I'm not sure what I think of this.  It dragged a bit in the middle, mostly as the plot was so odd.  So much was crammed in that by the time I got to the end, I barely remembered the beginning.  It seems like another book entirely that started with a dead man – who was really a woman –  in the guest room bathtub.

But Mitchell's writing is strong and very readable.  She painted a very compelling country house setting with characters that really worked well in the plot, even if they're rather 2 dimensional in that way I find all third person, golden age crime characters to be.  My biggest gripe is that there is an awful lot of unspoken truths throughout the dialog.  Two people talking about the murder, sharing information and one starts to reveal Something Important when the other gasps "You don't mean..." and the other cuts him off and exclaims "Exactly!".  And the reader is left saying "what?  what do you mean?  what the hell did I miss?!"

Of them all, I liked Carstairs best; I am conflicted about Mrs. Lestrange Bradley though.  I like her intelligence and her strength and I'm offended on her behalf of the way she keeps getting referred to as an ugly old lady.  Mitchell gives us her age via formula, by stating that her son is 39 and she was 18 when he was born.  With a bias that grows stronger every day, I hardly think 57 is an age that warrants 'ugly old lady' status.  But Mitchell sacrifices a great deal of Bradley's humanity for the sake of her intelligence and strength.

This led me to an interesting personal quandary because the character she most reminded me of is my personal ideal of literary perfection: Shelock Holmes.  He too is cold, calculating, analytical to the extreme, and designed to be unpleasing to the eye, so why do I find him to be the acme of literary perfection, but am left unsure, at best, about Lestrange Bradley?  I was set to face some hard truths about my own gender bias, but thankfully that can be saved for another day, as the answer really is much simpler: Holmes' analytical genius is grounded in facts and hard science; Lestrange Bradley's on psycho-analysis.  That is my bias; I don't condemn psychoanalysis, but neither do I trust it, and I do not find it all that interesting. 

So, long story short, this is a book with merit and definitely worth reading, especially for anyone who enjoys classic crime, and Mitchell's writing is worth seeking out.  I just don't know if I enjoyed it enough to pursue other books in this series.

Alastair Bing’s guests gather around his dining table at Chaynings, a charming country manor. But one seat, belonging to the legendary explorer Everard Mountjoy, remains empty.

I have been reading this series out of order and only now got around to reading the first book, Speedy Death. I am not convinced it is necessary to read the series in order, but to get a better understanding of the main character, the unconventioal Mrs Bradley, you need to read Speedy Death. Much of the rest of the series will appear in a different light. 

At least, it does for me now.

Mostly, because I did not expect the turns that Speedy Death took - especially towards the end. 

‘By heavens, Brenner,’ said the Chief Constable, slapping his knee, ‘some intelligence has been used here!’

I am not going to reveal many plot details as I found it hugely enjoyable to know very little about the story - even if basically EVERY book description gave away at least one of the twists. (Seriously, I'd advise you not to look at blurbs or GR or Amazon descriptions.)

Mitchell had fun writing this series and it absolutely show. I have been chuckling all the way through this book, and I could not help but wonder whether Mitchell deliberately created the character of Mrs Bradley as what I can only describe as the Anti-Marple!

All in all, there are a few digs at the detective stories, shilling shockers, and the conventions of "good society" that just cracked me up such as: 

The leading counsel for the Crown, in a booming, plum-like voice which associated well with his girth, commenced his opening speech. It dealt chiefly with Mrs Bradley’s past life, and she learned some things which surprised her. ‘This man will make me blush in a minute,’ she thought, as the learned counsel referred to her for the fourth time as this ‘deservedly famous woman.’

***

The prisoner next went into the witness-box. The exquisite courtesy of Ferdinand to the accused made its impression on the jury, although they themselves were unaware of the fact.

‘I am not going to defend myself,’ said Mrs Bradley, as much at her ease as though she were addressing a mothers’ meeting on the subject of birth control, in the arguments for which she was extraordinarily well-versed.

***

You see, the bother with people of this class is that you can’t bully them as you would the cottagers. They are too well-educated, and too well-balanced, and they know that the police are hedged in and hampered and red-taped until it is a wonder we can do any work at all in the detection of criminals.

This was a fun read. It was twisted, it had red herrings, it had drama. I was guessing to the end (because I could not remember the story from the Diana Rigg tv series, and I can't even remember if the story had been changed). So, when the ending came, I was shocked (in a good way), had to laugh, and then went back to see if the clues were there. And, yes, they were. 

Mitchell is no longer known among readers of mysteries. She is said to once have been as prominent as Christie and Sayers, but Mitchell's work has fallen out of publication for the most part, which is a shame because her characters and her stories had a certain sparkle, even if some of the plots of later novels are quite convoluted.

‘Hum! And if I weren’t convinced that you are not the murderer, I should be equally convinced that you are, you extraordinary woman,’ he said under his breath. ‘I wonder whether you are trying to lead me up the garden with your hints and insinuations, or whether you are trying to make me see something which, left to myself, I should overlook.'

Oh, Mrs Bradley, such fun...but not at all sympathetic to anyone, ...

‘Good Lord indeed!’ said Mrs Bradley, with spirit. ‘I shall find myself in the dock before many weeks are out. You mark my words!’

Carstairs made sympathetic noises, but, as usual, could think of no adequate reply.

‘I shall plead not guilty,’ said Mrs Bradley firmly, ‘and I shall get Ferdinand Lestrange to conduct my case.’

‘He is a very young man, isn’t he?’ said Carstairs doubtfully.

‘He is thirty-nine, and was born on my eighteenth birthday,’ Mrs Bradley promptly replied. ‘Oxford 1908 to 1911, called to the bar in 1914, Great War 1914 to 1917. Invalided out in June, 1917. Now a K.C.’

‘You seem to have followed his career with some minuteness,’ said Carstairs, amused. ‘Well, he is my son,’ was Mrs Bradley’s somewhat startling reply.

...not even towards her own son:

She glanced round the court again. She was pleased to see a full house!

Ferdinand Lestrange, her son, the leading counsel for the defence, looked distinguished, she thought. Nobody there knew she was his mother. Ferdinand wouldn’t care a hang whether she were convicted or not, except in so far as his professional reputation was concerned, but he would take care not to let that suffer!

Hehe.

Messing with them policemen:

‘Well, now, Mr Carstairs, who killed Mountjoy?’

‘To the best of my knowledge,’ said Carstairs, in his precise, dry way, ‘Mountjoy was the victim of an accident.’

‘Is that really your opinion?’ said the inspector.

‘It is— now,’ replied Carstairs quietly.

The two policemen looked at him, but Carstairs merely smiled at them urbanely, and volunteered no further statement.

‘Hum! Thank you, Mr Carstairs,’ said the Chief Constable, hiding his disappointment. Carstairs rose to go.

‘And yet, Mr Carstairs,’ said the inspector, ‘I could swear that yesterday you thought very differently.’

‘A scientist,’ said Carstairs, with his hand on the doorknob, ‘hardly ever thinks exactly alike two days running.’ He nodded cheerfully to them and went out.

 

Hehe. :D

Two squares to go. My next read will be for the Country House Mystery, and I am going with Gladys Mitchell's first Mrs. Bradley mystery Speedy Death.

"Alastair Bing’s guests gather around his dining table at Chaynings, a charming country manor. But one seat, belonging to the legendary explorer Everard Mountjoy, remains empty."