I enjoyed this book very much.

It is the second book in the Inspector Grant series and features the death of a very talented, popular movie star. There are few clues at the scene, since she was drowned at a secluded beach and the tide has obliterated anything of use. One suspect delivers himself up immediately, but claims to be innocent. The evidence, however circumstantial, all points to him and he is arrested.

The quickness and cleanliness of the arrest pleases everyone: the press, the public, and the constabulary all the way up to the Commissioner. Grant also acknowledges that it is “a good enough case”. But. Grant has a niggling feeling, based on a small anomaly. Why can’t he let this go, as everyone advises? Is it just his liking for the suspect getting in the way of the facts? Tey does a brilliant job of outlining the competing forces pulling at Grant: the conviction of his superiors about the solidity of the case versus his “feeling”.

This book also has a very interesting character in Erica Burgoyne, the 17-year-old daughter of the Chief Constable. At points the book breaks briefly to tell the story from her point of view before returning to Grant’s pursuits. She is unconventional, forthright, and has a keen intellect. I am hoping to see more of her in subsequent books!

In each of Tey’s books that I’ve read, she can in a few strokes give a realistic and detailed picture of a section of English society: touts at the racetrack, shopkeepers opening up on a Monday morning, London theatre-goers. The social satire is gentle but hits true even today. In one instance, she makes sharp observations about the symbiotic relationship between the sensationalist celebrity-obsessed press and its readers. Here is an excerpt, where a reporter (Jammy Hopkins) laments being chastised for printing hearsay:

“Jammy consigned them all to perdition…What did the Yard want to take it like that for? Everyone knew that what you wrote in a paper was just eye-wash. When it wasn’t bilge-water. If you stopped being dramatic over little tuppenny no-account things, people might begin to suspect that they were no-account, and then they’d stop buying papers….You’d got to provide emotions for all those moribund wage-earners who were too tired or too dumb to feel anything on their own behalf. If you couldn’t freeze their blood, then you could sell them a good sob or two.” (p.172)

In this novel, Tey shows the dogged, unglamorous work that policemen have to do to track down clues and gather evidence. What could be dry in other hands is smooth in Tey’s and does not slow down the story; rather, it gives a deeper dimension to Grant’s character.

Though it is second in the Grant series, this can be read out of order from the first book ([b:Man in the Queue|243400|The Man in the Queue|Josephine Tey|http://d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net/books/1327960525s/243400.jpg|1844331]) with no harm. ( )

Good, typical mystery story. Pretty Golden Age, although the ending is unfair and comes kind of out the blue, although it's pretty satisfying all the same. Nothing spectacular, but enjoyable all the way through. Worst parts are some clunky dialogue and a few weird editing slippages. The couple of action sequences she did were pretty neat, relative to the usual standard. ( )

I enjoy the Alan Grant mysteries. In this one, a famous actress is drowned. We are led on a chase of red herrings until the last couple of pages when the killer is revealed. The characters in this make the story enjoyable; Grant and his team, the young girl, Erica, and several of the suspects. I'm a bit pleased that I suspected the person revealed as the killer, but there wasn't a convincing motive to my way of thinking. ( )

411/88-'Ενας απλός αστυνομικός μύθος , τίποτα το ιδιαίτερο.
Ένας επαρχιώτης αστυνομικός , άνθρωπος της καθημερινότητας και χωρίς ιδιαίτερες επαγγελματικές δυνατότητες, με τη βοήθεια , μιας επίμονης έφηβης, εφημερίδων, κοινωνικών συναναστροφών ,τυχαίων συγκυριών , καταφέρνει να λύσει το φόνο μιας διάσημης ηθοποιού. ( )

This is my second book by Josephine Tey, about Inspector Grant. I love her books: I can surmise and surmise but I never know until the very ending whodonnit. and on to the third one...

