A Lonely Death by Charles Todd: A review

A Lonely Death (Inspector Ian Rutledge, #13)

A Lonely Death by Charles Todd
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

It is 1920 and ex-soldiers who survived the horror of the trenches in World War I are being killed in a particularly gruesome manner in the quiet countryside of England. Three men have been garroted, and in the mouth of each has been found one of the identification discs that World War I soldiers carried into battle. However, the identification disc with which each man was found is not his own, and, in fact, appears to be unrelated to that particular ex-soldier. It seems a classic case of misdirection.

Scotland Yard is called in to help with the investigation and Inspector Ian Rutledge is sent as the agency's representative. But sending in the Yard does not halt the murders. After Rutledge arrives, another man - another ex-soldier - is killed in the same manner. Where will the serial murderer strike next?

The clear implication is that all of these deaths are somehow related to something that occurred during the war, but all of Rutledge's efforts to uncover some link reveal nothing. He comes to believe that this may be another case of misdirection and that the true link between the men might lie in their backgrounds in growing up together. He begins to explore that possibility and finds that his investigation is digging into the well-hidden secrets of some of the locals. Soon a complaint is made against him to his superiors back in London.

Meanwhile, there is a subplot carrying on in the background. A friend of Rutledge's, recently retired from Scotland Yard, has shared with him information about a cold case that he was never able to solve. It involves the murder of a man whose body was found in 1908, laid out like a sacrifice, at Stonehenge. The murderer was never found but it haunted the investigator, Cummins, over the years and he continued to search for the answer to the puzzle. Now he has passed it on to Rutledge.

Soon after Cummins tells him the story, Rutledge comes across a clue that seems like it might be related to the case. And within weeks, the whole mystery of that 12-year-old murder is solved! That solution was just a little too pat and neat and involved too much coincidence. It seemed an obvious way of tying up some loose strings in the story and writing some recurring characters out of the action.

The same serendipitous happenstance applied to the character Meredith Channing, a woman that Ian Rutledge has been romantically drawn to for a while. The author wraps up Channing's story in this book and sends her off to Belgium to oversee the care of her grievously wounded husband who has been found there. She no longer loves him - never did really - but feels morally bound to stay with him. Will we ever see her again?

In fact, I am struck by how often in these books women are trapped in loveless marriages. It is a recurring theme. In addition to Channing, we have the example of Mrs. Winslow in this story, and the whole series seems littered with them. Perhaps it is a social commentary on the powerlessness of women to control their destinies in the early twentieth century.

Back to the main mystery of A Lonely Death, after many miscues, Rutledge finally gets on the right track and runs the killer to ground, but it had been obvious to the reader for quite some time just who the murderer was and what his motive was. Maybe Ian Rutledge needs a refresher course in the art of detection.

View all my reviews

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

Search This Blog