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Inspector Alan Grant #6
The Singing Sands
On his train back to Scotland for a well-earned rest, Inspector Grant learns that a fellow passenger, one Charles Martin, has been found dead. It looks like a case of misadventure - but Grant is not so sure. Teased by some enigmatic lines of verse that the deceased had apparently scrawled on a newspaper, he follows a trail to the remote Outer Hebrides.
And though it is the end of his holiday, it is also the beginning of an intriguing investigation into the bizarre circumstances shrouding Charles Martin's death...
141 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1979
About the author
Josephine Tey
153 books885 followersJosephine Tey was a pseudonym of Elizabeth Mackintosh. Josephine was her mother's first name and Tey the surname of an English Grandmother. As Josephine Tey, she wrote six mystery novels featuring Scotland Yard's Inspector Alan Grant.
The first of these, The Man in the Queue (1929) was published under the pseudonym of Gordon Daviot , whose name also appears on the title page of another of her 1929 novels, Kif; An Unvarnished History. She also used the Daviot by-line for a biography of the 17th century cavalry leader John Graham, which was entitled Claverhouse (1937).
Mackintosh also wrote plays (both one act and full length), some of which were produced during her lifetime, under the pseudonym Gordon Daviot. The district of Daviot, near her home of Inverness in Scotland, was a location her family had vacationed. The name Gordon does not appear in either her family or her history.
Elizabeth Mackintosh came of age during World War I, attending Anstey Physical Training College in Birmingham, England during the years 1915 - 1918. Upon graduation, she became a physical training instructor for eight years. In 1926, her mother died and she returned home to Inverness to care for her invalid father. Busy with household duties, she turned to writing as a diversion, and was successful in creating a second career.
Alfred Hitchcock filmed one of her novels, A Shilling for Candles (1936) as Young and Innocent in 1937 and two other of her novels have been made into films, The Franchise Affair (1948), filmed in 1950, and 'Brat Farrar' (1949), filmed as Paranoiac in 1963. In addition, a number of her works have been dramatised for radio.
Her novel The Daughter of Time (1951) was voted the greatest mystery novel of all time by the Crime Writers' Association in 1990.
Miss Mackintosh never married, and died at the age of 55, in London. A shy woman, she is reported to have been somewhat of a mystery even to her intimate friends. While her death seems to have been a surprise, there is some indication she may have known she was fatally ill for some time prior to her passing.
For more on Josephine Tey, see the fan site:
http://www.josephinetey.com/
The first of these, The Man in the Queue (1929) was published under the pseudonym of Gordon Daviot , whose name also appears on the title page of another of her 1929 novels, Kif; An Unvarnished History. She also used the Daviot by-line for a biography of the 17th century cavalry leader John Graham, which was entitled Claverhouse (1937).
Mackintosh also wrote plays (both one act and full length), some of which were produced during her lifetime, under the pseudonym Gordon Daviot. The district of Daviot, near her home of Inverness in Scotland, was a location her family had vacationed. The name Gordon does not appear in either her family or her history.
Elizabeth Mackintosh came of age during World War I, attending Anstey Physical Training College in Birmingham, England during the years 1915 - 1918. Upon graduation, she became a physical training instructor for eight years. In 1926, her mother died and she returned home to Inverness to care for her invalid father. Busy with household duties, she turned to writing as a diversion, and was successful in creating a second career.
Alfred Hitchcock filmed one of her novels, A Shilling for Candles (1936) as Young and Innocent in 1937 and two other of her novels have been made into films, The Franchise Affair (1948), filmed in 1950, and 'Brat Farrar' (1949), filmed as Paranoiac in 1963. In addition, a number of her works have been dramatised for radio.
Her novel The Daughter of Time (1951) was voted the greatest mystery novel of all time by the Crime Writers' Association in 1990.
Miss Mackintosh never married, and died at the age of 55, in London. A shy woman, she is reported to have been somewhat of a mystery even to her intimate friends. While her death seems to have been a surprise, there is some indication she may have known she was fatally ill for some time prior to her passing.
For more on Josephine Tey, see the fan site:
http://www.josephinetey.com/
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 666 reviews
February 13, 2018
The Singing Sands is a manuscript that was found among Josephine Tey’s papers after she died in February 1952, and was published later that same year. It is therefore the conclusion of her Inspector Alan Grant series, and the end of what has been a wonderful reading experience for me.
In 2012, English journalist and author Peter Hitchens wrote that, "Josephine Tey's clarity of mind, and her loathing of fakes and of propaganda, are like pure, cold spring water in a weary land", and “what she loves above all is to show that things are very often not what they seem to be, that we are too easily fooled, that ready acceptance of conventional wisdom is not just dangerous, but a result of laziness, incuriosity and of a resistance to reason.”
I agree with Peter Hitchens’ observations, and believe that this is why Josephine Tey’s work is still so highly esteemed among both readers and writers alike – even after all these years.
In this, her final book of the Inspector Alan Grant series, we find the sensitive and intelligent Scotland Yard Inspector in Scotland on leave due to claustrophobic attacks leading to panic, at times. He stays with Tommy and Laura, his friends since childhood, and their two children. While he can’t bring himself to talk to Tommy about his debility, he does confide in Laura. She tells him she is not in the least surprised and that it is probably his psyche letting him know that he has taken on too much stress at work and too demanding of a caseload.
On the train to Scotland, a young man dies in a first-class sleeping compartment and Alan Grant helps the night porter settle the man so he doesn’t fall off the couch before the police can get there. However, he later discovers that while helping the porter he inadvertently picked up the young man’s newspaper and tucked it in with his own. Written on a blank space at the top is a short poem of eight lines with the 5th and 6th lines missing.
While with his friends, he fishes, shares dinners and conversation, and generally relaxes – yet he cannot get the young man from the train out of his mind. The story is about where his musings take him – mentally, physically, and emotionally.
This novel is brilliant – the storytelling and character development are exceptional and the plot definitely fulfills the maxim that many people are too easily fooled by the obvious – yet there are still the Inspector Alan Grant-types in this world who are curious, inspired, and tenacious enough to seek out the truth.
In 2012, English journalist and author Peter Hitchens wrote that, "Josephine Tey's clarity of mind, and her loathing of fakes and of propaganda, are like pure, cold spring water in a weary land", and “what she loves above all is to show that things are very often not what they seem to be, that we are too easily fooled, that ready acceptance of conventional wisdom is not just dangerous, but a result of laziness, incuriosity and of a resistance to reason.”
I agree with Peter Hitchens’ observations, and believe that this is why Josephine Tey’s work is still so highly esteemed among both readers and writers alike – even after all these years.
In this, her final book of the Inspector Alan Grant series, we find the sensitive and intelligent Scotland Yard Inspector in Scotland on leave due to claustrophobic attacks leading to panic, at times. He stays with Tommy and Laura, his friends since childhood, and their two children. While he can’t bring himself to talk to Tommy about his debility, he does confide in Laura. She tells him she is not in the least surprised and that it is probably his psyche letting him know that he has taken on too much stress at work and too demanding of a caseload.
On the train to Scotland, a young man dies in a first-class sleeping compartment and Alan Grant helps the night porter settle the man so he doesn’t fall off the couch before the police can get there. However, he later discovers that while helping the porter he inadvertently picked up the young man’s newspaper and tucked it in with his own. Written on a blank space at the top is a short poem of eight lines with the 5th and 6th lines missing.
While with his friends, he fishes, shares dinners and conversation, and generally relaxes – yet he cannot get the young man from the train out of his mind. The story is about where his musings take him – mentally, physically, and emotionally.
This novel is brilliant – the storytelling and character development are exceptional and the plot definitely fulfills the maxim that many people are too easily fooled by the obvious – yet there are still the Inspector Alan Grant-types in this world who are curious, inspired, and tenacious enough to seek out the truth.
January 5, 2019
3.5★
Published posthumously, I'd like to think that Ms Tey would have revised this novel if she had lived.
Published posthumously, I'd like to think that Ms Tey would have revised this novel if she had lived.
Because there is a lot to be admired about this story in which a burnt out (Nervous breakdown? PTSD?) Inspector Grant goes on sick leave. Grant's mental struggles are sympathetically described and this part of the novel works really well - as is the description of the death of a young man in a train's department and Grant being on hand for the body's discovery.
As beautifully written as some of the narrative was, the Scottish part of the story rambled a bit for me,although some of it was very witty.Wee Archie was wielding a shepherd's crook that, as Tommy remarked later, no shepherd would be found dead with, and he was wearing a kilt that no Highlander would dream of being found alive in.
The story really picked up with the arrival of and it becomes nearer to a true detective story. Unfortunately there is also a which I think takes a little away from some of the detective work.
So this one is a flawed gem. Certainly far better than some of her early work like The Man in the Queue, but not up to her best efforts The Daughter of Time / Brat Farrar
https://wordpress.com/view/carolshess...
March 4, 2013
Josephine Tey is the pseudonym for Elizabeth Mackintosh (1896-1952). Both a playwright (under the pseudonym Gordon Daviot) and novelist and due to a fierce predilection to keeping her life private, little is known about this author. She guarded her life jealously, avoided the press, side-stepped photographers, and never did any interviews. Biographers for the most part are therefore fairly well pissed-off about the whole secretive thing.
And that's actually why Tey's novels are a bit of a game with readers and biographers alike (including myself). Absent documentary information about this writer, it is to the novels they turn for hints about her life. It's like knitting, a pleasant past time with many a reader and in fact Tey often referred to her novels as being tantamount to "Yearly Knitting." One might compare this to a comparable story in today's music industry where Taylor Swift who though not exactly shunning the media, steadfastly refuses to discuss her personal life and points her critics and admireres to her singer/songwriter work for the answer to their questions. Just so with Ms. Tey.
And though she wrote primarily mysteries, they appear more as an afterthought to Tey. When reading her novels, you get the feeling she's pursuing something other than a conclusion to the mystery...something always wrapped in a puzzle in and of itself and something always decorated using a wonderful sense of language. She has been described as writing with exquisite characterization and a meticulous prose style.
The books are period pieces, written over half a century ago and require a particular love of reading such pieces (which I fortunately possess). The Man in Queue her first mystery with Grant (written as a beginner) was reportedly written in two weeks for a competition sponsored by the publisher Methuen and is dedicated to her typewriter named: Brisena. Her second Inspector Grant novel, which I've not read, was A Shilling for Candles. Throughout the novels I get a sense that Ms. Tey was not fond of celebrated figures in history. Her most famous mystery The Daughter of Time would be a good example of writer-frowning-upon-writer (in this case, Shakespeare).
