The Perfect Alibi
A review of The Perfect Alibi by Christopher St John Sprigg
Published in 1934 and now reissued by Moonstone Press, The Perfect Alibi is the third of seven crime novels that Christopher St John Sprigg wrote before his tragically early death, fighting in the Spanish Civil War. If you like your crime novels laced with humour, then this is a must read.
Set in a sleepy English village and featuring a locked room murder, it has all the hallmarks of an all too familiar crime novel at the start. The victim is quickly identified as a wealthy arms manufacturer, Anthony Mullins, whose body was burned to death in the garage close to his house. However, the autopsy on the charred remains reveals that the victim also suffered a fatal bullet wound to the head. The body was found inside the garage which was locked. No key was found nor a gun. Was it an elaborate suicide or was it murder most foul?
As is the way with these things, Mullins was a despicable man with no shortage of people with reason enough to kill him, not least his wife, Patricia, who had been cut out of the latest will in favour of a scientific institute run by a man called Constant. Patricia Mullins seems to have had a string of admirers, including an artist, Filson, a local worthy, Eyton, whose gun, it turns out, was used to commit the murder, and an employee of Mullins who, conveniently, was out of the country at the time of his boss’s death.
Much of the police investigations led by Trenton and Laurence Sadler, a junior officer and nephew of the Chief Constable and whose preferment raises hackles, a la Bobby Owen. Two points flummox the police: was it murder or suicide and, if the former, how was it pulled off and by whom, when all the possible suspects have cast iron alibis?
Despite Sadler’s best efforts the police efforts come to naught, leaving room for well-meaning amateurs to enter the fray. Leading the charge are Sandra Delfinage, a wonderfully comic character, the archetypal horsey countrywoman, aided and abetted by Filson. She is fixated by a beard she believes to be false and there is a glorious scene where she grasps hold of the facial hair and tries to yank it off.
Another sleuth wafts in and out of the story, Venables, an accomplished amateur with an impressive track record and friend of Sadler’s to boot. He gives gnomic advice early on and then it is his flash of inspiration, while holidaying in Eastern Europe, that leads to the resolution of the mystery. In order to bring the culprit to book, Sadler, at his own expense, flies to and across France and then on to Spain, thanks to a lucky encounter with a dare-devil aeronaut. The ending relies a little too much on luck and dei ex machina for my liking, Sadler arriving just in the nick of time to save a damsel in distress and unmask the culprit.
Along the way there is much to admire, Sprigg constructing a busy plot with some colourful characters, not least the boxing fanatic, Mrs Murples, and the eccentric aristo in Lord Overture. There are some episodes which seem to be developed for their comedic value than moving the plot on, such as the assault on Sadler by the Battling Bantam and the pot shot taken at him by Lord Overture.
Sprigg writes with such verve and humour with a strong sense of character that the reader can forgive him a plot that creaks at the seams, relying on a character with a double identity and a desire to conclude the story with the fortunes of the main protagonists happily resolved, even if the romantic elements seem both a bit rushed and, frankly, slightly implausible. It is a joy to read and a reminder of what a talent the world of Golden Age detective fiction lost with Sprigg’s untimely death.
