The Suburbs of Hell

by Randolph Stow

Introduction by Michelle de Kretser

His eyes are on the one eye of the rifle. His mouth splits open his brown beard. He throws up a hand, palm outward, in an unwilled, futile gesture to ward off death.

A killer is hounding the seaside town of Old Tornwich. Residents are gripped by fear and suspicion, and the finger of blame is pointed in all directions. But the bodies keep falling and the crimes remain unsolved, the culprit at large. No mere whodunnit, The Suburbs of Hell—its story inspired by a real-life serial killer—is a profoundly disturbing psychological drama with a devastating conclusion, the final work of one of Australia’s greatest writers.

Genres: Australia, Fiction, Novels, 20th Century, Mystery, Crime

224 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1984

About the author

Born in Geraldton, Western Australia, Randolph Stow attended Geraldton Primary and High schools, Guildford Grammar School, the University of Western Australia, and the University of Sydney. During his undergraduate years in Western Australia he wrote two novels and a collection of poetry, which were published in London by Macdonald & Co. He taught English Literature at the University of Adelaide, the University of Western Australia and the University of Leeds.
He also worked on an Aboriginal mission in the Kimberley, which he used as background for his third novel To the Islands. Stow further worked as an assistant to an anthropologist, Charles Julius, and cadet patrol officer in the Trobriand Islands. In the Trobriands he suffered a mental and physical breakdown that led to his repatriation to Australia. Twenty years later, he used these last experiences in his novel Visitants.
Stow's first visit to England took place in 1960, after which he returned several times to Australia. Tourmaline, his fourth novel, was completed in Leeds in 1962. In 1964 and 1965 he travelled in North America on a Harkness Fellowship, including a sojourn in Aztec, New Mexico, during which he wrote one of his best known novels, The Merry-Go-Round in the Sea. While living in Perth (WA) in 1966 he wrote his popular children's book Midnite.
From 1969 to 1981 he lived at East Bergholt in Suffolk in England, his ancestral county, and he used traditional tales from that area to inform his novel The Girl Green as Elderflower. The last decades of his life he spent in nearby Harwich, the setting for his final novel The Suburbs of Hell. He last visited Australia in 1974.
His novel To the Islands won the Miles Franklin Award for 1958.[1] He was awarded the Patrick White Award in 1979. As well as producing fiction, poetry, and numerous book reviews for The Times Literary Supplement, he also wrote libretti for musical theatre works by Peter Maxwell Davies.
A considerable number of Randolph Stow's poems are listed in the State Library of Western Australia online catalogue[2] with indications where they have been anthologised.

Reviews

[zed · Rating 4 out of 5]

A killer is on the loose and as some locals are murdered the reader is dragged into the paranoia and fear of those that think they know, those that just live in fear and those that may or may not have reasons to kill. The layers of each chapter has one thinking about the human condition. The dark side of the psyche is revealed by some excellent writing that had me reading late into the night.

Though a cold and grim read this is a very good book. Randolph Stow: a great unknown Australian writer.

[Rosemary Atwell · Rating 2 out of 5]

Eric Edgar Cooke (‘the Nedlands monster’) was the first serial killer in Perth, but not the last. Bradley Robert Edwards (also known as ‘the Claremont killer’) murdered two young women in a wealthy nearby suburb between 1996 and 1997 - a third victim was linked also, but no remains have been found. In both cases, the cataclysm and aftershocks were immense.

Stow’s final novel can be read as an exile’s reimagining; a psychological drama; a Gothic thriller; a meditation on Jacobean revenge tragedy or all four, but there’s something missing. The language feels too literary, the accents too parodic - only the setting lifts ‘The Suburbs of Hell’ beyond the everyday. And this is a tragedy in itself; Stow is a singular writer and I’ll certainly be rereading or seeking out for his earlier novels, poetry and a biography or two.

Perhaps a later revisit of this one will be in order.

[Mike · Rating 5 out of 5]

"I have a great respect for the law, although my actions don't show this."

- Eric Edgar Cooke

I texted three words to my friend Ted: "The Nedlands Monster." Knowing his dark and forbidden fascination with serial killers, I expected a typical reply off the top of his head with the relevant data points.

