#65 - The Suspicions of Mr Whicher - Kate Summerscale (Choice: Jen's)(Venue: The Clarence, Whitehall)

Thursday June 28th
Present: Jen, Nic, Carl, Doris, Eamonn, Shubha

Mr Whicher woz 'ere

The Clarence's modern, light decor and bustling, noisy atmosphere belies its age but a sign on the exterior wall indicates that it was established in 1862.  This fact, coupled with its location on the corner of Whitehall and Great Scotland Yard, where Mr Whicher and his fellow Scotland Yard detectives were based, and our romantic dispositions leads us to believe that the great man may have drowned his sorrows here as his suspicions in the Road Hill House murder threatened his reputation and stalled his ascent through the detective ranks.

I planned to be authentic to Whicher's era and enjoy a pint or two of ale for the evening.  However, it was a beautiful sunny evening which, as we strolled to the venue, Carl announced was perfect for a few glasses of chilled white wine.  Jen provided confirmation of this on our arrival and so began the descent.

We were probably three bottles in to the night when Carl drew us to order. 

"Hands up" he said, "if you really loved this book." 

Something in his tone told you his own hand would remain resolutely by his side.  Eamonn ventured to say that he did love this book.  The rest of us looked doubtful. 

"Hands up" Carl continued, "if you thought this book was quite good." 

Still, it was obvious that Carl's arm, like the man himself when reading this book, would remain unmoved.  The rest of us spluttered into life.  We thought the story was interesting but a little detatched: academic, though not well written.  It read like a homework essay.  It was not as compelling as it would have been if it had been written as a fictionalised novel.  Of course, had it been emotionally involving, Jen acknowledges that it is highly likely she would have been unable to finish it as very bad things happen to the child.  In this book though, although his injuries were described graphically, they were presented with detachment, as matter of fact, as something historic.  One felt little involvement, little passion, little empathy with the victim or with any other character, for that matter.  The people 'were', the things 'happened'.  That was it.  True, there were interesting snippets of historical detail.  The fact that the police were so embarrassed on finding a blood-splattered ladies nightgown that they put it back and didn't record it as they did not want to embarrass the owner stands out amongst those but there were others: the fact that even suspecting a young, female child of murder caused such public outcry that it stalled the career of the country's most promising detective; the fact that detectives were so distrusted and considered an intrusion into middle class life; and so on.  Quite what would Victorian England make of where we are now: more spied upon in London by CCTV than communist China.

"Hands up" Carl asked again, "if you thought this book was absolutely awful."

And, finally, his hand twitched.  Of us all, Carl had least praise for this book, frustrated by its dull descriptions, lack of pace and constant references to other works.  All valid criticisms.  One has to accept it for what it is.  This book is a string of quite interesting facts in search of a compelling narrative. 

And we, several hours after we started out, were a string of drunks in search of the quickest way home and ebook versions of The Woman in White and The Moonstone (re-reading for some Wilkie fans, the first time for others).  Not our official next books but ones we might yet discuss in meetings to come.

So ended the best turnout of the year to date and so begun the hardest morning-after for some time.