Dorothy L. Sayers (1893–1957)

What a difference a narrator makes. I first tried to read ‘Whose Body?’ back in 2017, but the audiobook was so chaotic that I abandoned it. This time, I was listening to the newest audiobook (recorded 100 years after the book was published) narrated by Robert Bathurst, who did a splendid job. He seems to be working his way through Sayers’ novels. I look forward to hearing more from him.

At the start, ‘Whose Body’ felt like Bertie Wooster and Jeeves Do Crime. Sayers was obviously show more having fun, and so was Wimsey, despite being confronted with a naked body of a stranger in a bath. The book and Wimsey became more serious as what at first seemed like a jolly interesting puzzle was overtaken by the realities of investigating a gruesome murder. I liked that Wimsey’s seriousness wasn’t triggered by gathering more pieces of the puzzle but by understanding that there were consequences for solving the puzzle on all of those touched by the deaths, including the killer.

The plot was a little elaborate, partly because of a last-minute improvisation by the murderer, although iz just about held together. What kept me engaged with the novel was getting to know Lord Peter Wimsey and the people whom he values.

I admired how Dorothy Sayers gradually made it clear that Wimsey wears his dizzy Wooster-like persona partly as a form of camouflage so that people underestimate him and partly to keep a self-protective emotional distance from the case. I think it said much about who Wimsey is that, having understood the reality of the evil he’s investigating and the consequences of solving the puzzle, he felt he could not walk away, even though continuing put his sometimes fragile mental health at risk.

I enjoyed the relationship between Wimsey and his valet, Bunter, who was also his batman during World War I. In some ways, Bunter is more competent and more worldly than Wimsey. He’s protective of Wimsey, but he also admires him. I thought the letter that Bunter sent to Wimsey, detailing the interview Bunter had with the valet of a suspect, was a splendid piece of writing. It managed what could have been a clunky piece of exposition with charm and humour. It displayed Bunter’s intellect, his ever-present awareness of class distinctions and appropriate behaviour, his ability subtly to make fun of Wimesy and his certainty that his humour will be noticed and well-recieved.

Wimsey’s friendship with Inspector Charles Parker also enhanced the novel. It was good to see an intelligent, thoughtful policeman in a book about an amateur sleuth. Parker is a cautious, serious-minded, well-educated man. He’s not Watson to Wimsey’s Holmes; he’s a partner whose opinion and expertise Wimsey values. I rather liked that Parker was a man who relaxes by reading discourses on Christian theology.

Wimsey’s mother made me smile. She’s a force of nature: indomitable but benign. She clearly has a soft spot for Wimsey and his enthusiasms. Having met Wimsey’s sober, serious, entitled older brother, a man untroubled by imagination and obsessed with reputation, I can see why.

The thing that most surprised me in the novel was that the murderer was such a chilling creation. The confession letter the murderer left for Wimsey was another piece of clever exposition that was also a character sketch. It gave an insight into the mind of a man who felt neither remorse nor shame and whose confession seems to have been written in the expectation of admiration of his cleverness rather than condemnation of his crimes. This must be one of the earliest depictions of a sociopath in crime fiction.

All in all, this was an impressive start to the series and a remarkable debut novel. show less

Another re-read, following on from Gaudy Night. Ahh, those first days of marriage, when you can't quite get used to the idea of being married, when you wander around with a daft grin on your face, when you get used the the other person being there, and when you discover that the previous owner of the house has been lying dead in your cellar. All does not go well on Harriet & Peter's wedding night. They are successfully smuggled from the wedding breakfast and into the house they've bought in show more the country, but from there is goes less well. The house is shut up and locked, no sign of the previous owner. The cast assembles itself, the nosy neighbour, the niece, the gardener, the sweep,the vicar - all the local characters are present and correct. And so the mystery is revealed. The elements are all there, they fit together neatly, but the joy of the re-read is that you can see them coming together in a way that you don't on the first time of asking. Alongside the detective side you have the ongoing relationship between Harriet & Peter, they're still finding their way together and the blossoming relationship shouldn't fit with the rather sordid murder, but it does, if only as counterpoint. This ends with an execution, but it also ends with Peter in his Harriet's arms and all will be well - possibly not without its ups and downs, but they will survive this as so much else. show less

A collection of all the Peter Wimsey short stories, plus an introduction, an analytical essay, and a parody by E. C. Bentley.

