And the descent of this series into absolute mediocrity continues with this latest offering from Edward Marston. I can only conclude that Marston himself is suffering some form of personal crisis, because the latter books in this series are as far from the originals as chalk from cheese. At least half of the book covered the gratuitous coverage of Colbeck's wife and events at home, but these were mercifully mitigated by the fact that the odious Caleb Andrews was laid up for much of the book. However, we had to contend with the simpering and now apparently witless Lydia Quale. Even the detective sections of these books are becoming ridiculous, with Colbeck making and acting on conclusions plucked from thin air, with absolutely no evidence whatever. All we hear is that he is a wonderful detective, but there appears to be less detection and more of Colbeck's unsupported pronouncements that suddenly become fact simply by dint of his utterance. We would all be wonderful detectives under such circumstances.
The stilted dialog between Madeline Colbeck and her apparent best friend Lydia Quayle is frankly risible. These two speak to each other as though they were two lovers in the early stages of a relationship, with both trying to impress and flatter the other. Colbeck is a sanctimonious, judgemental prig, and Leeming acts more like the village idiot than a Detective Sergeant. There is not one redeeming factor, and I now only read these books for the sake of nostalgia, and in the hope that the old form will be restored. Sadly, not with this book.