The Creeping Jenny Mystery (1929) by Brian Flynn

I took a break from Brian Flynn after a string of disappointing novels, ranging from the awful The Sharp Quillet (1947) to the middling Reverse the Charges (1943) and The Swinging Death (1948), but the untimely death of Rupert Heath didn't, exactly, put me in the mood either – resulting in the temporary shuttering of Dean Street Press. Yes, temporary, because DSP is back in a limited capacity. DSP send out an email, back in May, announcing they have "now officially transitioned into Dean Street Press Limited" to continue their "legacy of uncovering and revitalizing good books." Recently, they reprinted Eleanor Farjeon's Miss Granby's Secret (1940) under their "Furrowed Middlebrow" banner.

As of this writing, nothing new has been added to their series of vintage mystery reprints, but surely, they at least want to finish up reprinting Flynn and Moray Dalton. Just not in the same quantity as before. Either way, a good time to finally return to Flynn and others resurrected by DSP.

The Creeping Jenny Mystery (1929), published in the US as The Crime at the Crossways, is the seventh title in the Anthony Bathurst series and not one that appealed to me at first. Bathurst is largely absent from the story and the plot description didn't capture my imagination at the time, but The Creeping Jenny Mystery is apparently a first-rate, 1920s detective novel ("...lines up four surprises as neat as a row of dominoes, and topples them with skill"). Steve Barge, of In Search of the Classic Mystery Novel, who rediscovered Flynn called The Creeping Jenny Mystery as "a deeply satisfying mystery" with "no massive bells and whistles on it" ("no locked room, no unbreakable alibi"). So decided to store it away for my return to the series and having now read it, I have to disagree with Steve on The Creeping Jenny Mystery not having any massive bells or whistles.

If bells and whistles are defines as tropes like locked room murders, cast-iron alibis and dying messages, The Creeping Jenny Mystery plays on a trope not often explored in a Golden Age country house whodunit – namely the gentleman thief. Or perhaps, in this case, a gentlewoman cat burglar.

Over the course of six weeks, Creeping Jenny became a household name in the southern counties of England following a series of "daring robberies" from its stately homes. A calling card was left behind after each robbery reading, "With Creeping Jenny's compliments. She takes but one." Creeping Jenny pinched Sir Graeme Grantham's diamond tie-pin and Mrs. Stanley Medlicott's pearl necklace, but left "very much more valuable articles" untouched ("quite in accordance as it were with the terms of the visiting-card"). This places the character of Creeping Jenny firmly in the tradition of the gentle rogues from Maurice Leblanc's Arsène Lupin and E.W. Hornung's A.J. Raffles to Edward D. Hoch's Nick Velvet and Gosho Aoyama's Kaitou KID. Henry Mordaunt, K.C., has read about the thefts in the newspaper and worryingly notices Creeping Jenny getting nearer to his own home, The Crossways. Not without reason. The local papers have reported extensively on the engagement of his youngest daughter, Margaret, to Captain Cyril Lorrimer. And she was to receive from her fiancé the famous "Lorrimer Sapphire" for her engagement ring. Mordaunt has a hunch that the famous is exactly the type of thing to attract the thief and upset the engagement party. Sure enough, Mordaunt receives a note from Creeping Jenny announcing the intention to visit the engagement party at The Crossways ("expect me some time after eleven o'clock to-night").

Nothing appears to have happened during or after the party, but, on the following morning, a body is found lying in "a huddled heap of horror" at the bottom of a disused well. By the way, bodies down the well is the DSP version of bodies in the library as they happen to have several vintage mysteries in their catalog in which a body is discovered at the bottom of an old, disused well. Unless my memory is playing tricks on me, bodies-in-wells is not an overly used crime scene or premise, even in classic mysteries, but keep finding them in the DSP reprints. Just from the top of my head, you have Flynn's The Creeping Jenny Mystery, Moray Dalton's The Strange Case of Harriet Hall (1936), E.R. Punshon's Murder Abroad (1939), Francis Vivian's The Singing Masons (1950) and one, or two, other titles that escape me at the moment – probably something by Christopher Bush. But that as a side observation. After the shocking and brutal murder, they discover the sapphire is gone after all despite certain precautions and security measures. So the game is very much afoot.

Anthony Bathurst is, as noted above, is largely absent from the story and his place is taken by two other characters. Inspector Baddeley, of Scotland Yard, whose previous appearance was in The Billiard-Room Mystery (1927), and the lawyer Peter Daventry from The Case of the Black Twenty-Two (1928) and Invisible Death (1929). Daventry wants to call in Bathurst, "Sir Austin Kemble, the Commissioner of Police, simply swears by him," but Mordaunt doesn't want an amateur detective meddling in the case ("certainly not at this juncture"). Bathurst appears in name only, until "Chapter XVI" to answer Daventry's letter about the case. Even then it takes a while before he finally appears, in person, to tidy up the whole mess. Until that moment arrives, tagging along with Baddeley and Daventry is not a chore at all. Baddeley and Daventry tackle the case with competence and zest.

A case comprising not only of a stabbed body at the bottom of a well, the theft of the famous sapphire, the mysterious identity of Creeping Jenny and the role she, or he, played in this country house drama, but other issues muddying the solution – ranging from a stolen dagger to an extraordinary bet made regarding the sapphire. Flynn weaves all the different, apparently crossed and knotted, plot-threads together, before pulling them apart again, with equal skill. Flynn understood his genre tropes and knew how to find his way around a plot. That allowed him to sometimes get away with certain things that would have died a death in the hands of a less talented writer. For example (SPOILER-ISH/ROT13) gur zheqrere'f vqragvgl naq zbgvir ner obgu pyrireyl uvqqra sebz gur ernqre, ohg gur zheqre boivbhfyl cynl frpbaq svqqyr gb gur inevbhf cybg-guernqf yvaxrq gb Perrcvat Wraal zlfgrel. Ubjrire, Sylaa cerfragf vg va fhpu n jnl vg qbrfa'g srry yvxr vg cynlf frpbaq svqqyr nf vg'f tbbq rabhtu gb unir pneevrq n pbhagel ubhfr zlfgrel jvgubhg fgbyra trzf be png ohetynef. V nyfb rawblrq ubj boivbhf gur nafjre vf gb gur Ehffryy Fgerngsrvyq cybg-guernq, hayrff lbh'er hanjner gur nhgube jnf n znffvir Fureybpx Ubyzrf snaobl. But adds to the overall enjoyment either way.

So, on a whole, I think The Creeping Jenny Mystery shows the detective story was ready to leave the 1920s behind and enter its golden age, plot-wise, because the story itself reads like it was written 8-10 years earlier. It reads like the Roaring Twenties had just begun, instead of being on its last leg, with its country house setting, stolen jewels and a cast of bantering Bright Young Things. Only difference is that the scene of the murder is a disused well rather the customary private study or library. A slightly tighter plot, detection and storytelling could have pushed to the first-ranks of such earlier titles like The Mystery of the Peacock's Eye (1928) and The Orange Axe (1931). Other than that, The Creeping Jenny Mystery reads like a fond farewell to the 1920s detective story plotted with nearly all the ingenuity of the then coming golden decade. So more than a little recommended to fans of Flynn and Golden Age detective fiction.

