Kelly Oliver must write her Fiona Figg novels to get very far away from the discipline of Philosophy that she teaches at Vanderbilt University. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just that when I noted her background, I was very surprised that Ms. Fiona Figg (although giving her that prefix is decidedly anachronistic) doesn’t seem very philosophical (with two possible exceptions noted below). She is, however, a fascinating woman as the male characters in these novels discover despite themselves. High Treason at the Grand Hotel is Fiona Figg’s second mission for the War Office during this fictional adventure set in World War I. Its genre is usually considered to be “cozy” mystery because of the romantic elements (more in this adventure than the first one in the series, Betrayal at Ravenswick) and the murders Fiona Figg is trying to solve. But the murders aren’t that sophisticated, mostly providing an excuse for a romp through the era of Downton Abbey and Birdsong. Its insights are more socio-political than philosophical, but that’s okay considering that Betrayal at the Grand Hotel is full of both action and comical situations.
In High Treason at the Grand Hotel, erstwhile file clerk, newborn spy Fiona Figg is sent to keep tabs on suspected saboteur Frederick Fredericks as herself. Warned not to use any of her disguises (a sticking point concerning my suspension of disbelief in the first novel), the frustrated daughter of a stage family can’t resist packing her costumes to be able to function incognito and/or as a cross-dresser regardless. At several points in this novel, however, we have indications which assuage my concerns about the disguises. Indeed, a couple of scenes would have been well-worth a Mack Sennet “short” from the era in question.
I think that one of the reasons I identify with Ms. Figg, despite not having biological or cross-dressing congruence, is that she is often a victim of her own insecurity. She doesn’t want to fail as a secret agent, so she ends up self-sabotaging because she is afraid to communicate with those whom she evidently should trust. She creates awkward excuses when she should probably indicate something (maybe not all, but something) of what she needed to accomplish. Worse, some of the tightest spots in which she finds herself are due to trying to accomplish her mission in exactly the opposite way in which she was supposed to approach it.
Although Oliver admits in both the front matter and back matter to anachronism and imaginative extrapolation regarding the historical characters who appear in the novel, I find it charming to read what she does with such as Mata Hari and Louis Renault. And come to think of it, there is an execution in the story and the words of one of the executioners upon completing the task may indeed be somewhat philosophical: “’She may not have known how to live,’ he said, ‘but damned if the lady didn’t know how to die.’ I wiped a tear from my cheek. He was right. And facing death is the hardest part of living.” (p. 283). In fact, my observation about the lack of philosophical ideas should be corrected by remembering the following inner dialogue of Fiona’s, a reasoning that might come directly from a lecture in an undergraduate Ethics course. “Hundreds of soldiers’ lives could be at stake. But so could Berthe’s life. A purely utilitarian calculus of lives didn’t seem appropriate. Can you really calculate the value of a life? Isn’t each life a world? And with every death comes the end of a world? Although she was only one person, Berthe’s life was as important as any soldier’s. And she was in real imminent danger while those hypothetical soldiers were in possible future danger.” (p. 203)
I particularly enjoyed Fiona’s recollections of colorful phrases from her father. “My father liked to say, outward order conceals inward turmoil. If so, my soul must be a cyclone.” (p. 15) The quotation was remembered by the protagonist with regard to the idea of a clean desk. Judging from the devastation on my desk, I must be quite together (just kidding). At a later point in the novel, there is an indication that something is sensual overkill when she remembers her father saying, “Butter on bacon!” (p. 98)
Like a Continental Breakfast as opposed to an old-fashioned English Breakfast, High Treason at the Grand Hotel won’t be for every taste. For me, the novels in the Fiona Figg series are marmalade on the toast of my other reading, just tart enough and sweet enough to enhance the rotation of genres and levels of intensity I try to read.