A kind of miniature symphony, from Peter Dickinson, master of the alternative-style mystery of the seventies and eighties. (By which I guess I mean that subject matter and construction were often a point of departure for Dickinson; the familiar milieu of the classic English mystery provided the landscape, but he invariably has other things in mind. As author he strikes me as some eccentric Cambridge don who liked atonal music and talking to his literature students while everyone was tripping.. Tweedy to a fault, but unmistakably indie/alt. In a late 70s-80s way.)
The ornate Death Of A Unicorn coincidentally takes up that very fracture in sensibility-- the familiar postwar austerity-britain themes are deftly upended here, with a 'bookended' narrative that encapsulates two eras, late fifties and early eighties.
Semi Spoiler : Before we go much further, it should be said that the conclusion of this novel doesn't actually resolve anything, and that's going to be a dealbreaker for some readers. (How they could traverse the eras described so beautifully here and still nitpick the ending is beyond me, but there is no real 'eureka' at the finale. More of a bleak 'nothing is revealed' sort of closing.) For this reader there is such extravagant period detail, such an intriguing cast, such perfect voicing and pacing-- that there was no problem having no grand resolution.
We begin in the drab postwar era, though the upper-crusty ingénue heroine feels no privations beyond, perhaps, having to find suitable employment at a 'Tattler' style society magazine:
Until this morning I'd hardly thought about Night And Day. It was just another magazine, slightly more exciting than some of them because Mummy wouldn't have it in the house... she hated the 'Social Round' pages... she disliked all that sort of thing. I think because she thought that what they were about was extremely important but private, and it was obscene to have it all written down for dentists' wives in Wimbledon to read.
Dickinson manages a fairly unmanageable trick, that of giving the lie to the flighty, effervescent heroine's observations while never coming off as icky-male-author-does-ingénue or, even more difficult, never allowing the reader's affections to be separated from her voice. We're led thru a carefully constructed working model of English reserve in the coldwar era, elegant and fizzed up while being deliberately deflated, as we witness the spectacle.
Disclaimers aside, there is a mystery in the works, and it is just interesting enough to carry us to the second era, when great country manors are managed with droll despair by the formerly posh. More intriguing for me was the shift in the rules, the sea change in practicalities that were required to weather the cultural storm at hand.
It's probably safe to say that Dickinson was much more passionate about rendering these shifts, and the eras that produced them, than he was in hanging them on the frame of the mystery plot. I think he may have seen enough of the standard escape hatches: There was a secret twin! She was pregnant at the time! He was a deserter! She was married once before! He was secretly gay! -- Often enough he wanders pretty far afield, generally scattering the clues-solution model (squandering it, you may think) but looking instead toward the internal mysteries :
Mummy let go of Jane but not me and by swinging a few inches round managed to split us off completely from the others.
'I hope you'll introduce me to your friend, darling,' she said.
'Tom? He's in the other room.'
'The one who settles your account at Harrods.'
She smiled at me, the witch-who-will-find-you-in-the-end. Ever since I could remember she'd been able to do this ... I discovered that beneath my recent happiness and exultation--part of it, adding to its excitement--had been the certainty that this was going to happen. Of course I'd sometimes wondered what I'd do or say if she found out, but that's not what I mean. The rhythms of my life decreed that she had got to find out... In dreams of escape you glance back along your secret path and see that at the entrance you have left your pullover, caught on a blackthorn, a huge and obvious clue for the lion-faced people to find. You left it there on purpose, though you didn't know, because that is the logic of the dream...
Looking back on this, my second read of the novel, I realize there is some danger in its not-quite mystery status for some to see it as a kind of disguised historical fiction; which it is not, though the only real defense to that is to read the other Peter Dickinson novels. They are nearly all mysteries-run-astray from the pack, and a good thing, too. Having read them all in their era, I'm now revisiting the better ones, and with much pleasure.
Next up, Hindsight, Sleep And His Brother, and the list has only begun.