The Sibyl in Her Grave (Hilary Tamar)

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, quot

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.

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.

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.

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.