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Rhoda Gradwyn, an investigative journalist, books herself into Cheverell Manor in Dorset, the private clinic of surgeon George Chandler-Powell, to have a facial scar removed. The night after the operation she is murdered. Because the only other patient present at the time is married to someone in a powerful position, the investigation is handed over to Scotland Yard in the shape of Commander Dalgleish and his assistants, Insector Kate Miskin and Sergeant Francis Benton. Upon arrival at Cheverell they soon establish that the murder was in all probability an inside job with a closed circle of suspects. A second murder turns this probability to certainty. The most pleasing thing about THE PRIVATE PATIENT is its form; solid, traditional and comforting like an old piece of furniture. There are 128 pages of build-up in which we are introduced to the victim and to the various inhabitants of the Manor, who will in due course become our suspects. At the end of this section the murder occurs. We than have a much shorter section introducing us to Dalgleish and his team. The vast bulk of the book - 323 pages - is taken up with the investigation and solution, with a final brief coda at the end in which all loose ends are tied up. This highly traditional structure is, of itself, pleasing and, in its very familiarity, reassuring. It is good that such books are still being written. However when we turn to the quality of this particular piece of furniture then problems and doubts start to emerge. The key test for this kind of work is its plot to an even greater degree than for mysteries with a less traditional form. Plot is the building-block on which this kind of construction rests. Here, while the introductory section is adequate, the investigation quickly becomes something of a plod and the eventual solution is a very damp squib. It is one of those cases where I kept expecting some final stunning, or at least surprising twist, which would excite or amaze. But this was not to be. I have not read much of P.D.James recent output, though at one time I was, like many people, a considerable enthusiast. My main reason for stopping was the right-wing slant of the books. It is not surprising then that I found the Daily-Mail editorialising which intrudes here highly distasteful. However it is not merely personal distaste which leads to my dislike of these passages; equally they are put into the mouths, or minds, of characters who it seems highly unlikely to me would hold such views. The politicisation also distorts James' descriptive writing, as in her almost absurd account of Dalgliesh's trip to some fictional Midlands city. Then there is the prose itself. James always treads a fine line; at times her prose can be vivid and illuminating and she is certainly capable of good things, but often here this trips into over-writing. The theological aspect of her writing is actually the one which I object to least and is very obviously heart-felt and sincere. It would certainly be inaccurate to describe THE PRIVATE PATIENT as a bad book; James is too good a mystery writer to ever write anything which is wholly devoid of quality and interest. Here the structure is comforting, the introductory passages at times intriguing and the sense of purpose interesting, even possibly fulfilling. But because the plot is average at best, the faults of her writing become very evident. Those who wish to understand why she is considered a major figure need to go back, a good way back, to her early books.
Reviewed by Nick Hay, January 2010
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Contact: Yvonne Klein (ymk@reviewingtheevidence.com)
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