Romance, or rather marriage is often avoided in her novels. It's like: Success must be brought to oneself and not through others. It describes Inspector Grant, who appears in a number of her novels, perfectly (though there are some deviations here and there). Bratt Farrar another of her famous novels reveals to the reader Tey's obvious fondness for horses. And perhaps through The Singing Sands, a posthumously discovered novel and her last, the reader catches a glimpse of Tey's life long fondness with the poetry of the English and Scottish landscape. It is also one of my favorite book covers because it perfectly illustrates the essence of this mystery novel.
And who is Inspector Grant? I imagine him as a stoic - outwardly calm and thoughtful; inwardly brimming with intelligence and emotion. As with most policemen, he is dedicated to his craft and in typical British mannerisms does so without succumbing to mind numbing intoxicants to forget the horrors of murder and sociopathic behavior...thus avoiding becoming one of the flawed heroes we often encounter in detective mysteries.
I'm not going to write a review for each one of her novels. I'll leave it to the reader to tell me who Ms. Tey really was. And, as always where it comes to series books, I'll repeat this one for all of her Inspector Grant novels. Enjoy!
And that's actually why Tey's novels are a bit of a game with readers and biographers alike (including myself). Absent documentary information about this writer, it is to the novels they turn for hints about her life. It's like knitting, a pleasant past time with many a reader and in fact Tey often referred to her novels as being tantamount to "Yearly Knitting." One might compare this to a comparable story in today's music industry where Taylor Swift who though not exactly shunning the media, steadfastly refuses to discuss her personal life and points her critics and admireres to her singer/songwriter work for the answer to their questions. Just so with Ms. Tey.
And though she wrote primarily mysteries, they appear more as an afterthought to Tey. When reading her novels, you get the feeling she's pursuing something other than a conclusion to the mystery...something always wrapped in a puzzle in and of itself and something always decorated using a wonderful sense of language. She has been described as writing with exquisite characterization and a meticulous prose style.
The books are period pieces, written over half a century ago and require a particular love of reading such pieces (which I fortunately possess). The Man in Queue her first mystery with Grant (written as a beginner) was reportedly written in two weeks for a competition sponsored by the publisher Methuen and is dedicated to her typewriter named: Brisena. Her second Inspector Grant novel, which I've not read, was A Shilling for Candles. Throughout the novels I get a sense that Ms. Tey was not fond of celebrated figures in history. Her most famous mystery The Daughter of Time would be a good example of writer-frowning-upon-writer (in this case, Shakespeare).
Romance, or rather marriage is often avoided in her novels. It's like: Success must be brought to oneself and not through others. It describes Inspector Grant, who appears in a number of her novels, perfectly (though there are some deviations here and there). Bratt Farrar another of her famous novels reveals to the reader Tey's obvious fondness for horses. And perhaps through The Singing Sands, a posthumously discovered novel and her last, the reader catches a glimpse of Tey's life long fondness with the poetry of the English and Scottish landscape. It is also one of my favorite book covers because it perfectly illustrates the essence of this mystery novel.
And who is Inspector Grant? I imagine him as a stoic - outwardly calm and thoughtful; inwardly brimming with intelligence and emotion. As with most policemen, he is dedicated to his craft and in typical British mannerisms does so without succumbing to mind numbing intoxicants to forget the horrors of murder and sociopathic behavior...thus avoiding becoming one of the flawed heroes we often encounter in detective mysteries.
I'm not going to write a review for each one of her novels. I'll leave it to the reader to tell me who Ms. Tey really was. And, as always where it comes to series books, I'll repeat this one for all of her Inspector Grant novels. Enjoy!
October 10, 2020
The beasts that talk,
The streams that stand,
The stones that walk,
The singing sand, . . . .
That guard the way To Paradise.
A death occurs at the very beginning but the real mystery doesn't make itself known until about the 60% point. It is a good, intriguing mystery but Inspector Grant seems to muddle about a bit in this one and reaches some erroneous conclusions before the mystery is laid to rest.
This is a book for those who want to read about people and places with a mystery to enliven things. THE SINGING SANDS is a fine example of Josephine Tey's sparkling prose and character development. It is also the last Inspector Grant novel. The manuscript was found among Tey's papers after her death.
The streams that stand,
The stones that walk,
The singing sand, . . . .
That guard the way To Paradise.
A death occurs at the very beginning but the real mystery doesn't make itself known until about the 60% point. It is a good, intriguing mystery but Inspector Grant seems to muddle about a bit in this one and reaches some erroneous conclusions before the mystery is laid to rest.
This is a book for those who want to read about people and places with a mystery to enliven things. THE SINGING SANDS is a fine example of Josephine Tey's sparkling prose and character development. It is also the last Inspector Grant novel. The manuscript was found among Tey's papers after her death.
January 19, 2024
The edition I'm reading has a lovely tribute to Josephine Tey under the guise of an introduction written by Robert Barnard. He writes that she is "not only a first-rate storyteller but one who is not content with a formula. Tey, in her best books, seeks to tell different sorts of story, in different ways."
This is a lovely literary detective story that unravels slowly. Some of my favorite parts were where Inspector Alan Grant carries on an internal dialogue musing a mysterious death on the train he was riding from London to Scotland. He arrives in Scotland to rest and recuperate, however he cannot get the dead man's face or poetry out of his thoughts.
Grant muses on the meaning of the poetry that the man had written:
"The beasts that talk,
The streams that stand,
The stones that walk,
The singing sand,
.............................
.............................
That guard the way
To Paradise"
This is a book to savor rather than rush and there is not a lot of action for a long while. Rather, I enjoyed the character studies. For example, the description of Murdo Gallagher aka Yoghourt, a sleeping-car attendant on the train was most entertaining. Then, around page 130 or so, I felt a jolt of excitement when new facts are introduced and the story seems to broaden its scope and geography.
This is book 6 in the series and I look forward to reading further volumes.
Some favorite lines:
"Bad-tempered eyebrows, supercilious eyebrows, calm eyebrows, worried eyebrows - it was the eyebrows that gave a face its keynote."
"Was it real, or "was it just a country of the mind?"
The term "counter-rapper" conjured up something very different in my mind, I was thinking of rap music until I read the entire sentence: "I was tired of counter-rappers. You know, the kind of chap who can't wait a minute. Out here [in the Scottish countryside] no one ever thinks of rapping on a counter."
I learned that "sleeshacks were mashed potatoes fried in slices."
"It's fantastic. But at the heart of all the whirling absurdity there is a small cove of stillness."
"There is one small clear space on which one can stand while taking one's bearings."
"His voice died away. The conversation became suddenly broken-backed."
"He, Alan Grant, had a household just as bare of human warmth; but his life was so full of people that to come back to his empty flat was a luxury, a spiritual delight."
This is a lovely literary detective story that unravels slowly. Some of my favorite parts were where Inspector Alan Grant carries on an internal dialogue musing a mysterious death on the train he was riding from London to Scotland. He arrives in Scotland to rest and recuperate, however he cannot get the dead man's face or poetry out of his thoughts.
Grant muses on the meaning of the poetry that the man had written:
"The beasts that talk,
The streams that stand,
The stones that walk,
The singing sand,
.............................
.............................
That guard the way
To Paradise"
This is a book to savor rather than rush and there is not a lot of action for a long while. Rather, I enjoyed the character studies. For example, the description of Murdo Gallagher aka Yoghourt, a sleeping-car attendant on the train was most entertaining. Then, around page 130 or so, I felt a jolt of excitement when new facts are introduced and the story seems to broaden its scope and geography.
This is book 6 in the series and I look forward to reading further volumes.
Some favorite lines:
"Bad-tempered eyebrows, supercilious eyebrows, calm eyebrows, worried eyebrows - it was the eyebrows that gave a face its keynote."
"Was it real, or "was it just a country of the mind?"
The term "counter-rapper" conjured up something very different in my mind, I was thinking of rap music until I read the entire sentence: "I was tired of counter-rappers. You know, the kind of chap who can't wait a minute. Out here [in the Scottish countryside] no one ever thinks of rapping on a counter."
I learned that "sleeshacks were mashed potatoes fried in slices."
"It's fantastic. But at the heart of all the whirling absurdity there is a small cove of stillness."
"There is one small clear space on which one can stand while taking one's bearings."
"His voice died away. The conversation became suddenly broken-backed."
"He, Alan Grant, had a household just as bare of human warmth; but his life was so full of people that to come back to his empty flat was a luxury, a spiritual delight."
August 24, 2023
Novela leída en el Club de lectura de La librería ambulante.
De la misma autora había leído El hombre en la cola por lo que ya conocía al inspector Alan Grant. También venía preparado para su narrativa pausada.
En la gran mayoría de las novelas actuales se busca un ritmo endiablado. En Las arenas cantarinas hay un muerto, unos versos incompletos, un misterio y una investigación/obsesión en la que destacan los diálogos interiores de su protagonista, pero todo discurre con parsimonia. Ante todo mucha calma.
Está bien resuelta y se escribió en 1936. 4 estrellas cantarinas.
De la misma autora había leído El hombre en la cola por lo que ya conocía al inspector Alan Grant. También venía preparado para su narrativa pausada.
En la gran mayoría de las novelas actuales se busca un ritmo endiablado. En Las arenas cantarinas hay un muerto, unos versos incompletos, un misterio y una investigación/obsesión en la que destacan los diálogos interiores de su protagonista, pero todo discurre con parsimonia. Ante todo mucha calma.
Está bien resuelta y se escribió en 1936. 4 estrellas cantarinas.
May 31, 2017
Excellent mystery and atmospheric settings in Scotland, I will be reading more of the intrepid Inspector Alan Grant.
January 20, 2012
Quite a few murder mysteries begin with their victim alive, just long enough that the reader comes to know and like him. (I hate that.) With The Singing Sands, the victim is dead from the beginning, but I still got to know and like him through the course of the book, even as Alan Grant did. (I hate that too, but at least there's a requiem feeling about it here.)
Much as with Daughter of Time, Alan is laid up and in need of something to take him outside himself. Here, though, Alan is on medical leave from the Force due to nervous issues and severe claustrophobia – and I quite like that he did not find it easy requesting this leave. Being forced to acknowledge what he sees as a weakness not merely to his no-nonsense Super but to himself was a major hurdle. But it was necessary, and he was intelligent enough to recognize that he had to get away or snap once and for all: since an incident on the job, he has been growing steadily less able to tolerate enclosed spaces, steadily less able to rely on his own reactions to stress. Among other things, travel is a nightmare for him. The setting where the book begins, a train just pulling in to the station, is the least hideous option … which means only that he is, barely, able to keep hold of himself. A car or, worse, airplane, would have been nearly fatal for this trip to his cousin Laura and her family in Scotland: the train car is confining, but pride and sheer stubbornness get him through the long sleepless night. Barely. The journey by car from the station to his cousin's home nearly does him in.
