I bought "Birds of a Feather" (in a two-for-one edition with its predecessor, "Maisie Dobbs") on a three-dollar clearance table. "A bargain!" I thought, since the jacket blurbs made the stories sound like female versions of Charles Todd's Inspector Rutledge novels. Now that I've read them, though, I think I was overcharged.
Despite some surface similarities to Todd's work -- the post-WWI setting, the sensitive, war-scarred protagonist, the careful period details -- Winspear's novels are thin where Todd's are dense, simplistic where theirs are complex, juvenile where theirs are adult, too reassuring where theirs can be ambiguous and disturbing (I exempt Todd's stand-alone novel, "The Murder Stone," which is melodramatic and seriously implausible.) In Todd's books, the character of Hamish MacBeth may be a gimmick, but he works (or at least, he did until recently). The between-social-classes premise of the Maisie books, however, doesn't work, at least not as Winspear presents it. That's too bad, because Winspear has all the right ingredients -- interesting concepts, historical knowledge and insight, potentially-complex themes. But she just can't get the souffle to rise.
The supporting cast is a stock gallery of one-dimensional cliches; the period details are often over-explained, making portions of the text read like one of those children's storybooks determined to be "educational." As for Maisie herself, several Amazon reviewers of "Maisie Dobbs" correctly noted that she's too perfect, like a slightly more grown-up Nancy Drew. In "Birds of a Feather," Winspear does seems to be trying to make Maisie a little less of a paragon, but she doesn't quite succeed. Maisie's rift with her father is unconvincing and unprepared-for (as is its semi-resolution); her sidekick Billy's problems are too easily fixed; she and her cohort have far too many conveniently-placed sources who just happen to have the info our heroine needs (Smiley, Dame Constance, Dr. Dene); the plot ends are too neatly tied together. Even Maisie's hair is too obvious and simple a symbol.
And while I'm complaining, I might as well sound off about the whole intrusive business of Maisie's eating habits. I think the author might intend the food details to be a metaphor for aspects of Maisie's character, but I find them extraneous because they go nowhere. People are forever telling Maisie she's too thin; she's forever assuring them that she eats plenty -- all the while rarely managing to swallow more than a single bite per meal. Time and again, she forgets to eat, or learns something so disturbing that it takes her appetite away just as her dinner is served, etc. Then later, she will realize to her amazement that she hasn't eaten in ten, twelve, twenty hours. So does she at least chow down then? No, she does not. She looks forward to a "hearty helping of fish and chips" for lunch, but then she picks all the breading off the fish and feeds the chips to the seagulls. She takes one "ravenous" bite of toast after a many-hour fast -- and leaves the rest. As best I can recall, her entire food intake over the course of the story consists of gallons of tea, nibbles of toast, a bowl or two of vegetable soup, some batter-less fish, and a plate of eggs and bacon.
Yet nothing is made of any of this; the details are piled up and then ignored. If Maisie's (non)eating is supposed to have themative relevance, then I wish Winspear would do something with this thread (but preferably *not* through some anachronistic diagnosis of an eating disorder or the sort of weak narrative resolution used for Billy's problem in "Birds of a Feather.")
As the series stands now, the food thing ironically comes off as just another one of Maisie's many perfections: not only is she beloved, bright, gifted, compassionate, and capable, not only is she tall and graceful with mesmerizing deep blue eyes and striking black hair that is forever escaping its bun to curl into fetching "tendrils" that we're supposed to believe Maisie deplores (a motif that comes across as an authorial affectation), but when she does have a "flaw," it turns out to be that she's underweight! The 21st-century Western heart, with its obesity-clogged arteries, just bleeds for her.
A mouthful of dry fish might be enough for Maisie, but if I were to continue reading this series, I'd want more -- more complexity, more ambiguity, more depth, more substance. I'd at least want a bite of crispy batter and a chip or two.