I have immense admiration for the writers of historical fiction. There is no margin for error. One slip up, one anachronism, pounced upon by eagle-eyed readers can destroy the work’s credibility instantly. And so for the writers of historical crime fiction the admiration becomes immense. For faultless research of the period is not enough, the plot must be flawless and methods of detection sustained throughout. No forensic or DNA escape routes available.
For me the mark of a good crime novel is whether or not I can second-guess the outcome and at what point in the novel that occurs. Too many crime writers throw out red herrings like crumbs to the birds and the intricacies of the plot become so ravelled as to be implausible. It’s a pitfall an historic crime writer can’t afford to fall into and Imogen Robertson doesn’t. This is my first Imogen Robertson and as I begun the novel I feared it might be last. It was slow to start with a seeming over dependency on including every aspect of research undertaken to recreate the ambience of the era, some of it unnecessary.
Gabriel Crowther didn’t appear to be a particularly endearing protagonist but maybe be the age of the anti-hero is not dead. Harriet Westerham would seem to be the foil. And I have to say Carol Jordan and Tony Hill DID cross my mind but not for long. Crowther is less quirky, more scientific though no less sociable.
But there was no point where I suspected the perpetrator until he was named and yet the clues were all there. I will not succumb to the role of spoiler and identify those clues here, take my word for it they are subtly interspersed in the narrative. And such is the skill of Ms. Robertson’s writing that I shall actively seek out more of her work.