Reverse the Charges (1943) by Brian Flynn

Brian Flynn's Reverse the Charges (1943) is the twenty-ninth novel featuring his consulting detective, Anthony Bathurst, which brings him to the village and Chief-Inspector Andrew MacMorran, of Scotland Yard, to the village of Mallett and the surrounding district – where an active serial killer is on the prowl. The case begins on a wet, windy March evening when Constable Wragg heard "a far-away scream" tearing through the night. And he found something downright bizarre.

A car standing on the road, "no obvious sign of collision or accident," whose dying driver lay slumped over the steering wheel with "a look of convulsed, contorted horror." Constable Wragg smells "something burning" inside the car without anything appearing to be on fire. Dr. Pegram, Divisional Surgeon, examines the body and finds six small glowing cinders lodged between his vest and the small of his back. Someone had dumped a small scoop of red-hot cinders down the victim's back and "the shock must have killed him." Sir Charles Stuart, Chief Constable, does not want to call in the Yard as it would be tantamount to an early confessions of failure. So the local police, represented by Inspector Venables, gets a first crack at the case.

The victim is identified as William Norman, farmer, who went to the market in Mallett and stayed, as customary, the whole day and had his dinner at the White Lion inn. Norman then drove home, picked someone up along the way and got murdered in a very outlandish way. Dr. Pegram discusses the case with the village physician, Dr. Martin Chavasse, who believes they have a homicidal maniac on their hands and fears a second murder before too long, because "a murderer of that type never stops at one" – which turned out to be "regrettably accurate." The body of Henry King, a baker, was found sitting at the dining table in the saloon of the White Lion. King had dropped in for lunch and is served with a dish of poisoned fish. A day later, Sir Charles calls in Scotland Yard and MacMorran is dispatched to Mallett together with Bathurst. Three days later, the drowned body of the third victim is found stuffed inside a water barrel standing in the courtyard of the White Lion.

So the murderer appears to be escalating, but, after the third murder, there's a sudden lull in the killings. It appeared as if the case was going to be "the first in the whole of Anthony Lotherington Bathurst's career as a criminologist which he was forced to relinquish." No new developments or a tantalizing clue came to him during the time spent in Mallett. Bathurst had to abandon and possibly write off the case as a failure, but was called back to Mallett when the body of an 11-year-old child is found in the smoking room of the White Lion.

Admittedly, Reverse the Charges has a premise as fascinating as it's puzzling. Flynn leaves some doubt whether you're reading a vintage serial killer mystery in the same vein as Philip MacDonald's Murder Gone Mad (1931) or something more cerebral like Agatha Christie's Murder is Easy (1939). Either way, the first-half had all the ingredients to make Reverse the Charges a standout of its kind, but the pace slackened during the second-half and Flynn really stretched out the ending. Not necessarily a bad thing or enough to sink a story, but it has to deliver something worthwhile in the end. That really didn't happen here.

First of all, the murderer enjoyed an incredible run of luck and particularly that first murder was nothing less than a gamble, which, once again, is acceptable enough as a short-lived run of luck is a defining trait of the fictitious murderer – only the method was completely glossed over. Dumping a handful of red-hot cinders down somebody's back on a cold, rainy evening is not as easy as it sounds. You can't simply say the murderer simply emptied a container of them down Norman's collar when he bent forward ("owing to the weather") to peer through the driving-screen. How where the cinders kept hot enough to cause fatal injuries? And him dying was not certainty at all ("his heart wasn't as strong, perhaps, as it might have been... but otherwise he was all right as far as I know"). If Norman had not died of shock and was only severely burned, the murderer's plan would have collapsed there and then as Norman would simply tell Constable Wragg who attacked him. So nothing really clever or inspired to it all, which is not helped when a very familiar-looking and expected solution emerges towards the end. One that has been done before and much better. Thirdly, there's an odd, stylistic choice in storytelling as the second-half introduces the plot-thread of Dr. Chavasse's mysterious, dying patient who had bouts of recovery during which he ventured outside. That plot-thread should have been expanded upon and the mysterious episodes with him peppered throughout the story. It would have livened up the pace of the second-half tremendously as the murders could be spread out a little more and shorten the dragging towards the end. It genuinely would have been an overall improvement to both the plot and storytelling.

So, as some of you armchair detectives have probably deduced by now, Reverse the Charges can not be counted among the best and finest detective novel Flynn crafted during his decades long career, but enjoyable enough to recommend to established fans of the series.

The Hit List: Top 10 Favorite Reprints from Dean Street Press

If you're a casual mystery reader who looked at our little niche corner on the internet, you might get the impression that the prevailing belief is that locked room mysteries and impossible crime fiction is the pinnacle of the genre – a final form if you will. That's not true. It's only a small faction of the fandom riding their favorite hobby horse into the ground. I'm perhaps more guilty of riding that hobby horse to pieces than most, but I love a good, old-fashioned or classically-styled detective story and a body in a hermetically sealed room is not a necessity. Even though you don't always get impression from this blog. So let's put the spot light on some classic, non-impossible Golden Age mysteries.

In 2015, Dean Street Press began what seemed, at the time, to be the Herculean task of filling the immense, gaping hole that the still sorely missed Rue Morgue Press left behind. But they have tackled that task head on in an almost industrial way. Not content with simply reprinting one or two titles from a specific writer, DSP turned them out in badges of five or ten at a time. Sometimes even more than that. So in less than a decade, DSP has republished nearly five-hundred Golden Age mystery novels that include the complete works of once obscure or long out-of-print writers like Christopher Bush, E.R. Punshon and Patricia Wentworth. They're currently working on the doing the same for Brian Flynn with Glyn Carr possibly being next in line to go through a round of reprints. But what are some of the best titles DSP brought back from obscurity?

I wanted to do one of these publisher-themed five-to-tries or top 10 lists and initially planned doing a top 10 favorite translations from Locked Room International, but the intention of this post is to take a break from those damned locked room puzzles. So that left me only with Dean Street Press as enough of their reprints have been discussed on this blog to compile a top 10 best favorite reprints. That was easier said than done and had to give my favorite writers a handicap by limiting the list to one entry per author. So no desperate attempts to convince you Christopher Bush's Cut Throat (1932) is not shit, if only you tried to make it through to the end without getting despondent. It appears to have worked. 

 

Top 10 Favorite Reprints from Dean Street Press (in chronological order):

 

The Mystery of the Peacock's Eye (1928) by Brian Flynn 

The ongoing run of Brian Flynn reprints has left me spoiled for choice, but decided to go with the obvious suspect and the 2019 Reprint of the Year Award winner. A case with Flynn's typical Doylean touches as Bathurst investigates a murder involving Royal blackmail and a magnificent, blue-shaded titular emerald. While that might sound like a typical, dated 1920s mystery novel, Flynn provided a solution shining with all the brilliance of the coming decade that makes The Mystery of the Peacock's Eye a classic of the '20s. 

