I try to be a broadminded reader. I like to try new authors, read topics I know nothing about, and sample different genres. But the one genre I’ve never been able to take much interest in is crime. This could be because a) I have no idea what distinguishes crime novels from mysteries so am happy to lump them both together under the heading of “Things I Do Not Much Like” and b) I have absolutely no appetite for anything violent. I don’t find it difficult to read, I just don’t see the point. My desire for cliffhangers and uncertainty is nil. So, while I’ve admired the stylish British Library Crime Classics that have been released over the last few years, I’ve never felt tempted to pick one up. Never, that is, until I heard about Weekend at Thrackley by Alan Melville.
So what made this one different? The premise sounded mildly interesting – a young man, our hero Jim Henderson, is invited to a house party hosted by Mr. Carson, a mysterious and decidedly shady jewel expert. But Jim doesn’t know the host and he and the other guests have nothing in common. Why are they there and what is in store for them? When I do dabble in the genre, I enjoy a good country house mystery so the omens seemed good. But what was even more promising was the book’s introduction, which stresses Melville’s admiration of A.A. Milne’s work, particularly The Red House Mystery, and the strong influence of Milne’s style on this work. After that, I had to read it. (And I also had to muse about Melville’s chosen penname. Did he chose Alan in homage to Alan Milne?)
The story was published in 1934, when Melville was in his mid-twenties. His hero, Jim Henderson, feels about that age but is actually a decade older and, after having served in the war, has spent several years struggling to find work. When we meet him, he is unemployed but optimistic despite his lack of marketable skills, as noted in his frank self-assessment:
Pleasant and extremely good-looking young man, aged thirty-four, possessing no talents or accomplishments beyond being able to give an imitation of Gracie Fields giving an imitation of Galli-Curci, with no relations and practically no money, seeks job
Though lacking in resources, Jim possesses that which is most important for the hero of any sort of mystery/thriller: an entertaining side-kick, in this case his old school friend, Freddie Usher. Freddie is a well-heeled chap, in possession of a sporty car, family heirlooms, and a great deal of leisure time. But his main value to us is as someone for Jim to exchange Milne-esque dialogue with, as when Jim asks for the loan of Freddie’s evening clothes:
“Sorry, old man. It’s impossible.”
“But, Freddie…”
“Impossible. Quite imposs.”
“Remember we were at school together.”
“Which merely shows a lack of discretion on the part of my parents, and has nothing whatever to do with the present question.”
Freddie, like all of Carson’s guests except the penniless and decidedly jewel-less Jim, is encouraged to bring his jewels along with him – in this case, the Usher diamonds. Not fishy at all. Alongside the two young men, the party is made up of a varied and mostly forgettable mix of people – the only exceptions being Lady Stone, a redoubtable doyen of charitable causes, and Carson’s lovely daughter Mary. And lurking in the background are Carson’s household staff, bruisers all of them. The weekend promises to be interesting.
And it is, mildly. I had fun reading this – the effortless pacing and snappy dialogue made it a quick read. But the plot itself is rather silly and a bit all over the place and the ending is marred by an overly dramatic reveal that serves no value at all. All in all, a pleasant but unmemorable foray into the unknown. It hasn’t made me one jot more interested in crime or mystery books but that would have been too much to expect from such a slight book.
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The Captive Reader 