It's a disturbing, absorbing depiction of claustrophobia and its effects on a strong man in his prime who never suffered from any such thing before. He is horrified and not a little put out at its intrusion into his life now. Alan's sensible, though, in dealing with it, determined to push himself, but not beyond the bounds of reason. He approaches the situation much the way he does other problems, and forces himself to proceed logically and – again – sensibly; I think I'm coming back to that quality because it's one that seems to go out the window in so many cases, fictional and non-.
Alan's discovery of a dead man on his train – young, with a highly individual face – is disturbing, though not as disturbing as it would be if a) he were a civilian, and b) he were not so preoccupied with his own misery. Everyone from the police onward takes the situation as it appears: young man went "one over the eight", fell, hit his head on the sink, and sadly died. But there is something which, even in Alan's present state, doesn't sit well. Then he discovers that he accidentally carried away the man's newspaper, and that written in a blank space is an extraordinary attempt at poetry, and the man's life, identity, and death become a puzzle he cannot leave alone. It all leads him on a quest to learn the truth and maybe, just maybe, regain his own self-possession.
As always, the mystery is merely a device to give Alan and his psyche a workout. He just can't let go of the problem, can't accept the official verdict, can't escape the conviction that there's more to it all. His mind is not the usual simple and undemanding sort I'm used to riding along with in a mystery novel. As was established in Daughter of Time, he doesn't handle forced inactivity very well, and forced introspection is not his favorite past-time; it's an unsettling revelation to both him and the reader just how little he enjoys his own company. Even the prospect of all the fishing he can handle doesn't help: he needs something more, and alternates between almost determinedly despairing plans to reinvent his future – and the, for him, much more constructive pursuit of the truth of the matter of the dead man on the train.
The relationships in the book are pure pleasure. Alan and his colleagues – his Super is not a cardboard cutout, however small his role in the book; Alan and his cousin, Laura, who is very much his Might Have Been; Alan and the dead man's shade; Alan and the dead man's friend, and the Lady who is stopping over in the area. Laura's small son is a creature who skews the likeability average for fictional kids drastically upward – he's fabulous.
There is a joy to this novel, an air of finality and farewell as Alan puts himself back together again and returns to his life, that makes it fitting for this to be the end of the series, the last of the Alan Grants (though I do have one more Tey book left, when I find it). It's a solid satisfying ending. I'd love more, which of course is impossible (unless, she said hopefully, there is a cache somewhere of Elizabeth Mackintosh's papers which might yield more Alan Grant – but she doesn't seem to have been the type of person to leave boxes full of uncategorized papers), so this is a good note on which to say goodbye, whether it was intended to be the end or not. Josephine Tey was the second, lesser pseudonym Mackintosh used: Gordon Daviot was the name she used for her serious work, her plays. But I remember being surprised to learn of the popularity of her stage work. Richard II was almost its generation's Cats, with people going back over and over, buying dolls of the characters and mobbing the stars. Yet the plays are, best I can see, out of print (I had to go to eBay for a copy of Richard, and I believe that came from England); it is Alan Grant who lives on. I think he was severely undervalued by his creator. The novels are superb, and it has been a joy to reread them.
Now if only some "angel" would back a production of Richard, preferably either in New York or on film...
Much as with Daughter of Time, Alan is laid up and in need of something to take him outside himself. Here, though, Alan is on medical leave from the Force due to nervous issues and severe claustrophobia – and I quite like that he did not find it easy requesting this leave. Being forced to acknowledge what he sees as a weakness not merely to his no-nonsense Super but to himself was a major hurdle. But it was necessary, and he was intelligent enough to recognize that he had to get away or snap once and for all: since an incident on the job, he has been growing steadily less able to tolerate enclosed spaces, steadily less able to rely on his own reactions to stress. Among other things, travel is a nightmare for him. The setting where the book begins, a train just pulling in to the station, is the least hideous option … which means only that he is, barely, able to keep hold of himself. A car or, worse, airplane, would have been nearly fatal for this trip to his cousin Laura and her family in Scotland: the train car is confining, but pride and sheer stubbornness get him through the long sleepless night. Barely. The journey by car from the station to his cousin's home nearly does him in.
It's a disturbing, absorbing depiction of claustrophobia and its effects on a strong man in his prime who never suffered from any such thing before. He is horrified and not a little put out at its intrusion into his life now. Alan's sensible, though, in dealing with it, determined to push himself, but not beyond the bounds of reason. He approaches the situation much the way he does other problems, and forces himself to proceed logically and – again – sensibly; I think I'm coming back to that quality because it's one that seems to go out the window in so many cases, fictional and non-.
Alan's discovery of a dead man on his train – young, with a highly individual face – is disturbing, though not as disturbing as it would be if a) he were a civilian, and b) he were not so preoccupied with his own misery. Everyone from the police onward takes the situation as it appears: young man went "one over the eight", fell, hit his head on the sink, and sadly died. But there is something which, even in Alan's present state, doesn't sit well. Then he discovers that he accidentally carried away the man's newspaper, and that written in a blank space is an extraordinary attempt at poetry, and the man's life, identity, and death become a puzzle he cannot leave alone. It all leads him on a quest to learn the truth and maybe, just maybe, regain his own self-possession.
As always, the mystery is merely a device to give Alan and his psyche a workout. He just can't let go of the problem, can't accept the official verdict, can't escape the conviction that there's more to it all. His mind is not the usual simple and undemanding sort I'm used to riding along with in a mystery novel. As was established in Daughter of Time, he doesn't handle forced inactivity very well, and forced introspection is not his favorite past-time; it's an unsettling revelation to both him and the reader just how little he enjoys his own company. Even the prospect of all the fishing he can handle doesn't help: he needs something more, and alternates between almost determinedly despairing plans to reinvent his future – and the, for him, much more constructive pursuit of the truth of the matter of the dead man on the train.
The relationships in the book are pure pleasure. Alan and his colleagues – his Super is not a cardboard cutout, however small his role in the book; Alan and his cousin, Laura, who is very much his Might Have Been; Alan and the dead man's shade; Alan and the dead man's friend, and the Lady who is stopping over in the area. Laura's small son is a creature who skews the likeability average for fictional kids drastically upward – he's fabulous.
There is a joy to this novel, an air of finality and farewell as Alan puts himself back together again and returns to his life, that makes it fitting for this to be the end of the series, the last of the Alan Grants (though I do have one more Tey book left, when I find it). It's a solid satisfying ending. I'd love more, which of course is impossible (unless, she said hopefully, there is a cache somewhere of Elizabeth Mackintosh's papers which might yield more Alan Grant – but she doesn't seem to have been the type of person to leave boxes full of uncategorized papers), so this is a good note on which to say goodbye, whether it was intended to be the end or not. Josephine Tey was the second, lesser pseudonym Mackintosh used: Gordon Daviot was the name she used for her serious work, her plays. But I remember being surprised to learn of the popularity of her stage work. Richard II was almost its generation's Cats, with people going back over and over, buying dolls of the characters and mobbing the stars. Yet the plays are, best I can see, out of print (I had to go to eBay for a copy of Richard, and I believe that came from England); it is Alan Grant who lives on. I think he was severely undervalued by his creator. The novels are superb, and it has been a joy to reread them.
Now if only some "angel" would back a production of Richard, preferably either in New York or on film...
December 5, 2018
Perhaps my least favourite Tey and that's primarily because much of the first half is concerned with Grant's fishing holiday in Scotland. The characterisation is strong, as ever, and Tey is probably the best prose stylist of the GA - all the same, we get introduced to a dead man in the opening chapter but the real investigation doesn't gather speed till about midway through. Once Grant is back in London my interest perked up. All the same, this is eminently transparent in terms of mystery. Great atmosphere, though, developed characters, and a sharp style make this still worth a read: 3.5 stars.
January 5, 2019
I have never been a fan of the pure police procedural. If not positively a cozy-mystery reader, I do tend to prefer mysteries that strike a balance between character development and sleuthing. The first few Inspector Alan Grant mysteries were heavy on detecting and pretty light on personality, and I read them with more respect than interest. But by the time we reach Tey's last mystery, The Singing Sands, she has invited us into the inspector's head and I found myself much more at home there.
The inspector has suffered a trauma severe enough to require that he take a month's leave from Scotland Yard, and he plans to spend it fishing among family in the Scottish Highlands. But as is so often the case with fictional detectives, his plans go all agley when a body is thoughtlessly strewn in his path. His first reaction is to be grateful it's none of his affair, but his curiosity slowly gets the better of him. It was amusing to watch him gradually succumb to the irresistible allure of sudden death.
Grant begins this story a pathetic shell, a man so wounded in spirit as to be barely functional; but of course, he is a detective to his core and having something to detect brings him quickly back to normalcy. For those of us conditioned to awareness of PTSD his recovery is suspiciously easy, but the excellent writing and storytelling carried me along on a tide of suspended disbelief.
The mystery itself was an engaging one and the slow reveal of facts kept me guessing for a long time. The way whodunit was revealed was both hackneyed and incredible, reminding me of a 007 movie without the physical peril. But that was a small matter compared to the pleasures of reading the rest of the book. I hear that Josephine Tey died prematurely and the manuscript of this book was found on her desk; perhaps had she lived longer, she might have revised that ending.
The inspector has suffered a trauma severe enough to require that he take a month's leave from Scotland Yard, and he plans to spend it fishing among family in the Scottish Highlands. But as is so often the case with fictional detectives, his plans go all agley when a body is thoughtlessly strewn in his path. His first reaction is to be grateful it's none of his affair, but his curiosity slowly gets the better of him. It was amusing to watch him gradually succumb to the irresistible allure of sudden death.
Grant begins this story a pathetic shell, a man so wounded in spirit as to be barely functional; but of course, he is a detective to his core and having something to detect brings him quickly back to normalcy. For those of us conditioned to awareness of PTSD his recovery is suspiciously easy, but the excellent writing and storytelling carried me along on a tide of suspended disbelief.
The mystery itself was an engaging one and the slow reveal of facts kept me guessing for a long time. The way whodunit was revealed was both hackneyed and incredible, reminding me of a 007 movie without the physical peril. But that was a small matter compared to the pleasures of reading the rest of the book. I hear that Josephine Tey died prematurely and the manuscript of this book was found on her desk; perhaps had she lived longer, she might have revised that ending.
February 23, 2023
Enjoyed reading this one more than I did 'The Man in the Queue', the first book in Josephine Tey's Inspector Grant series. Overall, the tone of writing seemed grave in both these books, but 'The Singing Sands' had some more occasional light-hearted wit than the first novel. Ending could have been better as the culprit was not exactly caught but revealed to the reader (just like in 'The Man in the Queue', again!). And I remark now as I had remarked then: Tey is definitely underrated as a Golden Age author.
