A Fragment of Fear

by John Bingham

James Compton, a young journalist and crime writer, becomes intrigued by and then involved in the mysterious death of an older woman British tourist apparently on holiday near the ruins of Pompeii. On his return to England he becomes further implicated in what he now knows was a murder but his efforts to help the police are sabotaged by unknown forces who discredit him to such an extent that his evidence and his theories are devalued. However, so determined is he to bring the criminals to justice that he endangers not only his own life but that of his fiancee Juliet on the very day of their long awaited wedding.

Genres: Mystery, Thriller, British Literature

152 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1965

About the author

John Michael Ward Bingham - who became the seventh Lord Clanmorris - was born in Haywards Heath on 3 November 1908.

He was educated at Cheltenham College and became an art editor for the 'Sunday Dispatch'. He married Madeleine Mary Ebel on 28 July 1934.

During the Second World War he served with the Royal Engineers and was attached to the General Staff. He also worked for MI5 and was supposedly the inspiration for John Le Carre's George Smiley. And over the course of thirty years, he served MI5 in various high-ranking capacities, including undercover agent.

He wrote under a pseudonym and published 17 novels in the thriller, detective and spy fields. These included 'My Name is Michael Sibley', his first novel published in 1952, 'A Fragment of Fear', and 'I Love, I Kill'.

He succeeded to the title of 7th Baron Clanmorris on 24 June 1960.

He died in 1988.

Reviews

[J. · Rating 5 out of 5]

By day and even by night, the peasant can normally go about his lawful avocations in safety. Yet now and again, as he struggles along the more difficult trails, he may catch a momentary glimpse of eyes in the undergrowth on either side, and hear soft movements and the snapping of twigs ...

This is so close to perfect that it has to be five-starred, in spite of some noticeable quibbles that I can't even remember now.

A master class from the Innocent-Enmeshed-In-Grand-Plot school of suspense, with all the right riffs and pauses to pace the proceedings on an upward, breath-held sweep toward the ending.

Notably present is the coldwar-gray wallpaper of Austerity England, the atmosphere of weary civility that seemed to emanate from the British Twentieth Century... Politely-observed upheavals, then the consequent denial and reflexive return-to-form. That 'carry-on' thing, in spite of the slightly appalling, the unexpected shock, the absurdly transgressive moment when civility shatters.

I was reminded of the atmosphere and vibe of Patrick Hamilton's "Twenty Thousand Streets Under The Sky"-- that postwar condition of having run on shortages and adrenaline for years on end, the ragged nerves and peculiar veneers of patience that were left in place. Or possibly, of his "Slaves Of Solitude", if... well, if there had been murders in that one.

In his pitch perfect rendition of the Brighton boarding house, Bingham notes the tenor of the sociable surroundings at hand :

"The Bower Hotel, with its overheated rooms and somber exterior was not merely a home for many ... It was an enclave in which there were smooth waters, where sails were easily trimmed to any light breezes which might from time to time arise. Such thunder as was heard came only distantly, from the noisy, brash, modern hinterland, and any lightning was of the harmless, flickering summer type."

The mystery reader may rest easily, though, as all that seaside charm and decorum won't be enough to save the day ... "The Bower Hotel was not fitted to withstand forked lightning of the killer variety. I arrived in time for lunch, and..."

Bingham is as deft as Hamilton with his characterizations, too, driving straight to the point without much abiguity : "...She was a heavily built woman of about fifty, with iron grey hair cut in an old-fashioned bobbed style, a muddy complexion, a square face, and pale blue eyes. She was dressed in a brown blouse, a dark grey cardigan, a skirt of a lighter grey, thick beige stockings, low heeled shoes, and wore a single row of large, cheap, pink artificial pearls. The big square ashtray on her desk by the window was half filled with cigarette stubs. I judged her a woman whom no man had loved. The Hotel was her empire ..."

Into this overarching realm of loss, malaise and had-your-tea-yet-? we are coerced into a Hitchcockian psychological mystery that unfolds with all the bells and (silent) whistles in the night. The beauty of the innocent-man-enmeshed gambit is that it has no need of first-person duplicity or layering-- the innocent is exactly what he is and has much deeper enigmas to solve than the average Conflicted Modern protagonist; no time for your approach-avoidance lark, grandma, just get to your story and be quick about it ...

Rather than expand here my version of what takes place, I recommend this to the interested reader. The perfect winter-staycation read. Ooops, gotta go, that looks like the Constable at the door .. and kind of late for a social visit ...

