Twice Round The Clock

A review of Twice Round the Clock by Billie Houston – 230427

This is a curiosity, originally published in 1935 and recently reissued as part of the excellent British Library Crime Classics series. This is the only work of crime fiction written by Billie Houston who was better known at the time as a performer and film star, part of a double act on stage with her sister, Renée. In modern parlance, it would be a book by a minor celebrity, Houston modestly acknowledging that her status was probably the principal reason for her finding a publisher. It is not a bad book, but classic it certainly isn’t.

Part of the problem is that it cannot quite make up its mind as to whether it is a murder mystery or a thriller and as a consequence, we get a bit of both, the larger part of the book concerning itself with who did away with the dastardly Horace Manning, and then suddenly, almost without warning, diving into spy thriller territory before trying to wrap all the loose ends with a twist or two before it finishes.

There are some oddities along the way. Firstly, there is no formal police investigation and what sleuthing is done in a pretty haphazard and amateurish way is accomplished by the book’s all-action hero, Bill Brent. Then Dr Henderson, who is one of the party, suddenly becomes an elderly man well into the second part of the book, old or elderly becoming inseparable Homeric epithets whenever he is referred to, although in the earlier parts of the book there is no specific reference to his age. His seniority is quite germane to the plot’s resolution, and it reads as if Houston had remembered just in the nick of time to make it clear. A sharper sub-editor might have smoothed the transition. And then there is one of the maids, Alice, whose change in character is both unexpected and unbelievable.

The set up for the story is full of hackneyed tropes – set in a gothic like country house where a house party has assembled to celebrate the engagement of Tony Fane to Manning’s daughter, Helen, but the weather intervenes, torrential rain of biblical proportions with copious amounts of deafening thunder thrown in, meaning that the guests cannot leave and even if they wanted to, their cars have been tampered with. The telephone line has either been cut or disabled so thy cannot summon outside help. What could possibly happen?

Written at the time that the situation in Europe is worsening and fears that Europe will be engulfed in another terrible war, it, like Moray Dalton’s later (1936) The Case of the Kneeling Woman has its heart a mad scientist, Manning in this case, who has developed a deadlier, more effective killer gas which other governments are desperate to get their hands on to gain a military advantage. Manning has just finished developing his gas and as a party piece treats his guests to a demonstration of its effectiveness by indulging in a spot of felixocide, to the horror of all who witness it and to the somnambulant housekeeper, who has taken the house’s cats under her wing.

This demonstration underlines the sadistic streak in Manning’s character, also evidenced by his treatment of Helen who is petrified of him. To no one’s surprise, Manning is found dead, slumped over a photograph album, with a carving knife plunged into just the right spot of his back to ensure instantaneous death. His butler, Strange, is found in the garden, crushed by a falling branch, and in his death throes vigorously denies that he killed Manning.

There are more than enough suspects to keep a sleuth occupied and to his credit Brent does identify the culprit, although it takes a quasi-deathbed confession to confirm the truth. In the twenty-four hours that the book covers, hence the title, there is still enough time for three masked intruders, aided and abetted by someone in the house, to break in, steal Manning’s formula, and tie up the guests who by this time think that this is a house party to end all house parties. Their dastardly act is thwarted and almost everyone gets to live happily ever after.

Booby traps, vitriol, sleepwalking, and an amazing feat of derring-do all add to the drama. There are some strong characters, not least Katy Fane who finds love and realises the error of her ways, but long-suffering Helen Manning is a drip who would not be out of place in the pages of Patricia Wentworth.

This is a book with many flaws but like a badly holed boat does manage to reach shore and deliver a mildly entertaining and certainly curious story.