Back in the days when I reviewed a lot for the late lamented Infinity Plus and Crescent Blues, I made a point of offering the small-press and even self-published titles the same level playing field as the stuff emanating from the big boys. This meant that, of course, in the pursuit of many undoubted pearls (the entire Akashic list, the stories of C.S. Thompson, etc., etc.), I also had to wade through an exceptional amount of, er, swine. In addition, I had to get used to reading text that was fundamentally strong and filled with the kind of vibrancy you'd never hope for in a conglomerate-published novel, yet was packed with typos and grammatical howlers.
And then there were the ones that offered the latter characteristic while also being abysmally plotted and written as if in crayon. In general, I quietly didn't review those. (One of the ghastliest of them I later noticed had been reviewed elsewhere. I found the reviewer hadn't shared my milquetoste compunction. "THIS IS THE WORST SCIENCE FICTION NOVEL I HAVE EVER READ," he thundered.) And, on the same grounds, I probably wouldn't have reviewed River of Darkness, which differs from other outrageously badly written and edited novels I've read only in that it was published not in POD by the (since defunct) Snotwrangler Press of Poughkeepsie but by Viking.
And it looked so good from the outside!
We're in the immediate post-WWI years in Surrey, UK, where there's just been a spectacular massacre in a country mansion. Scotland Yard sends Inspector John Madden to investigate. He's a man with a tragic past and so psychologically deep he can hardly get his trousers unbuttoned without a rigorous routine of introspection ("By fuck, this man's interesting in all directions," I thought as my head hammered irrevocably into the pillow), but unbutton 'em he does pretty promptly in the company of local dreamboat doctor Helen Blackwell -- proving, I suppose, the old adage that some women will do anything to stop you talking about your tragic past (op. cit.). Madden suspects there'll be other massacres along these same lines in the Home Counties, and sure enough he's right. Obviously Blackwell is going to have a lucky escape thanks to Our Man's relentlesss pluck.
As implied above, the text is littered with typos, not just of the kind where a letter has been transposed or a word omitted but including instances of sentences of dialogue being inadvertently run together; a specialty is the omission of quotation marks at the opening of a paragraph of dialogue, or even in the middle of a paragraph which mixes dialogue and narrative. All of this you expect in PODville; you don't expect it in a Viking hardback. You also don't expect the plot imbecility whereby (a) Our Man knows the villain makes dugouts near where he observes the next targets of his attacks; (b) the villain has made such a dugout and is observing a family; (c) Our Man and his team have discovered such a dugout on a hill overlooking that family's home; (d) they capture the dugout digger but it's the wrong man, because in the whole of England he chose the same hill in which to dig a dugout as the bad man did, and it just happens that the cops, given a million hills in England they could have found dugouts in, found one here. Even the Snotwrangler Press of Poughkeepsie might have balked at this sort of nonsense.
I hardly need to add that, when I checked the Amazon listing of the book to see if, curse the thought, there had been sequels, I found not just that this was so -- there's apparently now a successful John Madden series -- but also copious reader reviews saying what spiffy, impeccable storytelling this was. Well, I don't care: the book's a complete mess and should never have been published in its current form.