Ambrose Chitterwick may be a milquetoast relentlessly hectored by his own imperious aunt, but he's a formidable force in his own field of criminology. Quickly realizing that the supposed suicide of a woman at the Piccadilly Palace Hotel was likely a murder, Chitterwick performs an anomalous act of bravado and summons his acquaintance, Chief Inspector Moresby, who confirms Chitterwick's supposition. However, a contrived encounter with the suspect's wife -- I won't ruin the book by telling you the circumstances -- convinces Chitterwick to take a second look at what appeared to be an open-and-shut case of murder. The Piccadilly Murder simply doesn't stack up to Anthony Berkeley's books that feature the rascally gentleman reporter and amateur sleuth Roger Sheringham. The humorously witty Sheringham has a certain endearing quality despite his sometimes boorish behavior and his tendency to both to garrulousness and fabrication; Chitterwick, so timid that he'd begun balding before he kissed a woman on the cheek (except for cousins), is a pale shadow in comparison to the larger-than-life Sheringham. Chitterwick might end up the clever hero of Berkeley's The Poisoned Chocolates Case, which also features Sheringham and Chief Inspector Moresby, but this book drags until Chapter 5, nearly one-fourth of the way through the novel, when Chitterwick decides to do a bit of investigating on his own. I'm a big fan of Berkeley's novels, which frequently break the cozy mold with villains who literally get away with murder and unexpectedly dark and cynically satirical elements. Even so, I had to force myself to plow through The Piccadilly Murder; the novel just wasn't a fun read. The Piccadilly Murder is for already-established Berkeley fans only. It's not the worst book I've read by any stretch; however, even though I've already bought the sequel, Trial and Error, I'm not sure I'll give Chitterwick a second chance.
