Rating: 5 out of 5

I started reading this as I thought it was a book I should read. I’ve read detective fiction since I was a child. And this stands as the first well known exhibit of that genre. I didn’t expect it to be as gripping as it was. By the last quarter of the book I was delaying things, including going to work, just so I could read another few pages. And I was looking forward to being able to get back to the story later. A great sign.

It is a nicely written narrative using a first person perspective, but with different first persons throughout depending on who was present when certain pieces of the story happened. And each of those persons had a different style, and a different tone. I thought it worked well.

Thoroughly enjoyable. Rather sorry to have finished it.

Highlighted passages:

“I beg your ladyship’s pardon,” said Sergeant Cuff. “Before we begin, I should like, if convenient, to have the washing-book. The stained article of dress may be an article of linen. If the search leads to nothing, I want to be able to account next for all the linen in the house, and for all the linen sent to the wash. If there is an article missing, there will be at least a presumption that it has got the paint-stain on it, and that it has been purposely made away with, yesterday or to-day, by the person owning it. Superintendent Seegrave,” added the Sergeant, turning to me, “pointed the attention of the women-servants to the smear, when they all crowded into the room on Thursday morning. That may turn out, Mr. Betteredge, to have been one more of Superintendent Seegrave’s many mistakes.”

Note: the linen reminds me of Constance Kent’s murder of her step brother in 1865

it is a maxim of mine that men (being superior creatures) are bound to improve women-if they can. When a woman wants me to do anything (my daughter, or not, it doesn’t matter), I always insist on knowing why. The oftener you make them rummage their own minds for a reason, the more manageable you will find them in all the relations of life. It isn’t their fault (poor wretches!) that they act first and think afterwards; it’s the fault of the fools who humour them.

Originally posted to my Goodreads account