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The Sibyl in Her Grave

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Although British author Sarah Caudwell wrote only four Hilary Tamar comedy-of-manners mysteries before her death in January, the long wait between each of them only whetted her fan's appetites. Oxford Professor Tamar's gender (as well as height, complexion, build and every other personal detail) remains a mystery in Caudwell's last, "The Sibyl In Her Grave," and the writing is as precise, elegant, urbane, witty and polished as any fan could hope.

Introducing the story, Tamar addresses the issue of personal appearance, admitting that some readers have expressed an interest. "I do not doubt, however, that these enquiries are made purely as a matter of courtesy and to take them au pied de la lettre would be as grave a solecism as to answer a polite 'How do you do, Professor Tamar?' with a full account of the state of my digestion."

Happily the narrator's reticence does not extend to the team of four young London barristers whose personal, romantic and professional doings enliven Caudwell's stories. Julia, tax expert, is concerned for her Aunt Regina who has made a truly remarkable killing in stocks and is now expected to pay tax on money already spent. Meanwhile Selena's client, a retiring merchant banker, has discovered that one of the two men vying to succeed him is guilty of insider trading - but which one?

These two threads neatly tie into the death of a despised neighbor of Regina's, a psychic whose aviary includes a pet vulture and whose household includes a most unattractive and hapless niece. The other two young barristers, Cantrip and Ragwort, supply red herrings and clues as needed and Hilary pursues this trail of coincidence to come up with several elegant solutions, each one engagingly convincing until demolished.

Dryly hilarious, elegantly polished, Caudwell is the Jane Austen of mysteries and though her books are few, each can be read and reread for the sheer delight of the writing and the intricate, comic plots.

When I first stumbled upon Sarah Caudwell's mystery fiction it was as if I were encountering a sly witty persona with whom I wanted to become a good friend. But having devoured her first three novels, the greatest mystery was why this entertaining novelist had not penned more? As a result, it was a mixed blessing to learn Caudwell did indeed pen a fourth and, sadly, final novel, The Sibyl in Her Grave.

The fictional mechanism Caudwell uses to push her narrative forward still relies heavily upon a modified epistolary form. Though the narrative's letters are fascinating reading and are infused with the allure of reading someone else's personal correspondence, the reader must suspend belief as we know modern man would not sit still, even with the facility of word processing software via computer, long enough to write such fulsome, detailed and informative letters to each other about any topic, let alone suspicious deaths.

Nevertheless, The Sibyl continues the trademark wittiness of Caudwell's earlier three novels. Though her fictional landscape is littered with the requisite corpse or two, she manages to keep the reader guessing until the last chapter -- and not merely about whodunit.

What a pity there won't be more fiction from Sarah Caudwell.

I enjoyed this erudite book (as I had the other three)to the point that I wound up at an outside cafe balancing a tealight on the book so I could finish reading it after that sun had gone down over a glass of port. It is was mixed feelings that I finished it. I couldn't wait to start this new book, but, with it being Caudwell's last before her death, I was forced to remember that future books were not to come. So what if real solicitors would not be as scatter-brained as Julia and survive or that 20th century people would hardly find the time to write all the letters her characters do, I will miss Hilary. He/she has been a good and entertaining guide to my evenings.

Caudwell fans have to be lovers of long convoluted sentences and elaborate figures of speech with scraps of Latin and French. The syle is mannered and the narrative is carried by implausibly long letters written in Augustan prose. Die-hard Caudwell fans already know that, and for us the only discussion is the place of this one, with its all-to-prophetic title, in the canon, now forever reduced to the number of the Gospels. In this one she offers us a version of the traditional English cosy, with a village and a vicar and a spinster aunt. The erudition is a shade less esoteric than in some of the more demanding ones and there is less straight heterosexual sex (although this is made up for in other directions). The twists of plot as the book climaxes are breath-taking, but are merely icing on the cake of suberb prose, biting wit, and deft characterization.

There are only four of these entertaining mysteries, published infrequently from 1981 until the author's death at the age of 60 in 2000 (her real last name was Cockburn, which is interesting given her abiding interest in sexual practices). A pity, because they have their own unique style, if somewhat reminiscent of Christie's bright young things Tommy and Tuppence, or even Dornford Yates. One has to make allowance for the dubious sexual habits of many of the various characters, although that adds to the humor; it is not even certain whether Hilary Tamar is a man or a woman (my opinion is that he is an old poof who is too discrete and reticent ever to have indulged in anything carnal -- good old Uncle Hil). The tone is generally of Wodehousian comedy and complexity (a well-made drawing-room play), with touches of a nice satiric wit, often laugh-out-loud funny. Nearly everybody in these books is intelligent and well-spoken, glibly verbose, even the villains, making these books a pleasure to read as 'escapism' though hardly profound -- as long as you appreciate this sort of thing. Plots are complex, though not of the 'locked-room' type, the typical comedy of errors where there are lots of coincidences, suspects all having their own agendas in diverting sub-plots, and happening to be involved in a crucial way in the events. The last one has an incredible (but fine) spaghetti plot involving multiple poisonings, where actual murder keeps getting pushed up and shot down until the final revelation -- a Mozart symphony of plotting.

