Imagine, if you will, a country estate. A grand house with extensive grounds set on the English coast. A house named Mizmaze, because the main feature of those grounds is a maze.

‘The Maze was at the south-west end of the garden; it covered over a quarter of an acre, and seemed even bigger to those who walked in it. The entrance, cut in the splendid yew hedge, was six feet high and three feet wide; on the top of a topiaried archway stood two topiaried birds with long spreading tails.’

At the centre of the maze a man lay dead. He was the owner of the house, and his murderer had struck him down with one of his own croquet mallets.

This looked very promising.

Augustine Hatley left two daughters. Alethea, his favoured child, was a divorcee and Angela, his less favoured child was a spinster. His former son-in law, Ben, was also present. he was married again, to Angela, an actress significantly older than him, but he still carried a torch for the wife had acquiesed to her father’s wish that she leave him. And his neighbour, the widowed Lady Lanson who maybe had ideas of marrying again had been visiting. Accompanied by Horick, her feckless, aimless son, who was loved by Angela who he loathed and loathed by Alathea who he loved.

A houseful of suspects, and a tangled web of relationships to unravel.

Inspector Mallet set off to examine the scene and the physical evidence, leaving Doctor Fitzbrown to speak with all of those present.

I’m afraid it was all a little lacklustre. The characters were dislikeable and very nearly grotesques. Once I had worked out their personalities and their relationships I had little interest in their exchanges.

I began to wish that I could find someone to care about. Or, alternatively, that Molly Keane had written a murder mystery, she would have given things that extra push towards the dark side …

And then there was a second, very different murder. More investigations, more dialogue. I hoped that this was the spark the book needed, and it very nearly was. But then characters began to crumble, logic was lost, and I began to see little inconsistencies.

I wasn’t sorry when the murderer was unveiled and I could put the book down.

Such a pity, because the set-up was so promising, the characters had possibilities, and I know how good Mary Fitt can be.

I was so impressed with Death and the Pleasant Voices, which came early in her career, but unimpressed by this book, which came much later.

It felt like a first draft. Idea was there, the style was there. I can’t help feeling that with just a little more work, a little more direction, this could have been a triumph.

But, sadly, it wasn’t.

*****

The Crime Fiction Alphabet is hosted by Kerrie at Mysteries in Paradise.

“Each week, beginning Monday 21 May 2012, you have to write a blog post about crime fiction related to the letter of the week …”

So next week, G is for … ?

The title attracted me first. One unfamiliar and intriguing title on a shelf with other, better known, green Penguins.

“Death and the Pleasant Voices”

Now what did that mean?

I picked the book up and turned to the back cover. The words below the author’s photograph were wonderful.

“It is, I think, the writer of fiction who is of interest to the public, not the person of whom the writer is a part. Therefore I do not propose to give details of where I was born, where educated, and so forth. In my character as Author, I was born some years later than Myself, in that part of the world which lies between classical Greece and Elizabethan England.”

A lovely place to be born, an interesting perspective, and a fine opportunity to enter a story without any preconceptions.

I had to find out more. An interesting synopsis spoke of a young man caught up in strange events at a country house and the opening paragraph made me absolutely certain that I had uncovered a gem.

“I have never seen such lightning or such rain in all my life. As I drove, the rain swept towards me in great grey sheets so that the macadamed road was awash, and the lightning danced in quivering perpendicular lines just ahead of me. I cowered behind my low windscreen as if to avoid a blow; and over the sound of the engine I could hear crash after crash of almost continuous thunder. The sky behind, before, above, closed down over me; it was far darker than the surface of the road. Unable to think, and scarcely able to see, I steered along, doggedly and slowly, wondering what it would feel like when the inevitable happened and the car was struck; is there, or is there not, a moment of awareness before death and oblivion, even when the manner of death is so complacently said to be instantaneous? I wonder then , and I wonder now …”

The young man abroad was Jake Seabourne, medical student and only son of a country doctor; clearly a young man destined to follow in his father’s footsteps.

He took a wrong turning and it lead him to a large country house, and the very welcome prospect of shelter from the storm. A manservant admitted him and lead him into a room full of people. Conversation stopped. All eyes turned towards Jake. Silence. And then an effusive greeting from a young woman, and others following her lead.

But they called him Hugo. Who was Hugo?

Fortunately one person present recognised Jake. Sir Frederick Lawton, an eminent surgeon, sees what has happened, sets thing to rights, and smooths Jake’s path.

He draws Jake to one side to explain. The owner of the house has died, and he has not left his house to his twin son and daughter. He has named his illegitimate son as his heir. A young man who he provided for but kept at arm’s length and never met. Hugo.

He had asked Sir Frederick, and old friend, to contrive to be present when Hugo arrived, to smooth his path. But Sir Frederick has urgent business calling him away, and he asks Jake to take his place. Jake, curious, and eager to associate himself with the great man, agrees.

It’s a wonderful scenario, and Mary Fitt manages it beautifully. 

She paints wonderful pictures of the house, and of its occupants.

Ursula and Jim, daughter and son of the house; their cousin, Evelyn, who had come to nurse their dying father; and elderly  Aunt and Uncle; and Hilary Parmoor, Ursula’s suitor. All complex characters, that would be slowly revealed as the plot advanced.

It was a very clever plot, psychologically true and built upon that fine collection of characters.

Hugo arrived and he was not at all what had been expected, did not at all what had been expected.

And then a very, very well judged twist and a murder.

Jake finds himself in an invidious position, as both confidante and resented outsider.

Another, very clever, twist makes him a suspect, caught in a very tangled web.

Everything, a fine mystery, a wonderful study of English society, and a picture of a way of life recently past and yet long gone, comes out of the characters. No details of the investigation, no set-pieces, just utterly believable and fascinating characters living through, dealing with, a situation.

The resolution works beautifully. It came naturally out of the story and, though I had worked out who the perpetrator had to be, I was still fascinated to learn just what had happened, and just what would happen next.

And a final little twist, a sting in the tail, revealed the meaning of that title.

A fitting end.

Death and the Pleasant Voices is a fine example of the classic country house mystery, and now when I scan the shelves of green Penguins I shall definitely be hoping to find more of Mary Fitt’s work.

*****

The Crime Fiction Alphabet is hosted by Kerrie at Mysteries in Paradise.

“Each week, beginning Monday 10 January 2011, you have to write a blog post about crime fiction related to the letter of the week …”

So next week, N is for … ?