 

The Night of Fear (1931) by Moray Dalton 

This pick is perhaps a little out of season to bring up now, on the tail-end of March, but The Night of Fear is one of the earliest and best country house mysteries at Christmas from this era – in addition to being Dalton's most accomplished detective novel. A well-spun drama that begins during a Christmas party concluding with a game of hide-and-seek in the dark and the discovery of a body, which the police try to pin on the blind Hugh Darrow. But how to prove his innocence? A must read for the December holidays.

 

Murder at Monk's Barn (1931) by Cecil Waye 

“Cecil Waye” was the third, previously unsuspected penname of John Street, better known as “John Rhode” and “Miles Burton,” who wrote four once extremely obscure novels under that name. Three of the four are so-called metropolitan thrillers, but Murder at Monk's Barn is, plot-wise, in the traditional style of his Rhode and Burton mysteries. Where the book differs is the tone and characters. The detectives are a brother-and-sister team, Christopher and Vivienne Perrin, who were a hold over of the 1920s Young Adventures like Tommy and Tuppence Beresford. So while the mysterious shooting of an electrical engineer comes with all plot-technical expertise and ingenuity expected from Street, Murder at Monk's Barn is no humdrum affair as the two Bright Young Things livened up the whole story. 

 

The Case of Naomi Clynes (1934) by Basil Thomson 

A predecessor of the contemporary police procedural and ultimately a very simple, uncomplicated and straightforwardly told story of a crime, which nonetheless succeeded in creating complex and intricate plot-patterns. A plot that excelled with simplistic beauty. More importantly, I remember The Case of Naomi Clynes as a surprisingly warm, human crime story with some decidedly original touches to the ending.

 

The Case of the Missing Minutes (1937) by Christopher Bush 

It has been observed that Christopher Bush was to the unbreakable alibi what John Dickson Carr was to the impossible crime, which makes The Case of the Missing Minutes his version of The Three Coffins (1935). Regardless of what the book title suggests, The Case of the Missing Minutes is not some dry time table or math puzzle. It can actually be counted among Bush's best written, most well-rounded and certainly bleakest of his earlier detective novels with a meticulously put together plot that runs like a Swiss timepiece. 

 

Murder on Paradise Island (1937) by Robin Forsythe 

Some of you probably expected a title from Forsythe's short-lived Algernon Vereker series, like The Pleasure Cruise Mystery (1933) or The Spirit Murder Mystery (1936), which took an interesting approach to plotting a detective story – spinning a great deal of complexity out the circumstances in which the bodies were found. Murder on Paradise Island is a standalone mystery and has a much lighter touch to the plot, but the backdrop and circumstances the characters find themselves makes it his most memorable contribution to the genre. A cross between Anthony Berkeley's Mr. Pidgeon's Island (1934) and a Robinsonade as a group of survivors of a ship disaster get washed up on the pearly beaches of a desert island in the middle of the Pacific. 

 

Bleeding Hooks (1940) by Harriet Rutland 

Arguably, the best and most deserving title to have been reprinted by DSP as well as my personal favorite of the lot. A pure, Golden Age whodunit set in a Welsh fishing village with an inn catering to fly fishing holidaymakers, but the Fisherman's Rest becomes the scene of murder when the vulgar Mrs. Mumby is found dead with a salmon fly deeply embedded in her hand. The doctor concludes she died of combination of poor health and shock from the wound, but the detective-on-holiday, Mr. Winkley, suspects foul play. There's a neat little twist in the tail. John Norris called the book “something of a little masterpiece.” I agree! 

 

There's a Reason for Everything (1945) by E.R. Punshon 

The return of E.R. Punshon's Bobby Owen series to print also posed a difficulty in picking a favorite, because Punshon allowed his Bobby Owen to age and evolve as a character. And tended to try something different every now and then. So there are differing periods in the series that feel distinct from one another, but decided to go with strongest, most intricately-plotted detective novels. A complex detective story concerning a murdered paranormal investigator in a haunted house, vanishing bloodstains and a long-lost masterpiece by Vermeer. A great demonstration of Punshon's ability to erect and navigate labyrinthine-like plot without getting tied-up in all the numerous, intertwined plot-threads. 

 

The Threefold Cord (1947) by Francis Vivian 

So far, The Threefold Cord still stands as the best written, most ingeniously plotted of Francis Vivian's detective novels I've read to date. Inspector Knollis is dispatched to the village of Bowland to investigate wholesale pet murder at the home of a local and unpopular furniture magnate, Fred Manchester. Someone twisted the necks of the two family pets, a budgerigar and cat, before placing a silken cord loosely around their broken necks – which proved to be a prelude to a gruesome ax murder. Vivian expertly tied the present-day murder to the story of a public hangman who died under mysterious circumstances before the war. Every piece of the puzzle fitted beautifully together to form an inevitable conclusion.

 

The Heel of Achilles (1950) by E. and M.A. Radford 

Edwin and Mona Radford, a mystery writing husband-and-wife team, who specialized in forensic detective stories in the tradition of R. Austin Freeman's Dr. John Thorndyke series occasionally peppered with challenges to the reader (e.g. Murder Isn't Cricket, 1946). Their often tightly-plotted detective stories somehow were all but forgotten until DSP reprinted half a dozen of them in 2019 and 2020. The Heel of Achilles is an inverted mystery with the first-half following the murderer as he executes, what he thinks, is the perfect crime. The second-half brings their detective, Dr. Manson, to the scene who begins to laboriously poke holes into the killer's supposedly watertight plot. A cold, impersonal examination of a crime that meshed very well with the intimate and personal opening half depicting the murderer and his crime. A genuine classic of the inverted mystery.

The Swinging Death (1948) by Brian Flynn

Brian Flynn placed his thirty-fifth Anthony Bathurst novel, The Swinging Death (1948), among "the best of my humbler contributions to mystery fiction" and hoped "those who come to read it will find themselves in agreement with me in this assessment," which until recently was easier said than done – as it used to be one of Flynn's more elusive titles. Even to this day, you can't find a picture of the original dustjacket anywhere online. However, The Swinging Death itself has recently returned to print when Dean Street Press reissued it last year together with the previously reviewed The Sharp Quillet (1947) and Exit Sir John (1947).

This new edition comes, of course, with an introduction by Steve Barge, of In Search of the Classic Mystery Novel, who notes that, "starting with Black Edged in 1939, Brian seemed to want to branch out in his writing style" and veered away from the traditional detective story. Flynn began to experiment with the inverted format, thriller trappings and "an increasing darkness in some of his villains," but "switched back to a far more traditional whodunnit format" beginning with The Sharp Quillet. Just like it's immediate predecessor (Exit Sir John), The Swinging Death feels like a return to those earlier, more conventional mysteries Flynn wrote in the 1920s and '30s. Flynn front-loaded this one with a murder so strange and bizarre, it lured Anthony Bathurst back into the game ("For nearly a year now, crime had eluded him...") and "the fascination of the chase touched him again with its spell-binding fingers."

