E. O. Parrott. The Dogsbody Papers (1988)

      E. O. Parrott. The Dogsbody Papers (1988) I gave the is book to Jon in 1994. As expected, it showed no signs of use: Jon can read a book without leaving a trace, not even smudges from dirty thumbs.
     The title describes the contents, but not the angles taken by the several contributors. Apparently many of the most significant events in history were caused by misunderstood comments or instructions, sometimes issued by, and sometimes to, a Dogsbody. Dogsbodies had relatives in other countries, too. In Normandy, there were the Corps du Chien, for example. But wherever they lived, they derailed, redirected, or otherwise changed history in unexpected ways. These records unfortunately confirm that it made no real difference. Human chicanery, lust, greed, hypocrisy, and bloodymindedness inevitably triumph. Bah! **½ (2007)

Ngaio Marsh. Colour Scheme (1943)

 

     Ngaio Marsh. Colour Scheme (1943) A war book, in many ways a propaganda book. Spying happens at a badly run resort in southern New Zealand. Then there’s a murder. Alleyn, who’s spending a good part of the war assisting the New Zealanders on security matters, presents himself as a guest, solves the puzzle, and quietly melts into the background. The book focusses on the hapless British middle-class expats, the Maoris (somewhat sentimentalised to modern sensibilities, but not at all so conceived or perceived in 1943), the temperaments of actors, the clash of sensibilities, the effects of shyness, and so on. Social comedy, in other words, and well done. The murder and its solution are almost perfunctory, and for the most part are used to further illuminate character, and so comment on the society they form. Thoroughly enjoyable. **½ (2007)

Ngaio Marsh. Artists in Crime (1938)

      Ngaio Marsh. Artists in Crime (1938) This is the book in which Alleyn meets Troy. They are sailing from Suva on the same ship, and he surprises her painting the dock as the ship moves out. He likes what he sees, but she misunderstands his interest, and bristles, so Alleyn misunderstands. When a few weeks later Alleyn must attend a spectacularly gruesome and ingenious murder at Troy’s class for painters, the misunderstandings multiply. Alleyn solves the puzzle, with the usual help from Fox, Bailey, and Thompson. We meet his mother, too, and get several scenes showing what a marvellous mum she is, as well as a very smart lady. She approves of Troy, in part because Alleyn bought her portrait of himself which she had painted on the ship.
     Marsh’s penchant for social comedy appears more strongly here than in earlier books. The opening act, the journey from Suva, includes a nicely sharp-clawed portrait of a spoiled and self-centred Hollywood actress, and seems to have been written as much to make satiric points about such females as to introduce us to Troy, and Alleyn’s sudden (and beautifully rendered) love for her. The case itself affords more opportunities to show Alleyn and Troy’s progressive entanglement with each other, each afraid that the other will mistake motives and emotions, and so each unable to trust their perceptions. The story ends happily for them, but one does wonder (briefly) what the effects of the murder will be on the other people involved.
     The murderer is another self-centred woman, but not a silly one. While the actress was merely vain, the painter is a psychopath. The puzzle is well done and fairly presented: an alert reader could solve it. I’m not an alert reader, I’m more interested in characters and atmosphere than clues. All the same, I often divine the culprit, though I can’t give a coherent proof of guilt. In this case, I spotted the murderer just before Alleyn unmasked her. However, I thoroughly enjoyed the book. *** (2007)

Ngaio Marsh. Killer Dolphin (1966)

    

  Ngaio Marsh. Killer Dolphin (1966) US title of Death at the Dolphin, with internal evidence of some textual changes, for example, “torch” printed in italics: it looks like the typesetter didn’t replace that word with “flashlight.”
    
Most of the book is about the Theatre, specifically The Dolphin, a derelict building that almost kills playwright-director Peregrine Jay when he goes to view it. A mysterious stranger who rescues him turns out to be the owner, who then agrees to renovate the old building and underwrite its operation. A glove, allegedly made by John Shakespeare for his grandson Hamnet, and a couple of documents (one of them in W. S.’s own hand) that attest to its authenticity figure in the plot. Jay writes a play about W. S., which opens the new Dolphin, and is a huge success. An attempt at stealing the relics goes awry, an elderly watchman dies, and an obnoxious child actor barely survives being tossed over the balcony rail.
     Alleyn is brought in early to “advise” on the security arrangements around the display of
the Shakespearean relics, and appears briefly to solve the puzzle, but as in many of Marsh’s later books, the police work and detecting are there for formula’s sake only. She loved the theatre, was an accomplished playwright herself, and was damed for her services to the New Zealand theatre. Over half the book deals with the realisation of Peregrine’s vision, the casting and directing of the play, and the workings of show business. Nicely done, and very entertaining. ***  (2007)

Dorothy L. Sayers. Lord Peter. Compiled by James Sandow (1972)

