I’m more at home reviewing cookbooks than crime fiction, but I was so impressed by Kate Atkinson’s latest offering, Death at the Sign of the Rook, that I decided to sit down and work out why.
Atkinson fans will be delighted that Jackson Brodie makes a swift entrance, but enjoyment of the book does not depend on any foreknowledge of him (or Reggie, another recurring character). And although this is technically a crime novel – it contains plenty of foul deeds, not just murder – it appears to me that it turns the genre on its head.
How so? Well, most mysteries gain their momentum from a murder perpetrated early in the book, which the detective then has to solve, against a background of mounting difficulties and (usually) personal jeopardy. Setting and characterisation are important – you have to want to be there, and care about the characters – but they’re patched unobtrusively into the plot, and it’s the plot that keeps you reading.
This remarkable book does things differently. It’s framed by an uber-traditional device – a murder mystery weekend at a magnificent if frayed-round-the-edges country house – but don’t be deceived.
The first quarter of the book comprises a set of leisurely character sketches. We meet: Ian and Dorothy Padgett, twins in their seventies, who are clearing out their late mother’s house in Ilkley. Lady Milton, dowager marchioness, who stalks the corridors of Burton Makepeace, regretting the old days and her two feckless sons. The Reverend Simon Cate, who lost his faith years ago and now his voice (literally). And Ben, an army veteran and amputee living out his dispirited days in the house of his sister and her wife. What unites these disparate characters is loss – and the arrival into their lives of private detective Jackson Brodie, shortly joined by DC Regina (Reggie) Chase.
The characters are so richly drawn they remind me of Dickens (and I don’t say that lightly), but there are many other treats along the way. The main mystery (of several) involves art theft, an industry fascinatingly described by Atkinson. The story is embroidered with references to a (fictional) cosy crime doyenne called Nancy Styles, with some gentle ribbing (if I’m not mistaken) of Agatha Christie. And on the subject of ribbing, the relationship between Jackson and his young sidekick is so hilarious that every time the pair appear you are guaranteed to laugh out loud.
Without giving anything away, the story unfolds almost without you noticing, then erupts into an outrageous climax, involving a gang of washed up actors, a snowstorm, an escaped murderer and much gunfire. Loose ends that you never imagined were loose ends are triumphantly gathered up and justice served.
As for the characters we have got to know and (in most cases) learnt to love – Atkinson ensures that they too are looked after with humanity and respect, leaving the reader with a warm and grateful glow. A glorious, life-affirming romp, and a five-star read.
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