The Magic-Lantern Murders by Carter Dickson

 

After The Unicorn Murders I was hesitant to take on another Carter Dickson book as that one was just too complicated for me: by the time I had reached the end, I had no idea what had and what had not taken place.  And the fact that The Magic-Lantern Murders (published in 1936) features the same two heros as The Unicorn Murders, Ken Blake and Evelyn Cheyne (the spy-world's version of Tommy and Tuppence) only added to my concerns.  But no worry, this was a ripping yarn and I'm giving it two murder weapons up, WAY up!

This story starts with Ken on the day before his marriage to Evelyn--both having wanted to get married for ages but the over-involvement of Evelyn's parents delayed things as they had strong views about what was necessary for The Perfect Day (big church, famous chaplain, important wedding party participants, expensive food and outfits...). We find ken packing up his things, getting ready to head for London, when he gets an awkwardly coded telegram from H.M. (who is still in "Intelligence" at this point in his career) instructing Ken to head out to Torquay under the alias of "Butler". (Or is he instrucing Ken to act like HM's butler?)  Ken wires back an forceful message, clearly informing HM that he had no interest in going to Torquay or anywhere else as he is going to London so he can participate in a wedding dinner this evening and get married tomorrow morning. Well, HM doesn't give a flying fig about weddings and no one tells HM no, not even Ken--and with the national security of England hanging in the balance, HM promises Ken he can take care of business this evening and be back into London by 10:30 am tomorrow--PLENTY of time to get cleaned up, dressed and on the church steps in time for an 11:00 ceremony.  Ken is skeptical but decides to leave it in Evelyn's hands--if she doesn't mind, he won't mind.  And she doesn't--she doesn't even want a big church wedding and is looking for any excuse to elope.  She encourages Ken to get to work and promises to smooth things out with the wedding party--only to put the phone down and head out to Torquay herself to get in on the excitement.

So what is going on in Torquay that has HM all in a state?  Well, it isn't immediately clear: he's staying at the home of a retired frenemy (the status of their frenemy-ship hasn't retired, but the frenemy has recently retired from working for the government and so from making HM's life needlessly difficult) who has concerns about a German neighbor, Hogenaur, who claims that he is putting the finishing touches on mastering the ability of mind-induced teleportation.  Crank or German physicist gathering English military secrets all while pretending to be a crank? We don't know. And if that isn't suspicious enough, Hogenaur has daily klatsch sessions with another physicist, Keller (who is also German), who is also involved in military weapon development. (Or is he?) (And why were so many important scientists allowed to work in laboratories in their country homes which have no locking windows or doors?)  Ok, all very good, but what does that have to do with Ken, he wants to know?  Well, explains HM, they (he and his frenemy, Colonal Charters), want Ken to break into Hogenaur's home and see what he's been up to. At this point, Charters hands him a massive supply of house-breaking and lock picking tools--none of which it turns out he needs because (a) the house isn't locked and (b) Hogenaur is dead as a doornail having drunk enough strynchnine to kill 10 people. Ok, well that takes care of that, right?  No. Because hiding in a closet in the room in which Hogenaur died is Mrs. Altrim, another neighbor, who claimed she got stuck inside when she tried to flee the room but the doorknob broke off.  So why was she there and why did she "flee" into a closet? Because, she claims, she was trying to retrieve the strychnine that she had given to Hogenaur by mistake (!) when he went to consult her husband (who is a physician who keeps massive bottles of strychnine unlocked in his "consulting room" in his house, which is just next to Charters' house) and she wanted to retrieve it before Hogenaur took it by mistake.  Sure, that makes a lot of sense. Meanwhile, while Ken was breaking into Hogenaur's house, a character named Serpos (who was working for Charters) broke into Charters' house safe and stole giant fistfulls of £100 that he stuffed into a black valise and was last seen in Charter's car heading for the train station. So assured that HM and Charters will call the police, Ken is ordered to bring Mrs. Antrim back with him to be questioned by Charters and HM, and then to head to the train station to catch up with Serpos--but also, then, to head out to to Keller's hotel room in Bristol, break in, and see what he's been up to as he was expected to visit Hogenaur that very evening that Hogenaur died.

