Maura (maura853) -
A curious little period piece, which I admire for its ambition, while recognizing that it isn't entirely successful, either as a murder mystery or as a character study of lives during WWII.
The clue to understanding this is in Postgate's long, and very dense, epigraph: no Murder on the Orient Express, this: Postgate is trying to turn the focus on its head, shifting the spotlight from the Detective, and his detecting, to the individuals who find themselves under suspicion for the murder of Parish Councillor (and pretty unpleasant man) Henry Grayling.
Henry Grayling's final commute home, from London's Euston Station to his home in the dull, modern suburb of Croxburn would have been a bit of a nightmare, even if it hadn't ended with him, as it seems, crawling to his own doorstep, dying from mustard gas poisoning. On his final journey, in addition to all of the usual inconveniences of commuting for work during a War (cancelled trains, the blackout, over-crowding with travellers weary and ill from rationing and stress), Grayling has to share the train compartment with five people who have every reason to wish him dead. And, as if Grayling's own unpleasant personality wasn't motive enough, there's the little matter of the substantial amount of cash* that he was carrying for his employer's weekly payroll, which has now disappeared. Motive aplenty, you might say. So whodunnit -- and how, and why?
I mentioned Murder on the Orient Express and yes, you could say that there are elements of that here: strangers, it seems, thrown together on a train -- no spoiler there, it's made clear from the off that Grayling knows, and dislikes, some of his fellow-travellers, and they have every reason to dislike him. But Inspector Holly is no Hercule Poirot, no Great Detective -- he does figure out much of what there is to know about those five suspects (plus four red-herrings, who are introduced to the train compartment just to be sure the journey is as crowded and unpleasant as possible ...), but much more of what we, the Readers, discover about the five comes courtesy of the magic of the Omniscient Narrator, not Holly. By the end, we know everything about them, all their nasty little secrets, the tragedy and heart-break of their lives, the compromises and the moral failings that brought each and every one of them to that train compartment with Henry Grayling.
What this really reminded me of is The Bridge of San Luis Rey, but here, it's as if Wilder had decided that the catastrophic collapse of the bridge was caused by sabotage, and we had to decide, based on what we learn of the past and present flaws and mistakes and weaknesses of our protagonists, who did the deed ...
So I admire that Postgate is trying to do something different -- but the big question is, of course, Did it work? And I have to confess that, after a while, no it didn't. Each individual suspect character sketch is very interesting (as profiles of "types" who might have existed in 1930s and 40s Britain, and how the mores and pressures of the inter-war years and the War itself might have warped them), but it feels like Postgate is holding them at arm's length, without engaging with them emotionally, or allowing us to engage with them. Which means that, not only do the character studies feel merely like creative writing exercises, but also that it's impossible to single out any one of them as The One, the one who would actually step up and do this horrible crime. Say what you like about Christie, her work may have been formulaic, but part of her eternal appeal is that she was really interested in the people she was moving around on her chessboard -- and she managed to convey that interest in the suspects as people through the investigations of her Great Detectives. If you recall your Poirot and Marple, each successful investigation was no cause for celebration, but was a heartbreak, a betrayal of someone the detective had gotten to know well and even, perhaps, like. I don't think we're encouraged to "like" any of the suspects. Inspector Holly certainly doesn't like his suspects, he doesn't seem to care; it feels like it's just a payday for him.
It would have been interesting to see what Christie would have done with this -- I think it would have come over less as a Thought Experiment.
* It's probably amused most readers that the eye-wateringly "substantial amount of cash" in question is a little over £120. However, I did a bit of digging on this, and discovered that, translated into purchasing power for the average London wage-earner in 1942, this actually represented something more like £20,0000. So, yes, an amount worth killing for ....
The clue to understanding this is in Postgate's long, and very dense, epigraph: no Murder on the Orient Express, this: Postgate is trying to turn the focus on its head, shifting the spotlight from the Detective, and his detecting, to the individuals who find themselves under suspicion for the murder of Parish Councillor (and pretty unpleasant man) Henry Grayling.
Henry Grayling's final commute home, from London's Euston Station to his home in the dull, modern suburb of Croxburn would have been a bit of a nightmare, even if it hadn't ended with him, as it seems, crawling to his own doorstep, dying from mustard gas poisoning. On his final journey, in addition to all of the usual inconveniences of commuting for work during a War (cancelled trains, the blackout, over-crowding with travellers weary and ill from rationing and stress), Grayling has to share the train compartment with five people who have every reason to wish him dead. And, as if Grayling's own unpleasant personality wasn't motive enough, there's the little matter of the substantial amount of cash* that he was carrying for his employer's weekly payroll, which has now disappeared. Motive aplenty, you might say. So whodunnit -- and how, and why?
I mentioned Murder on the Orient Express and yes, you could say that there are elements of that here: strangers, it seems, thrown together on a train -- no spoiler there, it's made clear from the off that Grayling knows, and dislikes, some of his fellow-travellers, and they have every reason to dislike him. But Inspector Holly is no Hercule Poirot, no Great Detective -- he does figure out much of what there is to know about those five suspects (plus four red-herrings, who are introduced to the train compartment just to be sure the journey is as crowded and unpleasant as possible ...), but much more of what we, the Readers, discover about the five comes courtesy of the magic of the Omniscient Narrator, not Holly. By the end, we know everything about them, all their nasty little secrets, the tragedy and heart-break of their lives, the compromises and the moral failings that brought each and every one of them to that train compartment with Henry Grayling.
What this really reminded me of is The Bridge of San Luis Rey, but here, it's as if Wilder had decided that the catastrophic collapse of the bridge was caused by sabotage, and we had to decide, based on what we learn of the past and present flaws and mistakes and weaknesses of our protagonists, who did the deed ...
So I admire that Postgate is trying to do something different -- but the big question is, of course, Did it work? And I have to confess that, after a while, no it didn't. Each individual suspect character sketch is very interesting (as profiles of "types" who might have existed in 1930s and 40s Britain, and how the mores and pressures of the inter-war years and the War itself might have warped them), but it feels like Postgate is holding them at arm's length, without engaging with them emotionally, or allowing us to engage with them. Which means that, not only do the character studies feel merely like creative writing exercises, but also that it's impossible to single out any one of them as The One, the one who would actually step up and do this horrible crime. Say what you like about Christie, her work may have been formulaic, but part of her eternal appeal is that she was really interested in the people she was moving around on her chessboard -- and she managed to convey that interest in the suspects as people through the investigations of her Great Detectives. If you recall your Poirot and Marple, each successful investigation was no cause for celebration, but was a heartbreak, a betrayal of someone the detective had gotten to know well and even, perhaps, like. I don't think we're encouraged to "like" any of the suspects. Inspector Holly certainly doesn't like his suspects, he doesn't seem to care; it feels like it's just a payday for him.
It would have been interesting to see what Christie would have done with this -- I think it would have come over less as a Thought Experiment.
* It's probably amused most readers that the eye-wateringly "substantial amount of cash" in question is a little over £120. However, I did a bit of digging on this, and discovered that, translated into purchasing power for the average London wage-earner in 1942, this actually represented something more like £20,0000. So, yes, an amount worth killing for ....
