I love old ghost stories, and London, which to some extent makes me the perfect audience for this, but equally results in my being a pretty tough crowd. Especially if the book is arranged by district, and I excitedly turn to the one pinned to my home turf, Crystal Palace – only for Edith Nesbit's The Mystery Of The Semi-Detached to explicitly open with the Palace's lights "far away to the south-west". Granted, there is an off-screen visit to the Palace by supporting characters, but even so...and regardless of all that, it's distinctly minor Nesbit compared to the chilling likes of Man-Size In Marble. Still, there's merit in digging out a more obscure offering...which makes one wonder why the collection also includes Virgina Woolf's Street Haunting, undoubtedly a brilliant essay, but also one often reprinted, and only debatably a tale. Also a little vexing is the presence of Arthur Machen's N, which like Street Haunting is a masterpiece, but which is available even closer to home – in the same imprint's Weird Woods collection. Still, in that instance I'm inclined to absolve Into The London Fog of blame; it comes right before Weird Woods in the series' numbering, and for my money has a better claim to the story of a fabulous park where no park should be, in the overlooked corners of the metropolis.
Some of the other non-fictional inclusions are rarer than the Woolf, but set against that, even less obviously at home here. The extract from Thomas Burke's London In My Time, regarding London during the Great War, is fascinating as social history, whether it be little details ("In ordinary life most people can live comfortably without potatoes. Many do." Was this really true of Britons so recently, until a shortage made the spud suddenly desirable?) or the broader argument that, compared to the Boer War, the average Brit and especially the military found unabashed patriotism a fitting target for mockery this time around – something which seems inconceivable now that the First World War has become so hallowed by a century and more of solemn remembrance, precisely as ever fewer of the people who were actually there remained to kick against the canonisation. It's a good read, it's undeniably thought-provoking – but beyond a fairly brief passage about how the street-lamps being painted blue made the nocturnal city new and strange, it doesn't feel eerie in any but the most oblique sense. And Claude McKay, while likewise thoroughly interesting on race in pre-Windrush London, hasn't even that nod to the ostensible theme. One is left with the sense that Dearnley might have been happier compiling a book on a broader theme – say A Cabinet Of London Curiosities: Glimpses Of The City's Other Side In The 19th & 20th Centuries – and that its presence in the British Library's Tales Of The Weird imprint is not altogether a comfortable fit. Even then there would have been occasional unnecessary glitches: Ford Madox Ford gains an extra D (and not even at the end of one of the Fords, where it would at least be amusing); elsewhere there are spots where either OCR has gone awry, or old misprints have been reproduced, without it getting caught: "He had been walking for a long time, ever since dark in fact, bind dark falls soon in December."
Still, these quibbles aside, there are plenty of fine and eerie stories of the capital here. Some of them are more historically interesting than effective: Violet Hunt's The Telegram reminds me of the Stella Gibbons stories I've read which aren't Cold Comfort Farm, despite coming a generation earlier, but I think this is simply because I don't read much which exists at quite that constricted interface of accepting social mores as good and proper, while maybe trying to push their boundaries ever so slightly (and, true to the easy reading of social change across those years, Hunt is definitely that little bit stricter in her insistence that flirting and having fun rather than marrying young will end badly). But Rhoda Broughton, for all her maids and butlers, still feels entirely relatable in basing The Truth, The Whole Truth And Nothing But The Truth around what people will try to put up with on account of London's overheated property market. Something similar is at the back of Marie Belloc Lowndes' The Lodger, here as the short story which would grow into the novel which would inspire Hitchcock's film, and which also does a good job of having its cake and eating it in terms of riffing on the Ripper, while also recoiling from the queasy fascination of true crime. EF Benson's The Chippendale Mirror is straight down the line stuff compared to some of his stranger stories, but still chills for all that; most of all, Elizabeth Bowen's The Demon Lover is a fabulous, insidious thing, probably just behind the Woolf and Machen as my favourite piece here, and this one with no reason to quibble over its place.