So the local police start arriving and assume that Ken, who is running at top speed towards the train station so he can finish this damned business and get back to London to get married, is either the thief or a murderer or both. And the chase begins! At this point, the book turns into a blend of the very best Cary Grant movies: a mix of North by Northwest and Charade with a bit of Michael Redgrave ala The Lady Vanishes thrown in (because of the train ride). I can't possibly lay out in a coherent manner all the escapades that ensue, but it includes: Ken running into Serpos (who has disguised himself as a chaplain) in the train station bathroom as both are hiding from police while waiting for the train to Bristol to arrive--beats and ties up Serpos, steals his clothes and black valise, and questions him. Ken then (now a chaplain on the run), races to the train and jumps on as it speeds out of the station.  He finds Evelyn--sick with worry about him on the train with an identical black valise filled with a more appropriate outfit for him. They hug and smooch and whisper a few suggestive comments only to realize they have shocked their compartment mates--an American who knows way too much about what they are up to and a chaplain who is extremely offended by Ken's lack of reverency for the cloth to the point that he storms off to get the ticketmaster, insisting that Ken be tossed off the train. Meanwhile, who is the American? Mr. Johnson Stone.  And what's his angle?  He says he has no angle as he's in England on vacation to visit his daughter--but it turns out he actually knows a lot about Hogenaur and another character who goes by "L"--a notorious spy who has never been caught and who is (according to Hogenaur) working in England and after Hogenaur's secrets.  But Johnson claims L is dead and encourages both Ken and Evelyn to give up on their ridiculous japes. Into all this the chaplain comes back and demands that the ticketmaster examine Ken's valise which he is convinced contains salacious materials. Nope, only clothes that Evelyn has brought.  But, insists Ken, let's see inside YOUR valise--and opens up the one he actually did bring on the train--lettting thousands of pound notes loose to fly around the room and out the open windows.  Into this chaos, they arrive in Bristol and jump off the train befor the ticketmaster can collect his thoughts.

Ok, now on to the Bristol hotel to speak to Keller.  Nope, can't do that as dead--died of strychnine overdose, too, at exactly the same second Hogenaur did. Ok...and then in their hotel room arrives two over zealous hotel workers with one revolver between them that hasn't seen action since WWI who (a) recognized the money Ken used to pay for the room as counterfeit (wait--so Serpos stole fake money--is that even a crime?), (b) don't believe that Ken and Evelyn were a professor and secretary as claimed, and (c) they didn't have an appointment with Keller at 2 am as alleged. If they are this mad about the little lies Ken and Evelyn told, imagine what they'll do when they discover Keller's corpse and that Ken and Evelyn broke into his room to search Keller's paper! And into all THAT, in steps that mysterious Mr. Johnson again who, with his son who is a detective, manages to hustle Ken and Evelyn out of the hotel, into a car, and head back to Torquay just as the sun is rising.  It really doesn't look like Ken and Evelyn are going to get to a church in London by 11 am....

Waiting for them is HM who has assembled all the suspects (Serpos, Mr and Mrs Antrim, Borrows (Hogenaur's servant), and Sergeant Davis (a police officer who has been working for HM for weeks, keeping an eye on all the relevant households in the area). While interrogating each, HM encourages his team (Ken, Evelyn, Johnson, and Charters) to place bets on who they think the guilty party is. Each picks someone different. But even if someone is guilty, guilty of what--both Keller and Hogenaur took the strychnine themselves and it seems that Mrs. Antrim didn't even give them strychnine but sodium bromide to help them fall asleep. And is L alive or not and, if he is alive, who is he and where is he and what is he doing?  And were Keller and/or Hogenaur involved in military weapon development--for England or Germany or anyone else---or not?  I won't give any spoilers but: (a) yes, serious crimes were committed that would have destablized the English government if not prevented; and (b) HM solves all the mysteries leaving plenty of time to get to London by car with Ken driving like a demon on 0 hours of sleep...YET, despite all best efforts, Ken and Evelyn do not have a church wedding that neither wants.  