June 16, 2018
Old school mystery with a satisfying wrap-everything-up-in-a-tight-package-at-the-end ending. If you like to know exactly how whodunit done it, this is your book. Feels like I have read it before, but not sure. Not my first by Tey nor my favorite but still very entertaining.
June 28, 2016
Minor spoilers here but nothing about the mystery itself
I did not enjoy this book. It's not a typical mystery - the death occurs in the first few pages but it's not for a long time that it's thought of as in any way interesting or suspicious. And until you get to this point you get a very unconvincing story of a holiday in Scotland. That's full of hatred of Scotland and Scottish people - or at least highland ones, ones from Glasgow and god help you if you speak Gaelic. The anti-Scot thing is the biggest thing in the book but later on near the very end she gives us a paragraph where she mentions how horrible it'd be if the French had colonised India - no colour-bar and "so racially intermarried that it had lost its identity" - and says how all Americans "look like Red Indians even if they begun as Saxons". It's vile.
The first half of the book or so is concerned with Inspector Grant travelling to Scotland, staying with old friends, going fishing, and having panic attacks when he's in cars due to claustrophobia. I was genuinely surprised to see a plot point about panic attacks and it's described pretty well but at a certain point in the book he just gets magically cured. So ok. He meets a guy literally called "Wee Archie" who's some kind of Scottish nationalist and described as a "revolutionary" (in what sense is never explained). He's given as nasty a description as the author can manage. Apparently the fact he's from Glasgow and has a Glasgow accent is awful enough, but he apparently taught himself Gaelic and now goes around talking about... Scottish Gaelic culture and stuff? I dunno it's really not explained except the author wants us to know it's *really bad* for some reason. She mentions that he's bad at Gaelic but given her later treatment of Scottish Gaelic culture it seems more the problem that he speaks Gaelic at all.
The story moves along because he gets fascinated by some words written on a newspaper he accidentally stole from the dead guy's compartment. He makes tentative inquiries into them throughout the first half, decides they refer to an island in the Hebrides, goes there. And goes on and on about how stupid people are for talking about how beautiful they are, mocks the literature on them as people "romanticising primitiveness" or something and when he meets the people and they invite him to a ceilidh he mocks them some more. And the reverend or priest or whoever mocks the island people because they use a hall intended for making stuff for dances. Because they're idiots. And who should he meet but "Wee Archie". Who's giving a talk at the ceilidh. For some reason. But the author gets more digs in at him by having people leave while he's talking. Because they want to watch the ballet on TV. Which is presented as more mockery of the people. Oh and there's a load of insults aimed at the dancing style of people and of the way they sing. Oh and the cook at the hotel can't cook and he won't eat what she makes. For some reason all this heals his claustrophobia and although he seems to be enjoying (?) himself kinda by the end he still says he couldn't bear to be there another hour.
So he goes back to his friends' place. And fishes some more. And meets this guy who responded to an ad he put in the newspaper who came all the way to him from London based on Grant putting an ad containing the verses written by the dead guy in the ad. And apparently he's heard the verse before because the dead guy said it randomly a few months before and he remembered. Bit of a stroke of luck. Anyway this kicks off the "mystery" portion of the book, such as it is. It's impossible to solve anything before the ending, except to roll your eyes at the guy for not imagining murder for ages. He has multiple strokes of luck and the help of a certified genius in a remote Scottish town library. There's also a random plot where his friend tries to set him up with a noble lady but he's apparently totally unable to recognise a very obvious attempt to set them up together. And the author uses this to talk about how incredibly good aristocrats are and how class isn't a thing because the grandfather of Elizabeth I was Lord Mayor of London. And how it's terrible how aristocrats have to live in poor quality houses because of death duties and if her house was a prison the House would have condemned it as unfit for human habitation. It's nauseating.
The book moves towards its conclusion but there's not enough time for any real detecting. The ending is abysmal and a cop-out. Even then it makes little sense There are no proper clues throughout the whole thing so you just find out right at the end. And it's a pretty poor ending. Oh and it turns out that Wee Archie is It makes no sense at all. And the ending also has some weird kind o
Poor as a mystery, terrible as a general story. It seems to want to be 2 things at once and it's awful at both. A strange vehicle for her own hatred of Scottish Gaelic, Scottish nationalists and the Scottish in general - which is especially baffling because she was Scottish, and her own detective is Scottish! Her writing is generally good but in this book her grasp of characters is weak and nothing fits together to give any satisfaction. Big disappointment.
I did not enjoy this book. It's not a typical mystery - the death occurs in the first few pages but it's not for a long time that it's thought of as in any way interesting or suspicious. And until you get to this point you get a very unconvincing story of a holiday in Scotland. That's full of hatred of Scotland and Scottish people - or at least highland ones, ones from Glasgow and god help you if you speak Gaelic. The anti-Scot thing is the biggest thing in the book but later on near the very end she gives us a paragraph where she mentions how horrible it'd be if the French had colonised India - no colour-bar and "so racially intermarried that it had lost its identity" - and says how all Americans "look like Red Indians even if they begun as Saxons". It's vile.
The first half of the book or so is concerned with Inspector Grant travelling to Scotland, staying with old friends, going fishing, and having panic attacks when he's in cars due to claustrophobia. I was genuinely surprised to see a plot point about panic attacks and it's described pretty well but at a certain point in the book he just gets magically cured. So ok. He meets a guy literally called "Wee Archie" who's some kind of Scottish nationalist and described as a "revolutionary" (in what sense is never explained). He's given as nasty a description as the author can manage. Apparently the fact he's from Glasgow and has a Glasgow accent is awful enough, but he apparently taught himself Gaelic and now goes around talking about... Scottish Gaelic culture and stuff? I dunno it's really not explained except the author wants us to know it's *really bad* for some reason. She mentions that he's bad at Gaelic but given her later treatment of Scottish Gaelic culture it seems more the problem that he speaks Gaelic at all.
The story moves along because he gets fascinated by some words written on a newspaper he accidentally stole from the dead guy's compartment. He makes tentative inquiries into them throughout the first half, decides they refer to an island in the Hebrides, goes there. And goes on and on about how stupid people are for talking about how beautiful they are, mocks the literature on them as people "romanticising primitiveness" or something and when he meets the people and they invite him to a ceilidh he mocks them some more. And the reverend or priest or whoever mocks the island people because they use a hall intended for making stuff for dances. Because they're idiots. And who should he meet but "Wee Archie". Who's giving a talk at the ceilidh. For some reason. But the author gets more digs in at him by having people leave while he's talking. Because they want to watch the ballet on TV. Which is presented as more mockery of the people. Oh and there's a load of insults aimed at the dancing style of people and of the way they sing. Oh and the cook at the hotel can't cook and he won't eat what she makes. For some reason all this heals his claustrophobia and although he seems to be enjoying (?) himself kinda by the end he still says he couldn't bear to be there another hour.
So he goes back to his friends' place. And fishes some more. And meets this guy who responded to an ad he put in the newspaper who came all the way to him from London based on Grant putting an ad containing the verses written by the dead guy in the ad. And apparently he's heard the verse before because the dead guy said it randomly a few months before and he remembered. Bit of a stroke of luck. Anyway this kicks off the "mystery" portion of the book, such as it is. It's impossible to solve anything before the ending, except to roll your eyes at the guy for not imagining murder for ages. He has multiple strokes of luck and the help of a certified genius in a remote Scottish town library. There's also a random plot where his friend tries to set him up with a noble lady but he's apparently totally unable to recognise a very obvious attempt to set them up together. And the author uses this to talk about how incredibly good aristocrats are and how class isn't a thing because the grandfather of Elizabeth I was Lord Mayor of London. And how it's terrible how aristocrats have to live in poor quality houses because of death duties and if her house was a prison the House would have condemned it as unfit for human habitation. It's nauseating.
The book moves towards its conclusion but there's not enough time for any real detecting. The ending is abysmal and a cop-out. Even then it makes little sense There are no proper clues throughout the whole thing so you just find out right at the end. And it's a pretty poor ending. Oh and it turns out that Wee Archie is It makes no sense at all. And the ending also has some weird kind o
Poor as a mystery, terrible as a general story. It seems to want to be 2 things at once and it's awful at both. A strange vehicle for her own hatred of Scottish Gaelic, Scottish nationalists and the Scottish in general - which is especially baffling because she was Scottish, and her own detective is Scottish! Her writing is generally good but in this book her grasp of characters is weak and nothing fits together to give any satisfaction. Big disappointment.
October 9, 2011
Sadly Tey wrote only eight mysteries, and this is her last, published posthumously. I don't think it's among her best. I'd rate it perhaps sixth out of the eight, but it's still a great read, and stands out as a character study of her detective, Inspector Alan Grant of Scotland Yard.
When he first appeared in The Man in the Queue he struck me as rather bland especially compared to such sleuths as Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot and Lord Peter Wimsey. With the possible exception of The Daughter of Time, he also strikes me in the books he appears in as the most fallible detective protagonist I've ever read. He's not notable for brilliant logical deductions like Holmes or Poirot. What he has is what he calls "flair"--intuition, instinct, imagination--and that doesn't always steer him the right way.
At the beginning of The Singing Sands we see a mentally fragile Grant. Suffering from overwork, he's subject to a crippling claustrophobia. Taking leave to visit his cousin Laura in the Scottish Highlands, he encounters a dead body in one of the sleeping berths, seemingly the result of an accident. On a newspaper is scribbled some verse:
The beasts that talk,
The streams that stand,
The stones that walk,
The singing sands,
That guard the way to Paradise.
He finds that verse teasing his mind, and it pushes him to solve the mystery of the meaning of the verses and the young man's death, taking him to the Hebrides and to Marsaille.
The introduction to the newest editions of the Tey books by Robert Barnard don't hold up Tey to a flattering light. I don't think Barnard really likes Tey. I came across on the internet at one point a list by Barnard of favorite works of crime fiction--notably Tey wasn't on his list. In his introduction he accuses Tey of "anti-Semitism, contempt for the working class, a deep uneasiness about any enthusiasm (for example Scottish Nationalism) that, to her, smacks of crankiness."
Having recently reread all the books, there are definitely ethnic stereotypes expressed by characters, especially Grant. However, notably the only identifiably Jewish character, in A Shilling for Candles, is a positive one who rightly twits Grant about his class prejudices--Grant is entirely wrong about him. I also can't see anything but respect for working people in Tey's books. What she does express contempt for are self-styled radical champions of the working class--quite a different thing. Her attitude there is especially evident in The Franchise Affair.
