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The Detection Club, according to the paperwork that accompanied this anthology, is "the oldest and most exclusive crime writing organization". Alas, my response to such promotion is "big whoop". Exclusive does not interest me, nor do membership-by-invitation-only organizations. And I simply do not comprehend the purpose of such a group of mystery writers. Seventy-five years ago, there were fewer writers of detective fiction and they probably felt a little beleaguered. And certainly the early members of the club -- Christie and Chesterton and Sayers -- attest to the quality of those who were members. But I simply am not impressed, nor do I get the point of continuing such a club. "By Invitation only" reminds me of the horrors of high school cliques and private school dramas and stories I've heard or read of elitist groups or sororities. The contributors' names are (mostly) familiar to this American reader, although I admit that I did not recognize Michael Ridpath and Clare Francis. I know people who think that Reginald Hill or PD James are simply The Best. There's no arguing about the popularity of Colin Dexter, Lindsey Davis or HRF Keating, all of whom have stories in this book. The catch is that when presented with an anthology celebrating what is arguably the cream of British writing, I expected great things. But you know what, it's just another anthology. Some stories were terrific, some were good, some were pedestrian and at least one -- The Holiday by Clare Francis -- was completely dismaying because to me, it was an ugly tale of a woman with a clear mental illness, an obsession, not a mystery or crime story. I was completely taken aback by the Lindsey Davis tale Going Anywhere Nice? I do not comprehend why anyone would write a story about a detective and his traveling companion and 'friend' -- a woodlouse which lives in a matchbox. I keenly appreciate whimsy, but the point of this story, while told from an interesting perspective -- a vacation in Naples where the detective and others are guessing at events they cannot possibly truly know -- escaped me. And while I appreciate Robert Barnard's work, I was not sure why we had a mystery story -- well not really a mystery story exactly -- a short story about Henrik Ibsen. Original stories though these were, It felt like at times, they were stories that the authors had written and not found a market for in the past. The PD James story, The Part-Time Job, about a man who vows to kill someone who tormented him as a child, will, I am sure satisfy many tastes; I found it a touch old-fashioned and sad. I didn't exactly appreciate the Keating story either; a man who comes home one night and finds a strange toothbrush in the bathroom and goes pretty uncomfortably nuts about it. Forgive me for pointing out the trite and obvious, that all stories, all books are a matter of taste. It's nowhere more obvious than with short story anthologies -- where there is no theme, the stories have to have a major kick. And some did, without question. John Harvey's The Sun, the Moon and the Stars featuring Charlie Resnick really worked for me, as did Colin Dexter's witty Between the Lines where several people come up with vastly different explanations for what happened on a train. Reginald Hill's Dalziel appears in Fool of Myself in a story where things are not what they seem and there are some fine herrings strewn about. I tried to read the stories in the book without knowing much about the Detection Club, so that I wouldn't have any expectations, since those can really mess up how you look at a book. At only 195 pages, the anthology seems a bit thin for the price but that wouldn't matter if it were superb. The book intends to present the elite, the finest stories by the finest writers in the land. I don't see it.
Reviewed by Andi Shechter, May 2006
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