Flynn's The Swinging Death opens with Dr. Julian Field, from King's Winkworth, journeying back home after visiting a patient in Stoke Pelly, but, for some unknown reason, he gets off the train at the wrong railway station, Fullafold – a small, rural village. And never returned home. That night, a village girl finds Dr. Field's nude body swinging from a hook in the porch St. Mark's Church. A terrible murder that becomes "a proper mystery" when some incredibly strange clues and incidents come to light.

Firstly, the murderer divided Dr. Field's clothes in two consignments and dumped them on the doorsteps of two different churches ("some at Fullafold—some at Friar's Woodburn"). Secondly, the only items found missing among his possessions is an unknown sum of money, a bunch of keys and a specimen of sputum which Dr. Field took from his patient at Stoke Pelly. Thirdly, Claudia Field received a phone call on the night of the murder telling her husband got seriously injured in an accident, asking her to immediately go to the railway station at Friar's Woodburn, but, when she arrived, there had been no accident – nobody knew anything about her husband or a message from the police. When she returned home, Claudia discovers the house had been entered while she was away and husband's surgery had been turned over.

Anthony Bathurst calls it "a case after my own heart" and Sir Austin Kemble, the Commissioner of Police, sends him together with Chief Detective Inspector Andrew MacMorran to the scene of the crime to sort out the mess. I should say here that Chief Inspector MacMorran is no Lestrade and pairing him up with Anthony Bathurst is almost as perfect a team as Christopher Bush's Ludovic Travers and Superintendent George Wharton. I like it when the theoretically-minded amateur detective and the experienced policeman compliment each other ("just another illustration of the superiority of two heads over one"), which is regrettably a lot rarer in detective fiction than you might think.

Bathurst and MacMorran concentrate on the route between King's Winkworth and Stoke Pelly, "the two places which seem to me to be the poles," between those two given points there are Greenhurst, Four Bridges, Fullafold and Friar's Woodburn – each one of which "is not entirely devoid of interest." So they begin to retrace Dr. Field's steps on that faithful evening along the country railway stations as they question people and poke around for clues along the way. This sounds like something straight out of Freeman Wills Crofts and in some way it is, but not one of those time-table mysteries so many of you dread. So no ingeniously contrived, minutely-timed train alibi. And while there's an alibi, of sorts, at the core of the plot, Flynn goes for something different (SPOILER/ROT13: n cynl ba uvf snibevgr cybl, gur frperg vqragvgl). But the resemblance to Crofts is interesting considering the story is streaked with nostalgia.

The introduction mentions Flynn abandoning his thriller-ish experiments with the inverted mystery format coincided with "a family tragedy during the Second World War." There's this almost nostalgic hankering for the detective stories of yesteryear with several nods to G.K. Chesterton's Father Brown, E.C. Bentley's Trent's Last Case (1913) and Bathurst's baptism as a detective in The Billiard-Room Mystery (1927). And, not to be forgotten, Flynn planted a Sherlockian-themed Easter Egg. The Swinging Death also reads like it was published in 1928 instead of 1948 as the First World War casts a cold shadow over the second-half of the story and something about the solution feels like it belonged to a different era of the genre (ROT13: anzryl gur zbgvir naq nggvghqr gung “gurer vf fpnepryl n pbhagel va gur jbeyq jurer qrprag crbcyr qba'g ertneq gur oynpxznvyre nf fbzrguvat yvxr n fyht hcba juvpu lbh fubhyq fgnzc lbhe sbbg,” juvpu jrag bhg bs snfuvba nsgre gur 1929 penfu naq svanapvny fcrphyngbef gbbx gur cynpr bs oynpxznvyref nf gur zbfg zheqrenoyr punenpgref va n qrgrpgvir fgbel). Only thing breaking the illusion is that the Second World War rears its ugly mug as well. Regrettably, the 1920s was the decade the genre experienced growing pains and often lacked the rigour associated with the succeeding two decades. The Swinging Death unfortunately also resembles a 1920s mystery in that regard.

A pity as Flynn tried something incredibly cheeky with the ending, which can absolutely work, but you need to deliver something especially good or original to succeed. Where it falls short is that Flynn did a lot of mystifying in building up a strange, utterly bizarre murder, but then had Bathurst wave away some of its most intriguing elements as trivialities. For example, the missing keys posed a baffling question: why did the murderer need to climb up the balcony at the back of the house to search the surgery when possessing the house keys? The answer (ROT13): “V pna bayl guvax gung gur xrl zhfg unir orra zvfynvq va fbzr jnl. Cbffvoyl ybfg—be cbffvoyl qebccrq fbzrjurer.” And what happened to the stolen sputum specimen? Why steal something like that? The answer (ROT13): “Puhpxrq njnl cebonoyl... V qba'g guvax zhpu vzcbegnapr arrq or nggnpurq gb gur snpg gung vg'f zvffvat.” You can't really do that, if you try to pull a stunt like that, because you take away that oomph it needs to land. On the other hand, the central puzzle of Dr. Field's last journey and the two parcels of clothes is handled with Flynn's customary care and competence. Something you either spot early on in the story or overlook entirely. And would have been even more impressive had Flynn not done something similarly in a previous novel with more audacity.

So, while the ending is a mixed bag that fell a bit short, The Swinging Death is still a thoroughly enjoyable return to those earlier, more conventionally-styled mysteries, but readers new to the series are strongly advised to start with those earlier mysteries. The Swinging Death is best appreciated by those who are already a fan of the series. I'll be following that advice myself as the next stop in the series is either going to be The Creeping Jenny Mystery (1930) or The Case of the Purple Calf (1934).

Exit Sir John (1947) by Brian Flynn

I closed my 2019 review of Brian Flynn's The Spiked Lion (1933) with the statement that Flynn simply wanted to write good and entertaining detective fiction, which suited his remarkable gift for versatility and produced a wild variety of detective novels – covering everything from Doylean pulp-thrillers to good, old-fashioned whodunits. So, unavailable, the quality can be as wild and varying as Flynn's diverse output, but the bad is usually outweighed by the good. Only found two of Flynn's novels to be truly bad and disappointing. There's the rather messily-plotted The Five Red Fingers (1929) and the recently reissued The Sharp Quillet (1947), which completely fell to pieces in the last chapter. 

Fortunately, those duds tend to be rare. While not every one of Flynn's experiments were howling successes (e.g. Cold Evil, 1938), he has earned enough credit over the years not to be deterred by coming across one, or two, rotten apples along the way.

Flynn's Exit Sir John (1947) is the 34th entry in the Anthony Bathurst series and turned out to be not only a vast improvement over The Sharp Quillet, but another worthwhile title to be added to the list of Christmas-themed mysteries. The story begins with Mr. Walter Medlicott, solicitor and sole surviving partner Medlicott, Stogdon and Medlicott, who has something preying on his mind. Something that involved a sealed envelope with the name of his old friend and client, Sir John Wynyard, scrawled across it. Medlicott opened the envelope, read its content and effectively "signed his own death-warrant." Not before going to High Fitchet to spend one last Christmas with Sir John and his family. Upon his arrival, Medlicott finds High Fitchet brimming with guests. I will forego the introductions of the characters as there over twenty family members, house guests and servants, which can make the opening chapters feel a little crowded. But nothing too confusing, once everyone is clearly introduced.

