It’s late in the ‘season’ in 1875, and although there are still plenty of people taking the waters at the Bohemian spa town Carlsbad (Karlovy Vary), it is not quite the bustling resort it is a peak season. It’s in this setting that an American industrialist (arms manufacturer) and his wife’s maid are found brutally murdered one morning. There seems to be a fairly competent local police unit, a political context presenting several suspects, an additional layer where the comparatively new, young, wife inherits all, and talk of shady figures around the town linked to previous but much less serious crime. Although a suspect is quickly detained, there remain several loose ends.
Among those in town we find the two most interesting members of the Marx family from Soho – paterfamilias Karl and daughter, Eleanor, travelling incognito as father & daughter Arbuthnot, Karl’s views on European political change making him not entirely welcome in the Austro-Hungarian Empire – and the teenage scion of the well to do English Holmes family, the unusually named Sherlock. Collectively, but largely independently they are not convinced by the police decision and delve further into the killing, each for their own reason, and each with their own approach and set of insights linked to that outlook.
It should sparkle – the ingénue Holmes developing his style and approach, Karl, the meticulous structural thinker with journalist’s insight, Eleanor, an equally meticulous political and economic analyst, but with a more humanistic and feminist sense of the world than her father, with Feast treating fictional and historical biographies with equal respect. There’s political intrigue, domestic discontent, a cerebral, philosophically sharp if idealist, police officer, several well-crafted red herrings and characters who it becomes clear are not all they seem to be, and conflicting crime-scene evidence.
It should sparkle, but it didn’t quite, for me at least. Part of my problem was that the three lines of inquiry never clearly come together – Karl’s concern at being exposed keeps him closed, but then the reserved 60ish German émigré and the precocious teenage English lad are not likely to be close anyway – so when the killer is finally exposed it feels a little forced, and more to do with Holmes and Eleanor than Karl (perhaps I had higher expectations given the title). But in addition, Feast’s writing style was, for me, a little flat – I kept going because I wanted to know who-did-it, not because the narrative-as-presented drew me in me all that much; it was rather entertaining, rather than all that engaging. That said, I do quite like that among the books advertised in this cosy crime novel is Marx’s Critique of the Gotha Programme - a bit of visionary thinking with my holiday who-done-it.
All in all, pleasantly diverting.