his death? And who laced the rose and why? The irony is that Mercer was a famed amateur horticulturist who had developed the particular type of rose, the Rennavy Rose, which he named after his erstwhile secretary and the village’s femme fatale, Mrs Davy-Renny. Mrs Davy-Renny sent the rose to Mercer via her made which had come from a bouquet bought for her by the local policeman, Inspector Kay.

As Power discovers during the course of the investigation, the Rennavy Rose has a particular characteristic which meant anyone who knew about it, especially its creator, would not be disposed to sniff it. The post mortem shows that Mercer had abdominal injuries, which, after the ingestion of a heavy breakfast, were probably serious enough to kill him. This suggests that his death was murder but by whom and why?

Mrs Davy-Renny is the honey pot around whom the local eligible men buzz. Was the murder incited by a lover’s jealousy? And what of the mysterious behaviour of Stibbins, the main beneficiary of his uncle’s will and client of Mr Power, seen snooping around the gardens with a camera?        

The sleuths discover that Mercer was involved in a  dodgy share promoting scheme with Tressey-Withers and that several of the key suspects had had their fingers burned and the expected beneficiaries of Mercer’s estate, Stibbins and Mrs Davy-Renny, are facing a significant reduction in their anticipated legacies. Mr Power, as all lawyers should, he sees justice is done.

As to Mercer’s murder, the death of Jolson, a retired bank manager and a shrinking violet, who owns a boisterous Great Dane, seems to confirm Voce’s suspicions. We are treated to an amusing analysis of the shape of bruising caused by a Great Dane’s and a human’s head, which together with a recollection of how a school bully was dealt with, seems to seal both the culprit and the method. Using a hat in the summer as an ornament for the hand rather than sitting on the head also becomes highly relevant.

The local police’s unwillingness to create waves means that the case fizzles out with a whimper. Clandon’s style is witty, not least in its title, and there some acerbic asides, particularly about the writing industry and some in jokes which with the passage of time lose their bite, but, sadly, it was not a book with which I felt particularly engaged.     

The Sharp Quillet

A review of The Sharp Quillet by Brian Flynn – 240303

After Conspiracy at Angel had been almost universally panned by critics Brian Flynn went back to basics and starts The Sharp Quillet, the thirty-third in his Anthony Bathurst series, originally published in 1947 and reissued by Dean Street Press, with quite a bang. In the prologue there are no less than fifteen bodies, the sex worker who was murdered, the judicial murder of Arthur Rotherham Pemberton who was found guilty of the murder in both the court of first instance and in the Court of Appeal, and then the twelve jurors plus the Clerk of Court for good measure who were killed when an enemy bomb destroyed the restaurant in which they were a post-trial meal. Quite a riposte!

The focus then turns to the Bar Point-to-Point at Quiddington St Philip at which Justice Nicholas Flagon, the favourite to win the race for the third year running, is killed close to the winning post in a most unusual fashion. He has been struck by a pub dart whose tip had been dipped in curare. Flagon had received a death threat on the morning of the race and the dart bore a message referring to a sharp quillet. There are a number of plausible suspects for the murder, including some accomplished darts players, but with the police making little headway, Sir Austin Kemble calls in his A-team, Anthony Bathurst and Chief Detective Inspector MacMorran.

No sooner have the two arrived on the scene, then there is a second murder, this time of Justice Theodore Madrigal, who attending Flagon’s funeral collapsed and died instantaneously, having been struck by a poisoned dart tipped with curare. He too had received a death threat and the dart bore a similar reference to a sharp quillet. Madrigal’s demise clearly meant that there was something that connected the two judges with the killer and that those who only had an animus against Flagon were unlikely to have been the culprits. The focus of the investigation has to be recalibrated.

It is at this point that Bathurst has one of his flashes of inspiration. The working assumption had been that quillet was an archaic term for a dart. However, dredging the depths of his mind, Bathurst recollects that Shakespeare had used the phrase “sharp quillet” in both Henry the Sixth and Love’s Labour’s Lost to indicate a false accusation or a piece of trickery. As the reader has already realised, courtesy of the prologue, Flagon and Madrigal were judges who heard the Pemberton appeal and the connection is cemented when the Lord Chief Justice, Lord Fifoot, the third judge, also receives a death threat.

The pace of the book ramps up as Bathurst develops a high-risk plan that will bait the murderer to show their hand at a dinner over which Fifot is presiding, and allow the authorities to catch them red-handed. The plan goes awry and it is only two pieces of quick thinking from Bathurst that saves Fifoot’s bacon and allows the murderer to be arrested. The sense of urgency is emphasised in the final chapter by the continual reference to the time.

There is very little that is left field or genre-bending in this book. It is an enthralling and intriguing murder mystery that has a very old fashioned feel about it. It could almost have come out of the canon of Conan Doyle and Bathurst’s methodology is more a mix of intuition and elimination than deduction. While allowing the reader to establish a lead of several furlongs over the sleuths at the start with their knowledge of the trial, Flynn turns the tables in the sprint to the finishing line. While there are gentle clues here and there, the identity of the killer came as a bit of a surprise.

Flynn allows some rather large herrings to slip the net and swim off over the horizon, not least Fothergill’s wager with Flagon and the mysterious behaviour of Harcourt on the afternoon of the race. It is in keeping with the structure of the book with characters drifting in and out. One intriguing character to emerge from the shadows is Helen Repton, a female, yes female, member of the Yard who as well as being an extremely able assistant seems besotted by Bathurst who, in his way, seems to reciprocate her feelings.

This is Flynn back at his best, constructing a plot in a porting milieu that with its twists and turns never allows the reader to settle, and producing a fine piece of entertainment. The moral of the story is never meet a sleuth wearing the same clothes as you did when you murdered someone. It gets them thinking.