An incredibly exciting, sweet and funny novel--and I'm going to say it again: it's a damned crying shame that Alfred Hitchcock didn't turn this into a movie.

Garden Update

 It begins...

Yesterday I noticed these hiding among the leaves.  According to YouTube experts, yellow zuchini should be picked when they are 4-6" long so I missed that window.  I'm not sure how I could have caught them as they didn't exist yesterday. The tiny orange/clemantine (or whatever it claims to be) is there for size comparison:

The Smoky Life

It's now an annual thing that Canada gets blanketed with wildfires and that the US gets blowback, but for the first time it's actually reached Flint.  Starting late last afternoon there were hurricane warnings and while other places got the exciting stuff, like giant hail, we just got winds that ushered in all the smoke, so that if you step outside everything smells like Bonfire Night (pleasant, but unhealthy).  Here are some photos I took to try to capture the haze.  Also included, lots of shots of them finally knocking down Flint Central High School.

(Bragging rights if you knew where the title of this post comes from.)

Garden Update--I stand corrected

Yesterday I wrote that the garden was creating nothing but leaves and chewed up stems.  Well, last night I conducted a close examination (despite the heat) and found THESE:

Here is CLEARLY the start of a watermelon (about 3/8" diameter) that I am going to hover over attentively every hour on the hour until it grows up into a real watermelon.

And here is an anemic looking squash of some sort--either a yellow or green zuchini, I'd guess.  I thought it was a soggy blossom until I poked it.  It's pretty soft at this point, sort of like a butterfly just out of a chrysalis.  And certainly not appetizing looking.  But it may develop into something worth thinking about yet.

Garden Update

It's been uncomfortably hot the past week and today it got a lot worse: it was in the mid 70s F during the night last night and now it is (according to weather.com) 99F.  In theory it will rain a bit on Friday and that should cool things down a bit--but it will still be hot.  Everything is still alive in the yard but nothing is producing anything but a lot of leaves.  

This is a squash or pumpkin or melon of some sort.  I have no idea since I bought all the seedlings months ago and then tossed the little plastic ID sticks away because I assumed I would remember.  And I would, if it was 70F outside and not 99F.  I just like to see those little vines gripping tightly to the jute trellis net I put up--everything working exactly as it should:

I do remember that is a watermelon plant--the one with the leaves that look a bit like oak tree leaves.  While I see plenty of blossoms on the various squash plants, I see no blossoms on the watermelon--and other people online are already talking about how to tell when the watermelon is ripe enough to pick. I know Michigan had a crazy cold spring, but I am starting to feel a bit cheated.

And, yes, the ground hog has been back, reducing this squash plant to a few leafless stumps.  I see that the plant sent out new leaves immediately--that one right in the middle, almost at the bottom of the picture, appeared overnight. So far, since I have tossed around hundreds of garlic cloves, the ground hog has not eaten anything aside from this plant. I hate to wish ill upon a hapless ground hog but I really do hope it has moved on either to another garden or a garden in the great beyond.

And finally, I gave up and bought cosmos seedlings and they are doing especially well. I used to buy sachets of cosmos seeds because they are advertised as being "foolproof" for getting millions and millions of flowers.  I have never, ever had a single one produce ANYTHING.  So, finally, I broke down and bought 20 or so teeny seedlings in a tray from WoJos (a nearby mom-pop nursery that I have concluded is better than Bordines) in April or so and now I am sold: making them do the work of germinating the seeds and paying $1 per plant is the only way to go for me from now on. What's nice about these plants (if you can get them to live) is that they love heat and produce hundreds of flowers all summer long. And they take up little space so can be planted among other things like tomatos. In theory they are "self seeders" but I don't believe it.