[Sketchbook · Rating 2 out of 5]

In "All the President's Men," Woodsteiners were told to display a flower pot in the window for a meeting w Deep Throat, or something like that. In this mystery, the harried hero is told to do something similar...with a geranium plant. (Hmmm -- did they read this first?) Bingham is a fine writer and holds you every step of the way as his crime writer tries to figure out why some elderly UK dame was strangled in Italy. He figures she'd be good copy...then he's warned to piss off in no uncertain terms. What's up? The guessing game suddenly wraps in the last 3 pages, and it won't "do." The finale is so fliberty hurried, you'd think the author was dashing for the Eurostar at St Pancras station. He misses the train.

[John Walker · Rating 4 out of 5]

John Le Carre said that the author, John Bingham, was his model for George Smiley in his books. Bingham was an MI5 agent who knew Le Carre in his spy days before he began writing. They had a temperous relationship in the end they reconciled.
Bingham wrote several novels of which this is one. Written in the mid-sixties it involves one James Compton, a writer , who in Italy discovers a body of an elderly woman mirdered. The Italian police writes her death off as old age, but Compton feels differently and begins to write a story about the woman.

It is then while back in England that he gets mysterious letters typed on his typewriter telling him to stay away and forget about the Italian incident. Hardheaded Compton refuses , which leads to more threats. the Police don't seem to care, even Scotland Yards mocks him. If that doesn't stop even his soon to be in-laws think he's 'gone 'round the bend' and his soon to be wife also feels the same way.

Very interesting psychological drama, which for the ride-sixties had to be tense for the people who had to think that an average guy could be bullied by shadowy group of people trying to hide the truth.

[Jim Loter · Rating 3 out of 5]

An enjoyable murder mystery with elements of international conspiracy and possibly espionage thrown in for good measure. While on a recuperative holiday in Italy, our intrepid protagonist, author Jamie Compton, stumbles upon the murder of a seemingly simple old woman and decides to investigate. He continues his inquiries back in England, and is warned off by an escalating series of menacing threats, to which he stubbornly refuses to accede. The threats, however, are carefully crafted to be almost completely deniable. The police become convinced that Jamie is delusional and paranoid, and the first person narrative we are treated to adds to that uncertainty. Has Compton uncovered a vast criminal conspiracy, or is he not as fully recovered from a debilitating auto accident as he thinks? Sadly, the extremely rushed ending answers these questions but leaves several others wide open so that there is no final satisfaction to what is otherwise a well-crafted thriller.

[Gerald · Rating 4 out of 5]

I needed some diversion from the chores of book promotion for [Book:Rubber Babes]. Frankly, I'd much rather be reading or writing than talking about doing either. Anyhow, I've always been partial to spy thrillers, even though I've never written one, and I was intrigued to learn that John Le Carré had recommended Bingham as an underrated craftsman of the genre. I had no other reason for picking up this vintage 1965 book, but, as it happens, its similarities to some themes in Rubber Babes are remarkable. More

[Stephen · Rating 2 out of 5]

This is a very well-plotted roman noir. I kept thinking it would make a wonderful film (it reminded me quite a lot of Double Indemnity). The premise—a man is threatened and finds no one believes him—is so simple and yet so effective at creating a sensation of dread without relying on any trickery or dramatic revelations.

Nevertheless, I'm not a fan of Bingham's writing. Though it sometimes skilfully evokes a particular mid-century Englishness, I found its tone stilted and even affected. I disliked his metaphor about about the peasants and the jungle and the ending was outright bungled (not only rushed but actually incomprehensible).

[Titus G · Rating 4 out of 5]

Although stilted because of the dated attitudes and manners, this was also a strength with great descriptions of characters and background. Well written. A simple plot with the protagonist constantly outwitted based on the theme that in the modern jungle, an individual may still face danger. In an old fashioned and dated era of formality and manners, institutions eventually come to the rescue. I read this book out of curiosity because of the review, (introduction), by Le Carre.

[Joanne · Rating 2 out of 5]

Meh. True-crime writer is intrigued by a murder which happens while he's on vacation, and tries to solve it. Mysterious forces intervene. Is he paranoid, or is someone really threatening him?

Not very interesting after a while.

[Terry · Rating 3 out of 5]

it was okay. Read it mostly because of le carre's introduction and because of the author's name and because it was short.