Customer Reviews

Oscar Wilde and a Death of No Importance: A Mystery (Oscar Wilde Mysteries)

5 star:		(10)
4 star:		(3)
3 star:		(4)
2 star:		(3)
1 star:		(1)

 

 

"Oscar Wilde and the Death of No Importance" is a celebrity murder mystery, in which the poet is drawn into murder when, while keeping an appointment finds the bloody body of a boy. Not just any boy, but one whom Wilde befriended and and admired, so he dedicates himself to finding his killer, with his faithful Watson by his side in the form of the poet and future biographer Robert Sherard.

Given Wilde's tragic fate, it's no surprise that Brandreth opens the first of his planned nine-book series [!] with a tour of London's homosexual underground, with Wilde leading the way, bright as a sunbeam, a chatty and knowledgable guide. Brandreth deftly underplays this theme, never overtly stating what is really going on until the end, which shows a wonderful restraint. Oscar is clearly besotted with the beauty of boys, and as we follow the thread of Billy's life, we encounter characters who give off the faint whiff of corruption. Some of the scenes, such as a visit to a monthly lunchen attended by men and boys, give off an unwholesome vibe without descending into smuttiness. These are proper English gentlemen we're dealing with, and if they give their word that their behavior is innocent, who are we to disagree?

The only weak point in the book is the actual murder. A reasonably aware reader who takes a moment would have no trouble figuring out who killed Billy Wood and probably why. Brandreth plays fair with the reader, but the clues are limited and the suspects few, and more than that I cannot say without risking a spoiler to those who want to read it.

What carries the reader through the book, however, is Oscar. He dominates, he charms, he talks and talks and talks. But most of all, he displays the importance of being an earnest detective.

From [...]

TWO-AND-A-HALF STARS

What do you want to be when you grow up? When we're young, it's the question with a hundred answers. A fireman one day, a nurse the next, an astronaut after that. But time and talent and circumstance eventually push a sole option to the forefront, the rest receding to become favorite hobbies or fond memories. That this singular option consumes the majority of our time and energy should comes as no surprise, for it's difficult to do one thing well, let alone two or three. Would that Gyles Brandreth -- author of the literary tribute cum historical mystery Oscar Wilde and a Death of No Importance -- had understood that this also holds true for novels.

The premise is promising: Oscar Wilde, the playboy poet of Victorian England, enters a rented room in No. 23 Cowley Street on a warm day in late August and discovers the ritualistically murdered body of one Billy Wood, a young male prostitute. Wilde flees and, after gathering witnesses, returns to find all evidence of the crime has vanished. He may be a man more used to ink than ichor, but he doesn't plan on letting this one go unsolved. With the aid of Robert Sherard (great-grandson of William Wordsworth) and Arthur Conan Doyle (creator of Sherlock Holmes), Wilde plans to bust the conundrum wide open.

The execution, though, trips up A Death of No Importance. First, there are the minor irritations, such as Brandreth's idiosyncratic use of em dashes (which must have driven his editor mad) and the fact that Sherard, to whom falls narration duty, is just uninvolved enough in the proceedings to make one question why he was included at all. But what really sends the book sprawling is inadequate blending of the historical with the mysterious. Wilde's life was marked by impulsiveness and extravagance, two characteristics that don't mesh well with criminal investigation. One moment he's tracking down some vital bit of info, only to be interrupted by a ferocious desire for oysters and champagne. A return to unraveling the murder most foul ends up diverted by a jaunt to Oxford. Then Wilde takes a two-month sabbatical to write The Picture of Dorian Gray. Compelling genre work it's not, which is a shame because somewhere in the novel there's a worthy study of a literary icon or an interesting mystery -- but not both.

In 1889 literary phenomena Oscar Wilde rushes to 23 Crowley St. in London to keep an appointment and is let into the home by an anonymous woman. Upstairs he finds the beautiful male prostitute Billy Wood lying naked on a Persian carpet surrounded by candles, his throat cut from ear to ear. The next day he tells Arthur Conan Doyle about it; when they return to the scene of the crime, they find place void of blood except for a few drops on the wall and no body.

