"We can only keep house, in this life. We cannot tear up the foundation."
The House on Vesper Sands wakes to a bleak, cold winter in Victorian London. 1893. There's strangeness and death on the first pages as an unsettling exchange between a seamstress and a Lord's butler dissolves into her locked alone in an upper floor room. Immediately followed is her purpose-filled death by suicide, her note stitched onto her torso.
The seamstress's demise is the catalyst for an investigation to begin into dark and eery corners. Headed up by Inspector Cutter and Gideon Bliss, who begins his acquaintance with Cutter by pretending to be his summoned sergeant. An unlikely duo, but a delightful and remarkable pair, as they set across London viewing scenes and taking notes. Compiling theories — mostly on Bliss's part, as Cutter is a studied silent leader. These two have a wonderful budding friendship that plays out nicely. Another character from another avenue and viewpoint is a formidable young journalist, Octavia Hillingdon — determined to cover more important stories than what exists on the society page.
O'Donnell sets about taking his time, setting the scenes, and inching open the door to allow the reader to get to know his characters. At times, the atmosphere created was a lovely murky color — full of shadows and secrets and hopeful with mystery. But other times, the carefully plodded book was too slow — and still left me wanting a bit more intimacy with Cutter, Bliss, and Hillingdon. It takes the majority of the book before the pair of investigators ("one and a half," as another character mentions) and the journalist even meet up, which I found a tad frustrating from a storytelling aspect.
The House on Vesper Sands is an odd one. O'Donnell's writing is something of a paradox — the book itself is paradoxical to me actually. O'Donnell writes very well and has a firm grasp on his way around words and molding them to fit into a late nineteenth-century London setting. But I also found so much of the story to be bogged down by its own wordiness. Maybe he found himself closely identifying with his own character, Gideon Bliss — a young Cambridge man who uses twenty-five words when four would do. I, on the other hand, identified more with Cutter — as he exclaims more often than not for Bliss to just come to the point and stick with the particulars.
Overall, as outlined characters, I liked the three main players very much — but I couldn't help from wanting more out of them. Not in actions, but from within. They stayed at arm's length the entire way. I enjoyed their company for the very points that were created in which to define their three distinct personalities, but they never seemed to fill-in much beyond first blush. They were, at their introductions, who they were always going to be. Very enjoyable, but more Disney than Dickens.
"I believed I was in awe of you once, but I had forgotten the first meaning of the word, that there was terror in it long before there was wonder. I had forgotten the angels in scripture, who are not always seraphs. There are angels of destruction, too."
The essence of the book revolves around some supernatural or spiritual elements that O'Donnell reveals with a careful hand. It's slow and steady, with brief glimpses into something that this might become, but he drops the lid before anything fully takes shape. It's a hint of supernatural that made me want something grittier. There! Did you see it? No? Ugh, I'll do it again in a minute. Watch carefully now; it's only a glimpse so you might miss it.
One of those exceptions, The House on Vesper Sands was a page-turner while also being an incredibly putdownable book. While still being vulnerable to allow distractions, I was fairly into the book as long as I was reading it. But found it hard to want to pick it back up, once I'd set it down.