The Singing Sands is the book where the digs against Scottish Nationalism are primarily made. They don't strike me as cranky though. If anything they strike me as refreshing and relevant, as a slap at those who try to flare back to life age-old historical grievances. And I can certainly see Wee Archie in a lot of current political activists. Tey definitely shows a conservative sensibility that might offend the politically correct, and this is definitely one of her novels where that attitude is to the fore. And actually the tic I find most disconcerting throughout the novels isn't one Barnard picked up on. Tey has a tendency to judge people on their looks--not on whether they're attractive or not. But Grant believes someone is adventurous because of the shape of his eyebrows and in The Franchise Affair a woman is believed promiscuous because of the shade of blue of her eyes. As often is the case with Tey, this book also isn't the strongest of mysteries in a puzzle box sense. I found the way the mystery is resolved by a confession in a letter particularly weak. This definitely wouldn't be the Tey work I'd recommend as an introduction--I'd choose either The Daughter of Time or Brat Farrar if you haven't yet tried her before. But as with all Tey's books, this is strong in prose style, humor and unforgettable characters. And it's somehow fitting her last book is one where we get to delve a bit deeper into the psyche of her detective hero.
When he first appeared in The Man in the Queue he struck me as rather bland especially compared to such sleuths as Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot and Lord Peter Wimsey. With the possible exception of The Daughter of Time, he also strikes me in the books he appears in as the most fallible detective protagonist I've ever read. He's not notable for brilliant logical deductions like Holmes or Poirot. What he has is what he calls "flair"--intuition, instinct, imagination--and that doesn't always steer him the right way.
At the beginning of The Singing Sands we see a mentally fragile Grant. Suffering from overwork, he's subject to a crippling claustrophobia. Taking leave to visit his cousin Laura in the Scottish Highlands, he encounters a dead body in one of the sleeping berths, seemingly the result of an accident. On a newspaper is scribbled some verse:
The beasts that talk,
The streams that stand,
The stones that walk,
The singing sands,
That guard the way to Paradise.
He finds that verse teasing his mind, and it pushes him to solve the mystery of the meaning of the verses and the young man's death, taking him to the Hebrides and to Marsaille.
The introduction to the newest editions of the Tey books by Robert Barnard don't hold up Tey to a flattering light. I don't think Barnard really likes Tey. I came across on the internet at one point a list by Barnard of favorite works of crime fiction--notably Tey wasn't on his list. In his introduction he accuses Tey of "anti-Semitism, contempt for the working class, a deep uneasiness about any enthusiasm (for example Scottish Nationalism) that, to her, smacks of crankiness."
Having recently reread all the books, there are definitely ethnic stereotypes expressed by characters, especially Grant. However, notably the only identifiably Jewish character, in A Shilling for Candles, is a positive one who rightly twits Grant about his class prejudices--Grant is entirely wrong about him. I also can't see anything but respect for working people in Tey's books. What she does express contempt for are self-styled radical champions of the working class--quite a different thing. Her attitude there is especially evident in The Franchise Affair.
The Singing Sands is the book where the digs against Scottish Nationalism are primarily made. They don't strike me as cranky though. If anything they strike me as refreshing and relevant, as a slap at those who try to flare back to life age-old historical grievances. And I can certainly see Wee Archie in a lot of current political activists. Tey definitely shows a conservative sensibility that might offend the politically correct, and this is definitely one of her novels where that attitude is to the fore. And actually the tic I find most disconcerting throughout the novels isn't one Barnard picked up on. Tey has a tendency to judge people on their looks--not on whether they're attractive or not. But Grant believes someone is adventurous because of the shape of his eyebrows and in The Franchise Affair a woman is believed promiscuous because of the shade of blue of her eyes. As often is the case with Tey, this book also isn't the strongest of mysteries in a puzzle box sense. I found the way the mystery is resolved by a confession in a letter particularly weak. This definitely wouldn't be the Tey work I'd recommend as an introduction--I'd choose either The Daughter of Time or Brat Farrar if you haven't yet tried her before. But as with all Tey's books, this is strong in prose style, humor and unforgettable characters. And it's somehow fitting her last book is one where we get to delve a bit deeper into the psyche of her detective hero.
May 3, 2015
I found this book astonishing and not in a good way. I understand the ms was found among Josephine Tey's papers after she died - in 1952, I believe. I think her publishers should have left it there. It's a bitter little book, threaded through with the most appalling prejudice against Scots and all things Scottish. This is all the more unpleasant when Josephine Tey was herself Scottish. So was her fictional detective.
Over the last few days since I finished The Singing Sands I've really swithered about writing this review. As a writer myself, I never publicly review a book I really didn't like or thought was poorly written. It seems like professional discourtesy.
My other reservation is that The Daughter of Time by Josephine Tey, featuring the same Inspector Alan Grant as The Singing Sands, is one of my favourite books. I expected to love The Singing Sands but it's left a really unpleasant taste in my mouth.
There's some great writing in here. Tey was one of the doyennes of the Golden Age of crime fiction, after all. There's an intriguing premise, a mysterious poem, some fantastic descriptions of landscape and unflinching descriptions of Alan Grant's experiences while going through a nervous breakdown. However, none of it really knits together and makes a coherent whole.
It's hard to forgive the snobbery. The aristocracy and gentry are all humorous, intelligent and self-effacing. The lower orders, both north and south of the border, are stupid, criminal or comical.
There are side-swipes at Scotland and Scots threaded throughout the book. Nobody in Scotland can cook or bake anything palatable. Gaelic songs are poor efforts, sung by people with expressionless voices. Anyone who advocates Scottish independence is to be mocked or possibly reported to Special Branch.
Even Scotland's buses are painted "that most miserable of colours: blue." London buses, by contrast, are a cheerful red because "...the English, God bless them, had had gayer ideas." At which risible point - even Scotland's buses are rubbish - I snorted audibly in derision.
The killer comment comes towards the end of the story. Grant's posh cousins are amused by their son speaking "clotted Perthshire". They do actually live there, so that doesn't seem too odd. However, Grant hopes they won't wait too long before they send the young boy away "...to his English school. The quality of Scotchness was a highly concentrated essence, and should always be diluted. As an ingredient it was admirable; neat, it was as abominable as ammonia."
If that had been written about any other nationality?
I find it very sad that such a talented writer should clearly have felt the need to do down her own people. In Scotland, we call this chip on the shoulder lack of self-esteem the Scottish Cringe. I'm glad to say it's rapidly fading into the past. I'm sorry that Josephine Tey isn't around to see the much more confident Scotland that exists now.
Over the last few days since I finished The Singing Sands I've really swithered about writing this review. As a writer myself, I never publicly review a book I really didn't like or thought was poorly written. It seems like professional discourtesy.
My other reservation is that The Daughter of Time by Josephine Tey, featuring the same Inspector Alan Grant as The Singing Sands, is one of my favourite books. I expected to love The Singing Sands but it's left a really unpleasant taste in my mouth.
There's some great writing in here. Tey was one of the doyennes of the Golden Age of crime fiction, after all. There's an intriguing premise, a mysterious poem, some fantastic descriptions of landscape and unflinching descriptions of Alan Grant's experiences while going through a nervous breakdown. However, none of it really knits together and makes a coherent whole.
It's hard to forgive the snobbery. The aristocracy and gentry are all humorous, intelligent and self-effacing. The lower orders, both north and south of the border, are stupid, criminal or comical.
There are side-swipes at Scotland and Scots threaded throughout the book. Nobody in Scotland can cook or bake anything palatable. Gaelic songs are poor efforts, sung by people with expressionless voices. Anyone who advocates Scottish independence is to be mocked or possibly reported to Special Branch.
Even Scotland's buses are painted "that most miserable of colours: blue." London buses, by contrast, are a cheerful red because "...the English, God bless them, had had gayer ideas." At which risible point - even Scotland's buses are rubbish - I snorted audibly in derision.
The killer comment comes towards the end of the story. Grant's posh cousins are amused by their son speaking "clotted Perthshire". They do actually live there, so that doesn't seem too odd. However, Grant hopes they won't wait too long before they send the young boy away "...to his English school. The quality of Scotchness was a highly concentrated essence, and should always be diluted. As an ingredient it was admirable; neat, it was as abominable as ammonia."
If that had been written about any other nationality?
I find it very sad that such a talented writer should clearly have felt the need to do down her own people. In Scotland, we call this chip on the shoulder lack of self-esteem the Scottish Cringe. I'm glad to say it's rapidly fading into the past. I'm sorry that Josephine Tey isn't around to see the much more confident Scotland that exists now.
February 19, 2017
In my opinion, this is the best mystery written by Josephine Tey. It is sad for me to think of it being published posthumously. Every word and its placement was chosen with brilliance as well as a compelling drive to confirm life and humanity in all its truth, good and bad. Pretty lofty thinking, eh? Darn, but I am afraid to pick up my next book - as nothing will compare to this one. I did check this out from my library in pristine paperback condition from Touchstone. I only mention this as my excuse for not having read this book earlier when long ago I was reading Tey from some rather old and worn books. I am fairly certain I was afraid to touch the edition available to me of The Singing Sands. Rather wonderful that fresh copies were published, and now I know which version to order so I can read many times over in future. Also rather wonderful that some goodreads subscribers brought my attention back to Tey.
Scotland Yard Inspector Alan Grant is the main character in this book. He is forced to take a holiday due to "overwork" per his doctor. The struggle to remain in his First-Class sleeping compartment on the overnight train due to claustrophobia was a horrid start. Then he has to inform the porter that the man he is shaking and trying to wake is dead. "He dropped the two suitcases on the platform and stood there...and wished that it was possible to die temporarily....They were all wrong about hell, he thought. Hell wasn't a nice cosy place where you fried. Hell was a great cold echoing cave where there was neither past nor future; a black, echoing desolation. Hell was concentrated essence of a winter morning after a sleepless night of self-distaste."
Thus starts his journey to the Highlands for a rest with relatives. It is a wonderful tale of restoration and discovery leading to a very unusual murder plot - highly intelligent and original!
Scotland Yard Inspector Alan Grant is the main character in this book. He is forced to take a holiday due to "overwork" per his doctor. The struggle to remain in his First-Class sleeping compartment on the overnight train due to claustrophobia was a horrid start. Then he has to inform the porter that the man he is shaking and trying to wake is dead. "He dropped the two suitcases on the platform and stood there...and wished that it was possible to die temporarily....They were all wrong about hell, he thought. Hell wasn't a nice cosy place where you fried. Hell was a great cold echoing cave where there was neither past nor future; a black, echoing desolation. Hell was concentrated essence of a winter morning after a sleepless night of self-distaste."
Thus starts his journey to the Highlands for a rest with relatives. It is a wonderful tale of restoration and discovery leading to a very unusual murder plot - highly intelligent and original!
September 29, 2018
Read it years ago. I am a HUGE Josephine Tey fan. I've read all her books, wish she had written more. I need to re-read and write some proper reviews, but I know this one is a five.