The Mysteries: Thus Was Adonis Murdered, The Shortest Way to Hades, The Sirens Sang of Murder, and The Sibyl in Her Grave

The author usually specialized in an epistolary style in which the story is narrated via letters, with Hilary Tamar in a commentative framework (armchair detection). If not letters, it is after-the-fact conversation at the Corkscrew pub/wine bar near Lincoln's Inn with the nice entourage of the young lawyers from the chambers at 62-63 New Square. This author is able to make Chancery and Tax lawyers actually entertaining people. Apart from the suspension of disbelief required to suppose people have the time and skill to write such good letters or speak that coherently these days, the reader will find this method very entertaining and effective -- although admittedly the letter-writers and speakers have no distinguishably separate voices for the most part apart from simple iconic habits (e.g., being a sloppy dresser, or an ignoramus about literature, or feckless, puritanical or klutzy).

The author was a tax lawyer at Lloyd's Bank and in addition to her expertise was certainly into the avoidance of unnecessary taxation. Hence her books involve chancery solicitors and barristers and obscure facts about the revenue codes. To most readers this is as obscure as Hawking's cosmological theories, but just as fascinating -- one doesn't have to be a chef to appreciate good cooking. And there is that wonderful book, quoted in Sirens, called The Guide to Comfortable Tax Planning, which ranks with the Necronomicon and The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy as one of the classic non-existent books of all times

The point of Sarah Caudwell's meysteries was never the plot, or the plausibility. The novels are full of majestic letters no one would ever really write, wonderful characters who would never have the careers they have, and intriguing conversations that could never really happen. The pleasure of reading one of these books is, however, all the things that could never really happen.

It's hard to know how to help someone decide whether they would like this book (or the other three the author wrote before she died last year). I'd say that if you like Wodehouse, you will probably like this (but I hate Wodehouse myself). People who like Benson's Lucia books will likely enjoy these. And, oddly, if you are one of the people who loves Pamela Dean's _Tam_Lin_, you will no doubt find these mysteries engaging.

The books are full of improbable plots, which at least don't fall apart until you reflect on them later. The plots are as tangled as a pile of extra-long spaghetti, which makes it all the more fun when the professor untangles them. If you want realism, look elsewhere. If you want beautiful lanugage, interesting characters and acerbic humor, and you are willing to take that wrapped up in a mystery, you'll love these books.

This is a lovely tight little novel, which really makes you want to take up tax law - in a funny way and to research the minutiae of English law - Hilary Tamarr is the androgynous professor and friend/mentor and obliging bludger to the Barristers at number 63 - Selena, Julia, Cantrip, and Ragwort.

In this problematic novel Hilary must travel to the tiny village of Parson's Haver where Julia's aunt has got herself into a bit of a bind with the tax man who is demanding that she pay up on the return from the investments - trouble is the money is all gone.

In the meantime there is the mysterious death of a spiritualist and, it seems, blackmailer Isabella. Her rather unsavoury Neice is left behind along with a flock of ravens which were Isabellas joy.

The premise of this book sounds a bit unpromising probably - but believe me it is not. This recalls the marvellous mysteries of Agatha Christie and Georgette Heyer or types of mysterys like the Midsomer Murders - they are small country villages, and tend to be small matters. There are louche characters, urbane dialogue, slight eccentricitys from pretty much everyone and immense enjoyment all round

As the solver of mysteries Hilary Tamarr is immensely enjoyable too. A little bit naive, mildly snobbish, and overly intellectually snobbish, good natured, and always on the bludge for the good things in life, but always with enormous good will.

These are character driven mysteries and I really enjoy them - I am so disappointed Caudwell will be writing no more, even this one was published postuhomously - she ended with 4 lovely books, each funnier than the last

As a student of literature I spend most of my time reading literature from the British canon--learned, sometimes difficult, prose. When I'm on vacation, I want to read something fun--not that Jane Austen isn't delightful. I cannot, however, suspend my constant need for intelligent prose.

Sarah Caudwell is a kind of Austenian mystery writer (a comparison others have made, I think). She satisfies the need for good writing, while satisfying the desire for entertainment. Implausible plot? Of course, but no less plausible than the coincidences sprikled throughout Pride and Prejudice.

