There is a scene about midway through this book that if you squint just enough you might convince yourself could have come right out of a Raymond Chandler novel. Superintendent Adam Dalgliesh, P. D. James' contribution to the ranks of famous literary sleuths, is in a seedy Soho nightclub interrogating its shady proprietor and his star attraction, a buxom blonde. A nightclub, a blonde, a quasi-gangster. Oh, what fun Philip Marlowe would have with that. But Dalgliesh doesn't have fun. The atmosphere is formal and stilted; though Dalgliesh knows they are playing him for a sucker, he has too much reserve to say something sardonic, though at one point he does say something to the blonde about her "always giving value." But that's the only real frisson.This was the third P. D. James' novel I read, after Death Comes to Pemberley and Devices and Desires. It was also the third she wrote, so that makes a for a nice if entirely spurious coincidence. The plot finds Dalgliesh visiting his Aunt Jane at her home on the Suffolk coast. She lives in something of a writer's colony in an isolated, windswept village. Since Dalgliesh is making this visit in a detective novel, you know that he won't be spending his ten-day sojourn in quiet and solitude. One of the writers, a minor mystery novelist, turns up dead, his body washing ashore in a dinghy, his hands cut off. Dalgliesh is officially not on the case, since he's on vacation and the local police are the ones to be responsible anyway. The local inspector, a man with the odd name Reckless, and Dalgliesh don't get on, though their rivalry isn't so much professional as it is the result of a mutual sense of resentment that Dalgliesh is involved through no fault of his own.The rest of the "colonists" are the usual assortment you expect to find in a small rural village in a detective novel: there's the nosy neighbor, a romance novelist; her niece, a Cambridge student; a drama critic who was the lover of the murder victim's long-dead wife; the proprietor of a literary journal; a retired, renowned novelist who last published a book three decades ago; the retired novelist's housekeeper; the dead man's brother, an apparent layabout; and the dead man's secretary, a cripple whose malady is never explained, though it requires her to use a wheelchair, crutches, and wear leg braces. There is some good characterization – for example, of the resentment the crippled woman inspires in her acquaintances. They pity her misfortune but resent the constant reminder of human imperfection that she presents them day in, day out. The writers are all portrayed as writers often are: bitchy, squabbling over petty things, gossipy. They know each others' comings and goings and their foibles, and aren't shy about expressing an opinion. James' descriptions of the Suffolk coast are evocative and picturesque. You'll hear the wind howling and imagine yourself walking through the heather and along the shore. The sense of place is strong. I don't know anything about the Suffolk coast, but James makes it seem like a real location. That's a credit to her writing. So is the ending, which takes place in a dangerous storm that threatens to sweep one of the character's cottage out to sea. What prevents me from rating the book higher is the plot. I dislike mystery novels where you don't get any clues and then everything's revealed in a monologue – delivered either by the detective or the criminal – at the end. That's the case here. The entire novel is spent among the characters. Dalgliesh does some investigating at the locations the victim was last seen alive; but when he deduces what happened, some seventy-five pages from the end, we have no idea what are the grounds of his suspicions. At the end, the murderer's taped confession is played, and we learn what happened and why. As it frequently is, the motive was revenge, but the reasons for it aren't revealed until the confession is played. It comes out of the blue for the reader, since we're never given any indication that the killer thought this way. Emphasizing characterization and style over plot is not an unpardonable sin. Raymond Chandler did it all the time. But he was Raymond Chandler. James, at least in this early novel, didn't have the talent to create a world so vivid or write in such a vibrant manner, that the plot's diminution seems an acceptable sacrifice. Besides that perhaps specious resemblance to an episode from Chandler, this book reminded me of a couple of others. The murder taking place among a group of writers called to mind J. K. Rowling's The Silkworm. The climax in a deluge struck me as a variation on the conclusion of Dorothy Sayers' The Nine Tailors. Both are books I enjoyed more than this one. I'll finish with a couple of stray thoughts. Though James does a fine job evoking the story's physical setting (at least when it's in Suffolk), you get no real sense of when it takes place. Likely this is because her readers in 1967 didn't need to be told they were reading it in 1967. James also namedrops several notorious murderers and criminals. Lizzie Borden is mentioned, and I had to look up H. H. Crippen, a notorious murderer from early in the last century. Many of these names are mentioned while Dalgliesh is in the library of a private gentleman's club, called the Cadaver Club, that the victim and several of his neighbors belonged to. "Cadaver Club" is a fitting name for a private club whose members are mostly mystery writers. That's what their books usually are, after all. Posted April 3, 2015