"You overestimate me", he wrote back, which suggested that the case this novel is inspired by is fairly obscure, at least here in the States. The relevant data points, by the way, as I later ascertained for myself, are as follows: "Perth, Australia, 1959 to 1963, Eric Edgar Cooke, a.k.a. The Night Caller." Cooke killed eight people over the course of those years, both men and women, but what really made an impression on young Australian writer Randolph Stow (1935-2010) was the atmosphere of fear and suspicion that the murders created in Perth, which, according to Wikipedia, had been the kind of city where residents habitually left their car doors unlocked.

I didn't know any of this as I started reading, however, and if I had, it would have only reinforced my mistaken assumption, held throughout the first 50 pages or so, that this story was set in a small godforsaken port town in 1960s Australia...rather than a small godforsaken port town in 1960s England, in this case a place called Old Tornwich, based on the non-fictional Harwich, located about 130 km northeast of London. There's no excuse for my lazy assumption (based simply on my knowledge that the author was Australian) that the story was set in Australia, and I should probably be slain...just as the inhabitants of Old Tornwich are slain in this novel, one after another, sometimes by the unknown subject (or UNSUB, as the FBI would have it), and sometimes, as one character puts it after the suicide of a man who's fallen under suspicion, because "...the Monster has done for him in a roundabout way, but done for him proper, all the same."

Anyway, every aspect of this novel is exceptional. I love the attention to detail and economy of the dialogue; adjective clauses that begin with "what" instead of "that" (I associate this, rightly or wrongly, with seafaring folk); the verb "wait" used without the preposition "for" between it and its object; and the word "like" used at the very end of a statement, alone after a comma.

"I get the impression", Paul said, "that it's happened a lot in Old Tornwich. I've never seen so many deserted husbands and lifelong bachelors. I ask myself whether all these little pubs are cause or effect."
"I think thass the sea", Harry said. "Seaman's marriages are often a bit dodgy, like."

A "young capitalist" is referred to as a "tycoonlet", which sent coffee spurting out my nose. A cafe next to a taxi office is "a haunt of jobless school-leavers." Descriptions of the town of Old Tornwich and its weather are likewise beautiful and economical:

On some days the north-easterly howled down the tunnels of the streets, searching out every chink in the close-packed houses. On others the sky was clear, the light was desert-sharp, the flat sea looked like grey silk, and lethal.

And for whatever reason I also love stories about small towns upon which some mysterious evil descends, but which only reveals the capacity for evil that was lurking within the townspeople all along.

Chelsea Wolfe's album Abyss seems to go perfectly with the atmosphere of the novel.

[Dillwynia Peter · Rating 4 out of 5]

Periodically I get the urge to write fiction. You are safe, I’m too lazy & enjoy writing my science papers and other activities that the closest I’m ever going to get is to write reviews of other works. During these fantasy periods I construct plots & characters. Personally, I am often stimulated by a newspaper article or something I observed and from there spin my gossamer of fiction. Thus I have created a character that is based on Joseph Hooker’s journeys on the Ross expedition to the Antarctic; or that time when a young adult jumped off a bridge into the path of a train and ground the commuter network to a halt & coupling that with a story I heard about a rural tragedy at a 21st birthday party.

Stow does a similar thing: in the 1960’s the remote capital city Perth, Western Australia was gripped by fear as a serial killer murdered people in their homes. Until recently, Perth was still intimate enough that such an event would affect most of the population: this included Stow, although he no longer lived there. From an innocent town where people left doors to houses and cars unlocked, to becoming security conscious and suspicious. Stow was interested on the effect the killings had on the populace more than he did on the actual crimes and final outcome when the police finally apprehended the killer.

Therefore, the book has received mixed opinions because it is not a traditional murder thriller where you work out who is the serial killer. In my edition, Michelle de Kretser suggests a potential suspect, one that I had liked, but really there are a few contenders (even one that dies, for there are no more after their death). Does this make the book a failure? Far from it; instead, it deals with the psychology of the people in a smallish town. Every death has an impact on the locals, and of course, there are the blow-in foreigners who get some blame attributed to them. This resonates with the current climate of xenophobia and blame.

