On a forgotten island somewhere in Oceania handful of European ex-pats wile away the time among several thousand natives. By a quirk of history, a Brit owns the island, being the third in line of succession since the islet was granted to his grandfather. He reports annually to a consulate miles away.
While the natives go about their own business except for a select few who act as servants for them the ex-pats pass the time in hobbies like painting, drinking alcohol, and making witty conversation. There is too much of the latter for this reader.
nto this edenic life blunders an outsider, whose lugger pulls into the bay, causing curiosity, consternation, and irritation to the residents. Who is it that would intrude on their retreat? It turns out to be a blustery know-it-all who upsets one and all.
We hardened krimi readers know he is for the chop and he is, but it takes a long time in coming.
Now the question is who done it? And why dun it? And does it matter since the victim was a such scumbag?
Was it the Lord and Master of the islet himself who would do a great deal to seal the island off from the outside world?
The windy, self-professed one-time sea captain who never went to sea?
The quartermaster who works for the Lord and Master, and whose background may not bear inspection?
The retired Scotland Yard detersive who came there to forget his own troubled past?
The retiring spinister who never answers a question about herself?
The doctor who seems wasted in this wasteland, but may be there for want of a better bolthole?
There are two or three more with similar questions handing over them.
Until the death of blowhard, Lord and Master was content not to ask any of them questions, but the death opened all quesitons, the most so when it appears to have been murder. Murder!
what follows is a puzzle of who was where when, and what motive might have led to the murder. At first this quest is pursued almost like a board game of Clue, but then… Yes, inevitably there is a second murder, and with the European population diminishing activity is increased.
Those deans of krimi-lit, Jacques Barzun and Wendelll Taylor describe is as a ‘masterpiece,’ and in a their very brief comment say it is ‘atmospheric,’ ‘entertaining,’ and ‘brilliant.’ This is high praise from these two.
The ten Good Riders who scored it at 3.20 are closer to my take on it. Several of these souls were led to it, as was I, by Barzun and Taylor.
I found the witty conversation tedious and the epistolary exposition at the denouncement artificial. Nor could this savant distinguish among the ex-pat characters very well. They blurred together to me. I needed a scorecard to separate them.
Paul McGuire may have beeb an Australian diplomat who worked in Oceania. According to the Australian Dictionary of Biography there was a Dominic Mary Paul McGuire (1903-1978) who has a long entry and several publications are mentioned but not this one. I am not sure it is the same man, but if someone knows, contact me.