Allegedly this is considered to be the very first detective book ever written--though I have heard that said of lots of books from all over the world. (Hello Di Gong An, the 18th century collection of stories based on Di Renjie, a county magistate of the Tang court who lived in the 7th century, which was translated into English by Robert van Gulik thereby giving us the amazing Judge Dee books which I discovered about a month after I moved to Arkansas because there is an really good bookstore in Little Rock with a truly excellent mystery section just inside the main entrance of the bookstore. I bought the first Judge Dee book solely on the basis of its cover design. While others recommend that you never judge a book by the cover, I usually do and it usually works out really well for me. So that just goes to show something.) ANYWAY, whether it's the first English detective book or not, The Notting Hill Mystery is very much NOT a "modern police procedural detective novel": the story (published some time during 1862 and 1863 as an eight-part serial in the magazine Once a Week) is a collection of depositions written by Mr. Henderson, a secretary for the Life Assurance Association, and letters and statements Henderson collected as part of his insurance fraud investigation report. And it relies on plot points that no modern mystery writer would get away with now.
The impetus to Henderson's investigation is a claim--well, 5 claims, really--made by Baron R-- (one clue that this isn't a modern novel is that some people have their last names turned into an initial followed by a long dash) for five life insurance claims, each for £5000, for his wife who died mysteriously (horribly, painfully, after an unbelievably protracted series of undiagnosable and untreatable illnesses). Each policy was with a different company and only because these businesses work together did they realize that he had taken out so many policies on his wife just a year before she died.
In the course of his investigation, Henderson quickly comes to the conclusion that Baron R-- killed his wife. So the question is not, did he do it, but HOW did he do it?? (The fact of the multiple life insurance policies certainly explains the why he did it....) But in order to answer that question, we need to go back more than 20 years, to the birth of Mrs. R---, which takes us to the London household of Lord and Lady Boleton who are dearly in love with one another. Lady Boleton--an overly emotional, easily distressed sort of woman--is pregnant and her husband is off traveling to god-knows-where, and he should have returned ages ago, but hasn't. She is certain something TERRIBLE has happened to him as she can "sense" it. And, lo and behold, she is right--the news arrives that he has been killed by robbers (or some sort of collection of bad people while he traveled on the road) and, distraught, she runs out of the house in the middle of the night and collapses on the turf of some sretch of boggy land. She is found hours later by servants who drag her back into the house where she goes into early labor and gives birth to two extremely tiny twin girls--and then conveniently she dies. So we are clear of the Boleton parents.
What happen to the girls? Barely alive (but ridiculously rich), hanging by a thread, they are packed off to live with an elderly aunt who loves them, but is slightly out of her depth. One girl, Gertude, is fair haired and thin but relatively healthy, and the other, "poor Catherine", is "dark, gypsy-like" and sort of runty and sickly. Nonetheless, they adore each other and (it is said repeatedly) have a special way of non-verbally communicating--as if by telepathy. (Another clue that this isn't a modern mystery is the reliance on mental signals/messages to sustain the entire story--very much like a lesser Sir Arthur Conan Doyle story.) Then, as if these girls haven't suffered enough, the aunt hires an idiotic and inattentive nursemiad who takes care of the girls each day for a few hours, which invloves daily walks to a nearby park. And while paying attention to one and not the other, the "dark gypsy girl Catherine" disappears into thin air, never to be seen again. Of course the obvious conclusion is that she was stolen by Gypsies. The police hassle all the gypsies they can find, but no Catherine is recovered. So, Getrude no longer has a twin and no longer has someone with whom she can secretly commune. And for the next 20 odd years vague illnesses beset Gertrude for no reason whatsoever--right as rain one second then at death's door the next. Very eerie!!
Nonetheless, Getrude grows up and marries a Mr. Anderton (stupid name) and they are desperately in love. Apparently Mr. Anderton is the best husband possible, except in one respect: he is a mild-mannered man UNLESS SOMEONE IMPUNES HIS REPUTATION! He can stand a lot but he cannot stand his good name being sullied. Of course insults do not cause him to have a temper, but instead to get melodramatic, despairing and suicidal. Good thing Gertrude is also "sensitive" and is well-experienced in knowing how to talk someone off a ledge. Indeed, both spend a LOT of time talking each other off ledges. Not a marriage that I would like, but it works for them.