Christmas at High Fitchet "had really been the best Christmas" and Boxing Day was "a real cracker-jack of fun and games," but the fun and games would soon come to an end as the house would "engulfed in horror."

During the early hours of the 27th of December, Sir John Wynyard left his bed, walked downstairs to his writing room with a copy of the Bible and seated himself at the desk to write a letter – only to die of heart failure ("an absolutely natural death"). Dr. Beddington sees no reason for a postmortem and so a glorious Christmas appears to have ended on a tragic note. However, Medlicott goes missing during the day, when several members of the Christmas party went out for a long walk, which becomes three separate search parties to look for him. They find his body near the edge of a pond with a broken neck and an nasty laceration on his right-hand cheek. This time, it's unmistakably murder. The murderer wastes little time to dispose of the second victim as the strangled body of the chauffeur, John Gooch, is found the following morning in the garage. All three dead man had a note on them reading, "hand over the diamond—or else! Mr. Levi."

So the local authorities, once again, turn to Scotland Yard for help and Sir Austin Kemble, Commissioner of Police, does what he usually does when confronted with an extraordinary affair. He dispatches Chief-Detective-Inspector Andrew MacMorran to the scene of the crime and tells him to take Anthony Bathurst along, because if you have a brilliant amateur detective lounging about, you might as well put him to work. This case has more than enough to it to keep him occupied until the New Year!

Anthony Bathurst, in order to make sense out of two complicated, entangled murders, "must evolve some measure of order out of it" to "have any hope of achieving anything like a satisfactory result." Which is easier said than done with over twenty potential suspects on his hands. So he divides the suspects into two circles, Family and Guests, which is not a bad way to juggle a large cast of characters. It fitted both the "mostly conversation" procedure of Bathurst and MacMorran's investigation as well as the backdrop of those last, snowy days and mostly quiet days of December. Nor did it veer even once anywhere near "dragging-the-marshes" territory. But not only the suspects require a bit of ordering. There are also a ton of clues and "scarlet herrings" that need to be sorted out. Why was there a Bible lying open on the desk? What did Gooch try to tell Sir Nicholas, before he was silenced? Who stole Quentin Wynyard's camera and ransacked Elisabeth Grenville's suitcase? Who's the mysterious Mr. Levi? Where's the diamond he was wrote three dead man about? And why was the snow disturbed, "all kicked up," on the way to the pond-gate?

However, the clueing has been (not entirely undeserved) criticized by the very man who rediscovered Flynn and wrote the introductions to the new Dean Street Press editions, Steve Barge. Steve wrote in his 2017 review Exit Sir John is "not fairly clued, unless the reader is aware of a fairly obscure piece of literature" and "the motive needs a bit of a stab in the dark" – to which I both agree and disagree. I largely figured out the motive, effectively revealing the murderer's identity (nailed it!), but my solution was not based on any of the more prominently displayed clues or seeing through any of the red herrings. It based on what was implied between the lines (SPOILER/ROT13: yvxr Uryra Ercgba fhttrfgvat gb Onguhefg gur punhssrhe pbhyq unir orra zvfgnxra sbe Avpubynf Jlalneq be jul bcravat rairybcr frnyrq gur fbyvpvgbef sngr). So the real clues, or hints, can be a little ethereal in nature, but an imaginative reader can roughly work out the solution with only some of the finer details regarding motive needing filling in towards the end. What is poorly clued, however, is how Medlicott got his neck broken. It's a very unusual, very original method to commit murder, but putting the clues together demands a huge, imaginative leap of logic. I don't believe it helped that this facet of the case was largely ignored, until the end.

So, while not the long-lost classic of the seasonally-themed detective novel that was Flynn's first attempt at a Christmas mystery, The Murders Near Mapleton (1929), Exit Sir John is still a fine addition to that list of bingeworthy, Christmas-themed mysteries to read during that dark, but cozy, month of December. More importantly, Flynn's treatment of murder at an English manor house around Christmastime here felt fresh and somewhat off the beaten path. Not everything was executed flawlessly, but the end result is another one of Flynn's highly enjoyable, well-written and (mostly) competently plotted detective novel.

The Sharp Quillet (1947) by Brian Flynn

Last month, on October 3rd, Dean Street Press reissued five more vintage whodunits from Brian Flynn's once criminally forgotten Anthony Bathurst series, "some absolutely cracking cases," which were originally published during the mid-to late 1940s – all rarities republished for the first time in over 70 years. Two of those reprints stood out to me as potential future favorites. 

One of these candidate gems is The Sharp Quillet (1947), 33rd entry in the Anthony Bathurst series, which opens with a prologue detailing the end of the trial of Arthur Rotherham Pemberton for murder. This prologue is a fine example of Flynn's talent as a storyteller as the conclusion to the trial gets an unexpected addendum. Nothing to prevent young Arthur Pemberton from being "hanged by the neck until he was dead" on his twenty-fourth birthday. The Sharp Quillet then moves to the first of three acts and begins at the Bar Point-to-Point meeting at Quiddington St. Philip.

A point-to-point is an amateur horse race for professional associations and the Bar Point-to-Point is open to legal notabilities. Justice Nicholas Flagon, "one of the youngest 'silks' ever to be raised to a judgeship," has won the big event two years running and, on each occasion, "he's sailed home comfortably on a big raw-boned bay" – brilliantly named "Bloody Assize." Justice Flagon intends to become a record by doing "the hat-trick at Quiddington St. Philip." But about three hundred yards from the winning-post, "with the race absolutely in his pocket," Flagon "suddenly rolled from the saddle." Dead as mutton! But he didn't die from the fall or heart failure. The doctor determines Flagon had died from "some powerful vegetable alkaloid" and nearby a dart is discovered with "a gummy substance" on its point as well as a message attached to it, "a nice sharp quillet? Ay!" Inspector Catchpole tries to grapple with this strange, bizarre case, but is not used to murder and finds himself completely out of his depth. So the Chief Constable, "albeit somewhat reluctantly," called in the assistance of Scotland Yard.

Sir Austin Kemble, Commissioner of Police, asks Anthony Bathurst to accompany Chief Detective-Inspector Andrew MacMorran, but some startling news awaits their arrival. Justice Theo Madrigal was murdered that afternoon while attending Flagon's funeral. Justice Madrigal had been standing alone, "on the fringe of a knot of mourners," when a dart dipped in curare struck him in the back of the neck. This dart, too, had been wrapped in a scrap of paper with another cryptic message scrawled on it, "an even sharper quillet."

