It comes as something of a shock to see that this whimsical English fantasy was penned by the QC who represented the BBC in the Hutton Inquiry. If you approach Rotherweird with expectations of some clever allegory on government control or the media society, though, you're likely to be disappointed – this is a little insular caprice all of its own, indeed very much the kind of thing one expects an English barrister to have been beavering away on during his idle Sunday afternoons.
A little country town, functionally independent from the rest of Britain by royal decree since Elizabethan times; dark local secrets; hints of the supernatural; an outsider coming into a closed local community – all of these elements are here, and good fun they are too. At first I was enjoying it quite a lot: the cast are pleasingly eccentric, and the plot sets up and resolves its puzzles sufficiently satisfyingly to have kept me turning the pages.
But somehow, as the book went on, it became harder and harder to ignore the cumulative pile of inconsistencies. I gave it a decent chance, I think, but the world of Rotherweird never quite feels real in the way that its literary models do, and as a result you end up questioning everything more critically than is healthy for a fantasy novel. The idea of a town that has detached itself politically from the rest of the country is one thing, but to say that it has no use of modern technology (relying instead on premodern rhythms of life and a kind of steampunk proto-tech) is much more of a stretch. Even to reach Rotherweird, characters from the modern world take a charabanc where honestly you'd just expect them to get an Uber. I think it would have made more sense to set the whole thing in the 19th century and be done with it – or at least in the 1980s, some time well before mobile phones and the internet.
As it is, too much is asked of your suspension of disbelief, and in the last hundred pages, the book conclusively falls to pieces. Macguffins are introduced on demand to solve lingering plot twists, and characters do not just fail to ask the obvious questions (which is a problem in a lot of genre fiction), they react completely without verisimilitude, accepting the most outré revelations without batting an eyelid, apparently on the grounds that the reader already knows about them, and making impossible deductions in the service of advancing the plot.
A lot hinges on improbable anagrams (clearly an authorial fetish); in one especially shark-vaulting example, we are asked to believe that a character called Calx Bole willingly lived in a dump on Box Street because ‘street’ in Spanish is calle and ‘Box Calle’ is an anagram of his name, this despite the fact that he didn't even want anyone to know his name. The worst part about this is the horrible suspicion that Caldecott gave Calx Bole his name specifically in order to set up this nonsensical aha!-moment.
Inevitably, this is the first part of a trilogy, and it's possible that later volumes will make good on the promise of a lot of Caldecott's ideas and worldbuilding, which are certainly full of potential. In my case, though, the reserves of goodwill have been exhausted, and I'll probably content myself with plot summaries of the sequels on Wikipedia.