A new Kate Atkinson novel! And that too, featuring the inimitable Jackson Brodie, who I feared had retired forever at the end of Big Sky!
The opening of Atkinson’s latest, Death at the Sign of a Rook, was a bit of a letdown: it involved a ‘Murder Mystery Weekend’ at a country house, and seemed like the opening of a classic cosy mystery with a body, a bunch of people locked in a manor, and a snowstorm raging outside. It all seemed far too simplistic to come from Atkinson’s sophisticated, complicated, elegant pen.
And indeed, the very next page brings us back to the Brodie we know and love.
“A clean, well-lighted place,” his ex, Julia, said when he had tried to explain the attraction [to Bettys Cafe Tea Room]. “That’s Hemingway, and don’t pretend you know that, because you don’t.” He didn’t, but was fairly sure you would never find Hemingway in Bettys, chomping on an iced fancy. Hemingway’s loss.
Jackson is over sixty now, his daughter Marlee has a child herself, and his son is a teenager. He is even considering putting down roots and buying a house in his beloved Yorkshire. He seems happier than in the past, still carrying an intermittent torch for Detective Inspector Louise Monroe, but resigned to his relatively single life (he has a quote-unquote girlfriend, Tatiana, with whom he is staying until he finds his own place).
This period of calm is reflected in the more relaxed vibe of the novel. Of all the Jackson Brodie novels, this one struck me as the funniest. The previous novels had a quirky charm with internal monologues that wander all over the place, strange coincidences that are just within the bounds of possibility, and lovely characters, but you could never forget the grim murders at the center of the novels. This one has all the quirky charm, but the body count is lower and the murders are less grim, which allows Atkinson’s signature originality to shine through without the burden of grief.
Instead of a body, this one starts with missing art. A pair of middle-aged twins, Ian and Hazel, have hired Brodie to find a painting that hung in their mother’s bedroom. After her death, the painting vanished along with her carer, an attractive and capable young woman.
Meanwhile, in Rook Hall nearby, a decrepit country house is being turned into a hotel, and the housekeeper, an attractive and capable young woman, has vanished along with a valuable painting. (Aha!) Nearby live Simon Cate, a vicar who has lost his faith; and Ben Jennings, who has lost a leg in the war.
“Before” was when he was still in possession of the Leg. The Leg — it had a capital letter in his family, it was a proper noun. “How’s the Leg?” his father asked gruffly whenever he saw Ben. The Leg didn’t exist any more, so it seemed an odd thing to ask. “Managing all right without the Leg?” his mother asked. “Yes, absolutely!” he replied enthusiastically. He had respected the fact that no one really wanted to know how bloody awful it was.
I can’t stress the depth of the characters enough. The previous novels have unforgettable people like Tracy Waterhouse (large-built ex-policewoman, target of jokes, and vulnerable); Julia (Brodie’s erudite ex and mother of one of his children); and Louise Monroe (detective and longtime flame). Simon Cates and Ben Jennings in this novel are just as good.
One of my favourite Atkinson characters was Reggie Chase, who first appeared in When Will There Be Good News? Reggie is an orphan, a devoted reader of any printed material, living in rough circumstances but with a powerful will to make it through — and it is quite wonderful that she turns up again in this book. (Perhaps she is one of Atkinson’s favourite characters too, along with Tatiana). By now Reggie has become a detective, working under no less than Louise Monroe.
Jackson still has his own stream-of-consciousness going, which is one of the most delightful parts of the books.
You could tell just by looking at Mark Smithson that he was one of those flashy City types, but northern, which was worse somehow in Jackson’s book. Real men (i.e. northern) did not have well-honed muscles that came from the gym rather than honest labour. Smithson’s face was positively polished — he must have facials, Jackson thought. This was all justified prejudice, in Jackson’s opinion, although Justified Prejudice did sound like the title of an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie.
The chapter titles are charming too, for anyone who’s read the canon of British women crime writers: Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers, Ngaio Marsh, Margery Allingham. The first chapter is ‘Red Herrings’, the next is ‘The Mysterious Affair at the Willows’, and so on.
If I have one small gripe, it’s that the relationship between Brodie and Louise Monroe never progresses a single step beyond the first book, but remains forever at the point where Jackson calls her up and then cannot find anything to say. They are both such articulate and smart people, so this doesn’t quite make sense to me.
A small gripe, as I said, which detracts not at all from a quite lovely read.
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