1976 classic English detective fiction; twenty-ninth of Marsh's novels
of Inspector Roderick Alleyn. Alleyn's son Rick is trying to write,
staying in a rented room on a Channel Island. But while a riding
accident might just be disturbing, it seems that murder is never far
away. Fortunately, neither is his father.
Not that said father wants to be called in; he may worry for
his son's safety, but he wants to leave him alone. But that isn't
going to happen, of course.
"Looked like a straightforward accident but they're not satisfied.
Inquest adjourned. Thing is: the super's been inconsiderate enough
to perforate his appendix and they want us to move in. Did you say
anything?"
"No."
"There's a funny noise."
"It may be my teeth. Grinding."
It's unfortunate that the plot itself is pretty straightforward. There
are only a few people who could have killed the rider, even if she was
the local good time had by all, and while the motive might have been
outside the reader's reasonable expectations in the 1970s it isn't
now. There's drug-smuggling going on (and the usual badly-observed
drug addiction) which may be connected, and every supposition or guess
made about how that's working is entirely correct. It feels at times
as though Marsh is finding the mechanics of the detective-story
somewhat tedious, and giving them the bare minimum of attention so as
to get to what she wants to write about: the people.
The presence of Louis Pharamond on the front had the effect of
turning it into some kind of resort—some little harbor only just
"discovered," perhaps, but shortly to be developed and ruined. His
blue silk polo-necked jersey, his sharkskin trousers, his golden
wristwatch, even the medallion he wore on a thin chain were none of
them excessive but one felt it was only by a stroke of good luck
that he hadn't gone too far with, say, some definitely regrettable
ring or even an earring.
and even one of the villains
lounged against the table with unconvincing insolence
An important secondary thread deals with Rick's developing a hopeless
passion for a married lady, and this seemed as though it might have
been leading into interesting character development, but it's abruptly
dropped half-way through when it's time for the action and there's
never any real resolution; that's rather a shame, as it's
well-observed. Rick is a bit of a young idiot, though, and one doesn't
really get a sense of how old he is; though he's meant to have been to
university he comes over as somewhat younger. (It's been 22 years
since he was an independent-minded child in Spinsters in Jeopardy,
but one can't take that as a guide; it's been 42 years since we first
met Alleyn in A Man Lay Dead.)
When one of the self-important family in the Big House turns out to
have been born a Lamprey, as mentioned in the tenth Alleyn book, one
is somehow not in the least surprised.
It's not a book that works well on a technical level, but I found it
worth it for the people. Followed by Grave Mistake.
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