Whitelaw is an author that I tried for the first time last May, when I reviewed Mystery at Furze Acres (1929), a book which induced a fair bit of eye rolling. My eyes having now recovered I decided to give Whitelaw another try, and Murder Calling begins with a letter-like dedication from the author to a J. H. K., the J standing for Jimmy. Whitelaw talks about a conversation they had the previous May and how it shaped this story. He mentions that they had just been to a ‘meeting of the Crimes Club’, the topic being the Kensal Green Murders. Jimmy and David had discussed on their walk home how they felt it was a ‘shame’ that crime writers often made Scotland Yard policemen objects of fun:
‘You were perfectly right when you said that it seemed a shame, impertinent, to drag in the members of so able and hard-working a body of men, pitchfork them into a story and slaughter their reputations to make a reader’s holiday. Why make these admirable public servants the butt of more or less gifted amateurs, dilettante gentlemen who mixed up their criminology with mild philosophies, platitudes, cheap cynicisms, and wisecracks? Gentlemen who had a pretty taste in wines and a passion for violin concertos. For in the stories it is always your Scotland Yard man who is the boob.’
Perhaps these two had not read an Inspector French mystery? Nevertheless, in light of this conversation Whitelaw decided ‘that in this story no C. I. D. man should figure, no detective-inspector, not even a humble constable. Neither would I allow a private detective to creep in.’ Instead, the focus will be on ‘showing how the murders reacted upon those who were more or less intimately acquainted with either or both of the aforementioned unfortunate gentlemen.’
A foreword follows on from this dedication, which I presume (based on the claims it makes) was written by the publisher, or rather a junior member of the team who had not read much detective fiction. We are told that ‘here is a novel that breaks away from the beaten path. Its original feature, as the reader will discover, lies in the fact that no C. I. D. man, no detective inspector and not even a humble constable figures in the pages. And one may add there is not even a private detective.’ Hmm I wonder where this information has already been shared before. Even for 1934 I don’t think this was that original an idea, given the work of Francis Iles and Richard Hull. It sounds like Whitelaw was more joining a trend than starting one. A more bizarre claim is the suggestion that ‘the headings to the chapters consist of the dates to which the text refers and by that means one learns that the period of the story is a little over four months’ is ‘another unique feature.’ I very much question how ‘unique’ this was, and I also further question how much the reader really cares (trust me when you are reading this book, the only thing you are caring about is when the book will end).
Having now read the novel (and identified the culprit before the murder was even committed) I am perplexed in the extreme as to how a New York reviewer could have possibly said this story ‘“breaks new ground” and “is something new in mystery novels.”’ I can only imagine the reviewer had just started reading in the genre, as one of the weaknesses of Whitelaw’s book is how early it signals plot developments and uses well-worn narrative tropes.
Synopsis
The novel opens with an unidentified corpse being investigated at a coroner’s inquest, having been fished out of a canal. Swiftly on the heels of this, new temptations and old fears are ignited in Murder Calling, when Stephen Droon returns to England, after many years abroad. Blackmail is in the air, but like a river forced to change direction, this crime must be re-configured by its originators when murder strikes.
Overall Thoughts
So, as my opening remarks subtly suggest, this book was not a successful read. However, my hopes were not entirely dampened at the start, as Whitelaw does begin with an intriguing situation. A jury is being addressed by coroner, on an inquest which has already been adjourned four times. The coroner recapitulates the key facts of the case. The author has this scene partially seen through the eyes of the jury foreman, Edward Pook, who is fed up with the case, as he had no interest in murders and wanted to get back to his shop. This was a gentle comic feature that I liked, and I wish we had more of that. The police have struggled to identify the victim, although it is theorised that he was well-off and had possibly just come from abroad.
The difficulty with this novel is that the reader can quickly and easily anticipate how the plot will develop, as characters run too well to type. Perhaps if this has been published during the Victorian era, it might have been surprising and in some ways the plotline and style made it feel old-fashioned. The way one woman fears her stepmother is involved in the murder, smacks of sensation fiction drama. Even by page 34 I had correctly concluded a major aspect of the solution. Consequently, the narrative is not very gripping and because matters are so obvious, it feels even slower. This is not a long book, under 200 pages, but the simplicity of the story meant it still felt too long. You don’t really get close to any of the characters, the characterisation is not particularly deep, and I wouldn’t say you are likely to feel any sympathy for them. The final third of the book shifts gear into full on thriller mode and an extended backstory which had hitherto been withheld (not a favourite device of mine).
I would say the plot is a little less predictable than Mystery at Furze Acres and is mercifully a shorter book, but I am not sure that is much of a recommendation. The question I am left with is whether there is a good David Whitelaw mystery out there?
Rating: 3/5