The sixtieth book I read in 2017 was the fourth book in The Grantchester Mysteries by James Runcie,
Sidney Chambers and the Forgiveness of Sins. My reviews of
the previous books in the series have not been stellar, but I am nothing if not a completist; and perhaps I'm getting soft, but I found this installment less objectionable than some of its predecessors. This is undoubtedly in part due to the demise of the low-chemistry love triangle that dominated the first books before Sidney's marriage to Hildegard.
As with the previous installments in the series, the book is made up of separate stories. The first one, which provides the title of the book as a whole, begins with a sort of locked-room mystery which seems far too cool and intriguing for this series and, sadly, is. The denouement represents the least interesting solution possible to the situation as presented.
The second story, "Nothing to Worry About," is more typical of the series, in that a situation which is being gossiped about turns out boringly to be exactly what everyone already assumed it was. "Fugue" is probably the most interesting story in the book, as well as being the bloodiest and most opaque. As of "A Following," these are no longer technically
Grantchester mysteries, as Sidney has left his position as vicar of that church and accepted a position as archdeacon at Ely. (I have no idea where these places are, other than somewhere around Cambridge, nor how far apart they may be. Inspector Keating mentions they will need to find a new pub at which to meet.) Sidney's annoying pseudo-ex Amanda receives threatening letters and phone calls from her latest fiance's actual ex. "Prize Day" delves into the cliche of homosexuality and abuse in England's school system, and in "Florence," Sidney travels to Italy and is accused of art theft.
As always, the biggest problem with these books is that Runcie is not a novelist but a television writer, and it shows desperately. Page after page of dialogue with nary a "he said" nor a "she shifted uneasily in her chair as she replied." Runcie is used to actors supplying the tones of voice and body language which reveals character; in their absence, it's like listening to a bored blind table-read. This paragraph introduces a new character:
"Sir Mark Kirby-Grey had the air of a preoccupied man who was doing his best and was not prepared to take criticism. Prematurely bald, and smaller than he wanted to be, he wore a bespoke navy suit with one cuff button undone, and he spoke to everyone as if they were employees who fell short. Unused to relaxation or sitting still, he preferred to 'get on with things', and his quick attentive movements were either a sign of shyness and social discomfort or a deliberate attempt to remind people of his influence and importance."
That's not a paragraph in a novel; it's an actor's brief on how to play a character. A competent novelist will show you these traits through a character's speech and actions over the course of a scene, not drop them all in an explanatory paragraph when the character enters stage-left.
Show; don't tell.
Other complaints: Runcie seems determined that his readers view Amanda as Sidney's ultimate soulmate and 'the one that got away,' despite the fact that the character is thoroughly unlikable and the pairing has never emitted more sparks than a pile of wet newspaper.
Sidney's new curate, a thoroughly two-dimensional character whose actor's brief seems to consist solely of the phrase "likes cake," preaches a sermon which explicitly contradicts the words of Christ and condemns Jesus as "overgenerous," with neither fictional congregation nor living author seems to realize as a heretical statement from the pulpit. (In the meantime, Sidney rebukes another character for taking the Lord's name in vain, because
priorities, I guess.)
In questions of fact and verisimilitude, Sidney, in 1964, considers a sermon in which he would "quote from one of the last lines of that great Christmas film
It's a Wonderful Life." It's a Wonderful Life would hardly be considered a Christmas classic in 1964, as it bombed at the box office on release and didn't gain an audience until its copyright lapsed in 1974 and it
began to be shown in abundance on American TV at Christmastime in the 1980s because it was a cheap way to fill holiday airwaves. I knew a British girl in college in the early '90s who had never heard of the film.
And for the sake of all that's holy, if you're going to do a mad-wife-hidden-in-the-attic story, don't draw attention to the hoary old chestnut by having a character ostentatiously read
Jane Eyre earlier in the book.
