To Love and be Wise

Every time I open and finish a Josephine Tey, I’m convinced it’s my favorite—until I read another, and by then I’m not so sure. Though in retrospect Daughter of Time, my first Tey, was something of a pointless read—the detective was dissecting a historical mystery that had already been solved!—I have to admit that I fell in love with the author when I picked up Brat Farrar. It is the perfect book and I couldn’t think of a way to better it, and now, years later, I still can’t. I still think it’s one of the holies of holies of mysteries.

Then there’s Miss Pym Disposes, so beautifully and sympathetically written that I could forgive Josephine Tey the strange quality of her mystery (both the crime and its solution are in the last third of the book—the first two thirds being merely setting). People can argue all the day long about whether Josephine Tey was a good detective novelist, but I don’t think anyone can deny that she was a true novelist—a really, really good one. She builds her characters—their choice of words and clothing, their mannerisms and predilections and flaws—so clearly, draws them so lovingly, that at the end of each book you are sorry to be saying goodbye, even to the perpetrator.
Finally, my most recent read, finished in between classes and during daily trips to and from Manila: To Love and be Wise.

Leslie Searle, the enigmatic photographer, is missing, and the household that had welcomed him—that of Lavinia Fitch, a romance novelist; Walter Whitmore, BBC commentator and household name; and Walter’s all-too-loveable fiancée, Elizabeth—is under suspicion. It’s up to Alan Grant of Scotland Yard to figure out whether Walter Whitmore—who had quarreled with him the night he died and who might have pushed Leslie Searle into the massive and unforgiving River, the Rushmore, beside their campsite—was responsible. Query: the river has been dragged and there is no body; where could it be? Query: if Leslie Searle is in fact not dead, and had left the site of his own free will, why would he do it, and why would he leave behind all of his belongings?

I kept guessing who had done it, thinking myself clever, but then a few pages later I would be presented with clues that made my hypotheses untenable. Since I don’t really make it a habit to guess whodunit—I prefer to just watch things unfold—this was a uniquely frustrating experience. The frustration, however, was worth it if only for the denouement. Brilliant detectorin’ worthy of the Great Detective himself, and a brilliant adversary worthy of James Moriarty’s highest praises. Five stars!

Next on the list: A Shilling for Candles.