'Seven For A Secret' is good enough to disappoint.
It is clear that the author, Lyndsay Faye, has real talent. The writing is sometimes excellent. Too often, however, it veers into being irritating, overly worked or overly arch.
The idea behind the novel, the way the law was used in the mid-nineteenth century US to return runaway black slaves to the American south and how certain slave catchers were none to fussy about whether they collected freemen or runaways, is an excellent one. Her central policeman character, with strong abolitionist tendencies but trapped in a world where the kidnap of black men and women is legally sanctioned, a good one to explore the moral issues that this raises. But sadly, due to a number of issues, the book too often misses its mark.
Part of the problem is that we are about 150 pages in to the novel before the main plot really begins to motor, with an unexpected dead body turning up, apparently incriminating our main characters. It is often a sign that an author realises that the start of a book is weak when there is a prologue. Here we get one that hints at the beginning of the main story before we go back to deal with a sub-plot about the theft of a painting which is largely divorced from the rest of the book and could have been usefully cut.
The lack of plot line to push us forward gives the reader time to puzzle over other aspects of the story and its telling which might be best left not thought about. Early on, for example, the policeman central character, and narrator of the story, meets an Englishman acting as a butler in a New York household. He is 'doing his level best London accent' but the narrator immediately identifies him as coming from Bristol. That might work as an incidental detail for an American audience, but it seems hard for anyone familiar with the West Country inflected Bristol accent (with its habit of sticking an 'L' on the end of vowels) to see that mistake being made or, if the family hiring the man are genuinely so tone deaf to accents, why the butler felt the need to disguise the accent in the first place. Given that the idea of a received pronunciation 'posh' accent was largely a nineteenth century invention, would anyone even have cared?
Another irritation, for me at least, was too often the style of writing. Whilst sometimes very well told, it too often becomes affected. Lyndsay Faye is clearly influenced by the dry laconic hardboiled style of detective fiction created by masters such as Raymond Chandler and much aped since then. The narrator's descriptions are peppered with witty comments in this style. Very often, I wished he (and Faye) would give them a rest.
Too often the writing and its grasp on character resembles something that we might encounter in creative writing workshops or American indie films but not real life, as I've encountered it. At one stage, the narrator policeman tells a character, from whom he is taking a statement,
"'I detest writing police reports,' I admitted... 'Particularly when I'm recording conscienceless things. It's as if - I can't explain it. As if when I officially document them, they have to stay with me. Or I give them permanence, or ... I know it doesn't make sense.' ...
"'As if you're deliberately memorializing something that oughtn't to be remembered at all,' Delia said softly."
It strains for the poetic and the significant but, for me at least, misses the plausible. I've met police officers and I've met victims of crime and none of them have ever suggested they've felt like that. It makes even less sense the more one thinks about it: this is the same man who, we are expected to believe, does write these events down and in staggering detail, as the very text we are currently reading (he makes reference to the pages of the manuscript of the previous story).
It does have to be admitted that, once the main story gets going, the book improves greatly. The various elements of mid-nineteenth century New York, from machine politics to Irish refugees to corrupt policemen are artfully handled, neatly sketched, none outstaying their welcome and all serving a thoroughly entertaining story. By that stage I had been close to giving up, however.
The mystery itself and its resolution are a bit disappointing. An acute reader is likely to have guessed one more significant revelations before the central character. The explanation for the mysterious death, that powers the plot of the later two-thirds of the book, is best not considered too closely: alternative courses of action to the one chosen are too obvious. That said, it would be wrong not to acknowledge that the later part of the book is entertaining.
All in all, a generous three stars.