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Murder Must Advertise  (Lord Peter Wimsey Mysteries, #10)Murder Must Advertise by Dorothy L. Sayers

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


All I really remembered about this book was that it made me laugh; what I didn’t remember was it also has teeth.



A peter Wimsey mystery, wherein Peter goes undercover in an ad agency, and then there are a lot of shenanigans, and also bad puns, and a climactic cricket match that made me snigger to myself for ten minutes straight, much to the consternation of my morning train seatmate.



(This is, incidentally, a pretty good place to start with Peter Wimsey. Not the chronological beginning of the series, but it’s one of the best, and it sets you up nicely to read forward or back without ruining your first Wimsey on, say, the one with all the goddamn train schedules.)



Anyway, so it’s thoroughly amusing, and peter capers here and there, declaiming and punning and being horrible and being grand. Also solving a murder, and tripping into a viper’s nest of crime, like he does.



But under that is a tense, frantically unhappy book. About the ad game and the life game – buy this, that’ll solve your problems, now buy that, snort this line of cocaine, try that dangerous stunt, run faster, work harder, more more more – why aren’t you happy yet? What do you mean you came to a bitter end along the way? And if that weren’t enough, also a pointed meditation on a particular stripe of British classism.*



God damn, when she was good, no one could touch Sayers.



*There’s this bit where one character explains to another how there’s a cultural divide in the office between the Oxbridge chaps and the rest of them. How the blokes who went to, like, Manchester, will get all earnest and upset and froth at the mouth about metaphysics, and one of the Oxbridge guys will come along and just make a bad pun at them and ask why they can't take a joke. And I was like, “Ahahaha, Dorothy Sayers! Your Oxbridge chaps are hipsters.”





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Have His CarcaseHave His Carcase by Dorothy L. Sayers

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


I would say ‘another Lord Peter mystery,’ but it’s more accurate to say, ‘a Sayers book, marking the transitional point in the series where we stop having Lord Peter mysteries.’ And start having Peter-and-Harriet books, I mean.



Not as enjoyable as I was expecting. Peter and Harriet are, of course, rubbing along very complexly here, with suppressed romantic sentiment (mostly Peter, but not all) and resentment (mostly Harriet, but not all). There is only one real eruption between them; the rest of the time they take carefully calculated shots, watch each other too closely, and very rarely get wrapped up in the puzzle and accidentally slide towards partnership.



And the puzzle. I realize that the endless back-and-forth with layered theories and time tables and who-done-its and how-done-its is how this book works. It’s all about how mysteries are made, with Harriet applying her writer’s eye to the problem of constructing a solution that isn’t just possible, but balanced and right. Unfortunately, I find that style with the endless theorizing extremely tedious. But I think my real problem is that after all that commentary, those layered narratives and fictions, Peter does what Peter does – what a golden age detective does – and tootles off into the sunset, crime and victim(s) slotted in as just another pretty puzzle, just another story. That sort of thing rubs me exactly the wrong way. It’s the opposite of the modern TV crime drama problem, where every episode has a connection to the investigator’s tragical past so that the investigator is the real victim. It’s not like I’m fond of that, but in the golden age tradition, there were no victims at all, because it’s just an intellectual game. And this book didn’t interrogate that, the way it did most other parts of the mystery form.





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The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club (Lord Peter Wimsey Mysteries, #4)The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club by Dorothy L. Sayers

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


On the surface, a pleasant puzzle-piecey little murder mystery, with Peter bounding here and there, declaiming and detectiving his way to an answer. But under that . . . yikes. What an uncomfortable book, with people turning and twisting and snagging on each other like brambles on silk. Everyone stuck inside a little box called marriage or poverty or shell shock or police rules. This book is all tight spaces – the badly lit veteran’s club, the body crammed up tight in the phone box, the stifling social scene. There’s something bitter and angry down deep here, something peculiarly postwar and female and stuck in a way I can’t put my finger more precisely on.



And then the little cut of the title, because of course we wouldn’t want anything unpleasant to happen, no no, particularly not to the soldiers who made it home alive, the lucky ones who are clearly and absolutely fine now.



Eek.





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