Michael Innes (1906–1994)

It was Professor Prisk in the courtyard with the meteorite. Or was it? A meteorite fell from the courtyard tower onto Professor Pluckrose. Was Professor Prisk the murderer or was he the intended victim? Or was it suicide by a professor suffering from that latest contribution to psychoanalytic theory, the Sisyphus Complex? And how does the bigamous young mathematics lecturer fit in?

Great fun. Though since it was written during the war but set before war, it is possible to feel that Appleby's show more foresight is more a matter of authorial hindsight. show less

Perfectly silly story with a few amusing characters and some good lines, all very vocabulous and grammatical, but lacking any substance whatsoever.

There's nothing seasonal about it; Christmas is the name of a sculptor.

Just about anything that could constitute plot has been so thoroughly omitted that it seems almost deliberate and systematic. What remains of conflict and suspense and mystery has been either concluded offstage or left unresolved. It's almost as if Innes had written a longer show more and more complex novel, snipped out the excessive bits--the ruffles and embellishments and long-winded quirky dialogues--and then published those under this title, leaving the core of the novel on the cutting-room floor.

The only reason I give it any stars at all is that the writing at the sentence level is expert, within the style and character of its time and place, and there is some charm in the humor. I find lines like this irresistible:

"Lord Scattergood's florid complexion had deepened to a colour which might have attracted Titian when looking for a nice curtain to hang behind a courtesan."

But as for story, there basically isn't any. What we have in the way of bad guys never even come before our view but remain conjectural. The deus ex machina ending is so ludicrously contrived that it's hardly worthy of the name.

I'm going to recycle this one directly, not even passing by way of the library donation box. show less

On what seems to be an interminable railway journey to the village of Snarl in the depths of winter, John Appleby misses his connection because the timetable was printed long before Gregory Grope's grandmother fell down the well. He is invited to stay by a fellow passenger, Everard Raven, an encylopaedist and lexicographer only to find that the Raven family may be linked to the case he has been sent to investigate. Are the novels and stories of Everard's late father, the Victorian writer show more Ranulph Raven, starting to come true?

I was an avid Michael Innes fan in my teens and twenties and this was always my favourite because of its complete dottiness. It has stood up well to the lapse of time. show less

aving arrived too early for an appointment, Appleby is killing time by taking a stroll on a beach beneath some cliffs, when Dr Sutch plummets to the ground in front of him amidst the ruins of a staircase. An unfortunate accident or deliberate sabotage?

A superb example of Innes's penchant for half-witted, if not completely dotty, aristos. I didn't come close to solving this one and yet the ending felt rather perfunctory.