I actually bought most of her books, now to go find them!
I actually bought most of her books, now to go find them!
September 4, 2026
The Singing Sands had a lot of good moments—the legend of the Atlantis of the Sands being my favorite—but the majority of the novel dealt with Inspector Grant trying to find himself again after being overworked. The mystery seemed tacked on and was dealt with rather abruptly.
May 19, 2017
I was feeling homesick, so I downloaded this novel because of its references to the Outer Hebrides, and its rather evocative front cover. As a mystery, it's not bad. Who is the dead man on the train, and what does the mysterious verse mean? Inspector Alan Grant, on holiday in Scotland, determines to find out in an investigation that takes him out west, to an island based on Barra, where the plane flies in and lands on the sand. Though not the singing sand.
And then – oh my fucking God! Fair enough, the description of the islands in March is pretty spot on – the howling wind, the 3-days gales,the relentless rain, the biting cold – but the excruciatingly stereotypical view of the Gael was jaw dropping. Take this, for example: 'After the circumlocutions of a people so devious minded that they had no word for No, it was pleasant to be asked a straight question in simple English' (p.125, Kindle version). The Gaels are portrayed as lazy, gullible and uncultured, and it only gets worse.
This is a novel that suffers deeply from the cringe. Grant, and through him, Tey, despises Scotland and the Scots. 'The typical Scots insularity in 'those English rivers' made him hope Laura would not wait too long before sending Pat away to his English school. The quality of Scotchness was a highly concentrated essence, and should always be diluted. As an ingredient it was admirable; neat, it was as abominable as ammonia' (p.224). The Scots are seen as careless, smug and dangerous, an unpleasant nation that needs to be Anglified to make it palatable. I'm fairly sure the only reason Grant himself is a Scot is to show the rest of us the errors of our ways. In this book you can either be an Anglified Grant (BritNat Good!) or a Scottified Wee Archie (ScotNat Bad!) By this point, who cares who the dead man is? One can only presume he died as a means of escape from the God-forsaken region that is Scotland.
A disappointing read, but one that should be studied by all students of post-colonialism, because if Tey ever mastered anything, it was the art of superiority painfully perfected by the British colonial.
And then – oh my fucking God! Fair enough, the description of the islands in March is pretty spot on – the howling wind, the 3-days gales,the relentless rain, the biting cold – but the excruciatingly stereotypical view of the Gael was jaw dropping. Take this, for example: 'After the circumlocutions of a people so devious minded that they had no word for No, it was pleasant to be asked a straight question in simple English' (p.125, Kindle version). The Gaels are portrayed as lazy, gullible and uncultured, and it only gets worse.
This is a novel that suffers deeply from the cringe. Grant, and through him, Tey, despises Scotland and the Scots. 'The typical Scots insularity in 'those English rivers' made him hope Laura would not wait too long before sending Pat away to his English school. The quality of Scotchness was a highly concentrated essence, and should always be diluted. As an ingredient it was admirable; neat, it was as abominable as ammonia' (p.224). The Scots are seen as careless, smug and dangerous, an unpleasant nation that needs to be Anglified to make it palatable. I'm fairly sure the only reason Grant himself is a Scot is to show the rest of us the errors of our ways. In this book you can either be an Anglified Grant (BritNat Good!) or a Scottified Wee Archie (ScotNat Bad!) By this point, who cares who the dead man is? One can only presume he died as a means of escape from the God-forsaken region that is Scotland.
A disappointing read, but one that should be studied by all students of post-colonialism, because if Tey ever mastered anything, it was the art of superiority painfully perfected by the British colonial.
November 26, 2014
I loved this story. The panic attacks that afflict Alan Grant are just so affecting. His desperate need for time off work - and his retreat to the Scottish Highlands - are the catalyst for an investigation of the death of a passenger on the same overnight train.
Grant inadvertedly picks up a newspaper and later finds it belongs to the deceased. A scribble in the blank Stop Press section intrigues him: a line of verse that mentions singing sands and talking beasts.
It appears the deceased met his end due to a fall while drunk. But Grant is not quite satisfied.
On impulse he goes to Cladda, a (fictional) island in the Hebrides to try to discover the reason for the deceased's seeming obsession with the place. He also puts an ad in several London papers in an attempt to discover the source of the verse.
Gradually he sorts through the misdirections of an arrogant, entitled narcissist who believes he has committed the perfect murder.
Grant inadvertedly picks up a newspaper and later finds it belongs to the deceased. A scribble in the blank Stop Press section intrigues him: a line of verse that mentions singing sands and talking beasts.
It appears the deceased met his end due to a fall while drunk. But Grant is not quite satisfied.
On impulse he goes to Cladda, a (fictional) island in the Hebrides to try to discover the reason for the deceased's seeming obsession with the place. He also puts an ad in several London papers in an attempt to discover the source of the verse.
Gradually he sorts through the misdirections of an arrogant, entitled narcissist who believes he has committed the perfect murder.
Read
June 3, 2018Poorly structured and tiresomely misogynist murder mystery of the 'author fell in love with own main character and just wants to write about him wandering around but the publisher insisted on a plot' type. Not worth the reprint.
March 20, 2025
I was enjoying this book so much and then finished it feeling confused. I listened to the Close Reads monthly mystery subscriber podcast and that helped clarify my feelings at the end. Basically, the actual murder mystery is secondary to the main plot, which is about Inspector Alan Grant's trauma that manifests in claustrophobia and how he works to heal that through solving a mystery on his own instead of in his official capacity.
The mystery is interwoven at the beginning with his time staying with his childhood friend Laura and her family in the Scottish Highlands. He's there to fish and have a kind of rest cure. Laura is a marvelous character. She's fully immersed in her wifely/motherly life, yet she is an excellent judge of character and has a high emotional intelligence which makes her a good companion for Grant. In the podcast, Heidi said Laura is Grant's real love and that seems to be the case from how Alan thinks about her. (I've only read one other Grant novel.) He clearly trusts her because he arrives at her home very vulnerable. Laura's son Patrick is another show stealer. He's such a funny kid! This is the first half of the story, and I loved it. Five stars! I love Alan's internal dialogue about his own suffering and vulnerability. It's very relatable and feels very modern.
The second half turns more towards the mystery, and I started to enjoy it less. It is satisfying to find out how the murder was committed, but the villain is not well developed and the whole explorer thing with Wabar is odd. Maybe Wabar was more well known at the time? Or maybe our world today is so known that the mystical draw of being An Explorer doesn't come across as well. Not sure. Anyway, odd. I liked Tad Cullen though.
I'm not sure what is says about my attachment to mysteries that I liked this better when there was less mystery and more psychological/village/domestic details.
The mystery is interwoven at the beginning with his time staying with his childhood friend Laura and her family in the Scottish Highlands. He's there to fish and have a kind of rest cure. Laura is a marvelous character. She's fully immersed in her wifely/motherly life, yet she is an excellent judge of character and has a high emotional intelligence which makes her a good companion for Grant. In the podcast, Heidi said Laura is Grant's real love and that seems to be the case from how Alan thinks about her. (I've only read one other Grant novel.) He clearly trusts her because he arrives at her home very vulnerable. Laura's son Patrick is another show stealer. He's such a funny kid! This is the first half of the story, and I loved it. Five stars! I love Alan's internal dialogue about his own suffering and vulnerability. It's very relatable and feels very modern.
The second half turns more towards the mystery, and I started to enjoy it less. It is satisfying to find out how the murder was committed, but the villain is not well developed and the whole explorer thing with Wabar is odd. Maybe Wabar was more well known at the time? Or maybe our world today is so known that the mystical draw of being An Explorer doesn't come across as well. Not sure. Anyway, odd. I liked Tad Cullen though.
I'm not sure what is says about my attachment to mysteries that I liked this better when there was less mystery and more psychological/village/domestic details.
October 22, 2016
The mystery is subsidiary and unfortunately the solution relies on a letter of exposition from the perpetrator, so that was a bit disappointing... but...
Josephine Tey is simply one of the best writers I've ever come across. I'm sad that I'm almost finished with her books, because they are RICH in imagery and language. One feels merged with Alan Grant as a character, able to explore all the nooks and crannies of his mind.
In this installment, Inspector Alan Grant is ordered by his physician to take some time away. He's dealing with nervous exhaustion that takes the form of very bad claustrophobia. He goes to his friends in rural Scotland (yay! Scotland!) But on the railroad journey, he has a fleeting encounter with an evidently accidental death. He finds himself unable to forget this circumstance, and keeps returning to it in his mind, spurred on by a scrap of poetry found in the dead man's possession.
As I said before, the mystery itself is not an urgent, cliff-hanging puzzle. It's something he turns over and over in his mind while fishing on the river and spending time with his friends during his rest-cure. It moves him to go even further afield to the island of Cladda, the place of singing sands. But the real meat of the book is in Alan's thoughts and the slow process of recovering his nerves and sanity. The characters are beautifully drawn and all interesting.
Josephine Tey is simply one of the best writers I've ever come across. I'm sad that I'm almost finished with her books, because they are RICH in imagery and language. One feels merged with Alan Grant as a character, able to explore all the nooks and crannies of his mind.
In this installment, Inspector Alan Grant is ordered by his physician to take some time away. He's dealing with nervous exhaustion that takes the form of very bad claustrophobia. He goes to his friends in rural Scotland (yay! Scotland!) But on the railroad journey, he has a fleeting encounter with an evidently accidental death. He finds himself unable to forget this circumstance, and keeps returning to it in his mind, spurred on by a scrap of poetry found in the dead man's possession.
As I said before, the mystery itself is not an urgent, cliff-hanging puzzle. It's something he turns over and over in his mind while fishing on the river and spending time with his friends during his rest-cure. It moves him to go even further afield to the island of Cladda, the place of singing sands. But the real meat of the book is in Alan's thoughts and the slow process of recovering his nerves and sanity. The characters are beautifully drawn and all interesting.
January 2, 2017
A light easy read & ideal to complete a year of reading. There are a few slow portions, but they are in the 1st half. Get through them, and it picks up to a fun end.
The book is very atmospheric and is mostly set in Tey's home world - the northern portion of Scotland and the Hebrides. There really is two stories to this: Inspector Grant's recovery from mental exhaustion, and a death. The 1st half is more about the recovery of our hero & this is the part that I found slow at time. It's not glacial, but I wanted a little more "excitement".
I worked out the murderer and how it was executed with 40% of the book still to go; I've obviously spent too much time travelling in overnight mail trains. I stuck with it to see if our detective would also achieve his aim of catching our villain.
This book was found amongst the papers of Tey when she died all too early. She might have tightened it some before publication, but it is most certainly isn't a book to dim her powers as a writer.