So the second act has Bathurst carefully sifting through all the suspects, witnesses, potential clues, possible red herrings, motives and half-motives to find the right combination of who, why and how. A combination that needs to apply to both Flagon and Madrigal. I appreciated Flynn had Bathurst and MacMorran argue early on in their investigation about the possibility Madrigal was killed as a blind "to put the police completely off the scent." Not that it mattered in the end, but more on that in a moment. The final act becomes a somewhat of subdued thriller as Bathurst plots to caught the killer in flagrante delicto, which would hand them overwhelming proof of guilt. So the Lord Chief Justice of England, Viscount Fifoot, becomes "the kid that's the bait for the tiger."

I glossed over a lot with less detail than usual, because most of what happened during that three-act tragedy really doesn't matter by the end. The story and plot collapses under a poorly thought out and executed solution.

First of all, there's the flimsy clueing with the only two interesting and even original clues (SPOILER/ROT13), gur Funxrfcrnerna nyyhfvbaf naq gur guerr-npg puncgre fgehpgher, being more nebulous than actually helpful or cleverly misleading – which makes them practically useless. Secondly, the (ROT13) cebybthr vzcynagf gur vqrn gur zheqrere vf n znyr eryngvir bs Neguhe Crzoregba, which is a good piece of misdirection, but there's nothing equally clever and well hidden that subtly pointed (ROT13) va ure qverpgvba nf gur zheqrere. Fb erirnyvat guvf crefba nf abg bayl n pybfr eryngvir bs gur unatrq zna, ohg uvf gjva fvfgre jnf yvxr n enoovg orvat chyyrq bhg bs n ung. Some would argue the prologue prepared the reader as the who and why, but, again, nothing to indicate that person and even making a point at the end (ROT13) fur “jnf gbhevat va gur Fgngrf ng gur gvzr bs ure gjva-oebgure’f neerfg, fragrapr naq fhofrdhrag rkrphgvba.” Flynn did more in the way of misdirection, which is important, but only a one part of a good, well-plotted detective story. Something the author of The Mystery of the Peacock's Eye (1928), The Orange Axe (1931) and The Padded Door (1932). Fourthly, the story makes it a point the murderer threw the poisoned darts with "amazing skill and dexterity," even noting "it almost borders on the impossible," which is unfortunately true. I can buy it with the second murder, but not the first. I don't care how good someone can play a round of pub darts. A dartboard is a stationary target nailed to a wall and not a racehorse galloping towards a finish line. I half-expected Flynn, a well documented Sherlock Holmes fanboy, would turn to a variation on a well-known short story to explain the first murder. It would have marginally improved the ending.

So that was enough, plotwise, to leave me disappointed, but the story behind the murderer's identity, motive and prologue also left a sour aftertaste. The prologue never mentioned (ROT13) Neguhe Crzoregba jnf fragraprq gb qrngu sbe gur zheqre bs n cebfgvghgr naq ur jnf nofbyhgryl thvygl, juvpu zrnaf ur qverpgyl naq vaqverpgyl pnhfrq gur qrngu svsgrra vaabprag crbcyr! Gurer'f uvf zheqre ivpgvz, gur gjryir whebef jub jrer xvyyrq va na nvefgevxr evtug nsgre gur gevny naq gur gjb whqtrf. Arvgure bs jubz unq zvfgerngrq Neguhe Crzoregba be bofgehpgrq uvf gevny va nal jnl. Neguhe Crzoregba tbg n snve gevny naq nccrny urnevat. Fb hairvyvat gur zheqrere nf uvf gjva fvfgre jnf abg fb zhpu n fhecevfr-rssrpg nf vg jnf gb ervasbepr gur zbgvir nf pnyyvat vg eriratr bire n gentvp zvfpneevntr bs whfgvpr vf qvfthfgvat. 

The Sharp Quillet began promising enough with its unusual prologue and progress from act to act, chapter to chapter, which once again spoke well of Flynn's talent as a storyteller who's not afraid to leave the often-trodden paths. This time, Flynn regrettably failed to deliver on any of the promises and the result stands along The Five Red Fingers (1929) as the poorest entry in the series. Hence the poorly written, cold and unenthusiastic review. Since this used to be one of Flynn's easiest to find novels on the secondhand book market, I can see now why he fell into obscurity. But rest assured, The Sharp Quillet is not at all representative of Flynn and recommend new readers to begin at earlier point in the series. Flynn is getting a rematch pretty soon as Exit Sir John (1947) is near the top of the pile.

The Sussex Cuckoo (1935) by Brian Flynn

I've noted in past reviews that one of the most attractive features of Brian Flynn's detective fiction is the shift from style to style in each novel, while remaining true to the traditions of the Golden Age detective story. So one book can be a courtroom drama or a locked room mystery and the next a pulp-style throwback to the Gothic turn-of-the-century thrillers. Just look at the tags from the last handful of Flynn reviews, "Crossover" (The Case of the Painted Lady, 1940), "Dying Message" (The Case of the Faithful Heart, 1939), "Espionage" (Black Edged, 1939) and "Locked Room Mysteries" (The Ebony Stag, 1938). The subject of today's review is simply a good, "beautifully mysterious and thrilling" whodunit. 

The Sussex Cuckoo (1935) is Flynn's seventeenth title about his series-detective, Anthony Bathurst, which begins with our detective reading a cryptically-worded notice in the Times Agony Column, "ITCHUL. The wedges are fixed for the Sussex Cuckoo. Hurry if you would be in time. Even then I fear that you may be too late. Terms as arranged" – signed "NEHEMIAH." Anthony Bathurst, always attracted to the bizarre, reads a "hint of tragic happenings to come" in the cryptic message and perhaps even "the genesis of a crime." A prophetic foreboding when a telegram arrives from Inspector Andrew MacMorran, of New Scotland Yard, to go to a house named 'Redmaynes' in Little Oseney. The homeowner is a botanist, James Wynyard Frith, who has appealed directly to Yard for protection from "a serious danger" as he evidently "has no faith in the local police." Since he's in the neighborhood of Little Oseney, MacMorran asks Bathurst to check out the problem and report back.

It turns out James Frith has been receiving flowery-worded, but undeniably, threatening letters to stop persisting in his "infamous conduct." The sixth and last letter ended with "in spite of the five warnings, you have persisted! To what end? Your own! For you will die on Saturday," but Frith tells Bathurst he hasn't the slightest idea to what the letters refer. Bathurst is a keen student of history and can read the Jacobine theme running through the messages, which immediately reveals what might be behind it. Frith is selling an antique chest that belonged to his grandmother and the content is a treasure trove to Jacobite collectors, which already attracted six potential buyers from all over the world. So he advises him to let the five disappointed collectors know and see the one who bought the chest. If the threatening letters pertain to the chest, the change of owners should place Frith "outside the danger zone."

