Finally, the project is finished: started 18 months ago to read all of the Peter Wimsey novels. This last more character study than plot-driven mystery, written, remarks Sayers “as a sort of an answer to many kindly inquiries as to how Lord Peter and his Harriet solved their matrimonial problem.” Certainly the love interest, unexpectedly saccharine and sentimental, takes up all of the first hundred pages or so until ever so reluctantly Peter and Harriet takes up
the detective mode when a body is discovered in their rambling village honeymoon house. A locked house, rather than a locked room story, with a good trick but a little too much time is spent making sure that the reader recognizes that every character in the cozy little circle could have done the foul deed.
So who killed Mr. Noakes and pushed him down the cellar steps? Lots of business around clocks. One realizes he must be dead rather early on, this being the genre that it is, although I kept half-expecting Sayers to pull some kind of punch and have him fall down the chimney in a great cloud of ash. A great deal of quoting of Renaissance poets which might annoy some, but that I found rather fun. There isn’t in fact much to say or to learn from this confection, done as one would expect with aplomb and too much sweetness. Suffice it to say, Peter is well done, though a bit sillier than usual, uxorious in the extreme—hard pressed I am to understand how the more practical Harriet Vane can stand it. It’s interesting to ponder Sayers’ own attitude to the book, something of her swan song as a mystery book writer. Perhaps she got tired of the business for after this she her attention turns to more serious matters of religion. Anyway it’s hard to conceive how Peter and Harriet could turn into an on-going detective pair like Tommy and Tuppence, probably they settle down in the country with plenty of money and a tumbling brood of kiddlings brought up by Bunter into perfectly adorable children. Busman’s Holiday reads, I thought, almost like a parody of itself, the only vaguely interesting touch being an inconclusive discussion between Peter and Harriet regarding which is the more helpful question for a detective to ask: "How was the murder done?" or "Why?" For a number of reasons, I found the earlier novels are far better, far cleverer examples of the genre. I guess she did this one for the fans. Or perhaps it's because she was in the end a more thoughtful writer than the ordinary hack churning out thrillers to earn a living; she got bored with conventions and moved on to something else. One day I may read Dorothy Sayers’ biography.
So who killed Mr. Noakes and pushed him down the cellar steps? Lots of business around clocks. One realizes he must be dead rather early on, this being the genre that it is, although I kept half-expecting Sayers to pull some kind of punch and have him fall down the chimney in a great cloud of ash. A great deal of quoting of Renaissance poets which might annoy some, but that I found rather fun. There isn’t in fact much to say or to learn from this confection, done as one would expect with aplomb and too much sweetness. Suffice it to say, Peter is well done, though a bit sillier than usual, uxorious in the extreme—hard pressed I am to understand how the more practical Harriet Vane can stand it. It’s interesting to ponder Sayers’ own attitude to the book, something of her swan song as a mystery book writer. Perhaps she got tired of the business for after this she her attention turns to more serious matters of religion. Anyway it’s hard to conceive how Peter and Harriet could turn into an on-going detective pair like Tommy and Tuppence, probably they settle down in the country with plenty of money and a tumbling brood of kiddlings brought up by Bunter into perfectly adorable children. Busman’s Holiday reads, I thought, almost like a parody of itself, the only vaguely interesting touch being an inconclusive discussion between Peter and Harriet regarding which is the more helpful question for a detective to ask: "How was the murder done?" or "Why?" For a number of reasons, I found the earlier novels are far better, far cleverer examples of the genre. I guess she did this one for the fans. Or perhaps it's because she was in the end a more thoughtful writer than the ordinary hack churning out thrillers to earn a living; she got bored with conventions and moved on to something else. One day I may read Dorothy Sayers’ biography.
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