1948 classic English detective fiction; thirteenth of Allingham's
novels of Albert Campion. The decaying Palinodes are lodging in what
used to be the family house, but one of them seems to have been
poisoned; what is the neighbouring undertaker up to; and why is a
delirious crook terrified of "going up Apron Street"?
This is a strange, thick, claggy book, clearly a descendant of
Police at the Funeral and to some extent Coroner's Pidgin. It's
full of characters, many of whom are known by several different names;
I think they're meant to be whimsical and amusing, but they come over
to me more as obnoxious and pathetic. I never felt any particular
sympathy with them, or cared much whether their problems were
resolved. They all talk in a ponderous way, with many particular terms
that form a family mini-language; this is realistic, and explained so
that the reader can decode it, but it still makes the book harder
going.
"Now, take A Joy for Ever, or Creative Evolution, or Civilisation
and Its Discontents, aren't all those absurd titles if taken as
literally as you are taking How to Live on One-and-Six? Of course
they are! It occurred to me at the time because I was most anxious
to know how to live on a very small sum. It's all very well to have
an intellect and to entertain it, but one must first ensure that one
can maintain the machine."
Meanwhile, the undertaker (Lugg's brother-in-law) clearly has
something crooked going on, but what is not at all obvious…
unless, as I did, you immediately guessed it, and spent most of the
book waiting for the detectives to catch up. This is not meant as
boast: I certainly didn't solve the main case, and a better deducer
than I might still be thrown by not knowing a certain period detail
which is entirely alien to the modern reader. The problem is that,
when the reader is very far ahead of the detectives in a story, the
detectives come over as stupid, not seeing evidence that's laid
plainly in front of them… which the reader is meant to notice on a
second reading!
He was getting over his fright and reasserting himself. The
difference between this story and the last was subtle but
inescapable. There was now none of the carefree ease of
improvisation. Campion felt he was probably telling some sort of
version of the truth.
There's not much of the ongoing tale of Campion here: he's been
offered the colonial governorship of an island somewhere, which he's
dubious about accepting, and there's a short letter from his wife
right at the end. Ah well; I am greedy for the greater narrative arc.
This story does effectively show off the early days of the post-war
malaise in Britain, of people who have worked out that they can't go
back to their old way of life, but haven't yet got any idea of what
might come next.
One new character is Charlie Luke, a young police inspector who's the
son of an old friend of Stanislaus Oates – who was present in
Campion's earliest cases, and is presented here as most definitely
getting on a bit. Luke is an energetic fellow, and makes a good
complement to a Campion who's perhaps a bit less physical than he used
to be.
There's good stuff here, but one has to do a lot of wading to get
there; I certainly wouldn't recommend starting the series here.
Followed by The Tiger in the Smoke.
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