The fate of war-torn England is in the hands of Albert Campion. And he has amnesia!
Every day this site tries to sell me “thrillers” that they promise will have me on the edge of my seat, gasping for breath. Never mind the fact that, at my age, gasping for breath probably means I’m having a medical emergency of some kind. Don't companies value loyal customers anymore?
I like a nice, leisurely domestic murder where some unpleasant person is poisoned and the detective shifts through the heirs to figure out who-dun-it. Sure, someone might stumble onto the identity of the killer before the detective does. And that someone might try a spot of blackmail and end up dead, too, but that’s life. Certainly nothing to have me sitting on the edge of my seat, gasping for breath about.
In all fairness, Allingham warned us. In her introduction to “Mr Campion: Criminologist” she says that once she realized she was stuck with writing Albert Campion mysteries, she decided to write as many different kinds of mysteries as possible to stave off boredom - hers and ours, I suppose. And she did just that - everything from murders in gloomy old mansions with ancient curses and secret rooms to lively, wise-cracking crime among sparkling London socialites to treason and enemy sabotage. Albert sees it all.
Take this book. Please! It’s like one of those over-wrought dramas where the clock is ticking in the upper corner of the screen and our hero (“with every man’s hand against him” as Allingham reminds us several times) races frantically to prevent mass disaster. Maybe you find this sort of thing stimulating, but to me it’s just exhausting and boring.
The book opens with an anonymous man in a hospital, with no idea of his identity or his past or how he got there. He conveniently overhears someone say that he’s killed a policeman - the one unforgivable crime in law-abiding England. All he knows is that he has a vital job to do and the clock is ticking. So he escapes and a beautiful woman rescues him and he ends up at a remote scientific institute and there’s a mysterious death. And everyone knows who he is (except him) and is trying to help him accomplish his goal of SAVING ENGLAND, but he’s one of only two men who know about the crisis and the other one has disappeared.
He could just TELL everyone that he has amnesia and tell them about the puzzling things he's discovered since he left the hospital and let them help him figure it out, but he doesn’t. I suppose it’s because he’s an English aristocratic and must stay calm so as not to panic mere mortals. And so, for one dreary, confusing chapter after another, he plunges on in the face of constant danger rather than reveal the details of the national crisis, which he can’t remember, anyway.
I like Albert in a mild kind of way and I admire Allingham’s superb writing, but I’m tired of all this mysterious aristocrat nonsense. I don’t know anything about English aristocrats and I suspect Allingham didn’t know any more than I do, but why should they behave irrationally? And why should it be a virtue?
There’s too little humor here and way too much romance. He and Lady Amanda are engaged, but now there’s a problem. There always is in Albert’s love life. And she's an aristocrat, too. When they get into a fist fight, he notices her delicate bones, a sure sign of noble birth. Like race horses, English aristocrats are bred for speed. And like calls to like, so Albert spends any time he isn’t running from the police and the internationally-financed gang of criminals (“the hand of every man raised against him”) agonizing over the lost love of the fragile, but hard-hitting Lady Amanda. Romance isn’t Allingham’s strong suit and I don’t want to read it, anyway.
This book reflects the national hysteria that held England in a tight grip in 1940 and with good reason. Hitler had spent a decade building his powerful army, navy, and air force and no one attempted to stop him. England spent the same time trying to forget WWI and pretending that another war was impossible. When war was finally declared, the German army cut through Europe like a sharp knife through hot butter. England was the only country left to fight and they were totally unprepared.
Furthermore, there were plenty of home-grown Nazis (including the Duke and Duchess of Windsor) who were ready to welcome Uncle Adolf with open arms. Sabotage wasn’t a joke. It was a real, horrible danger and the English knew it.
So I’m not making fun of Allingham for her panic. It was justified and patriotic. But this isn’t a good book. It’s repetitive and totally lacking in humor and sometimes quite silly. The only saving grace is the occasional presence of Albert’s servant/sidekick Lugg. He, as always, is canny, clear-thinking, fearless, and (Thank God) totally lacking in aristocratic nonsense. If it weren’t for him, I would have given up halfway through the book.
I’m reading this excellent series in order and I didn’t want to skip this one. But unless you LIKE having your guts wrenched, skip it.