A review of This Little Measure by Sara Woods – 251205
The first of a quintet of Anglo-Canadian Sara Woods’ Antony Maitland novels reissued by the enterprising Dean Street Press on December 1, 2025, This Little Measure takes its title from a quotation from Shakespear’s Julius Ceasar – are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils shrunk to this little measure? The family whose reputation is shrunk by the unfolding of the book’s plot is are the Gaskells, shipping magnates, the head of whom, Roderick aka The Pirate King, died six months before the story begins. Although buccaneering in his business approach, there is a puritanical streak running through the family, no more so than in his son and heir, Andrew.
In his will, Roderick adds an intriguing codicil which reads, “To my son Andrew, I leave the problem of the Velasquez. He had made an attempt to buy a Velasquez from a gallery in Liverpool but shortly thereafter it was stolen. It is found in a secret compartment in Roderick’s house and the family bitterly disagree as to whether it should be returned or kept. Before a resolution is arrived at and before Antony Maitland and his uncle, the irascible, no-nonsense QC, Sir Nicholas Harding, have the opportunity to view it, it is stolen once more, only to be found in Roddy’s office, Roddy having been bitterly opposed to Andrew’s plans.
Worse is to follow as shortly after a family dinner at which Andrew indicates that he knows the identity of the thief, the clear implication being that they are around the table, he is found dead, having been poisoned by a strain of aconite in capsules that Roddy was instructed to collect and deliver to him. Then to compound matters, the matriarch of the family, Priscilla, who delights in sitting beneath the portrait of her husband, Roderick, and knowing every little thing that goes on in her family, is also poisoned, Jenny, Antony’s wife, also suffering from the attack. While Priscilla’s dose is fatal, Jenny’s is only enough to hospitalize.
All fingers point to Roddy as the murderer and the thief, but Maitland and Harding are called in to mount his defence, the attack on Jenny causing Antony a moral dilemma, but convinced of Roddy’s innocence, he decides to continue with the brief and redoubles his efforts to find the culprit. There is the inevitable court room drama and the pace of the novel notches up a gear or two as it hurtles to its denouement with a metaphorical bomb being hurled into the courtroom by Antony which has the effect of disclosing the culprit.
Despite it being originally published in 1964, there is a very distinct old-fashioned feel about the novel. The Gaskell family seem to be straight out of central casting, a quasi-Edwardian family stuck in its way, riven by tension, where cousin marries cousin, and operating in its own tiny bubble, oblivious to the changing outside world. There are even servants, even a “sullen parlourmaid pushing a laden trolley” and sandwiches made with anchovy paste. Ah, anchovy paste, a perfect medium in which to disguise the taste of aconite and make a targeted strike as only Priscilla liked them. Jenny was an innocent victim as she tasted one out of politeness.
Indeed, the only nod of the head to modernity is the fact that the crucial witness, who is able to confirm the identity of the aconite used, the hair colour of the person he gave it to and its purpose, flies in covering a distance that would have taken a couple of months to travel by sea. It is a story of rebellion, incipient madness, and neuralgia, which, given its early languor, startles as it rushes to its denouement. Even Sir Nicholas seems a little off colour as he wrestles with an offer he can decline. Nevertheless, although not one of Woods’ best, it is an entertaining enough read, and at least I had the satisfaction of identifying the culprit before the reveal.
Curiously, Woods is at pains to point out that the action takes place before the earlier Trusted Like The Fox, although a reader coming to the book without having followed the series would not be troubled by this knowledge.
I am indebted to Victoria Eade for a review copy.
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