Grant to Tisdall:
P.43:
" 'I see. And in the hour and a half -- roughly -- between your getting up and the finding of Miss Clay's body you walked to the Gap, stole the car, drove it in the direction of Canterbury, regretted what you had done, came back, and found that Miss clay had been drowned. Is that a complete record of your actions?'
'yes, I think so.'
'If you felt so grateful to miss clay, it was surely an extraordinary thing to do.'
'extraordinary isn't the word at all. Even yet I can't believe I did it.' "

Williams:
P.54:
" 'well, of course what I know is just by reading Screenland and Photoplay and magazines like that. A lot of what they write is hooey, but on the other hand they'll never stop at truth as long as it makes a good story. she wasn't fond of being interviewed. And she used to tell a different story each time. When someone pointed out that that wasn't what she had said last time, she said: "but that's so dull! I've thought of a much better one." no one ever knew where they were with her. Temperament, they called it, of course.'
'and you don't call it that?' asked grant, always sensitive to an inflection.
'Well, I don't know. It always seemed to me more like -- well, like protection, if you know what I mean. People can only get at you if they know what you're like -- what matters to you. If you keep them guessing, they're the victims not you.' "

At the party of Christine Clay's rival, Grant does not tell them he's an Inspector.
P.62-3:
" 'whether or not, you can put Jason [her songwriter] out of it,' insisted marta. 'He wouldn't hurt a fly.'
'Oh, wouldn't he,' Judy said, and they all paused to look at her.
'What exactly does that mean?' Clements asked.
'Never mind. My BET's on jason.'
'and what was the motive?'
'she was running out, I suspect.'
Marta interrupted sharply. 'You know that's nonsense, judy. You know quite well that there was nothing between them.'
'I know nothing of the sort. He was never out of her sight.'
'a bitch thinks all the world a bitch,' murmured jammy into Grant's ear.
'I suspect' -- it was Lydia's turn to break into a growing squabble -- 'that Mr Hopkins knows much more about it than we do. He's been down at Westover today for his paper.'
Jammy was instantly the center of attraction. What did he think? What had the police got? Who did they think had done it? Were all these hints in the evening papers about her living with someone true?
Jammy enjoyed himself. He was suggestive about murderers, illuminating on murder, discursive about human nature, and libelously rude about the police and their methods, all with a pleased eye on the helpless grant.
'they'll arrest the boy she was living with,' he finished. 'Take it from me. Tisdall's his name. Good-looking boy. He'll create a sensation in the dock.'
'Tisdall?' they said, puzzled. 'Never heard of him.'
All but Judy Sellers.
Her mouth opened in dismay, stayed that way helplessly for a moment, and then shut tightly; and a blind came down over her face. Grant watched the display in surprised interest."

And Judy really wants us to think that she did the murder. She comes to see Grant in his office:
P.100:
" '... I motored down if you want to know. You can inquire at my flat. The girl I live with will tell you that I didn't come home till lunch time on thursday.'
'That Hardly proves that your activities were murderous.'
'They were, though. I drove to the Gap, hid in the wood, and waited till she came to swim.'
'you were, of course, wearing a man's coat?'
'yes, though I don't know how you knew. It was cold driving, and I wore one of my brother's that was lying in the car.'
'did you wear the coat to go down to the beach?'
'yes. It was dithering cold. I don't like bathing in the dawn.'
'you went bathing!'
'of course I did. I couldn't drown her from the shore, could i?'
'and you left the coat on the beach?'
'oh no,' she said with elaborate sarcasm. 'I went swimming in it.'
and Grant breathed again. For a moment he had had a fright.
'so you changed into swimming things, walked down to the beach with your brother's coat over you, and -- then what?'
'She was a fair way out. I went in, swam up to her, and drowned her.'
'How?'
'She said, "hello, judy." I said, "hello." I gave her a light tap on the chin. My brother taught me where to hit a person's chin, So as to addle them. Then I dived under her and pulled her through the water by the heels until she was drowned.'
'very neat,' Grant said. 'You've thought it all out, haven't you? Have you invented a motive for yourself, too?'
'Oh, I just didn't like her. I hated her, if you want to know. Her success and her looks and her self-sufficiency. She got in my hair until I couldn't bear it another day.' "