They Never Looked Inside by Michael Gilbert

This is the second book written by Gilbert, and it again features Inspector Hazlerigg.  Only this story places Hazlerigg on his home turf in London. We get to meet various people he works with--all competent (Gilbert doesn't go for knocking the police in his novels--all are reliable and quick-thinking and none are on the take) and work together like a well-oiled machine.  We also meet for the first time Major McCann, the Scottish ex-soldier we met in Death Has Deep Roots. I wrote in that blog that it was unclear why he was part of the investigation or what exactly his relationship with the father/son Rumbold lawyer team is. Well, this story makes clear how McCann goes from having too much time on his hands as an ex-soldier to working 20 hour days for Scotland yard as an emissary to the British military.  (The next book I have set out to read is The Doors Open which, according to the brief blurb on the back of the book, features "Nap" Rumbold, Rumbold the Younger. So once we get through that book, the whole gang will be assembled and their connections in Death Has Deep Roots will makes sense retroactively.)

This book was published in 1948 and was set in that time period, so WWII is officially over and soldiers are being de-mobbed and so are hanging around in London with no good job prospects and too much time on their hands.  Gilbert makes pretty clear how bad the economy in London was at that time: a lot of businesses and houses blown to bits leaving the supply chains unreliable and finding a place to live nearly impossible.  As a result, a lot of people are alive only because they are selling on a sort of gray market--selling goods and services in the wee hours without a license (not just selling alcohol and "cigarettes" made of random dried greenery but also selling meals, bakery, clothing, running a hair salon that only receives clients between 2 am to 4 am, renting rooms to tenants in odd spaces in attics and basements--spaces that are unsuitable for housing and so in violation of codes. Into all this sort of petty larceny you have the big time swindlers who are in the game for serious money, and who don't take kindly to people nosing around--it is this sort of racket that interests our Inspector Hazelrigg.  

I'm going to be honest: I don't completely understand exactly what the racket this novel concerns is.  I do know that there is a seriously evil person at the top of a pyramid (who has at least 5 aliases) and under him a handful of guys (none of whom know each other and each of whom answers to, let's use one of his aliases Mr. Brown, only by telephone).  Each of those guys recruits a team of guys whose job is to sit in various diners in the final hour before closing.  They wait for a young men (17 to early 20s, desperate for money and willing to engage in risk) to sit with them to be given an assignment.  These assignments amount to breaking into business safes and stealing whatever is there: money, bonds, jewelry, anything. Once they have the goods they drop it off at an appointed abandoned building. If the thieves have been tailed, the stuff is simply left to be found by the cops.  If the kids get away clean, someone else swings by to make a pick up and up the chain it goes.

The real secret of this operation is that it uses these low-level theives a few times--they are, effectively, disposable, so there is no risk of them ever learning too much about the operation.  And, since the business brings in unimaginable wealth, they don't sweat small losses because some guy happened to be at work late and interrupted an attempted breaking and entry.  All wins, no losses.

So far, this all sounds like a pretty typical mobster sort of operation, just one that has available a lot of desperate and damaged soldiers who are willing and able to break and enter.  But this is where it gets really strange and beyond my understanding: The real prizes are jewelry but NOT to sell as that would be too risky. Instead, the idea is to collect precious metals and jewels and melt them down and turn the gold into solid bars.  But that's not all!  Those bars are divvied up into small piles (say, 5 or 10 bars), and hidden inside military equipment, like canteens. THEN, the canteens are given to a random soldiers waiting to be sent back to France for various clean up tasks.  (British soldiers who stayed in the military for the paycheck were sent back to France, Italy and Germany to help hold things together while cities were being looted--plots of other Gilbert books.)  These soldiers gather in London and then get sent over to France on boats and from there, sent on trains to various locations. While in the port in France, they had to hang around for a few hours or days, awaiting orders. And that time spent waiting around is the perfect times for someone who is part of a massive black market racket to give these guys £20 for the "canteen" they carried over on the boat for a "friend."  They soldier thinks he's bringing over cigarettes--strictly speakig not allowed but everyone is doing it--when in fact he is participating in a massive international black market scheme.

