The League of Frightened Men was the second book about Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin that Rex Stout wrote, the year after Fer de Lance. As many critics have pointed out, the pairing of the traditional, super-smart detective in the Sherlock mode (Wolfe) with the wisecracking, more hard-boiled detective (Goodwin) was a stroke of genius on Stout’s part. Much of the humor in the books, including League of Frightened Men, comes from the banter between the two, and their very different ways of speaking and looking at the world.

The problem with this book, however, is in the characterization. While the central figure in the case, Paul Chapin, is given a full and rather creepy personality, and his wife Dora an even creepier one, most of the other characters are one-dimensional (Ayers, the drunken reporter; Drummond the effete florist etc.) or indistinguishable. I found myself constantly having to look back to the list of men on page 30-something to see who was who – and, most frustrating, the list was in no discernible order.

The plot is clever though, with some twists I didn’t see coming (though several of the people in my book group claim they did). And, of course, it’s always fun when Wolfe calls everyone together at the end to name the murderer.

The Lampreys are a family living hopelessly above their means, relying on an older brother —  who inherited the family title and money —  to get them out of their financial difficulties. They are a charming but exasperating group whose idea of economizing is to go to the Riviera off-season, and of course not one of them is equipped to earn an income. When Lord Wutherwood, the titled brother, refuses further assistance and is gruesomely murdered, most of the Lampreys come under suspicion, and it is Alleyn’s job to unravel the lies and evasions and find the killer.

One of the few non-Lampreys in the book is Roberta Grey, a young woman from New Zealand, through whose eyes the reader sees many of the events in the story.  Marsh describes Roberta’s reactions to her first arrival in London so vividly that there is little doubt that it is Marsh’s own delight in first visiting London that is being portrayed.

In classic Golden Age fashion, Marsh presents the reader with floor plans and timetables, which might be helpful in solving the crime or perhaps in misdirecting our attention.  This book was on several lists of the Best Mysteries of the 20^th Century (notably that of The London Times and the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association), but I was not that impressed with the mystery. It is, however, an example of Marsh at her comedy-of-manners best, and I greatly enjoyed it for that.

Trent’s Last Case holds up remarkably well almost a century after Bentley wrote it. Only Trent’s chivalry seems a bit dated, though charmingly so. Filled with humor and romance, as well as Golden Age fair play, this is one book that deserves its ranking among the classics of detective fiction.

Is Miss Pym Disposes really a mystery novel? No body appears for over 200 pages. Miss Pym herself is hardly a detective. It is much more a novel of character, with an ending that examines how a crime may affect the lives of some of the people involved.

Lucy Pym starts out as a comic character. A teacher of French, she inherits some money, which allows her to quit her job. She then reads a book on psychology, which she finds ridiculous, and goes on to read thirty-six more that she finds equally silly. At last she writes her own psychology book and becomes a celebrity, the darling of the British publishing world and a speaker to learned societies. Invited by an old school friend to give a guest lecture at a school of athletic training for young women, Lucy becomes enchanted with the school and especially with its enthusiastic students and ends up staying much longer than she had planned.

Tey herself had attended such a school and she knew the milieu well. She also had the amazing ability to make almost all the characters at the school both realistic and likable: the irrepressible Dakers, the beautiful and popular Nash, the brilliant Innes, and the somewhat cynical Brazilian student Desterro are the standouts. The latter, known to her classmates as The Nut Tart, serves an important function both to the novel and to Miss Pym; as an outsider who nonetheless lives inside the school, she provides a more objective view of her classmates and the school itself.

The title of the book comes from the quotation, “Man proposes, God disposes.” There is much discussion in the last 50 pages of “playing God,” and indeed, Miss Pym, after much soul-searching, does take actions that are outside the rules of the school and outside the law.

The ending of the book has a devastating surprise for the first-time reader. But even more interesting to me, as a person who has read the book many times, is that there are multiple possible interpretations of what happened. I’d discussed this book before with one book group, and we had all come to the same conclusion about who did what and why. This time, with another book group, one person in the group (who happens to be my husband) came up with an alternate explanation. Try as we might, none of us could come up with anything in the book that could contradict that interpretation. A wonderful discussion resulted — about psychology, morality, and writing. That this entertaining little book written over 60 years ago could provoke such a discussion is a tribute to the skill of the author.

Clutch of Constables was written in 1968, a good twenty years after the Golden Age of British mystery ended, but it has all the hallmarks of a Golden Age novel: a small cast of eccentric characters, any one of which is a likely suspect, a clever amateur detective, and even a plodding police inspector — but is he really the plodder that he appears to be? There’s a map and a cast of characters at the front of the book too.

Troy Alleyn, the famous painter and wife of Superintendent Roderick Alleyn, decides on impulse to take a short river cruise while her husband is off on a trip of his own. Once on board the Zodiac riverboat, she finds that the person whose cancelled reservation enabled her to get a room at the last minute has been found murdered in London. Soon after the cruise begins, another passenger drowns. Was she also murdered? Troy’s letters to Alleyn convince him that she too may be in danger, and that one of her fellow passengers may be the notorious criminal Foljambe, aka The Jampot.

The reader gets a clue early on that Foljambe has a physical attribute that immediately identifies him, though what it is isn’t revealed. Naturally, it turns out that every passenger on the boat has some notable feature: one is black, one has a “not unattractive cast” in one eye, one walks with a limp, one is missing an eye, and one wears a hearing aid. So which one is Foljambe?

The pace of the book may seem slow to readers used to slam-bang action, but I found this leisurely cruise down the unnamed River an intriguing and entertaining read.