Doyle refers him to Scotland Yard Inspector Aidan Fraser who doesn't seem to have much interest in the case as there is no body or evidence. A package arrives at Oscar's home containing Billy's severed head. He believes Fraser will be interested in the case now but to make sure justice is done, the author conducts his own investigation and finds a plethora of suspect ranging from Billy's jealous step-father to a jealous lover. Oscar is determined to find out who the killer is.

Gyles Brandreth is a wonderful storyteller who creates a clever mystery while also providing a glimpse into literary late Victorian England. Oscar Wilde makes a great Sherlock Holmes and his sexual proclivities are implied for instance the club he belongs to is filled with sodomite members. This tale is told in the first person by Wilde's good and logical friend another writer Robert Sherard adding to the sense of a literary journey into the late nineteen century.

Harriet Klausner

It's no mystery why Brandreth chose Oscar Wilde as his protagonist. In real life, Wilde was a larger-than-life character who, in his day, pricked society's balloon, which was full of stuffy Victorian hot air. In "A Death of No Importance," Wilde happily admits to imitating Sherlock Holmes--almost too much perhaps. He's so intent on solving the mystery with such calculated confidence that we often forget he's the urbane bon vivant. Brandreth has to remind us by having Oscar indulge in an occasional glass of champagne. By the book's end, Wilde is still more of a caricature than a character--you never truly understand him or feel much for him, or any of the characters for that matter.

It's a mildly fun ride, though, especially if you like the mix of literary characters and Sherlock Holmesiana. If you do, you'll spot the villian halfway through the book. But most of the fun comes from following Oscar romp around 1890s London. All in all, this book is an interesting, perhaps frivolous, addition to the subgenre of historical mysteries.

However, it rings at least one major false note: Instead of embracing Oscar Wilde's homosexuality, and using that as something of a foil for the mores of the day, Brandreth takes the line that Wilde was (at the time in which this book is set anyway) not gay and, in his own way, devoted to his wife. Who knows the real truth? But it feels like a cop out in order to appease the mainstream reader.

One final quibble: Brandreth loves his commas. He is comma crazy. He never fails to insert one when the slightest opportunity arises. Here's a random example: "Aidan Fraser, Oscar, and I were standing in our places, clutching our napkins, like errant schoolboys, with slates in hand, being admonished by their governess."

Nevertheless, I'm, rather, looking, forward, to, the, next, book, in, this, series.

I cannot recommend this delicious little pastiche highly enough. The plot is outlined in previous reviews so there's no need to rehash; however, I do feel the need to contribute my proverbial two cents in regard to how compulsively readable this one is. Having a Kindle, I originally downloaded the "sample". That was all it took. I subsequently downloaded the full text immediately upon completion and could not "flip the pages"/push the "next page" button fast enough. As much as I read--and love to do so--it is far too rare that I become so engrossed in a book from the first page. And although one reviewer indicated that the murderer was somewhat "elementary, my dear..." to identify, I was quite surprised by the ending (at least by half).

Run, do not walk, to your nearest bookstore/computer/Kindle for this delightful mystery. I, for one, cannot wait for the next.

First Sentence: My name is Robert Sherard, and I was a friend of Oscar Wilde.

Poet and author Oscar Wilde enters a room, filled with candles and incense, wherein he finds the naked body of a young man whose throat has been slashed. When he returns to the room with his friends, Arthur Conan Doyle and Robert Sherard, the room is empty and without a trace of the murder.

I am not a particular fan of books wherein the protagonists, well-known historical figures, are suddenly solving crimes. I was, therefore, surprised to find I quite liked this book.

It is clear Mr. Brandreth has done his research on the characters, as well as the times. The sense of life, dress and custom during the period was very well done, as was the dialogue. Brandreth both incorporated actual quotes from Wilde as well as replicating Wilde's style of speech.