But who is buying all this gold? APPARENTLY there were still people throughout Europe who used to be titled (Countesses, Marcheses, Czarinas, or whatever) who sewed baubles and bling into their clothes as they escaped from being killed by communists and anti-royalty Nazis. And now they want money--lots of it. But since the politics is still anti-royalty throughout Europe, they do not want to be associated with the loot of a thousand slave mines. So they sell their wares to men connected to Mr. Brown (though never Mr. Brown himself--no one sees that guy) in exchange for gold bars which are always be useful in any situation. THEN, and this is the cherry on top, they sign a notarized paper that testifies they sold the item in question 10 years earlier to a "friend who is a jeweler" in London BEFORE THE WAR BROKE OUT.  Of course this document is fraudulent, but what auction house in London can be arsed to verify a notarized certificate from some backwater town in bombed out Hungary?  They don't REALLY want to find out that the jewels they are selling for 10s of millions of pounds had been acquired illegally.  They just want a piece of paper they can use as a shield in case a lawyer starts poking around. And how do the rubies and emeralds get out of Italy and into London?  In the canteens of British soldiers being sent  back home who have been asked to take "cigarettes to a friend" who will meet them in the port in London. So easy!  

I guess it makes sense.  But I think it's one of those things that you had to be there to really appreciate.  It's hard to care that ex-royalty (at least in Germany there were no real royalty post-WWII as one of the first things Hitler did was make all royal titles illegal) are in a bind because they can't unload a ton of jewelry that other people died to supply them with. And it's hard to care that people are sneaking stuff into London to sell at inflated prices at fancy-pants auctions houses without paying import taxes....And it's hard to care that little old ladies are giving other old ladies hairdos at 2 am because they can't afford to renew their hairdresser's license...

So is this a good book?  Well, as always, the characters are engaging and the dialog snappy. Was I happy when the good guys caught The Bad Guy? Yes, because the good guys are pleasant company and The Bad Guy (Mr. Brown) really was unpleasant.  But what I really want to know is his backstory.  And how does one go about setting up such a business?  Is he like the arctic shrew Mr. Big in Zootopia who immigrates to the big city as a young shrew and ruthlessly clawed his way to the top, running the biggest mobster organization in the city all while listening to the velvety pipes of Jerry Vole? We'll never know.

  

Close Quarters by Michael Gilbert

I wish this was the cover of the copy of my book as currently available editions are HIDEOUS--so hideous, in fact, I cannot bring myself to include the image in this blog entry.  (I have no idea what the phrase "guilt-edged security" means.  Or is it "quilt-edged security"?)

This book is Gilbert's first novel, published in 1947 though set in 1937.  This only reason to set it back 10 years is, I believe, to provide a story utterly untarnished by WWII.  The location is inside a "close" (hence the name of the book) and is very much like a 1930s Agatha Christie novel: the community of characters all live inside this church close which is closed to outsiders and lack any sort of modern technology--they don't have phones, weapons (other than walking sticks) and have to get help by running around town looking for a policeman on duty. While perhaps overly quaint, it's easy to see the appeal of such an approach--which is becoming increasingly common in movies and television shows now: they are either set in the 1970s so no one has cell phones or gps (so people can get lost, need to ask for directions and so on) and there is no Big Brother surveillance system taking over old-fashioned police work OR they are set in a current time but in a location that (rather artificially) cuts them off from all modern life (as in on an island or in the middle of the outback in Australia).  

This story is set inside a "residential close" (I am going to have to just accept that such things exist as they most certainly do not in this country) which has a church in the middle that is circled by 17 residences of varying sizes that house various Reverend Canons, Reverends who are not Canons, musical/choral directors, first, second and third "vergers" (I'm not sure what those people do--sort of lower level teachers and youth ministers by all accounts), a Dean, a groundskeeper and his family, various housekeepers who live with various Canons and Vergers, and wives and children if they are still alive and around. Surrounding all these residences is a 12' wall that has only two entrances, both of which have gates that lock at exactly 7 pm and after that time, the only way in is by yelling for the groundskeeper (or one of his 4 or 5 children who act as lookouts and see all) who can unlock the gate--but only until 11 pm. If you are late getting back from the pub or the cinema, you have to sleep somewhere else. The question of whether or not someone could climb over the wall is firmly rejected: they would need at least one 12' ladder (or, better two, one for each side of the wall) and the bobby on the beat would see them on the outside and the old ladies who spend all their free time curtain twitching would see them on the inside. So...all crimes must be committed by people who live inside the close.  That doesn't narrow the options much as that comes to about 50 people (closer to 35 once we eliminate the small children and fragile elderly).  

