I have really enjoyed reading Ms Graham's mysteries. Tom does not come off too well in this one, personally, or professionally. Troy continues to be an arse – in fact more of an arse than previously. Ms Graham continues unabashed, to write for British readers in present day England. Present day being 1995.
I also enjoy Angela Thirkell's books. Her UK fan group has produced pdf files of "relusions", her character Sam Adams non-standard word for allusions; often literary but not exclusively so. Readers track down quotations and explain concepts or abbreviations. In the latest book I've been reading, Miss Bunting. Mrs Merrivale has three daughters, one is ATS, one is WAAF and the third is WREN. That is: Auxillary Territorial Service, the women's branch of the army; Women's Auxillary Air Force; and the Women's Royal Naval Service respectively. This was surely well-known when the book was written in 1944, now probably not so much. Faithful unto Death was published in 1996. I would assume that some of the allusions Ms Graham makes will require relusions in the future. For example:
"It was a lovely evening. The soft, sweet air pressed against Reg's plump cheeks and stiff little moustache. All he needed was a cherrywood pipe and copper-coloured spaniel and he could have stepped straight into a Metroland poster..." (p. 14)
...Metroland is a name given to the suburban areas that were built to the north-west of London... in the early part of the 20th century that were served by the Metropolitan Railway... It promoted a dream of a modern home in beautiful countryside with a fast railway service to central London... According to Wikipedia.
"...Troy was saved as his boss came alongside, laying a blister pack of cherry Genoa, an apple and a Lion bar on the counter and wondering aloud if there was such a thing to be had as a can of Seven-Up.
'We say "tin" at Ostlers,' chided Mrs Boast. 'It's a little way we have. A little discipline. Perpetuating classical English.'
'Do you have a tin of Seven-Up?' asked the Chief Inspector politely.
'Never stock it.'" (p. 143-144)
"A blister pack is "a term for several types of pre-formed plastic packaging used for small consumer goods, foods, and for pharmaceuticals. The primary component of a blister pack is a cavity or pocket made from a formable web, usually a thermoformed plastic. This usually has a backing of paperboard or a lidding seal of aluminium foil or plastic..." Wikipedia
"...Genoa is a fruit cake consisting of sultanas, currants or raisins, glacé cherries, almonds and candied orange peel or essence, cooked in a batter of flour, eggs, butter and sugar..." Wikipedia
How a fruit cake can be put in a blister pack I do not begin to understand but apparently this was possible, at least in the mid-nineties of the previous century.
All of this is, of course, by the way. But if one has "world enough and time" which I do, being retired and having Google at my elbow, it's sometimes fun to discover just what Ms Graham is saying. "Mrs Molfrey cried, 'Cooee!' and fluttered her tiger-striped organza pelerine..." (p. 237)
Another aspect I have enjoyed is trying to put Causton – and Midsomer – on the map. There are several references to actual places in this volume, Heathrow Airport is a couple of hours distant. On the way "...He drove through Causton and Uxbridge before taking the road towards West Drayton..." (p. 74)
And later: "Troy was still enjoyably reflecting on Perrot's interview as he drove Barnaby's Rover Four Hundred swiftly along the A4020 towards Chalfont St Peter, the windows wide open against the warm, pressing air. Nothing entertained him more than another's discomfiture... (p. 87).
Uxbridge, West Drayton, Chalfont St Peter and the A4020 all exist, as do High Wycombe and other locations. I suspected that Causton could be Slough, but as Slough is mentioned later on, apparently not. That Midsomer is imaginary I well understand but that it is so near to Greater London, as these real locations suggest, I had not realized. Midsomer seems so very rural.
The local bobby in Fawcett Green, the village where our crimes are committed, the above mentioned Perrot, is less ardent and professional than Barnaby would wish. He tells him so in no uncertain terms. Naturally Troy enjoys listening to this. And later on Troy manages to play a particularly nasty trick on Perrot causing considerable distress to the man. Barnaby, learning of this does not, even in passing, rebuke Troy. I find this wrong. Barnaby knows what Troy is and should miss no opportunity to correct him. As a direct result of their bullying him Perrot fails to report a bit of curious evidence which, while not vital, is suggestive. As the story is told I suspect Ms. Graham also thinks Troy deserves a good ticking off, if not a good kick.
Later on Barnaby sums up constable Perrot: "'Poor sod,' Barnaby turned the key in the Yale. 'Out of his league, out of his depth, desperate to please. All he wants is a kind word.'
'He's in the wrong bloody job then,' said Sergeant Troy" (p. 368)
On a lighter note:
"...Something to do with computers. The vicar's brain turned to custard at the very thought. One of his flock had recently presented St Chad's with a second-hand machine on to which had been transferred every scrap of data relating to parish matters. Now the vicar could not even find his verger's phone number. He had thought the dark night of the soul a mere metaphysical concept until pitched into its shadows by the demon Amstrad..." (p., 12)
"...'People don't always tell the truth about their personal affairs. Why should they?'