I think Stow achieves his aim of examining the psychology of a close knit town when violence strikes. Cities are too impersonal, by their sheer volume of populace to have a big impact, but in towns that have populations in their thousands the ripple effect from violence spreads far and wide, and in erratic ways. Stow was also a devout Anglican and there is a slight whiff of religion throughout the novel. I won’t spoil it, but once you work out who the chorus is – “he” is the connecting drama between each chapter – you will get a wry smile out of “him”. It’s a clever touch & works in nicely with the Restoration play quotes. (Stow was huge fan of Webster)

Stow is still neglected compared with other Australian authors & this is a shame because I think he has a lot to say, and says it well. Because this isn’t typical Stow, I wouldn’t recommend it as an introduction to his work, but it is no lesser than say Tourmaline or To the Islands.

[Text Publishing · Rating 5 out of 5]

I have stood in a pub and seen a face, heard a voice, and slipped out and entered that man’s house, calm in my mastery of all his habits. But then—ah, the thrill then, after my many studies; to find his things, his self, lying opened before me, all his secrets at my fingers’ ends. For some thieves the excitement of that opening is a drunkenness. It is the intoxication of inside. Because a thief is, as he knows, an insider, a master of secrets. But the waiting may be long.

The Suburbs of Hell was Randolph Stow's last novel, and one of his most haunting.

This is one of five Randolph Stow novels that have been re-published this month as Text Classics. Read this feature in the Australian by Nicolas Rothwell on Stow's literary legacy.

‘[A] murder mystery and a meditation on the random depredations of death.’
Australian Book Review

‘Poetic accuracy is only one aspect of a rich talent…Mr Stow has a narrative gift as well…He is, in fact a real novelist.’
Observer

‘It is a rare pleasure for those of us who are already fans to have these works at our disposal…[Stow was] the most talented and celebrated Australian author of the post-White generation.’
Monthly

‘It should be taken as no commentary on contemporary Oz Lit that I choose Text’s fistful of Randolph Stow reissues for my local favourite(s) during 2015. Their appearance reminds us that a gentle, wise, wounded, and immensely talented poet in prose once lived among us.’
Geordie Williamson, Australian Book Review, Books of the Year 2015

‘Fans of heady, noir-est of noir fiction, take note: Randolph Stow might be that “missing” writer you didn’t know you loved.’
LitReactor

‘A cleverly crafted whodunit…Stow is an example of the high calibre of Australian writers of yesterday…For fans of the psychological thriller and those readers who enjoy a foray into a metaphorical tale, Stow delivers the goods.’
Salty Popcorn

[Ali · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is just such an enjoyable, rich, nourishing read, which is odd in a way for a book about death, or at least, a book about what we let death do to us. Like all Stow's work, it is infused with an acute sense of place. Here it is a British seaside village, frozen cold, lashed with sleet, latticed with cramped houses and more pubs than three streets should host.
It surprises me that this is so often described as a crime novel. It feels more to me like an anti-crime novel. Stow is interested in what suspicion and grief unearth:it is not what the unseen killer is doing to the community, but rather what they are doing to themselves. Death literally stalks the novel, playing with ideas of inevitability, futility and regret. Stow plays with the genre and the readers expectations - we feel the residents' suspicions and tensions because we too, trained in this genre, look to our cast of characters with a need to know 'which one'. An unsettlingly arch child called Killer wanders around, testing and provoking the reader to see how far we are willing to cast our net in looking for guilt.
For all this, it is a gentle novel, laced through with a resigned frustration. In a few lines, Stow creates characters who are both instantly true so accurate are their words and habits, and yet they seem deeper, more aloof, connected to something bigger and more, well, spiritual. In this way, Stow makes us all seem grander than we realise we are. He makes humanity matter so if he is rebuking us, it is in a way that does not sting.

[Ben Winch · Rating 4 out of 5]

On the strength of this slim atmospheric ‘literary’ thriller, I like Randolph Stow. As the culmination of the craft of a distinguished Australian novelist, it’s strange, not to say perverse. Set in East Anglia, England, replete with dialect and loving evocation of place and culture, there’s not one nod to Australia in any of it, presumably rendering it ineligible for Australian grants or prizes and, for the most part, Australian plaudits, I suspect. Meanwhile the mystery, apaque and semi-supernatural as it is, was probably never going to ‘cross over’. But in terms of quiet, competent, sometimes arresting craft this is pretty great. So too Stow’s love for his characters shines through. And the town! I can see it, smell it, taste it. (Never have I seen fog so well described!) No doubt it’s minor, but it’s some kind of classic. Vistitants next, if I can find it.