Our story begins from the point of view of the Dean.  My sense is that he is "in charge" but only in the sense that he is responsible for schedules and budgets.  He's middle aged (his two children are in their late 20s) and a widower. It's late at night and the Dean is having trouble falling asleep--it's one of those stormy evenings where it's hot, heavy and there is no breeze.  It feels like rain is on its way, but not coming fast enough.  The Dean is tossing and turning, trying to find the cool side of the pillow (as the kids say nowadays) thinking over the recent troubling events taking place in the close.  There has been a rash of unpleasant anonymous letters sent to various people in the close, all stating that Canon Appledown is over the hill, incompetent, past his prime, or, more embarrassing, accusing him of being lecherous (even though he's almost 80 and is in bed by 9 pm). On the one hand, the Dean doesn't take the letters seriously but, on the other, he is aware that they are creating a nasty mood within the close which fosters gossip, suspicions and accusations--and also scheming and morbid curiosity because no one actually likes Canon Appledown. And then the Dean realizes he feels real dread and panic and can't figure out why until he remembers that it was almost exactly three years ago that the universally beloved Canon Whyte fell off the ledge of the church tower, down onto the paving stones and made a real mess. Of course it was an accident as Whyte was no spring chicken but insisted that he needed to gallivant all over the upper spires to examine the architecture features and carved statues that date back to the 1400s.  Whyte was enthusiastic about the church's history and guided tourists up to extremely worrisome heights--so of course, Whyte must have just slipped and fell. The Dean assures himself that there is no reason to believe that anything untoward happened to him. Nonetheless...

Finally, the storm breaks, the rain lashes, the temperatures drop and the dean falls into a blissful sleep--only to be woken up by the groundskeeper stating, "You'd better come see this."  This time, it's a hateful message spray painted on the inside of the close wall. Well, this isn't going to quell the gossip.  And the dean has to admit that it's finally time to call in some experts as it seems pretty clear that this person isn't going to stop and things may get a lot worse before they get better.

Then, the dean has a brainwave: he remembers that his favorite sister is the parent of his favorite nibling (the current term for "niece and/or nephew"), Bobby, who is employed as an investigator at Scotland Yard!  The dean can simply invite young Bobby (who, to the dean's surprise, turns out to be a full grown man with job experience and good training) for a brief visit during which he can casually mention the problem.  Then, either Bobby will tell him not to worry or handle the whole matter.  

Young Bobby, hereafter referred to as Sergeant Pollack, agrees to stay for a weekend.  He doesn't think things are too terrible, but also that the letters should not be dismissed. He makes a map of the close and gets a list of its occupants and tries to puzzle out who has an axe to grind and the time to get 50 miles out of town to mail letters every other day.  At this point, the groundskeeper enters with another, "You'd better come see this." Only this time, it isn't rude graffiti but a dead body: Canon Appledown has been cracked on the back of the noggin and is dead as a doornail.

Well, that certainly changes things!  Pollack is invested but also aware that he has no authority. He calls up his supervisor, our intrepid Chief Inspector Hazlerigg (previously seen in Smallbone Deceased) and presents the lay of the land.  Hazlerigg is definitely interested in the idea of a small town murder over the big time crime he sees in London and agrees to head out to lead the case.  He also immediately sees that working with the local police will have real advantages as locals aren't going to tell anything to any fancy pants investigators from London Town. So after Hazlerigg and Pollack buy the defensive local chief of police a few pints, the chief thaws and actually gets excited about co-leading a murder case with Scotland Yard.  

