1943 classic English detective fiction; twelfth of Marsh's novels of
Inspector Roderick Alleyn. At a run-down hot-springs resort in the back
country of New Zealand, one guest seems to be going out of his way to
offend everyone; then he vanishes.
As in Death and the Dancing Footman, everyone here is more or
less repellent. The Claires are a more middle-class version of the
hopeless Lampreys from A Surfeit of Lampreys; the "natives" who live
on the other side of the hot springs are all either drunkards or
noble; the famous actor who's a guest is horrid in his own way; and
Maurice Questing, the victim (or is he?), is entirely without
redeeming features. Very much as in Footman (and even back in A Man
Lay Dead, now that I think about it), I kept expecting the love-story
to be subverted in some way.
"War news a bit brighter this morning, sir," said the porter
tentatively.
"The sooner we're all dead, the better," Dr. Ackrington replied
cheerfully. He gave a falsetto barking noise, and limped quickly
down the steps.
"Was that a joke?" said the hall porter to the servant. The servant
turned up his eyes.
But this is also a book where, once more, Alleyn doesn't show up until
a fair way through the book, and more seriously operates without his
usual supporting characters. With nobody for him to talk to, it's much
less fun than when he's being a normal policeman in England. That's
the weak side, and it's a shame, when there's also so much good stuff
here: digressions on Shakespeare, a classic "a-ha" trap that reveals
something other than what the trapper thinks it does, and multiple
desires of multiple people culminating in death.
The key point on which the whole thing turns is meant to be a
surprise, but seemed both rather obvious and frankly implausible. But
I won't say more, because to reveal it early cuts the heart out of the
book… and to notice it early is to be frustrated when the characters
apparently don't.
There's definitely war going on here, though without any details;
ships are being sunk, and Questing is suspected of being an enemy
agent. But even this fairly short book feels a bit stretched thin over
a frame that's too large for it.
Followed by Died in the Wool.
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