The protagonists are Oscar Wilde, Robert Sherard and Arthur Conan Doyle. While improbable, their involvement in the story is not so much a stretch as to have been impossible. As Dr. Watson was to Holmes, so here is Robert Sherard to Wilde, in that Sherard is the narrator of the story.

The disadvantage, to the reader, of this style is that much goes on with the activities of the primary character (Wilde) of which we are unaware until the classic "all is revealed" scene at the end. Unfortunately, one of the villains was apparent to me very early in the book, and I suspected the other. This did rather diminish the impact of the revelation.

Although I likely shan't continue with the series, the book is well written and interesting

The first thing that pulled me into Oscar Wilde and a Death of No Importance were the characters. Gyles Brandreth's original characters are engaging and realistic, his narrator (the author Robert Sherard, Wilde's best friend) is tragically but believably imperfect, and his Oscar Wilde is more plausible and more complex than the popular dumbed-down modern media caricature. Far from the scatterbrained, lazy dilettante he's usually shown to be (see the British miniseries Lillie for an egregious example), Wilde was a hard-working, highly intelligent writer whose output exceeded most of his contemporaries both in quality and quantity. It's no stretch to imagine such a meticulous observer and dissector of the world's foibles as a Sherlock Holmes made real.

The writing is also excellent. Brandreth seizes the opportunity to write from the point of view of a real-life Victorian author. Historical and celebrity mysteries commonly fall into the trap of turning the narrator into a modern man with modern sensibilities, but Brandreth avoids this by creating a realistic Robert Sherard whose responses to Wilde and to the events of the novel ring very true. He even writes using aspects of Sherard's style, a subtle touch that most writers in his place wouldn't even think of. All those commas and em-dashes are very Sherardian, and wholly unlike Brandreth's non-fiction writing (see John Gielgud: A Celebration for example). I also like that Brandreth isn't using the series as a blatant soapbox; it's honest writing.

So why was my blue pencil twitching? The problem I had was with the mystery itself, which was too loose and disjointed for my tastes with too many digressions on Wilde's part. I suspect that Brandreth wanted to show that Wilde was a busy man, but the story would have worked just as well if it had taken place over a few days or weeks rather than almost a year. There were also aspects of the plot that seemed unlikely to me. The scene featuring John Gray and the candles was psychologically unsound given the circumstances, and Wilde's treatment of his wife didn't ring true (something Brandreth improved in the next book in the series).

I also wasn't surprised by the identity of the murderers. Brandreth has the habit (and this comes from reading both this book and the next) of telegraphing the identity of the killer to the reader by making him or her inexplicably less sympathetic than he or she should be under the circumstances. He even has the characters point this out to each other. This disappointed me. Mystery fiction operates by different rules than real life, and one of the rules is that the killer should not be obviously unsympathetic or amoral until the reveal. Naturally the writer doesn't have to go as far as Agatha Christie did in The Mirror Crack'd, but going too far in the other direction spoils the surprise.

That said, I still highly recommend this book. Brandreth shows respect for his characters and he displays an intelligent understanding of Victorian society and of how someone like Robert Sherard would view that society, both at the time and years later. It's also the introduction to his eventual nine-book series on Wilde, and if the rest of the series is as good as the first two books it's well worth your time.

As an aside: the book ends with a long list of "discussion topics", questions about the book's content written apparently for the benefit of book clubs. Does the publisher (because I assume this is a Dumb Publisher's Gimmick, and not the writer's choice) really think readers are dolts?

Oscar Wilde and a Game Called Murder: A Mystery
I love Victorian mysteries so I purchased this novel which features decadent celeb Oscar Wilde as the detective. Enthusiastic about the stories of Sherlock Holmes, and forming a new friendship with its author, Arthur Conan Doyle, Oscar is presented with the opportunity to exercise sleuthing skills echoing his literary hero. The novel is told from the viewpoint of his close friend and biographer, poet Robert Sherard, just as the Sherlock Holmes tales were told from the viewpoint of Watson. Sherard's personality is well-rounded and convincing as he narrates the tale.