So: these childless Andertons travel about England and Europe, resting and relaxing in various stately homes they rent for weeks on end, bringing various servants along with them. All is wonderful except for those pesky mysterious bouts of illness that Getrude suffers from that no ordinary doctor seems to be able to treat. (They all assume it is a form of "cholera" or "gastritus" and give her strong sedatives.) After going to a "show" (the kind that Tin Tin and Captain Haddock go to to see sword swallowers and mind readers), Mr. Anderton decides that MESMERISM is the answer and he asks Baron R--- (yes, that Baron R!!) to come to his home and treat his wife. This so-called "treatment" involves nothing more than Gertrude laying out on a divan/couch sort of thing with her eyes closed and the Baron sitting next to her, holding her hand. He then sends "pulses of energy" into her to heal her--that's the "mesmerism". And, amazingly, she is "cured" and feels fit as a fiddle after only a few minutes! Initially, Mr. Anderton is so grateful he insists that the Baron visit every day for these "treatments". And, initially, Gertrude is also excited. But after some months (!) they both decide that there is something "unseemly" about the whole thing. So Mr. Anderton decides to end the treatments, insisting that Baron R-- leave and never return. Getrude suddenly decides that she "loathes" the Baron so intensely, she cannot stand to even have him in the house, let alone holding her hand while she lays back with her eyes closed. (At this point, I really have no idea what happened--is something sexual taking place while he is holding her hand and sending "pulses" through her body? Her husband is in the room durnig the treatmetns and the Baron isn't even talking to Gertrude--and she is certainly fully clothed. I don't get it.) Despite Mr. Anderton insisting, the Baron will not be put off and offers to "mesmerize" Gertrude "remotely": he has an "assistant" ("Madame R---) who does not speak. (Later we discover that she can speak English and she wants to speak English but isn't permitted if the Baron glares at her with his bulbous, unblinking eyes.) So the Baron and Mr. Anderton go into the far corner of the room where it's dark (why?) and Madame R-- sits next to Gertrude and holds her hand. And--la!!!--the "mesmerism" works even better and Gertrude is suddenly so healthy, she can hardly stand it!
Ok, that's all weird but more importantly, where is this going? Well, there are a lot of mesmerism sessions, a lot of traveling about to various homes in various parts of England, Scotland and then Germany. The only thing of real significance during all this is that the Baron expertly pumps Mr. Anderton for information about Getrude's backstory and Mr. Anderton unwisely reveals that Getrude is a twin whose sister was stolen by gypsies. Seemingly a throwaway comment, it sends Baron into a state of shock so strong, his hands shake and he cataonically stares off into the middle distance for so long his cigar goes out!!
From that point on, Baron R-- "travels around the continent" (though he is in fact seen gadding about in London by various witnesses who are later asked to write letters which make up this novel). And then , after a few weeks free of the Baron, everything goes to hell: Gertrude's bouts of illness get more frequent and more severe she can't eat, can't sleep, and has serious GI distress to the point that she literally wastes away. Mr. Anderton calls every doctor he can get a hold of and all are completely perplexed--each later testifies that the thought of poisoning certainly occured to them but (a) they can't figure out how it could be done since she hadn't eaten or drunk anything in weeks and (b) Mr. Anderton was at her side CONSTANTLY. Ok, Getrude is out of the picture. THEN here comes the Baron, who, while allegedly consoling Mr. Anderton, tells him that it sure looks to everyone like he killed his wife. Well, Anderton can take the death of his wife but he cannot take insults to his reputation. So he kills himself--using the handy bottle of poison the Baron left on Anderton's bedside table.
Ok, that's two deaths. Where is this going? It is all leading up to the mysterious death of Madame R--, the Baron's wife, the silent non-English speaking but actually English speaking woman who was so amazingly able to non-verbally communicate with Getrude. And, yes, Madame R-- dies the exact same death that Getrude did--lots of vomiting, diarhea, cold sweats and sleeplessness for weeks on end until finally her heart gave out. And THAT'S when the Baron applied for payment on all those insurance claims and THAT'S why our intrepid Mr. Henderson the insurance secretary got busy interviewing doctors and servants and neighbors. He quickly comes to these conclusions: (1) Madame R is the long lost "dark gypsy-like" Catherine, Getrude's sickly twin; (2) the Baron discovered the fact of the vast wealth that Getrude inherited from her overly emotional parents; (3) in order to get that wealth (plus the 5 insurance payouts as 5 cherries on 5 sundaes), the Baron had to (a) marry Catherine which required buying her from her circus manager--don't even ask, we can't get into all the weirdness here; (b) kill Getrude; (c) kill Mr. Anderson; (d) kill Madame R/Catherine--in that order!!!; (e) have proof of the identies of the twins and sit back while the money rolls in as the only living heir to the Boleton fortune.
Well! As said above, this is not a modern murder mystery where police sergeants slowly and ploddingly collect plaster casts of footprints, hairs from fabrics and various witness statements but is far more like a Wilkie Collins laudenum-induced fever dream--which means it's interesting, but not exactly intellectually satisfying. And I just can't get past the whole "mesmerism" angle which has to be real, because this "remotely induced sickness" is how the Baron killed his three victims. Even if we buy it, would any court buy it? Or is Baron R-- going to literally get away with murder?
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