Erica is the daughter of the local Gentry. At the age of 16 she's very self-sufficient, even driving her own ancient car around Westover. She doesn't believe that Tisdall is guilty. She hunts him down when he's on the run, and brings him some food -- what I call very nasty food, but it's very British.
P.107:
" '... Are you hungry?'
'is that just an academic question, or -- or are you offering me food?'
Erica reached into the back of the car and produced half a dozen rolls, a glass of tongue, half a pound of butter, and four tomatoes.
'I've forgotten a tin opener,' she said passing him the tongue,' but if you hit the tin lid hard with a flint it will make a hole.' She split a roll with a pen knife produced from her pocket and began to butter it.
'You always carry food about with you?' he asked, doubtfully.
'Oh, always. I'm a very hungry person. Besides I'm often not home from morning till night. Here's the knife. Cut a hunk of the tongue and lay it on that. She gave him the buttered roll. 'I want the knife back for the other roll.' "
She tells him she'll bring him more food the next day, and hide it in the bush where she found him. However, the next day he's nowhere to be found. In fact, he's nowhere to be found for the next week. Even when he's found to be not guilty. Grant becomes very worried about him, And suffers for it.

Growing up, Christine and her mother and brother were very poor, after losing her father. Her brother pretended to be very pious, and as hateful as he could be, for the mother he could do no wrong [this hits close to home]. Christine had saved up some money, working in the lace factory, and asked her mother if she could take tap dancing. The brother said that would be sinful, and so the idea was nixed, and the brother even managed to worm the money away from Christine, for his own. I was convinced that he was the murderer.
P.156-7:
" '... She had been talking and laughing till the note was brought in. But when she read that she was just like someone who was about to take a spoonful of ice cream and noticed a beetle in it. When he came in she has said, 'so you've turned up!' He said he'd come to warn her that she was bound for perdition, or something. She said, 'come to see what pickings there are, you mean.' Bundle [Christine's dresser] had never seen her so angry. She had just taken off her day makeup to put on her stage one, and there wasn't a spark of color anywhere in her face. She had sent Bundle out of the room then, but there had been a grand row. Bundle, standing guard before the door -- there were lots, even then, who thought they would like to meet her lady -- couldn't help hearing some of it. In the end she had to go in because her lady was going to be late for her entrance if she didn't. The man had turned on her for interrupting, but her lady had said that she would give him in charge if he didn't go. He had gone then, and had never to her knowledge turned up again. But he had written. Letters came from him occasionally -- Bundle recognized the writing -- and he always seemed to know where they were, because the address was the correct one, not a forwarded affair. Her lady always had acute depression after a letter had come. Sometimes for two days or more. She had said once 'hate is very lowering isn't it, Bundle?' Bundle had never hated anyone except a cop who was habitually rude to her, but she had hated him plenty, and she agreed that hate was very weakening. Burned you up inside till there was nothing left."

A fortune teller who predicted Miss Clay's death, has enjoyed unprecedented popularity and fame since the murder. Grant gets her address from the Yard, and goes in through the River side of her place. She has a boat, and Grant breaks into it, and finds THE coat.
P.229:
" 'Miss keats, I should be grateful if you would prepare to come with us at once. Any clothes you want can be sent after you.'
'clothes? What for?'
'for use in prison. I don't understand. You can't put me in prison. It isn't in my stars. They said that what I wanted I could do.'
'everyone can do what they want if they want it enough. But no one with impunity. Will you send for your maid and explain to her? She will fetch your hat if you want it.'
'I don't want it. I am not going with you. I am going to a party this afternoon at marta's. She's got Christine's part, you know. In the new film. That's one good turn I did. It was all written a long time ago what we should do. It falls into place, like the cog things in a musical box, you know. Or perhaps you don't know. Are you musical? And from Marta's I'm going to Owen hughes. After that we shall see. If you come back in the evening we can talk about it. Do you know owen? A charming person. He had his appointed place too. If it hadn't been for Owen it would never have come into my head. No, I don't mean that. Great enterprises belong to great minds. They would happen in any case. But the releasing agent is often very small. Like electric light and the switch. I used that simile in a lecture in Scotland the other week. It went very well. Neat, don't you think? Will you have some sherry? I'm afraid I'm very remiss. It's the consciousness of these people upstairs waiting to be told.'
'told what?'
'about me, of course. No, about themselves. That is what they came for. I'm a little muddled. They want to know what destiny has in store for them. And only I can tell them. Only i, Lydia keats -- ' "







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