Death stops a lot of things

Death Stops the Frolic

by George Bellairs

You might be forgiven for thinking George Bellairs was French.  He wasn't.  But I have a feeling he was trying to tap into the Georges Simenon vibe...

What he wasn't, was a poor man's Simenon.  And he was very good.

If you like your crime novels light and infused with humour but with a well-constructed plot and good characterisation, then George Bellairs is hard to beat. He may not have been particularly radical in his approach to the crime novel but he certainly had a distinctive style and that is a style I have really warmed to over the past few years.

The previous George Bellairs novels I have read have all involved his indomitable detective, Inspector Littlejohn and been part of a series. This novel as far as I can tell is a standalone novel from 1943, quite early in the author’s writing life, and concerns another detective, Superintendent Nankivell, who has a very different back story and position, being from the local area and local police force. But although altering our perspective on the crime by being based in the locality, not having Littlejohn as the detective has little negative impact on the book, the story was as enjoyable as almost any other Bellairs novel I have read. 

It still has the tropes, details and flourishes that I have come to expect from Bellairs’ Littlejohn series: precise plotting with enough twists and red herrings to keep the story interesting but without becoming frustrating; relatively unlikely scenes and characters, just this side of believable (the main thing I love about Bellairs), and genuine humour throughout. Much of the humour comes from the colourful incidental characters, always described with great detail and care, and helping to add interest to the story and making it entertaining, if not themselves driving the story. It is for this alone that I would and indeed do keep returning to George Bellairs.

Added to this as a great little crime novel, is the incidental comments on the time this was written (1943), a time just within living memory, so very recent and yet so very distant. This novel is a time capsule and a comment on British society during the Second World War which adds to its interest and value. But even without this, it is still a very enjoyable little mystery novel. Just don’t come to this expecting modern day shocks or gore or other fetishes; this is good clean murder, and all the better for it.