Ideal lazy day reading.
The book is very atmospheric and is mostly set in Tey's home world - the northern portion of Scotland and the Hebrides. There really is two stories to this: Inspector Grant's recovery from mental exhaustion, and a death. The 1st half is more about the recovery of our hero & this is the part that I found slow at time. It's not glacial, but I wanted a little more "excitement".
I worked out the murderer and how it was executed with 40% of the book still to go; I've obviously spent too much time travelling in overnight mail trains. I stuck with it to see if our detective would also achieve his aim of catching our villain.
This book was found amongst the papers of Tey when she died all too early. She might have tightened it some before publication, but it is most certainly isn't a book to dim her powers as a writer.
Ideal lazy day reading.
October 2, 2024
This is a novel you read for the ambiance, for the psychology, for the writing...not for the mystery.
The solution to the mystery is so-so and solved by a convenient confession right at the end. The plot itself also splits in two right around the middle and could be from totally different stories.
But the ambiance. The psychology! The writing! So good.
I love how this book handled PTSD and burnout. Inspector Grant is a recognizable character and the personalities around him kept me coming back for more. It is a slow novel, but a fun one. (And somehow the only Inspector Grant book I don't own. I need to track down a copy!)
The solution to the mystery is so-so and solved by a convenient confession right at the end. The plot itself also splits in two right around the middle and could be from totally different stories.
But the ambiance. The psychology! The writing! So good.
I love how this book handled PTSD and burnout. Inspector Grant is a recognizable character and the personalities around him kept me coming back for more. It is a slow novel, but a fun one. (And somehow the only Inspector Grant book I don't own. I need to track down a copy!)
June 8, 2025
Wonderful psychological and intellectual story. Inspector Grant is in Scotland on holiday to recuperate as his nerves are shot. As he gets off the train he comes across a body and apparently an accidental death. A few lines of verse get Grant on the trail of a diabolical murderer.
The story takes us fishing and to the Hebrides and the singing sands facing the unforgiving Atlantic. Grant slowly recovers his nerves and after a few red herrings discovers why Kendrick was murdered. I think Tey hit the nail on the head about vanity.
I disagree vehemently with her writing about England being not divided by class. The aristocracy is alive and well with England still a country about who you know rather than what you know and it is all about what school you went too. Not to say there are more opportunities than in the 1950s for women than Laura staying at home sewing and cooking.
Is there a tv adaptation of this story?
The story takes us fishing and to the Hebrides and the singing sands facing the unforgiving Atlantic. Grant slowly recovers his nerves and after a few red herrings discovers why Kendrick was murdered. I think Tey hit the nail on the head about vanity.
I disagree vehemently with her writing about England being not divided by class. The aristocracy is alive and well with England still a country about who you know rather than what you know and it is all about what school you went too. Not to say there are more opportunities than in the 1950s for women than Laura staying at home sewing and cooking.
Is there a tv adaptation of this story?
March 21, 2024
Una novela de detectives de la vieja escuela, escrita por Josephine Tey.
Alan Grant es un detective de Scotland Yard, viaja en un tren a Escocía para visitar a su prima Laura y pescar, está de baja temporal debido a una enfermedad, cuando está a punto de bajar, observa que un mozo del tren trata rudamente de despertar a un pasajero, en el acto se da cuenta que el pasajero está muerto, se lo hace saber al mozo, en su enojo se lleva sin querer los periódicos que estaban en el compartimiento y descubre que en un pedazo vacío se ha escrito una especie de poema, aunque deja el periódico, las palabras leídas resuenan en su cabeza.
“Las bestias que hablan, arroyos estáticos, las piedras que marchan, y arenas que cantan, que guardan la senda al Paraíso”
Este libro tiene como distinción que no se enfoca de lleno en el muerto del tren, sino en Alan Grant, pues vamos descubriendo que la enfermedad que lo aqueja es una suerte de claustrofobia combinada con ansiedad y depresión.
Es bastante esclarecedor poder ser testigo de cómo se desarrolla el pensamiento de Alan, a veces miedo, otras indolencia y muchas otras dolor, inclusive llega a replantearse darse de baja definitiva de su trabajo.
Hay una escena donde Alan, Laura, su esposo e hijo Patrick de 6 años toman el té, y Alan contempla a Laura tan contenta y feliz, que por un momento piensa:
“No le vendría mal tener algunos demonios que vencer y sentirse de vez en cuando arrojada al espacio y suspendida sobre un abismo insondable.”
Alan adora a su prima, peo este tipo de pensamientos intrusivos nos ayuda a pensar que difícil para un enfermo contemplar a personas saludables. En medio de esta cura, Alan empieza a obsesionarse con el muerto del tren, e indirectamente empieza a investigar, solo por distracción, pero este ejercicio le ayuda a poder analizarse a sí mismo e ir superando sus limitaciones, inclusive se permite hacer cosas que en su vida normal no haría, como cantar, bailar, caminar bajo la lluvia.
Como una especie de expiación va uniendo a Alan con el muerto, como si este último lo llevara de la mano a través de la penumbra y confiando en encontrar el sol.
Volviendo al misterio, es bastante creativo y al final queda resuelto.
Me sorprendió que una novela donde uno piensa que priva la diversión también se encuentre temas que se plantean para analizar y pensar, sobre todo la salud mental, algo que se le ha dado a través del tiempo poca importancia como una enfermedad que puede llegar a ser mortal.
Así que si quieres un 2x1, con este libro lo conseguirás.
Alan Grant es un detective de Scotland Yard, viaja en un tren a Escocía para visitar a su prima Laura y pescar, está de baja temporal debido a una enfermedad, cuando está a punto de bajar, observa que un mozo del tren trata rudamente de despertar a un pasajero, en el acto se da cuenta que el pasajero está muerto, se lo hace saber al mozo, en su enojo se lleva sin querer los periódicos que estaban en el compartimiento y descubre que en un pedazo vacío se ha escrito una especie de poema, aunque deja el periódico, las palabras leídas resuenan en su cabeza.
“Las bestias que hablan, arroyos estáticos, las piedras que marchan, y arenas que cantan, que guardan la senda al Paraíso”
Este libro tiene como distinción que no se enfoca de lleno en el muerto del tren, sino en Alan Grant, pues vamos descubriendo que la enfermedad que lo aqueja es una suerte de claustrofobia combinada con ansiedad y depresión.
Es bastante esclarecedor poder ser testigo de cómo se desarrolla el pensamiento de Alan, a veces miedo, otras indolencia y muchas otras dolor, inclusive llega a replantearse darse de baja definitiva de su trabajo.
Hay una escena donde Alan, Laura, su esposo e hijo Patrick de 6 años toman el té, y Alan contempla a Laura tan contenta y feliz, que por un momento piensa:
“No le vendría mal tener algunos demonios que vencer y sentirse de vez en cuando arrojada al espacio y suspendida sobre un abismo insondable.”
Alan adora a su prima, peo este tipo de pensamientos intrusivos nos ayuda a pensar que difícil para un enfermo contemplar a personas saludables. En medio de esta cura, Alan empieza a obsesionarse con el muerto del tren, e indirectamente empieza a investigar, solo por distracción, pero este ejercicio le ayuda a poder analizarse a sí mismo e ir superando sus limitaciones, inclusive se permite hacer cosas que en su vida normal no haría, como cantar, bailar, caminar bajo la lluvia.
Como una especie de expiación va uniendo a Alan con el muerto, como si este último lo llevara de la mano a través de la penumbra y confiando en encontrar el sol.
Volviendo al misterio, es bastante creativo y al final queda resuelto.
Me sorprendió que una novela donde uno piensa que priva la diversión también se encuentre temas que se plantean para analizar y pensar, sobre todo la salud mental, algo que se le ha dado a través del tiempo poca importancia como una enfermedad que puede llegar a ser mortal.
Así que si quieres un 2x1, con este libro lo conseguirás.
February 18, 2017
'The Singing Sands' is most assuredly a classic page turning puzzler chock full of twists and turns, adventure, cryptic messages, nefarious characters, mistaken identities, and exotic intrigue. This novel is a classic 'whodunnit' from a true 'mistress of the golden age', Josephine Tey. It is a page turner so well described and so well plotted, that the reader almost forgets he/ she is reading, and not watching the flicker of celluloid on the big screen! Excellent!! Go see it ( I mean 'read it')!!
August 12, 2014
Tey's five Alan Grant novels (six if you count The Franchise Affair, in which he makes a brief appearance or two) are each quite different from the next. The Singing Sands, the last of them, is no exception. It gives the impression of having been stitched together using two quite different ideas Tey had for a novel: the one a comedy about the people of the Hebrides, the other a sort of John Buchanesque plot about the mystical lost city of Wabar, the Shangri-La of the Arabian desert. Holding all of this together is an account of Grant, given medical leave because suffering from nervous exhaustion through the stresses of work, going north to Scotland to spend some quiet time with his cousin Laura and her family, fishing and walking and generally getting over things. We must remember that the version of The Singing Sands we have is almost certainly not a final draft, it being a manuscript discovered among Tey's papers after her death. No doubt, had she lived, she'd have tidied everything up to render the published version a seamless whole.
When Grant's night train arrives at Scoone (sic; not Scone in Perthshire but an invented town in the Western Highlands), the sleeping-car attendant discovers that the young man in compartment B7 is dead. Grant leaves him to it -- he's a copper, but an off-duty copper -- and it's only later, when struggling through a Scottish hotel breakfast, that he discovers he's accidentally purloined the dead man's newspaper. Mysteriously, in an empty space in the paper appear a few penciled lines, an incomplete poem:
Those evocative lines help make this a cracker of a start to a detective novel. But there's a problem for the book as a whole: we never really discover why the dead man wrote the piece of verse -- we assume he was inspired by certain events that we do learn about, but there are no other signs of an urge to compose poetry -- and we most certainly don't discover what should be in those two blank lines. Moreover, when we later piece together the chronology of what happened to him, it's hard to know when he did the actual writing.
Leave that aside. Tey's evocation of the Highlands and its people is wonderful. This sense of delighted familiarity continues as Grant, his neurosis ebbing, becomes obsessed with the dead man and that fragment of verse. The obsession takes him to an island in the Hebrides reputed to have singing sands. While his detour there gives Tey the chance to tell a very amusing, near comedic tale, this section of the novel is completely redundant; those singing sands aren't in Scotland at all but, as Grant discovers upon his return to the mainland, in distant Arabia.
And it's with this discovery that the story properly restarts -- and a very fine story it becomes. I mentioned above the elements of Buchanesque adventure; Grant doesn't actually partake in that adventure himself, but the plot and its solution hinge upon it, and we do actually feel the same sense of awe that Buchan (and indeed Haggard) could conjure in their relevant tales.
