I think I knew that I would be a novelist almost as soon as I was able to read, but for a variety of reasons – including the war, my husband’s illness, the need to find and persevere in a safe career which would provide the necessary weekly cheque – I was a late starter. When I did begin my first novel in my mid thirties, classical detective fiction was the natural choice, partly because it was my foremost recreational reading in adolescence and partly because it suited my sceptical and perhaps slightly morbid imagination.

This is from a very interesting interview with P. D. James that you can read here.

P. D. James is the grandmother of English crime fiction. Her stories are slightly old fashioned, often set in isolated communities and relying on none of the scientific geegaws that some more procedurally-focussed writers use. It’s plain old crime fiction, character-driven and clearly-written.

I didn’t enjoy P. D. James’ previous book as much as I did this one. In this one she is as cynical as ever, and the mystery is engaging and vividly depicted. She carefully weaves emotional intruigue through the strata of British society and the unique politics of Scotland Yard in a way that is very distinctive of her “sceptical imagination”.

This one is great for P. D. James fans and new readers. New readers will enjoy the introduction to her particular style of storytelling and the classic cosyish crime fiction aspects, and old readers will enjoy the way James finally seems to be tidying up the life of her detective, Adam Dalgleish. I was reminded of the way the story of another famous fictional detective, Inspector Morse, started to end, although James seems to have another couple of books in her yet (I hope), and this is far less tragic than the way Colin Dexter chose to send his character off.

A famous journalist is murdered while she receives plastic surgery at a private clinic set in a country house. Interesting, entertaining, and classic P. D. James.

-Agnes.