Three days later, Bathurst reads in the newspaper Frith had unexpectedly died under mysterious and somewhat unusual circumstances. Hilda Frith had awakened early in the morning to find his bed empty and the butler eventually discovers Frith's body on the lawn, dressed in his pajamas, but no signs of foul. Frith suffered from an inflamed big toe, caused by the wearing of new shoes, which is likely how he contracted the tetanus germ that killed him. So his passing is recorded as a natural death, but Bathurst believes his death is "anything but cool and calculated murder." There's ample reason to carry on an unofficial investigation as Hilda tells him the Jacobite collection is no longer in the house nor can she trace any payment, cash or cheque, to her husband, but a little bit of money is found in a very unusual place – two silver coins hidden in the heels of Frith's bedroom slippers. And then there's the potential suspects to consider. Such as the six collectors from the four corners of the world, M. Paul Dormoy, Herr Otto Bauer, the Hon. Terence Lonergan, Alan Lochiel, Frank Q. Allison and Adam Strong, who visited Frith two days before his death to get possession of the historical relics. They're not the only potential suspects he has to consider. Add the cryptically-worded notice in the Times and Bathurst has more than enough work to do before he can unravel this cunningly-woven plot.

So, as you can see, The Sussex Cuckoo is a whodunit, pure and simple, but one that took its cue from its American, not British, counterparts. Nick Fuller, of The Grandest Game in the World, wrote in his 2020 review The Sussex Cuckoo "reads like an English counterpart" of S.S. van Dine and Ellery Queen. I agree. Flynn even references Philo Vance and Ellery Queen, but the whole plot smacks of all things Elleryana. Everything from the nationalities of the six collectors to unearthing the hidden meaning in cryptically-worded messages, while Bathurst's ready-knowledge of etymology and linguistics (a convenient skill set) mirrors the many talents of Philo Vance. Nick also called The Sussex Cuckoo an "object lesson in misdirection" and the odorless red herrings Flynn serves his reader here is another strong hint he had been reading Ellery Queen at the time. However, while the story has distinctly American flavor, Vance and Queen are not the only detectives Flynn alludes to throughout the story.

Flynn was a Sherlock Holmes fanboy and The Sussex Cuckoo is covered in the obligatory Holmesian touches. The most obvious one being the allusions to "The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual" (1893) and James Frith appears to have been modeled on Dr. Leon Sterndale from "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot" (1910), but Flynn also references some of the Great Detectives lesser-known, pulpier contemporaries – like Sexton Blake and Hawkshaw the Detective. Bathurst quotes Baron le Sage from The Mystery of the Skeleton Key (1919) by Bernard Capes ("the really clever murder is the murder which looks like "accident" or "natural death.") So while The Sussex Cuckoo is a straight, American flavored whodunit, it still showed his association with the (British) pulps and his alliance to the Doylean era. One of those little details that never fails to fascinate me.

So with two categories of suspects (collectors and non-collectors), a nigh-perfect murder, coded messages, strange clues and bizarre coincidences, Bathurst is unable to remember "a case that demanded so much patience and perseverance." It would not be until a second, undeniable murder is committed that a ray of light begins to break through. A murder callously describes as "extremely illuminating." Slowly, but surely, Flynn begins to work towards the solution while simultaneously suggesting a false-solution. I thought that demonstrated his well-balanced skill set as both a storyteller and plotter, which was only marred by the rushed and abrupt ending. Something should have been cut in order to give explanation a few extra pages of breathing room, but, otherwise, The Sussex Cuckoo can be counted among my ten, or so, favorite Flynn novels. I really enjoyed it!

The detective story tends to be a three-way tug-of-war between storytelling, characterization and plotting. Everyone has his own preferences and alliances. But when it comes to the tradition detective story, the writers who found a balance between the three tend to be best and most fondly remembered. Flynn proved to be an exception to that rule and perhaps he was a victim of his own creativity, but it's still astonishing how thoroughly he had been forgotten until Steve began fanboying about him back in 2017. I don't even remember him being mentioned on the old GAD Yahoo group or the JDCarr messageboard. So his resurrection in 2019 was long overdue and more than deserved!

The Case of the Painted Ladies (1940) by Brian Flynn

Brian Flynn's The Case of the Painted Ladies (1940) is the twenty-fifth entry in the Anthony Bathurst series and true to form it deviated from its predecessor, The Case of the Faithful Heart (1939), but, this time, the difference is not a complete 180 in style or form – like the consecutively published The League of Matthias (1934) and The Horn (1934). The Case of the Faithful Heart and The Case of the Painted Ladies are essentially Golden Age whodunits, but Painted Ladies differentiates itself by telling a story that builds towards a crossover event. A rare trope in our corner of the genre. Such an occasion demands an unusual kind of crime to bring in three of Bathurst's "more distinguished colleagues."

The Case of the Painted Ladies begins with three strange incidents on the final day of the life of a well-known, London stock exchange operator, Aubrey Coventry.

Firstly, Coventry receives an unexpected telephone call from the Napoleon of Wall Street, Silas Montgomery, who, unconventionally and unannounced, wants to make an early morning appointment for two o'clock at his place. Silas Montgomery is "a man of powerful interests and subtle influences." So it's wise not to offend him and Coventry had always wanted to meet the notorious New York operator. Secondly, Coventry attends a church bazaar and his wandering leads him to a tent with the notice, "Madame Zylphara, Palmist and Clairvoyante." This reminded him of the telephone call that morning and decided to go inside, but leaves the tent rather unsettled. Madame Zylphara tried to read his palm, but told him she can't read his future "because there is no future for you." Thirdly, the evening ends with a fancy dress ball, but before changing into his custom, Coventry decides to smoke a cigarette in the park. When he asks the only man in the park for a light, the man "simply snarled at him" and obviously tried to get away from Coventry. Surprisingly, the snarling man in blue overalls is spotted among the attendees of the fancy dress ball. Only to disappear before he can be identified.

So ends a day filled with strange, unsettling incidents as the next one dawns, but Coventry has to stay up to await the arrival of Silas Montgomery. Later that morning, the secretary finds Coventry's body in the study with rope marks on his throat and neck. The scene of the crime is practically on the doorstep of New Scotland Yard and Chief Inspector Andrew MacMorran gets to handle a case before a local police force can mess with "until that awful moment comes when they bellow for help." Nonetheless, MacMorran is faced with a complete mystery as the victim "hasn't been robbed and he hadn't an enemy in the world." On the other hand, Anthony Bathurst is intrigued by all the little, inconsistent details at the scene and the incidents that preceded the murder.

Bathurst notices Coventry had not only been strangled, but the murderer had rendered him helpless by lashing him across the chest, round the wrists and legs to the chair – before strangling him with a second rope. But why untie the body afterwords? Bathurst is also puzzled by two note-books found on the desk, "each appears to have been used," because there's "something about them that isn't right." But what? And who was the pseudo-Montgomery? The elusive, but ever-present, snarling man in blue overalls? Just as mystifying is Bathurst's visit to Madame Zylphara. She goes into a trance tells the detective that there are two women concerned in the case, but there's "no alliance between them, they oppose each other." But you won't realize how mystifying until you reach the ending (ROT13: Znqnzr Mlycunen'f cerqvpgvba naq ivfvba jrer yrsg harkcynvarq). Not even Bathurst himself realizes how closely he's getting to the murderer until a serious, near fatal attempt on his life and a late second victim is discovered. This clears the path to that crossover scene.