     Dorothy L. Sayers. Lord Peter. Compiled by James Sandow (1972) All the Lord Peter stories in one volume, together with a decent introduction by a loyal fan, an essay about Sayers’ literary and scholarly career by another loyal fan, and a nicely done satire by E. C. Bentley, (whose Trent’s Last Case was itself a pastiche of various ‘tec stories). Most of the stories present Peter in his earlier, Woosterish version, but about halfway through, his later more adult persona appears. The last story, unpublished before this book but republished since then, shows Peter and Harriet as parents to three very boyish boys, playing host to an offensively self-righteous guest full of modern theories of child rearing, theories which still cause mischief today.
      I like the universe in which Lord Peter lives and moves and has his being. It’s civilised, which means it covers the dark side with a hopeful appearance of mutual respect and fellow feeling, an appearance that in some people and places becomes reality, if only intermittently. Of course, money is a great enabler of the gracious life, and the cynic in me is too aware of Peter’s wealth, which allows him to indulge his scholarly hobbies. Marsh made her aristocratic ‘tec a policeman; Sayers could have done so, too, but then she would have had to swot up police routine, which on the evidence she knew little about.
     Sayers wanted such a world, but knew that evil is real, and both she and her hero are tough-minded observers of what we now call sociopaths, people who will do whatever they think they can get away with in pursuit of their own interests, or merely to revenge themselves for fancied disloyalty. One of these silver-plates his victim, the other withholds thyroid extract from his wife so that she becomes a drooling imbecile. Then he shows her to her supposed lover. That makes for not only entertaining but occasionally thought-provoking mysteries. Sayers occasionally lets Peter administer justice, knowing full well that “there are crimes that the Law cannot touch,” to quote Impey Biggs, a K. C. and old friend of Peter’s, who collaborates with him in destroying a blackmailer.
     However, I think that Sayers, like Ngaio Marsh, was in essence a writer of social comedy, with the mystery plot providing the framework and structure of what might otherwise have become a series of more or less satiric sketches. Sayers loves to give us sketches of attitudes and behaviour she disapproves, sometimes drawing in broad strokes: see Miss Quirk in “Tallboys.” She likes to use dialect to denote social class, and to demonstrate that true democracy consists not in an absence of class, but in an acceptance of people at their worth. She has a nice talent for naming places and people, no doubt of great use to her when she worked in an advertising agency. There’s a Yelsall manor, for example, or a Miss Twitterton (whose twittering hides a shrewd observer of her fellow workers). Sayers knows of current intellectual fads, as in “The Image in the Mirror”, where a popular article about the fourth dimension (written by H G Wells, no less) prompts a conversation between a nice young clerk and Peter, and leads to the arrest of a murderer.
     But she has her own ideas of proper human and familial relations, which she not too subtly brings into her tales. For example, Peter is a good uncle to his nephew Gherkins (George), treating him as an equal when they visit an antiquarian bookshop, thus creating another book collector. Later, when a shady character offers to buy back the book, Peter defers to Gherkin’s judgement, which prevents an injustice in the distribution of an estate.
     All in all, a pleasure to reread. *** (2007)

Rosamund Pilcher The Empty House (1973)

     Rosamund Pilcher The Empty House (1973) My mother used to get Woman’s Own. I read three parts of it faithfully: the agony column, a cartoon about a “Watchbird” watching the bad behaviour of some unfortunate child, and the stories. I usually skipped the serials, but I liked the short stories “complete on these two pages”. They established their setting and plot within the first two or three paragraphs, relied heavily on dialogue, and resolved into some kind of happiness, or at least contentment. I learned a lot from them. Together with the agony column, they gave a portrait of What Women Want. They also showed how to get a story moving quickly, and how to sketch character with minimal means.
     Rosamund Pilcher writes these kinds of stories. They focus on what was long presented as the central concern of women: family life, which entails the search for a suitable husband. Love romances still focus on these twin desires; that their heroines now are more “emancipated”, i.e., sexual, and engage in all kinds of careers, merely reflects current received wisdom. The love romance has also branched out into subgenres: cowboys, historical (usually set in the Regency period, when men and women dressed in gorgeous clothes), mystery and thriller, and corporate power struggles. But the basic plot still remains: the heroine must find and win her ideal mate.
     Pilcher’s story here is the old-fashioned kind, no sex, no crime, no difficulties with work or career. Virginia, recently widowed (from an unsuitable mate) with two children, dominated by her dead husband’s mother and Nanny, returns to Cornwall for a holiday and re-encounters Eustace, the only man who (ten years earlier) ever saw her as herself. He is of course older than she (by ten years, with discreetly noticed grey hair), masterful (he owns and operates the largest farm in the district), sensitive (he arranges that the empty house she rents will be cleaned and stocked with food), and very manly (he has intense blue eyes before whose gaze she wilts). After a few mild difficulties with her mother-in-law and the Nanny, and the couple of mild misunderstandings between herself and Eustace, all ends well. The flashbacks fill in the ten years and explain why Virginia married the wrong man. Eustace accepts this man’s children without a qualm, which of course clinches his suitability as the Ideal Man.
     I’m a sucker for Romance, and enjoyed this mild entertainment while I read it. Better than average of its kind. It would make a good “women’s movie”, as they used to be called. **½

Michael Rix. Industrial Archeology (1967)

     Michael Rix. Industrial Archeology (1967) In this pamphlet published by the Historical Association, Rix makes the case for recording, studying, and preserving the remnants of the early industrial revolution. His remarks seem quaint now, with so many preservation societies in England and elsewhere, and the fashion for working museums that not only preserve the artefacts but also to demonstrate their function and use. The Hamilton (Ontario) Pumphouse comes to mind, among many others. But at the time his plea for the preservation of industrial artefacts was expressed a new appreciation for out technological history.
     Rix stayed with us while on a trip across Canada; he was a nice chap, recommended to us by Uncle Paul. His other enthusiasm was the Great Western Railway, and railways in general. He was delighted to be able to ride the train here (the Budd car was still operated by the CPR back then), and we had a pleasant visit. He died of a heart attack not long after; like many single men, he did not take his health seriously, and ignored the warning signs. He committed the term ‘industrial archeology’ to print in an article he wrote for The Amateur Historian, thus giving it respectability, though some academics jibbed at it at first. Two pages of photographs. **½ (2007)