A comfortable, pleasing little British mystery in a small coastal town famous for its decrepit yet proud boarding school, steeped in its traditions. The pudgy George Smiley is called in, and innocuously re-acquaints and ingratiates himself into the school as a favor to solve the mystery of a murder. A tiny, antiquated paper of limited readership is now part of a large publication conglomerate, and the murdered young lady reader in far-off Carne had sent in a puzzling letter predicting her demise at the hands of her husband, and thus the investigations begin, with many a twist and turn. Le Carre is excellent in this venue, and this was a page turner of the sort I would normally not read (having abandoned the genre long ago. But the writing was exceptional, and the habits and customs of the day a delight. The plot was a bit of a exhausted storyline, hence my average rating. This is my second of this writer, and I’ll continue chronologically for the time, likely getting up to his most famous before I die. I’ve always enjoyed the particular character of a certain ilk of the traditional Englishman, and its contrast to the more narcissistic Americans. Our protagonist has seen horrors and his world weariness is delightfully understated.
The solitary life of Miss Brimley (these names are wonderful) in her duty as editor at the end of her weekly push on display (p. 11): “It pleased her to be alone at last, tasting the anticlimax. She never failed to wonder at herself, how every Thursday morning brought the same slight uneasiness as she entered the vast Unipress building and stood a little absurdly on one escalator after the other, like a drab parcel on a luxury liner.”
Here our protagonist, famous in this series, is revealed nicely with the author’s special gifts of character development and perfected subtlety (p. 82): “But this fear, this servility, this dependence, had developed in Smiley a perception for the colour of human beings: a swift, feminine sensitivity to their characters and motives. He knew mankind as a huntsman knows his cover, as a fox the wood. For a spy must hunt while he is hunted, and the crowd is his estate. He could collect their gestures and their words, record the interplay of glance and movement, as a huntsman can record the twisted bracken and the broken twig, or as a fox detects the signs of danger.”
Le Carre finishes his chapters with old fashioned cliff-hangers that often come with a jolt of revelation and surprise for the reader (p. 132): “With a cursory good-bye, Smiley left him alone. He walked quickly back to the police station, reasonably confident that Terence Fielding was the most accomplished liar he had met for a long time.”
Here Smiley exposes his deep knowledge of human nature, earned by hard lessons, as he lectures his captured prey on the deeper psychological problem of this brand of evil and his complicity (p. 156): “’They can’t feel anything inside them, no pleasure or pain, no love or hate; they’re ashamed and frightened that they can’t feel. And their shame, this shame, Fielding, drives them to extravagance and colour; they must make themselves feel that cold water, and without that they’re nothing. The world sees them as showmen, fantasists, liars, as sensualists perhaps, not for they are; the living dead.’”