One wonders why Lucy Malleson chose to write under a man's name, when her gender is glaringly obvious from her writing. Gilbert has an oversupply of both the virtues and the vices commonly attributed to women writers. On the one hand we find carefully drawn characters and entertaining, credible conversations -- on the other a fatal tendency to gush, a passionate regard for a whimsical male lead, and a tendency to play God with events in order to suit her plot. These failings made me swear off Gilbert years ago, but on coming back with this book for another look I found them just as frustrating as ever.
Miss Pinnegar is an elderly retired nurse living in a London flat with an equally elderly maid. While the maid is (coincidentally) in hospital through an accident Miss Pinnegar is visited for the first time in years by Violet, her niece-by marriage, who has been involved in a fatal car accident (coincidentally) nearby. By the time Violet's recent history is set out and the plot is ready to creak into action we have had to swallow not one but both partners to a marriage remarrying because their spouse is presumed dead, not one but two totally unexpected legacies, and any number of unlikely deaths, bombings and affairs -- for no other reason than to get the characters on to their starting blocks. If Gilbert was willing to tell us less then she might have to explain less, but no -- we have an ominipotent view and can foresee exactly what is going to happen, so any chance at suspense is lost. And Arthur Crook radiates whimsy like mad.
I retired beaten about halfway through, but a quick perusal of the rest persuaded me that I hadn't missed anything that mattered. Entertaining conversation is all very well, but one likes a mystery to have some mystery about it. For me, Gilbert goes back on the Reject shelf.
Jon.
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