The corpse is examined and we are told that (a) no woman is strong enough to have committed the deadly act (a bit artificial, but I'll overlook it) and (b) based on witness testimony, the murder had to have taken place between 8:00 pm and 8:05 pm.  Well, that should simplify matters.  The middle section of the book proceeds nicely: a lot of interviewing of all the people inside the close--all of whom are lying about something or other--and it quickly becomes clear that either no one committed the murder or everyone was in on it together and established alibis nestled inside of alibis for one another.  

Then, and this is probably the best part of the story, several elderly canons separately form their own opinions about whodunnit, and each decides to follow their suspects over hill and dale, all while trying to look inconspicuous.  Add in a dozen or so police officers tailing each of them, then mix in several  taxis drivers ordered to "Follow that car!!" and you have the perfect set up for great slap stick comedy---why hasn't this been turned into a movie, I ask?  

But, all good things must come to an end and our murderer gets panicky, perhaps feeling the long arm of the law and a bunch of nosy Canons getting to close for comfort, and another dead body appears--and this time, it's not an annoying old Canon that no one is sad to see go but a universally beloved character who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time and, worse, didn't even know that what they knew was incriminating. I have mixed feelings about this ploy: on the one hand, it falls into the category of "nasty" and I don't like "cozy murder mysteries" getting nasty. On the other, it does provide the necessary impetus that the characters needed so they would stop with the cops and robbers amateur hour. And NOW, finally, they sheepishly admit their alibis were all lies intended to cover up silly indiscretions and tell the truth so the police can actually get on with their job. Not only do we have to throw out all our previous theories (because no one was where they said they were and no one actually saw anything they claimed to but they did see other things they didn't admit to seeing) and begin from scratch. And we find out that the Dean's uneasy late night worries were right: Canon Whyte's death was no accident. And we only discover the backstory of his death when two Canons who believe they dislike each other are forced to work together (and in so doing become fast friends) and unravel seriously complicated clues hidden in a homemade crossword puzzle Whyte created and hid inside a book for them to find "some time after he died". (And, yes, the crossword puzzle clues and grid are included in the book and if you are so inclined, you can work it out yourself ahead of the characters in the novel. I was reading this at 1 am last night and didn't have the energy, but it's a nifty plot device.)

This book is well worth the read.  I just hope whoever does seek out a copy finds a better looking one than the one I have.

The Night of the Twelfth by Michael Gilbert

 

I thought I had read all the really good books written by Gilbert and was going to simply be working through his others because I am, as Simon always tells me, a "completist."  Surely there is no way he could write a better book than those I had already read.  But was I wrong!  

The Night of the Twelfth, published in 1976, is now out of print--which is so odd because it's amazingly well written.  I'm just repeating myself at this point but Gilbert really is a special sort of genius when it comes to writing breezy prose that is quickly paced while at the same time develops the story slowly and carefully. And despite the fact that there are 20-odd significant characters, they are very distinct individuals with their own voice.  

I don't want to give too much away as the story is too enjoyable to risk spoilers with an overly developed overview, but I can describe the basic idea: the story takes place in Surrey County which (in this world) is populated by a lot of tiny villages that are connected by many, many minor roads that weave between woods, quarries (like in Dr. Who) and farms. This geography is important as it means that a terrible person who is familiar with the landscape can find many places just off an empty road to do evil acts but then pop back into their car and evade capture by disappearing into a maze of windy roads. The evil deeds in question are kidnapping boys (preteens) while they walk home from after school events, bundling them up into the trunk of a car, driving to a nearby but well hidden drive or field, sadistically torturing them, and then leaving the dead body to be found (maybe) some time later.  This horrible scene plays out within the first few pages so we know we are in for seriously upsetting stuff right from the get go. But, despite the awful nature of the crimes taking place, the book does not descend into morbid horror the way so many more recently published mystery books do (looking at you, Jo Nesbo, who gives us nasty, horrible stories that make you want to take a hot soapy shower after reading).  Perhaps because of the quick pacing of the story and use of humor to develop all the various characters, it seems like the book is getting something importantly done rather than cynically belaboring cruelty.