She keeps getting better with each new novel.In fact, this one reminds me a lot of "Have His Carcase," where similar issues of self-reference are explored in the mystery genre. I would advise you to check out that Sayers novel if you liked this book.Anyhow, let's examine some parallels. This one has a similary convoluted solution as the Sayers one. More, this is loaded with all sorts of self-referential little tidbits. The first victim is writer of detective fiction that has to have verisimilitude so "lives it out" before writing it. The rest of the suspects are somehow linked to writing or drama. Latham is a dramatic critic. Two or three others write and sell books. The murder is suggested along the lines of a book plot and even the confession itself is written like a book though ostensibly it is a tape recording. Within the story, almost everything is linked to writing even in London with the Cadaver Club events. Heck, even a literary agent is responsible for discussing details about the will! The Sayers novel did the self-referential riffing through Vane's chracter, but the ideas were the same.To top this all off, Dalgleish is fleshed out in his poetry and bystander status -- he is not even the main detective here, Reckless is! He is an observer of an observer. The author uses that well and plays with it in the narrative, noting the constant tension between the two policemen. In the same way that Harriet Vane is a suspect in a mystery not of her making, Dalgleish is put in the situation not of his making in the same way. No matter the goofy, story-like ending. Although it takes away from the value of the puzzle, I don't think James tries for a Christie story here so much as begins to truly explore the tropes of prior mystery novels. That being said, I'd like to see here move on to her own style. It's fine if she abandons the puzzle that's so commonly found in older writers, but the self-reference and the engagement need to addressed in some other way.(Unfortunately, since the local libary's copy of the next book, "Shroud," is out and about with another person at the moment, I shall have to wait for a bit to review the next James novel. I'm looking forward to it though.)
Do You like book Unnatural Causes (2002)?
Although P.D. James is an excellent writer and her mysteries are interesting and intelligent, I just can't seem to warm up to Adam Dalgliesh. He's such a cold fish and it doesn't help that he--or James, through him--seems to have a certain disdain for the audience, who are the "suspects" in Dalgliesh's case and the reader in James's case. In this mystery, James avoids a typical "reveal" where Dalgliesh sits everyone down and lets them and the reader know how and why the crime occurred. Instead, she has him discover the how about 75 pages from the end, but though he tells the detective in charge of the investigation (Dalgliesh himself is on vacation visiting his aunt and not officially involved with the case) and helps to solve the murder, James keeps this revelation from the reader, which feels to me like a cheat. Dalgliesh is observing something, the knowledge comes to him, we never knew how, and that is that. End of story. Now, we do get the why and how at the very end, but never Dalgliesh's epiphany and we're left to feel how he has "outgrown the satisfaction of being proved right. He had known who for a long time now and since Monday night he had known how. But to the suspects the day would bring a gratifying vindication and they could be expected to make the most of it."Well, since I'm in there, as an observer along with the suspects because James keeps so much hidden from the reader, I feel that Dalgliesh is tired of me, too. And that's just off-putting.Now, as I mentioned, James's writing is good as always, and the murder takes place in a seaside town full of authors of one kind or another, which is fun. But that ending really soured it for me and I'll be hard pressed to pick up the next Dalgliesh mystery unless I'm snowed in and have gone through all of my Christies.
—Laura
I was disappointed by the book, probably because the author had been highly praised both by my husband and various members of my reading group. I thought the ending was bad—everything wrapped up in a confession tape. She says Dalgliesh had things figured out before hand, but doesn’t let us know how he came to his conclusions. I didn’t find myself particularly fond of any of the characters, unless it was Dalgliesh’s Aunt Jane, who plays a minor role, more of a device just to get him to Monksmere Head. As a result, I wasn’t curious about who the killer was—I just didn’t care. I
—Nancy
It would be a five-star novel if not for the ending. I cannot even say it is bad, seems the author prefers to finish her stories in this way and while I respect it, I am not a fun of such endings. I prefer to learn the motive, the way how crime was committed from the detective, learning how did he piece the facts together... not have him simply state that "he knew it" after all is known, especially if his actions before would be very, very strange if he indeed knew the identity of the perpetrator.The story itself, the pace, the characters, the gathering of the clues - all of those aspects were great, better than in most of P. D. James' books. And we also had Dalgliesh a bit in a fish-out-of-water situation, as he wasn't the detective officially leading the case. The murder itself was a bit needlessly complicated, but that was lampshaded in the book and it makes sense taking into the account the personality of the killer.A very, very enjoyable book that I'd simply adore if the ending would be more in style of Agatha Christie. But the writing was superb as always and I can't wait to reach for another book of this author.
—Filip
