Showing posts with label Ian Rutledge. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ian Rutledge. Show all posts

Sunday, March 8, 2015

Proof of Guilt

Charles Todd is a tease.

I don't mean his/her redoubtable Hero, Ian Rutledge, one of my favorite early-mid 20th c. fictional detectives. In Todd's Proof of Guilt (2013, HarperCollins) Rutledge remains his sternly compassionate and competent self.  No, it is the rest of the story that just does not deliver on many of its promises.

Funchal, Madeira is the setting for a terrific opening scene, when it is shelled by the Germans in December, 1916.  An English firm that creates and imports the eponymous beverage is damaged in the event, and the principle partner immediately enlists in the British forces.  Ooo, think I, spirits, how marvelous.  And, the War, of course, even better.  In our next scene, a body washes up on a Sussex beach four years later.  Excellent, a coastal setting to top it all off!  Then we settle into business, wherein Rutledge, investigating a John Doe hit-and-run in London, connects that body to the family which runs the importing firm, French, French, and Traynor.  But that's the end of the spirits.  I'm not sure anyone even has a drop of Madeira in this entire story.  And other than finally connecting the body to the story, there's no coastline, either.

It turns out that one, and maybe two principals of F, F, & T are missing.  Rutledge, drawn in by the first body, apparently has to drive from London to Sussex to Essex and back again and again and again in order to sort this all out.  He doesn't like trains, understandably avoiding claustrophobic situations after his war, but really, couldn't this story have been a little more localized?  The constant to-and-froing is quite a distraction, if you are not paying very close attention.  Perhaps it is there to demonstrate the authors' mastery of local geography, but otherwise it doesn't really serve the story.  Geography may also be their version of red herrings but really, it is just confusing because few of the secondary characters (who may be the actual killers or disappearers) have any depth.  By the point of the weak resolution you can't necessarily recall who is who, and you don't really care that much.

Even Hamish is barely a presence in this installment of Rutledge's post-war saga (except for a few predictable "'ware!"s), but Rutledge has a new sounding-board in Belford, a resident of the street where the hit-and-run is found.  Belford, like Rutledge, had "an interesting War" and is clearly a person with Connections.  But what are they, and why does he help Rutledge, and what happens to him?  Who knows, because this is yet another of the loose strings that dangle from this book, and another character who just sort of fades away.  Even the bodies are hard to find in this story, and by the end of it, I'm still not entirely sure that we've found all them.

If you like to read reviews online you'll find that I am not the only one who is disappointed in this latest outing for a favorite investigator.  Come on, Charles and Todd (we know you are two people), give Rutledge - and your readers - a little more to work with!






Sunday, May 13, 2012

The Confession

Little pleases me more than a new Charles Todd/Ian Rutledge mystery, and that's just what I have in hand now, The Confession.  Any anglophile would enjoy these stories.  There is the British tendency toward cozy, but tempered with the backstory of WW1 and the damage it inflicted on British society as a whole, along with Scotland Yard Inspector Rutledge's vaguely stern demeanor and his ha'nt, Hamish.  The really brilliant thing about this series is the authors' (yes, that is a plural, Charles Todd is in fact a mother-and-son writing team from North Carolina.  How they manage to do THAT is another mystery) ability to keep the stories from falling into the supernatural pit.  Hamish is a ghost, this we know, but his genesis in WW1 makes such horrific sense that one can accept his presence without having to really suspend disbelief at all. 

The period is good, too -  Rutledge might call it fine, the Todd's have an excellent command of language.  It is not yet our technology-driven society, nor even the blunt force and fast pace of WW2 or Cold War spy v. spy drama.  Rather, it is still a time when Rutledge can say of another inspector whom he's never met "I've heard of him.  A good man.  Very thorough."  (32) - and invest a world of social commentary in those three words, a good man.  Does anyone every use that phrase today?  It is not one that many women in these stories would use, either.  Gender lines, about to blur like so much else, are still quite strictly drawn in the England of 1920. 

The Todds also have a pleasant conceit of setting each story in a different part of the UK - the Lake District, Lancashire, Yorkshire, Sussex, etc. - which is carefully researched and used almost as a character in the story.  The setting informs the story typically with features of landscape, weather, and local character, all layered together to deepen one's immersion in the story.

So, there is a lot to love in a Charles Todd/Ian Rutledge mystery.

But . . .

I have consistently complained about the twisty plots that leaves the reader completely clueless until Rutledge, after a "quiet conversation" here or there, manage to solve the mystery in some dramatic last-minute resolution.  The same is true here in The Confession.  I'm about 3/4 through, and pretty much as clueless as when I started, and I've been looking pretty hard! 

Overall, this is not the strongest of the Todds' efforts with Rutledge.  Hamish is less of a presence - although that may also mean that Rutledge is healing, which is good for him, of course.  More irritatingly, there is a VERY annoying development of cliffhanger chapters.  What is this, The DaVinvi Code?  And they are the worst kind of cliffhanger, where the action resumes in the same scene on the next page!  Gosh I hate that.  Finally, the professional tension that underlies many of the stories - Rutledge's poor relationship with his stupid boss Bowles - is largely missing here as Bowles is in hospital with a heart attack.  I'm just guessing Rutledge gets his job in the end, and while nobody like Old Bowels, the lack of Yard-generated drama emphasizes the oddly flat nature of this story.  Is it because it takes place in a marshy area, Essex, where are few hills?  Hard to say, but at p. 236 I guess I must just have another cup of tea and wait patiently for it all to be revealed. 

One has the sense that the authors may be looking to wrap up the Rutledge series.  All good things must come to an end, I guess.