The novel starts slowly, but once the characters and events get moving (albeit, postally) the mind of any mystery lover will be astir with conjecture. So much fun! The last novel I read during my winter vacation and completely gratifying.

Sadly, this will be the last book featuring the adventures of Selena, Julia, Cantrip, Ragwort and their former Oxford tutor Hilary Tamar, as Sarah Caudwell died in 2000. Last is not least, though, as Caudwell again provides her readers with hilarious characters, suspicious situations, and just enough British tax law to keep things interesting.

This installment centers on Julia Larwood's aunt Regina, who lives in the innocent-sounding town of Parsons Haver, West Sussex. This being Caudwell and not Christie, however, the town is populated with the same kind of oddball, interesting characters the rest of her books are (for instance: the town's newest resident is a psychic who keeps a flock of ravens and a vulture in her drawing room). Regina needs advice from Julia on a tax question; she and some friends have made quite a bit of money investing in shares in different companies and they are now being asked to pay a large capital gains tax. Strangely, their investment plan was identical to that of someone apparently involved in insider dealing at the bank of one of Selena's clients. But what is the connection? That's what this band of amateur sleuths sets out to discover.

As in Caudwell's other books, much of the action is explained through correspondence, in this case mostly letters from Regina to Julia, although other characters do take up the pen. The device works well; it allows the reader to see the story from several first-person perspectives at the same time and to get a better understanding of each of the characters who write. The book isn't all letters and no action, of course; several trips are made to Parsons Haver, Regina comes to London, and action on the bank connections sends characters to locations ranging from Cannes to Scotland. Stones fly through windows, ..things are stolen, and Selena, in an attempt to remodel the law offices at 62 New Square, must deal with those nefarious creatures known as builders. And, although this book does not end in the kind of showdown some of Caudwell's other books do, the ending is satisfying just the same.

The best thing about Sarah Caudwell's novels is the tone, the style. The characters couldn't be anything but British, but they are decidedly modern. Ragwort's trip to Cannes, complete with a dominatrix neighbor and a cross-dressing companion who serenades diners at a local restaurant, would be out of place in many novels, but it fits into Caudwell's world perfectly. Her humor is understated but effective; Cantrip, describing his attempts to discover whether another character is involved with the Parsons Haver business, says that upon his mention of the town, the man became very agitated. When Hilary remarks that this seems significant, Cantrip replies, "Yes, that's what I thought. But it turned out he'd just been stung by a bee, so I suppose it's a bit inconclusive." Caudwell's sense of humor also shows in her decision not to reveal Hilary's sex; the reader may attempt to deduce it, but the clues, such as they are, lead nowhere. The Sibyl in Her Grave lives up to Caudwell's other books in style and in substance. Readers will enjoy this last trip to 62 New Square.

For who knows how long, this book reposed on my bedside table in what can only be called a "pile," which serves as a daily (or rather nightly) reproach to my schedule, inhospitable as it is to pleasure reading. Indeed, the little volume's repose had continued for such a long period that I regret to confess that I no longer remembered which member of my family bestowed it upon me, no doubt to celebrate some long-forgotten holiday (Mother's Day most likely -- forgotten though it commonly is more by them than by me). This novel is, as the reader no doubt will by now have guessed, the type of book that causes its audience to begin thinking in and even writing in its style of expression (fortunately in this case a highly estimable one). As one proceeds, one feels that one can almost hear the sounds and accents of each of the characters' voices -- as well as visualize them perfectly, a trick because Caudwell's descriptive technique tends to broad characterological brushstrokes rather than copious or distracting detail.

"The Sibyl in Her Grave," as other fans have explained here, is to be blamed only for its position as the last of Ms. Caudwell's divinely convoluted fictions (not that she can be blamed for dying! And what a treat, in any case, to discover a mystery novel composed largely in the long-neglected epistolary form!). In every other respect it provides a perfect summer entertainment (by chance such is the season when I had the benison of happening upon it). Since my own prose can hardly approach Caudwell's, especially in her perfection at approximating dialogue, I shall conclude with a brief excerpt that conveys the flavour of the novel.

Historian, Detective, Professor (and Narrator) Hilary Tamar's friend Selena begins the exchange: "...All [Sir Robert] really means is that Bolton has a Lancashire accent. As a matter of fact, I'd say that Bolton has infinitely more personal charm than Albany." "Ah," I said. "Not at all," said Selena, sounding a little vexed. "As you know, Hilary. I am devoted to Sebastian, and there can be no question of 'ah.'" (I presume Sebastian appears in an earlier novel as we hear little of him here, perhaps suggesting that the series is best begun with the first volume -- Thus Was Adonis Murdered -- rather than as I approached it with the last.)