I'm familiar with the Lord Peter Wimsey from Sayers' detective novels, in which he juggles his passion for murder with his enthusiasm for rare books and wine. He wears a monocle. He can make a Biblical pun, invoke Shakespeare, and provide meta-commentary on detective fiction -- all in the same breath. It is not just literary critics who cringe at his portrayal of show more aristocratic English foppery; most of the people around him consider him a first-class twit, and even his circle of friends is frequently exasperated by his high-strung verbosity. He is a protagonist of Puck-like proportions.

In contrast, the stories collected in "Lord Peter" portray a steely figure who can assume a dozen different identities at the drop of a hat in his varied roles as an undercover mole in a criminal syndicate, a magician rescuing an imprisoned lady, and a top-secret foreign agent of the British government. In short, it's Lord Peter as James Bond, minus the misogyny. Only a few of the stories seem to approach the same flavor as the novels: "The Undignified Melodrama of the Bone of Contention" (in which Peter is driven to petulance by high-handed heirs), "The Learned Adventure of the Dragon's Head" (told from the perspective of Peter's admiring nephew), and "The Unsolved Puzzle of the Man with No Face" (which ends with Peter in the weary, nihilistic mood that seems to conclude all of his novels). show less

As a crime novel, it's not bad; compared to her earlier works, it's a definite improvement in terms of the tightness and plausibility of her plotting. Not the best crime novel you're ever going to read, and lightweight compared to the later books, but it still has a nice few twists and turns in it along the way.

Of course, this being a DLS novel, I'm not actually reading it for the murder mystery. The book's introduction describes Sayers' work is very much a 'tapestry novel', and I'd have to show more ...more As a crime novel, it's not bad; compared to her earlier works, it's a definite improvement in terms of the tightness and plausibility of her plotting. Not the best crime novel you're ever going to read, and lightweight compared to the later books, but it still has a nice few twists and turns in it along the way.

Of course, this being a DLS novel, I'm not actually reading it for the murder mystery. The book's introduction describes Sayers' work is very much a 'tapestry novel', and I'd have to agree. Even if you were to take away the slang and the descriptions of the clothing and so on, this would still, inescapably, be a novel set in England in 1928. It's bound up and connected with the culture and the society and the mores of post-Great War Britain.

Some of this is still accessible for us at the beginning of the twenty-first century; other parts of it, not so much. I'm thinking primarily of the class issue (both the mere fact that for the people Sayers was mostly concerned with, having valets and butlers and maids still wasn't unusual, and other reasons); of the consequences of something so earth-shattering as WWI; and of the (changing) role of women within the novel (Though I suppose you could put up a damn convincing argument as to why that latter aspect really hasn't changed much at all.)

The relationship between Sheila and George Fentiman is painful to read about, truly painful; all the more so because I think it's fairly clear that they are still in love despite it all. They are a prime example of effect which the war and rising employment among married, middle-class women had on gender relations. Sheila has no choice but to work; for George, this is a reflection on him as a man, and somehow a violation of how things ought to be (again, perhaps, not so different nowadays).

We're constantly reminded of how much the war has changed everything; women can no longer afford to stay at home, nor are they content to stay in the roles which they were once expected to occupy (hence some decidedly snide remarks about 'modern' young women who 'jazz', and about lady companions). Their roles have shifted to encompass more than ever before; but there is a feeling both that this is not appropriate (as in the case of George's opinion) and that it hasn't been earned (see Robert's "I bet she never did anything in the Great War, Daddy" when talking about Ann Dorland's inheritance. The figures of women like Naomi and Ann symbolise the huge loss of life in the war, something which made it impossible for many women to even think of finding a husband; and, more disturbingly, they also show how much suspicion single women were regarded with at the time. See the constant references to sex mania, or the threat thereof, being applied to figures like Anne.

Then there are the more straightforward references to the war and Peter's (oh, Peter) reaction to it; the yearly dinner with Colonel Marchbanks; the crippled cloakroom attendant. Even when talking about Robert, the brother who supposedly came out of the war best, we are told that:

"Robert was proverbial, you know, for never turning a hair. I remember Robert, at that ghastly hole at Carency, where the whole ground was rotten with corpses--ugh!--potting those swollen great rats for a penny a time, and laughing at them. Rats. Alive and putrid with what they'd been feeding on. Oh, yes, Robert was thought a damn good soldier."

Try telling me that we don't know from that part onwards that Robert's been more than a little damaged by the war - let alone when we realise how he's willing to manipulate his grandfather's death for financial gain.

All these young men trapped in a world they helped to create, unable to cope with it--they've suffered so much, and yet they're being castigated for it by their elders, the old military gentlemen of the Bellona Club, who are unable to comprehend what they've been through. Such a sad novel show less