The book is filled with witty dialogue: it was difficult to distinguish which were Oscar's quotes and which were invented by the author. The details of the era were convincing and the portrayal of the lead characters, such as Arthur Conan Doyle, engaging.

Although there was no graphic sex or swearing, the novel deals with homosexual behavior in the Victorian age. Although Oscar's close and doting relationship with his wife, Constance, and sons, is emphasized, Oscar also often comments on his appreciation of male beauty and his worship of youth, so the book would not be suitable for sensitive readers. There is also a severed head and a few other gross details.

Some of the other reviews detail the plot, so I'll be brief. Oscar discovers his handsome pupil, Billy Wood, murdered in a private room at their appointed meeting location at 23 Cowley Street: naked and blood everywhere. Oddly, Metropolitan Police Inspector Aiden Fraser is reluctant to investigate Billy's murder, so Oscar enlists the assistance of Sherard in ferreting out who the killer is. Reminiscent of Charles Dickens, there are oddball characters, such as the obese blind man, Bellotti; the dwarf, Bellotti's "misbegotten son"; and the drunken, brutal Edward O'Donnell.

The novel is entertaining in its details of the famous characters and their relationships, but Oscar, who sees it as his purpose to bring Billy's murderer to justice, takes odd breaks for months at a time from pursuing the case. Attempting not to give any of the conclusion away, there were some strong road signs identifying who the likely killers were and I wasn't quite convinced by the jailhouse murder, due to the weight and brutal strength of the victim.

However, the novel is deftly executed in characterization and sentence structure. The scenes are well-written and believable. I am not sure, however, that the novel would appeal to readers who are not fascinated with the Victorian era or with Oscar Wilde, whose flippancy may turn off some readers. I gave it four stars, because I enjoyed it enough to continue with the series and because I'm curious to see how Mr. Brandreth weaves in the future details of Wilde's personal life.

First, a confession. Not only am I an Oscar Wilde scholar, of sorts, but I am also a life long devotee of The Canon. So, this book is a perfect escape for myself, and I must commend the author on not only coming up with a fine mystery deserving of Sherlock Holmes himself, but more importantly (and more of interest) a fine, balanced portrait of what Oscar Wilde may well have been like in his very brief prime. While Oscar Wilde has become in recent years somewhat of a poster child for the gay rights movement, in reality he was a much more complex, nuanced person who by all accounts did love his wife and children dearly--as well as beauty in all of its wondrous permutations. The book is quite well written as well, as befits its subject. Whilst perhaps I should have seen the ending coming, my disbelief was willingly suspended long enough to result in a very enjoyable and satisfying finish to this quick, rewarding read.

I bought this book without having read a single review of it. As a life long admirer of Oscar Wilde, the concept naturally appealed to me. Who could resist the idea of the bon vivant Wilde sleuthing his way through Victorian London with none other than Sherlock Holmes creator Arthur Conan Doyle and Wordsworth descendant and poet Robert Sherard as his partners in crime? I found this a delightful and rewarding read from the first page to the last. Wilde's famous witticisms are ever present but woven so effortlessly into the context of the story, that never once does the reader feel that the author was merely using it as a device by which to impress nor does he rely exclusively on the bon mots to fashion the larger than life person that was Oscar Wilde; he delivers a person that is miraculously uncontrived, yet simultaneously complex and complete. Not an easy thing to achieve when your protagonist is none other than one of the giants of English literature and one revered and remembered as much for his personality and droll observations as he was for his plays, novels and fairy tales. Brandreth's knowledge of all things Victorian is faultless. God knows I've read many a good Victorian murder mystery in my time, but never one that seems so alive yet so blessedly free of clichés and stereotypes; the story simply wouldn't have at benefited from filler or stock characters. Everyone and everything serves it purpose and with great economy, I might add. To me, the conclusion was very satisfying; it was logical without being obvious, free of far fetched ideas. If you're a lover of either Oscar Wilde or a solid Victorian murder mystery, I can pretty much guarantee that you will relish every finely rendered page. I look forward to reading Brandreth's other Oscar Wilde novels