'I do,' said Mrs Molfrey with the simplicity of a child.
There was no answer to this and Barnaby wisely did not attempt one.
'Don't you think,' continued Mrs Molfrey, 'it all sounds rather,' she searched her mind for an adjective which would adequately sum up the dark and terrible complexities of the matter in hand, 'Sicilian?'
Barnaby thought it sounded about as Sicilian as a stick of Blackpool rock..." (p. 47-48)
"Heather Gibbs gave Arcadia, [Mrs Molfrey's residence], a good seeing-to every Friday. Two hours, twelve pounds. Generous in comparison with the usual but, as Heather's mum pointed out, if you're batty as an egg whisk you're going to have to cough up just that little bit extra..." (p. 20)
"...'Actually, the vicar came round asking questions. He was quite persistent – you know what do-gooders are.'
PC Perrot, who inevitably had had rather more experience with the way do-badders were, nodded agreeably." (p. 57).
Lunch at the local pub:
"Last year his daughter and her husband had toured Eastern Europe with an Arts Council production of Much Ado About Nothing. Cully had sent her parents a copy of a Polish menu, woefully mistranslated. Joyce's favourite line had been: 'Our wines leave you nothing to hope for.' Barnaby had thought this merely an interpretive hiccup until he tasted Fawcett Green's Liebfraumilch." (p. 128)...
"...'They're like that, women.'
Women, like foreigners, the pigmentally challenged or differentially abled, like anyone in fact who did not fall into the lower middle to working class white male aggressively heterosexual brotherhood were diminished, in Troy's categorisation, to 'they'." (p. 129)
"They waited at a pedestrian crossing. The flagstones burned through the synthetic soles of Troy's highly polished tasselled black loafers. An elderly man came towards them draped in sandwich boards heavy with biblical instruction. Troy noted his approach sourly. The man, no doubt overcome by that irritating compulsion to share his convictions, which afflicts the over religious, gave Troy a sugary smile. He said, 'Jesus loves you.'
'Jesus loves everybody, mate' snapped Troy, well equipped to recognise the emotionally promiscuous. 'So don't think you're anything special.'" (p. 190-191)
"Freddie Blakely did not keep them waiting. Once inside the office he indicated two extremely uncomfortable looking seats, all leather straps and writhing chrome. They looked like a harness for some exceptionally gruelling medical examination. Or the practice of bizarre sexual shenanigans..." (p. 191)
"Troy put on his silky tweed jacket, adjusted his tie with immaculately clean hands and briefly admired himself in the mirror. Smoothing his hair and smiling, he checked his teeth for any foody bits. Finesse he might lack but you couldn't fault him when it came to a tidy mouth.
He unwrapped a stick of Orbit menthol, popped it on to his tongue and set off for the station bar and a glass of weasel piss. Plus a spot of amorous backchat which could well lead, should his cards fall sunny side upwards, to a nice little roll in the hay." (p. 225-226)
On TV Barnaby is a man of the people, enjoying a glass of beer with the boys. frying sausages on the barbie. In the books he is a thoughtful and competent chef and not only his cooking is more refined.
"...She opened the window slightly. He heard the music then. 'Softly Awakes My Heart' from Samson and Delilah. It was sung in French, he guessed by Jessye Norman. Or maybe Marilyn Home..." (p. 243) I wonder how many other coppers would recognize the music and even made a qualified guess as to the singer of a bit of grand opera? Well, maybe Endeavour Morse. In this volume we also learn that Barnaby's wife Joyce has begun singing; opera, and possibly (shudder) lieder!
"Like everyone else, Barnaby was familiar with stories of lengthy waiting lists, patients on trolleys in corridors waiting for beds and dramatic dashes from one hospital to another trying to find a unit available for someone in need of intensive care. He wondered how long it would be before hospital administrators, tapping their feet, sucking their teeth with impatience and checking their watches, would be positioned at the bedside of the dying, silently urging them to get a move on..." (p. 389)
"We are all in the lap of the gods. When Barnaby listened to criminals whining during interrogations or later from the dock that they had never had any luck, he was not overly sympathetic.
Though he himself had had the luck – affectionate parents, a stable and happy marriage, an intelligent and healthy child – he was not a man to pour libations or even offer up a grateful prayer. Like most people in such a fortunate position, he took it all for granted..." (p. 409-410)
This is a pretty good mystery. I didn't figure it out until very near the end. Surprisingly though, this being Midsomer, there is only one murder! A second will occur at a later date; perhaps murder is not the word, callous neglect causing someone to pine away until death comes as a release.
"'What are you hoping to gain by all this?' [asked Barnaby]
'I just want to get it over with.'
'What?'
'Everything. This long disease, my life.' (p. 395)
This last quotation suggests the ending was not very cheerful but Ms Graham's series differs from those of nearly every other crime writer. Barnaby is not a loner, disliked by his colleagues, bullied by his boss, separated from his ex-wife and children. Just the opposite in fact; and in fact we get an Asterix ending – not with a wild boar roasted whole, but near enough.