The Moonstone is a diamond – not the semi-precious stone we call “moonstone” today – stolen from a statue of the moon god in India and later inherited by the young Rachel Verinder on her 18th birthday. It disappears the same night, and the three Hindu men reportedly seen nearby are immediately suspected. But of course things are not so simple as they first appear, and it is well over a year before the diamond is recovered and the mystery of its theft is solved. In the interim, many lives have been disrupted and several characters are dead.

The story is told in a series of narratives by some of the characters, making them much like witnesses at a trial. In this book, Collins originated many of the conventions of the mystery genre: a crime at an English country home, a small group of suspects present when the crime occurs, a bumbling local policeman, and investigation by both a talented amateur detective and the celebrated detective from Scotland Yard.

Life moved at a different pace in the 19th century, and books from the mid-1800s reflect that. Reading The Moonstone takes some patience in 2010, but it’s well worth it. The first-time reader will be intrigued by the mystery of the gem’s disappearance, while the re-reader can savor the gentle humor of some of the narratives and the biting satire of some of the others.

Brat Farrar is one of the two mysteries by Josephine Tey that does not feature detective Alan Grant. Written in 1949, it was among the post-war novels — the other two being Daughter of Time and The Franchise Affair — that helped cement Tey’s reputation as one of the best of the Golden Age mystery writers.

Tey first introduces us to the Ashby family having a lively lunch in their home, Latchetts, which has been in the family for generations. The eldest, Simon, is soon to be “of age” and inherit Latchetts, and he is joined at the table by Aunt Bee (who has raised the children since their parents died in a plane crash eight years earlier) and his siblings, Eleanor, who teaches horseback riding to children at a nearby school, and the young twins, Ruth and Jane. The scene is a warm, happy one and draws the reader into the book.

But then we meet the orphan Brat Farrar, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Simon. Brat is persuaded by a “friend” of the Ashbys to pose as the long-lost Patrick Ashby, Simon’s twin, who disappeared shortly after his parents’ death and whose body has never been found. Brat quickly insinuates himself into the family, explaining that rather than killing himself, as everyone assumed, he ran away to sea and lived in America until recently. As the older twin, Brat/Patrick will inherit Latchetts, not Simon. One by one, he wins over the Ashby family, leaving only Simon believing he is a fraud.

Tey is such a talented writer that she makes it difficult for the reader to dislike Brat despite his dishonesty. By the time he begins to suspect that Patrick was a victim of murder and not a suicide, we find ourselves firmly on his side. Brat’s dilemma is that by proving that Patrick was murdered, he will expose his own crime and bring further sorrow to the family he has come to love.

Brat Farrar has typical Tey touches: a humorous spoof of overly permissive schools like Summerhill and an exciting horserace, as well as some of her most appealing characters in Aunt Bee and Brat himself. It’s a masterful book from start to finish.

This is eighth book in Margery Allingham’s Albert Campion mystery series. Here, Campion is initially called in to discover the person attempting to sabotage a London show that stars the legendary singer/dancer Jimmy Sutane (who bears a strong resemblance to Fred Astaire, both in appearance and talent). But when the ‘pranks’ played on Sutane escalate to the murder of another dancer in the cast of the show, Campion joins with the police — his old friends Superintendent Oates and Chief Detective Inpector Yeo — to find the murderer.

Unfortunately, Campion becomes too infatuated with Linda Sutane, Jimmy’s wife, to think as clearly as he usually does. Though he eventually comes to the correct conclusion, this is one book in which the police actually arrive at the solution to the case ahead of the detective.

I enjoyed many aspects of Dancers in Mourning, but I was never quite convinced by Campion’s love for Linda. The irony of the final conversation between Campion and Jimmy Sutane was, on the other hand, perfect.  I also missed Campion’s ‘assistant’, Magersfontein Lugg, who appears much too briefly in this book. When Lugg does come on the scene, the book brightens considerably: his interactions with the Sutanes’ neglected daughter Sarah are hilarious and heart-warming, and show Allingham at her best.

Rachel Wallace is a feminist, a lesbian, and an author whose publisher hires Spenser to act as her bodyguard after she receives a death threat. Rachel detests everything that Spenser stands for and eventually fires him. Yet when she is kidnapped, Spenser feels compelled to find her. Spenser follows a code of chivalry in which a damsel in distress must be rescued, even if she doesn’t want to be. (There are many references to Lancelot, Galahad and other Arthurian knights.) I enjoy the way Parker shows us Spenser’s discomfort with a woman who doesn’t find him or his macho ways attractive.

There is very little mystery here: it’s fairly obvious who has kidnapped Rachel. Nonetheless, it’s fun to follow Spenser on his quest. Spenser’s significant other, Susan Silverman is on hand to explain Rachel to Spenser and Spenser to Rachel, but Spenser’s sidekick Hawk is only mentioned once or twice and does not appear. (Hawk had only been introduced to the series two books earlier, so perhaps Parker had not yet figured out how valuable a character he was.)

For readers familiar with Boston, many of the place names will conjure up fondly remembered images, but a person who has never been to that city will find little sense of place here. There is, however, a witty rant about the new (in 1980) Boston Public Library facade, as well as a nice scene in which the city is shut down by a blizzard so that Spenser must go on foot for several miles to find Rachel.

There are also some painfully funny scenes with Rachel sitting impatiently through a poorly-attended booksigning and being interviewed by a talk show host who has obviously not read her book. Most authors will groan in sympathy with her even as they are forced to smile at Parker’s wit.

Looking for Rachel Wallace also reminds us how far both the feminist and the gay rights movements have come in the last thirty years. It’s a nice slice of the late 1970s as well as a good read.

Not the best of the Lord Peter mysteries, but a good introduction to Wimsey, his family (notably Lady Mary and the Dowager Duchess), and the usual cast of Sayers’s characters, with the unusual addition of two femme fatales.