Bathurst baits a trap for the killer, but not your common garden variety killer traps. This trap comes in the guise of "a new parlour game for listeners." A BBC radio game show in which four well-known sleuths match wits with a BBC staff team that include Val Gielgud. I was fairly surprise to discover who the three guest detectives turned out to be as they were neither B-list names nor thinly disguised. How did Flynn get away with that? I first thought they all shared the same publisher, but that wasn't the case and suppose he had gotten permission. Perhaps the book was originally part of a BBC promotion? Either way, it was a fun and memorable scene. Now how you expect a crossover to play out. You have to read the story for yourself to discover the identity of the detectives and how the case is drawn to a close. 

The Case of the Painted Ladies has a conclusion that appears all neat and tightly wrapped up, but when you let it sink in for a minute, pick it up and shake it a little, you can hear some loose nuts and bolts rattling around inside – betraying some plot-technical and stylistic flaws in the whole design. The murderer appears to have spoiled, what could have been, a clean and perfect crime by making things needlessly complicated. Flynn tried to justify it by pointing out that the biggest obstacle the murderer faced was (ROT13) gung gur bayl jnl ur pbhyq trg va jnf ol univat gur sebag qbbe bcrarq gb uvz, but even then it seems like a risky, roundabout way to achieve something relatively simple (pbzcnerq gb zheqre). There's one particular plot-thread annoyingly left unresolved and Flynn really should have titled the book The Case of the Snarling Man, which is a much better title that doesn't give away a quarter of the solution early on in the game. 

So, while the ending doesn't entirely hold up to close scrutiny, The Case of the Painted Lady stands as another typical example of Flynn's mission to simply write good, imaginative and above all entertaining detective fiction. John Norris, of Pretty Sinister Books, reviewed "Three Detective Novels by Brian Flynn" back in February and noted his inconsistencies, or sins, but his "inventive plots, his unceasing imagination and his absolute love for the genre" keeps him (and me) coming back for more. Whenever Flynn's shortcomings or imperfections surfaced, they rarely ruined or sank a novel. The Case of the Painted Ladies very much belongs to the category of flawed, but still good and entertaining detective novels. A treat for fans of the series and seasoned mystery readers.

The Case of the Faithful Heart (1939) by Brian Flynn

The Case of the Faithful Heart (1939) is Brian Flynn's twenty-fourth Anthony Bathurst mystery and picked this particular title as the next stop in the series to see how different it's from the previous novel, Black Edged (1939), which braided an inverted mystery and chase thriller into a single narrative – forming a fun, pulp-style romp with detective interruptions. So, as to be expected, the always versatile Flynn shifted style for his next novel by doing a complete 180 as there's nothing pulpy or thriller-ish about The Case of the Faithful Heart. 

The Case of the Faithful Heart is best described as a scintillating, character-driven whodunit reminiscent of some of the alternative Crime Queens, like Moray Dalton, who were also brought back into print by Dean Street Press. But with a sturdier puzzle-plot at the heart of the story.

The story takes place in the village of Lanrebel, in Glebeshire, where two incidents happened on the 8th of June, but the incidents is an evening dinner party at one of the two houses of any real size within the village, "Hillearys." Paul and Jacqueline Hillier are the hosts of the party and the table is filled by their son and daughter, Neill and Ann Hillier. The hosts brother, Maurice Hillier, and his wife, Belle. The dinner party is rounded out by the Vicar of Lanrebel, the Rev. Septimus Aylmer, who's accompanied by his wife, Mildred. So a normal dinner party with family and friends without any dark, palpable undercurrents except that the hostess is not her usual self, but that was explained away by "a wretched head" – retreating from the rest of the party until she feels a bit better. Flynn ends the chapter by pointing out to reader that the state of the household at half past eight is an important fact.

Later that evening, Neill notices a car standing at the front gates of "Hillearys" and goes out to investigate, but is shocked to find his dying mother sitting behind the wheel. Jacqueline's face was bruised and bloody, her wrists were "scratched and torn" and her clothes ripped, muddy and looked as though it was grass-stained. She used her last breath to utter a cryptic sentence, "the Mile Cliff. Two...," before dying in the arms of her son. An autopsy revealed Jacqueline had died from an overdose of chloral hydrate.

Fortunately, the well-known "human magnet" of crime, Anthony Bathurst, is on holiday in the village. Wherever he goes, even in a tranquil place like Lanrebel, murder has a habit of running him down to earth and pinning him down – guaranteeing he always gets "a sort of 'busman's holiday.''' Bathurst calls it punishment for having dipped his fingers "so often into the crime pie." This makes The Case of the Faithful Heart the earliest example to date of the detective being referred to as a "murder magnet," which predates Anthony Webb's Murder in Reverse (1945) and Francis Duncan's Mordecai Tremaine series from the late 1940s and '50s. But that's just an aside for the curious.

This time, Bathurst is accompanied on his unofficial investigation by a holidaying novelist from Blackstock, Keith Annesley. So the detection is very much in the detective-on-hobbyhorse tradition, but the strange death of Jacqueline Hillier doesn't provide them with a routine village mystery with more suspects, motives and dodgy alibis than you can shake a truncheon at. There's an almost unsettling lack of serious suspects ("we all liked each other") and no discernible motives ("...there are no shadows in her life"), but who strewn her grave with violets? And why? What's the link between Jacqueline's dying words and the pieces of burned cardboard found at place known locally as One Mile Cliff? However, the case takes an unexpected, dramatic turn when another member of the family dies under suspicious circumstances followed by another "floral tribute" on the freshly filled grave. Just like the last time, there's no hint of a motive or serious suspect to be found. 

The Case of the Faithful Heart is not your typical whodunit and nowhere is this better demonstrated than by the weird, uneven kind of clueing and misdirection. One part of the story almost plays too fair with the (suspicious-minded) reader as it makes a certain something, or someone, standout before it was really necessary. Another part of the plot, which concerned the hidden pattern between the death, is played almost perfectly and I didn't begin to see the light until the third murder – clicking perfectly with the part that played it a little too fairly. Even if you piece together the larger parts of the plot, what happened, why and by whom, you still need Bathurst to fill in the finer details. For example, Jacqueline's dying message is unsolvable and one or two points about the solution raises an eyebrow. Such as how the second death happened or why Jacqueline was found all bloody with torn, muddy clothing. Something that conveniently needed to happen to obscure something else.

So the story and plot The Case of the Faithful Heart comes with its fair share of flaws, but a flawed gem is still a gem. This is a small gem as it found a fresh angle with emotional depth to tell the village mystery with the hidden pattern formed by the deaths being a novel, perhaps even original idea in 1939. This all translated into a compelling detective story that had my full attention from beginning to end. While some details remained obscure until the end, Flynn provided the reader with more than enough information and clues to draw the same conclusions as Bathurst. That made it easy to forgive its imperfections. An honest candidate for my top 10 favorite Brian Flynn mysteries.