[Michaela · Rating 3 out of 5]

The Suburbs of Hell is one of many old Australian classic novels that Text Publishing have rereleased. The final novel by Randolph Snow, The Suburbs of Hell tells the story of a small English seaside town in the thralls of a serial killer. The killer appears to pick his victims at random and with no one safe the residents start turning their suspicions on each other to disastrous consequences.



At first I was a little disappointed with this novel, it wasn't quite what I thought it would be. I had imagined it was more of a psychological thriller, a calculated killer stalking his victims in turn instilling fear in the reader as we follow his bloody trail and with this novel having been inspired by the stalking and killing of the Redlands monster I was surprised with what it really was. My disappointment didn't linger upon finishing this short novel when I realised that, instead, this was a much more intelligent novel. Something different and much more striking. The Suburbs of Hells is more about the psychological terror of what it is like living in a town stalked by a silent killer. The way gossip can turn anyone into a murderous soul. The paranoia and constant living in fear and how that can wear down a soul. How despite the law looking into this terror, ultimately, they are powerless until the killer becomes careless. Yes, this novel was nothing what I expected but so much more.



The prose is beautiful, understated and aims true. I found the accent of the characters a little difficult to follow at first but in time did not notice it. I loved the way the chapters were set out, each ending in the same way: a creepy little window into the most terrifying moments. Without spoiling anything I will also say the ending was memorable and I though the way it was ended was perfect. It completely fit the tone of the novel and leaves the reader much to ponder. There is so much more I want to say to describe the atmosphere and quiet contemplativeness of this novel, yet, to do so would spoil aspects of the story.



I will leave you with this: read this book if you want a novel that is psychologically demanding in an unusual way, read this is you want a different take on a crime novel. Just do not go into The Suburbs of Hell expecting your typical psychological thriller because you may be disappointed (or pleasantly surprised in my case). This was a great read and I'm glad that Text Publishing have brought this gem back. I give The Suburbs of Hell three rifles, the killers weapon of choice.

[Sean Kennedy · Rating 4 out of 5]

A murder mystery without true resolution, where a series of killings seem to signify the horrors of the eighties (AIDS, civil war, famine) to come, this is still a deeply satisfying tale. Perhaps the killer is Death itself, although one could also come up with a more earthly explanation as there are some clues buried along the way. It's a hard novel to describe, but one that offers so much to dwell upon.

[William · Rating 3 out of 5]

If the suburbs of hell are a made up coastal town in England, one wonders what the rural and inner city parts of Hades are like. I agree with reviewer Mike, "tycoonlet" is priceless. Economy of language is appreciated when one has so many other things what need attending, like. Characters what killer serially always make for interesting' readin' even if they are British.

[Troy Alexander · Rating 4 out of 5]

A chilling, macabre, unsettling tale about a series of murders taking place in the snowy streets of a small English town. Just the thing for the sweltering Australian Christmas holidays!

[Reet · Rating 4 out of 5]

The jury is still out on who the killer was. But I know that this was written by a talented author who used his words like poetry, and created characters lovable: Harry and Ena, and treacherous: Frank.
I still haven't figured out whodunnit. But I wonder if that's even as important as what happened because everybody's suspecting everybody else; It works like a contagious illness.
It takes place in a small town in England. It's by the ocean and there's a lot of fishermen.

Paul is a teacher in this town. He has a brother, Greg, who has just finished his PhD, but has yet to start at a job. Paul was married to Diana; they had bought a house and were fixing it up, when Diana absconded with a lover.
Paul was murdered by the unknown killer. After the funeral, Greg comes to stay in his house, and he never answers the phone that is ringing in Paul's closed bedroom. He also answers none of the mail that is delivered through the mail slot in the front door.
One day Paul's estranged wife Diana comes to his door. He can barely wait for her to leave:
"over meals she was sometimes playful, in a maternal way. 'Oh, greg,' she said, after some new proof of his impracticality, 'you are a pillock.' He guessed that the word was borrowed from her lover's vocabulary, but found it apt. He visualized a pillock as a sort of phallus made of marshmallow. He felt like a pilllock.
Their meals together he found very long. When they were met over a table he discovered Great faults in her. He knew that he would have found others, perhaps worse, in anybody else; but then, no other human creature had so sought him out, thrust its company upon him. At times he felt driven to tell her about her shortcomings, but knew that if once he began to speak he would never stop, that it would be the beginning of something violent and irrevocable.
I have a lot in common with Greg; I know exactly how he feels. When you're in the middle of a flare-up of a major depressive disorder, you can't bear to talk to anybody over the phone, and you think of great wrongs that people you have helped have done you. You can't see them, because you know you will slip up and start talking about it. So you just isolate.