Tey's prose is marvelous, a constant source of entertainment. (It does flag for a page or three late in the book, when Grant is making the acquaintance of Arabian explorer Heron Lloyd, but this may have been a stylistic experiment that, for me at least, didn't come off.) There are places in the novel, particularly in the first one-third or so, that had me giggling aloud. The solution to the mystery is all a bit hurried and perhaps a tad contrived (the murderer sends Grant a detailed confession, saving him perhaps fifty pages of further detective work), but that didn't bother me.
I first read The Singing Sands about 35 years ago, as far as I can reckon. (How long? Thirty-five yeeeeaaaarrrrs.) I was prompted to reread it by the Past Offences #1952 Book Signup, and am very grateful to that site for the prompt. The book offers a thoroughly enjoyable reading experience despite being a bit ramshackle as a mystery novel.
And now I must think to reread some of Tey's other novels. For that matter, I don't believe I ever did read A Shilling for Candles, so perhaps I'd better start there . . .
When Grant's night train arrives at Scoone (sic; not Scone in Perthshire but an invented town in the Western Highlands), the sleeping-car attendant discovers that the young man in compartment B7 is dead. Grant leaves him to it -- he's a copper, but an off-duty copper -- and it's only later, when struggling through a Scottish hotel breakfast, that he discovers he's accidentally purloined the dead man's newspaper. Mysteriously, in an empty space in the paper appear a few penciled lines, an incomplete poem:
The beasts that talk,
The streams that stand,
The stones that walk,
The singing sand,
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
That guard the way
To Paradise.
Those evocative lines help make this a cracker of a start to a detective novel. But there's a problem for the book as a whole: we never really discover why the dead man wrote the piece of verse -- we assume he was inspired by certain events that we do learn about, but there are no other signs of an urge to compose poetry -- and we most certainly don't discover what should be in those two blank lines. Moreover, when we later piece together the chronology of what happened to him, it's hard to know when he did the actual writing.
Leave that aside. Tey's evocation of the Highlands and its people is wonderful. This sense of delighted familiarity continues as Grant, his neurosis ebbing, becomes obsessed with the dead man and that fragment of verse. The obsession takes him to an island in the Hebrides reputed to have singing sands. While his detour there gives Tey the chance to tell a very amusing, near comedic tale, this section of the novel is completely redundant; those singing sands aren't in Scotland at all but, as Grant discovers upon his return to the mainland, in distant Arabia.
And it's with this discovery that the story properly restarts -- and a very fine story it becomes. I mentioned above the elements of Buchanesque adventure; Grant doesn't actually partake in that adventure himself, but the plot and its solution hinge upon it, and we do actually feel the same sense of awe that Buchan (and indeed Haggard) could conjure in their relevant tales.
Tey's prose is marvelous, a constant source of entertainment. (It does flag for a page or three late in the book, when Grant is making the acquaintance of Arabian explorer Heron Lloyd, but this may have been a stylistic experiment that, for me at least, didn't come off.) There are places in the novel, particularly in the first one-third or so, that had me giggling aloud. The solution to the mystery is all a bit hurried and perhaps a tad contrived (the murderer sends Grant a detailed confession, saving him perhaps fifty pages of further detective work), but that didn't bother me.
I first read The Singing Sands about 35 years ago, as far as I can reckon. (How long? Thirty-five yeeeeaaaarrrrs.) I was prompted to reread it by the Past Offences #1952 Book Signup, and am very grateful to that site for the prompt. The book offers a thoroughly enjoyable reading experience despite being a bit ramshackle as a mystery novel.
And now I must think to reread some of Tey's other novels. For that matter, I don't believe I ever did read A Shilling for Candles, so perhaps I'd better start there . . .
December 13, 2022
He comes back from the edge!
"Grant was so filled with the pleasure that ferreting out information always provided for him, that they were running through the outer suburbs of Scoone before he remembered that he was in a car. That he was shut into a car..."
This is a sensational read and my absolute favorite Inspector Alan Grant mystery. It also happens to be the final Inspector Grant mystery and Josephine Tey's final book, having been found among her papers and published posthumously. While not as technically perfect as Daughter Of Time, that's of no consequence at all... In my opinion The Singing Sands is one of Tey's crowning achievements, certainly concluding her body of work on an impressive high note.
The Singing Sands is more than a police procedural, though it also is that. It's a police procedural conducted by an experienced, acclaimed detective driven - in spite of himself, and in spite of all official pronouncements - to investigate an accidental death as a crime. For anyone who's ever read an Inspector Alan Grant mystery and complained that Grant's character is one-dimensional - this final Inspector Alan Grant novel is for you. It's a detective story, and a phenomenal one at that, but, oh, it's so much more...
Here the inimitable Inspector Alan Grant is on a medically mandated leave. He's taking "involuntary vacation" from detecting, so we get a rare chance to see him far from his vocational element: back in the Highlands stomping ground of his Scottish childhood, hip deep in waders fishing the lochs, in the bosom of family and old friends - all while grappling with a crippling and humiliating case of potentially career-ending claustrophobia. The typically unflappable Alan Grant is a mess... And, as Grant begins his leave, while exiting his train he happens upon a dead man in Compartment B Seven. Something in the face of the man affects him deeply, haunting him. The death is determined accidental, and yet... A clue.
The beasts that talk,
The streams that stand,
The stones that walk,
The singing sands . . . .
That guard the way To Paradise.
In this book, Alan Grant embarks on a voyage of self-discovery, and the reader is gifted a front-row seat, with access to an Alan Grant whom Tey has never before revealed: the inner man's memories and perceptions, his hopes and fears, loves lost and found, new loves presenting themselves to him. Grant examines and second-guesses himself and the course of his entire life, but because he IS Inspector Alan Grant of Scotland Yard, it seems he needs "a case" to serve as a vehicle for this process of self-examination; he simply doesn't know any other way to BE. "Who Grant IS" is inextricably enmeshed with "how he works." So we follow Grant as he conducts his unofficial investigation into the death of the man in Compartment B Seven, simultaneously undertaking a parallel journey to uncover the answers to some important personal questions - questions which Alan Grant, detective, knows no other way to ask or answer. What an amazing journey it turns out to be.
In one of my favorite parts of the book, Grant, spending a week following up a lead in his Compartment B Seven death inquiry, stays at The Cladda Hotel in the Western Isles of the Outer Hebrides of Gaelic Scotland - the gateway to Tír Na Nóg, The Country of the Young, or Gaelic heaven. There, he discovers those islands to be a place far closer to hell than heaven, especially in the "off" season. He also discovers that this particular version of hell seems to suit him rather well; doing wonders for both his constitution and prospects, psychologically and physically! Quite simply, the longer Grant is there, the jollier and more resilient he becomes! This part of the book had me laughing so much, and so hard, I had to take a break. I found myself laughing SO out loud while reading, I felt like a barking seal...
The ersatz "case" which Grant pursues is, in fact, revealed to BE a case; his detective's instincts have not failed him even in this, his time of self-doubt. The death in Compartment B Seven proves, if nothing else, QUITE suspicious. To find out just how suspicious, you'll need to read the book. As this tale is gradually untangled, its complexity will make your head SPIN!!!
And yes, in this Inspector Grant mystery all is revealed. If only I could give it more than five stars.
"Grant was so filled with the pleasure that ferreting out information always provided for him, that they were running through the outer suburbs of Scoone before he remembered that he was in a car. That he was shut into a car..."
This is a sensational read and my absolute favorite Inspector Alan Grant mystery. It also happens to be the final Inspector Grant mystery and Josephine Tey's final book, having been found among her papers and published posthumously. While not as technically perfect as Daughter Of Time, that's of no consequence at all... In my opinion The Singing Sands is one of Tey's crowning achievements, certainly concluding her body of work on an impressive high note.
The Singing Sands is more than a police procedural, though it also is that. It's a police procedural conducted by an experienced, acclaimed detective driven - in spite of himself, and in spite of all official pronouncements - to investigate an accidental death as a crime. For anyone who's ever read an Inspector Alan Grant mystery and complained that Grant's character is one-dimensional - this final Inspector Alan Grant novel is for you. It's a detective story, and a phenomenal one at that, but, oh, it's so much more...
Here the inimitable Inspector Alan Grant is on a medically mandated leave. He's taking "involuntary vacation" from detecting, so we get a rare chance to see him far from his vocational element: back in the Highlands stomping ground of his Scottish childhood, hip deep in waders fishing the lochs, in the bosom of family and old friends - all while grappling with a crippling and humiliating case of potentially career-ending claustrophobia. The typically unflappable Alan Grant is a mess... And, as Grant begins his leave, while exiting his train he happens upon a dead man in Compartment B Seven. Something in the face of the man affects him deeply, haunting him. The death is determined accidental, and yet... A clue.
The beasts that talk,
The streams that stand,
The stones that walk,
The singing sands . . . .
That guard the way To Paradise.
In this book, Alan Grant embarks on a voyage of self-discovery, and the reader is gifted a front-row seat, with access to an Alan Grant whom Tey has never before revealed: the inner man's memories and perceptions, his hopes and fears, loves lost and found, new loves presenting themselves to him. Grant examines and second-guesses himself and the course of his entire life, but because he IS Inspector Alan Grant of Scotland Yard, it seems he needs "a case" to serve as a vehicle for this process of self-examination; he simply doesn't know any other way to BE. "Who Grant IS" is inextricably enmeshed with "how he works." So we follow Grant as he conducts his unofficial investigation into the death of the man in Compartment B Seven, simultaneously undertaking a parallel journey to uncover the answers to some important personal questions - questions which Alan Grant, detective, knows no other way to ask or answer. What an amazing journey it turns out to be.
In one of my favorite parts of the book, Grant, spending a week following up a lead in his Compartment B Seven death inquiry, stays at The Cladda Hotel in the Western Isles of the Outer Hebrides of Gaelic Scotland - the gateway to Tír Na Nóg, The Country of the Young, or Gaelic heaven. There, he discovers those islands to be a place far closer to hell than heaven, especially in the "off" season. He also discovers that this particular version of hell seems to suit him rather well; doing wonders for both his constitution and prospects, psychologically and physically! Quite simply, the longer Grant is there, the jollier and more resilient he becomes! This part of the book had me laughing so much, and so hard, I had to take a break. I found myself laughing SO out loud while reading, I felt like a barking seal...
The ersatz "case" which Grant pursues is, in fact, revealed to BE a case; his detective's instincts have not failed him even in this, his time of self-doubt. The death in Compartment B Seven proves, if nothing else, QUITE suspicious. To find out just how suspicious, you'll need to read the book. As this tale is gradually untangled, its complexity will make your head SPIN!!!
And yes, in this Inspector Grant mystery all is revealed. If only I could give it more than five stars.
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