Ok, enough about the crimes.  The story unfolds by taking us into two separate groups of people.  One is the police (local "constabularies", some of whom are smart and reliable and some doing time until their retirement kicks in next month) and undercover Scotland Yard investigators on loan to help out.  But even better than the usual plaster footprint casts and witness interviewing, we see an amazing net of assistants collected who report to the police to ensure they can catch the guilty party.  They are night owls (astronomers, insomniacs, 3rd shift workers getting home before dawn, bird watchers and so on) who take up posts at various important road intersections and remain on the look out for a specific make and model of car.  And it works! (As one inspector notes, once you tell someone you need their help catching someone who sadistically tortures a child, even hardened criminals step up and do their part.) So much more satisfying than AI generated reports scraped from flock cameras....

The other characters are all found at Trenchard House, a private school (smack dab in the middle of all the sites where murdered boys have been found) for boys from around 7 years old (they get to sleep with teddy bears) to until 14 or so (they are not allowed teddy bears). When we meet the teachers they are complaining that the few days they had off from teaching because of a serious lice infestation at the school was a far too brief break and they are debating the (dis)value of beating boys to maintain discipline. Some are strongly in favor because "back in their day" boys were beaten all the time and they turned out just fine.  Others are strongly opposed because beating "just creates fascists and don't we have enough of those in the world already?"  Good points on both sides but the issue is moot because the headmaster, Fairfax (nicknamed "Connie") by all the boys, prohibits all physical punishments. The rule carved in granite is that teachers can impose "demerits" and if the student gets two demerits in one day, they get sent to the headmaster's office and he gets to decide if whapping the kid with a stick is warranted. (It turns out it rarely is as imposing menial custodial tasks that prevent the kid from getting to do fun things after school hours is very effective at stopping obnoxious behaviors.)  As is expected, the teachers all get along well enough but do not actually like each other all that much, and each is vaguely suspicious that none of the others actually does their job all that well.  To underscore that point, one of the teachers, Mr. Morrison, just had a "nervous breakdown" and is "taking a break" (which seems to involve hiking in Switzerland and reading a lot of good books). And suddenly there are two new "teachers", both of whom have guns with silencers hidden in their bedrooms. How do we know this?  Because the oldest boys (there are only three of them and they share a bedroom which is on the highest floor of an old tower) spend every evening looking out their bedroom windows and spying on all the teachers as they sneak out after hours, one to get to a pub to get drunk, one to get to his "lady friend's house", one to "go walking," and another who "takes photos".  And it turns out that the two new guys spend at least three hours every night patrolling the borders of the school property. Very interesting.

We learn about the characters by popping in and out of every classroom, eavesdropping in on the conversations between the students and their teachers when the students don't want to work and ask ridiculous questions to derail the lessons. (Such as: "G.G. [nickname for carpentry teacher] is a real hero, right?"--a question that prompts their classics teacher to, yet again, angrily lecture on the Ancient Greek notion of "hero" as it contrasts with the "perverted notion of heroism" one sees everywhere in today's society as when football players are regarded as role models...He's not wrong.)  

As in all Gilbert's stories, we are allowed to do our detecting because we are privy to all the relevant conversations but we aren't able to actually solve the mystery (and so unable to avoid more horror) because our two secret police/teachers withhold vital clues from us. The question isn't who did it but how to prove it without risking another horrible murder. Fortunately we get the benefit of a wise psychologist (not the sort of "counselor" with an MA in "communications" that we all have to suffer these days) who tells us the true nature of sadism and the hidden motives of the sadist. It turns out this is no sexual pervert we are dealing with but someone who gets pleasure from making a vulnerable person cry. Really, really terrible and all too recognizable--which is, I believe, the point of the novel. Rather than give us a community of normal people within which a pervert desperately tries to stay hidden, we are provided a sea of minor sadists, each of whom for one reason or another, has a moment during which they would be really happy making this or that person suffer.