"He had a habit of shutting himself up early in his room, but that night he could not sleep. The excitement of having wandered so far, and his fright on the lonely shore, had built up a tension which turned, when he was lying in the dark, to anger. That was not all together new, but the violence of it was new. It shook his heart: that he distinctly felt, as his memory fetched back, seemed to bombard him with, instances of injustices, slights, affronts offered to him as far back in his life as he could remember. The things he had endured with such meekness made him choke now with rage, and words burst out of him, all the bitter words that ought to have been said earlier to a world which could treat him so undutifully.
'oh sleep,' he groaned, hugging himself. 'Oh sleep, poor boy.' "

Frank deVeres is a nasty little character that Randolph Stow created. He's married to Linda, but they no longer get along. It seems she's found out what he's really like. Must be 75% of men show themselves as imposters, to the women that they want to trap in a marriage, when it's too late that they'll find out what they're really like. It seems like so much work to just prove what a real a****** you are. I always wonder, in my own case, does this really make them happy?
Frank makes me even more pissed off because he's mad that his wife Linda reads: " 'I don't waste money,' Linda said, in a dreaming voice, soothed by the snow. 'I read; you don't.'
'Oh yes, you read,' he agreed. 'I can't deny that, you're good at reading.'
As She did not answer, he tried again. 'Stuffing your head around the clock with crap that's as far as possible from real life - that you do well.'
'It's not crap,' she said listlessly. 'But what would you know about it?'
'you're like a patient in a hospital,' he said, 'with tubes going everywhere. Coronation Street up one arm, The Archers up the other. Barbara Cartland up your nose.'
Roused at last, she turned her pale face on him. 'I've never read Barbara Cartland.'
'Just a brand name,' he said. 'If I say Hoover, I don't mean it's not an Electrolux.'
Her shortsighted eyes were large and vague. 'I don't know,' she said, 'why it took me so long - longer than 3 minutes - to see what a deeply dislikable man you are. Last night I quite took myself by surprise. I caught myself telling Donna that I'd like to leave you.'
He asked, with a superior smile; 'to go where?'
'where you aren't,' she said.
'I can't see it,' he said, patronizing. 'what, out in the wide world, you? You'd be like a pet hamster turned loose in an African game park.'
Then she withdrew from him again, and went back to watching the snow, examining that judgment on herself."
Would that she had taken herself up on her instinct, and left Frank. Because he does a truly horrendous thing to her.

Frank has a little business going selling drugs, and he ropes slow-minded Dave to help him. Dave doesn't have a place to stay, and harry, being such a good heart, offers him a place to stay for a week or so. Well it turns into months. One day, Harry is looking for a tool in his toolbox that's been under the bed that Dave's using. His tools fall off the bed and break open a package. Inside, Harry finds how Dave's been making extra money over and beyond his welfare check. Now Harry and sis that he takes a job that came open where he works, rebuilding a seawall.
The next part would be a spoiler so I'm not going to go into it but it's heartbreaking.
"Frank was meditating another question, but hesitating over it. He brought it out with caution. 'Did he know?'
'what?' Dave's face was again turned down to the dog.
'Did Harry know what you did to him?'
Instantly Dave was on his feet, and had Frank by the lapels of his coat, dragging him upright in the chair in which he lounged. 'I dint do nofing to him,' he said in a hoarse voice. 'The rope worked loose, or he leaned on the ladder and brought it down on his foot. That was my fault, I know that, but thass the worst of it. So you watch your mouf, just watch your fuckin mouf, Frank deVere.'
'dave,' said frank, 'let go of my collar, dave.' His dark face was slightly darker, but his manner was calm. Suddenly he raised his right arm to deliver a karate chop, and the young man, with a hiss of pain, stepped back clutching his wrist.
'That's better,' Frank said, 'now, let's get a few things straight. I realize that today's little tragedy off Birkness was a shock to you, and I sympathize. I know you wish it hadn't happened. But don't try to bullshit your old partner, don't tell me it didn't happen. I know better. I know what caused it: a half-hearted, gutless little booby-trap, that's what. And there I could recognize your handiwork: because I've never been able to hide from myself that underneath the macho disguise you are a pretty halfhearted, gutless little individual, dave, old friend.' "

I like this book for the way it tells the truth about the chaos that lives in humans' hearts.
You know those experiments they have of mice, where they put them in a confined space, and let them populate. And then they started attacking each other, and killing each other. Because it's too crowded. That's humans.

[Luke · Rating 5 out of 5]

A title taken from Webster's The White Devil? Oh, Randolph Stow, you shouldn't have. It's as if you want me to think this is a gory little chapbook of a thing.

Well, it is, really. This is a novel about murder. But it's not the usual type: there's no neat little bow to wrap around everything. Here, it's a bit different. It's a meditation on the endpoint of murder - death - and a refraction of four years of Western Australia killings, written from half a world away.

This is one of a number of Stow's works reissued in Text Publishing's laudable series of releases, and it's his final work, written in an Essex seaside town (and presenting a fictionalised version of same) but it's also deeply Australian. It weaves together the terrors of the 'Nedlands Monster' (as also seen in Robert Drewe's The Shark Net) and the inevitability of death, all under the guise of a whodunnit.

What's great about this book is that it takes the conventions of genre fiction, examines them for a bit and then thinks "nah, fuck it!" and throws them in the air. We're meant to move from a state of confusion to a state of author back-patted knowledge. We're meant to get closure. We're meant to find out who the killer is. Except here, we don't.

Instead, we're given a number of narrators - perhaps reliable, perhaps not - and continually shifting ground. Old Tornwich is an insubstantial setting, with ghostly overtones. Fog covers the land and affairs take place in lighthouses, public houses, in white-walled yards you can't get into. There's a distinct sense that there's a larger story just outside the focus of the book, if only you could see it. It's frustrating, yes, but it's appealing as it forces the reader to notice the level of detail here: not much, but enough to create a fully living world, with all the imprecision such a term suggests. Rumour is chief currency here, and the novel exists to highlight the ruin left in its wake.

Stow viewed the story as a reworking of Chaucer's The Pardoner's Tale , and the fingerprints of that work are found throughout. Riotousness, booze and one particular method of death are lifted wholesale from a Canterbury Tales precedent, and it's certainly interesting after the fact to revisit the work and see where they intersect. The key takeaway, however, is that Death is King - something about which The Suburbs of Hell leaves the reader in no doubt. The end of the book - don't worry, this gives nothing away - is a collection of horrendous real-life headlines, and a woodcut of death. It's a reminder that no matter who the killer is - hint: it could be the character with the most appropriate name - Death is going to whup 'em, but good.

This is the first Stow I'd read, and it's certainly not going to be the last. There's a light touch at work here, a perfect design built out of our imperfect vision of life. It's grand.

[Randal · Rating 3 out of 5]

A murder mystery seems a bit out of place in Stow's repertoire of great literary fiction, but he gets away with it. He crafts a dark and semi-gothic tone throughout his story set in an East Anglian coastal town. There are some beautiful moments in this story and Stow's poetic ability shines in places. As someone who is not a fan of writers trying to capture the intricacies of local expressions, I struggled with this. There is a lot of dialogue in this story and I found I had to wade through difficult pronunciations when it would have been so much easier to follow in plain english. That's just me though, you may enjoy trying to hear people speak in their local tones.

[Jeremy Blank · Rating 4 out of 5]

After devouring The Merry Go Round in the Sea I looked around for more from Randolph Stow. This is a late work of Stow’s, it is from the writer’s East Anglian time. It is a wonderful who donnit, the writing and dialogue is crisp and direct. The story is as much an homage to the traditional coastal life that East Anglia as it is about a serial killer. Great story by a great writer.

[Annie · Rating 5 out of 5]

A psychological thriller set in a British fishing village in the 1980s. Very gothic, dark and hard to put down. Beautifully written and atmospheric. Loved it

[Phillip Ramm · Rating 4 out of 5]

The way Stow transcribes the East Anglia accented dialogue, Goo for Go, for example, may seem stilted at first, but soon you don't notice it. I enjoyed the way the murders seemed to be unassociated, and the effect accusations had on the people of the town. The ruminations of the murderer, interposed between the chapters were suitably creepy, and the excellent quotations from Middle Englisg plays appropriately ominous. And of course Stow's moody lyrical style shone through almost without exception.