MIDSUMMER MURDER

It’s the first Tuesday in July, and amidst all the noise and bustle of a busy market day in Paulsfield (a fictional Petersfield in Hampshire), a bull escapes and goes on the rampage. As this happens, a workman washing the statue of a horse and rider in the middle of the square is shot dead, clean through the head.

With no obvious motive for the Murder, Inspector Charlton has few leads, and a further two murders committed later that day, also in the market square, cause him further bafflement. We’re the victims randomly chosen or is there a link between them all?

First published in 1937, Midsummer Murder is the second of Clifford Wittjng’s detective stories after Murder in Blue, and is bound to delight his rapidly growing new generation of readers.

The sun was not very high in the sky and the crisp, clean air made sudden death seem preposterous. Murder and criminal homicide were for the dark hours, in foggy November streets or shadowy corners, not for blue skies and the early morning peace of a sleepy little market-town in rural England.

Initially, I thought Midsummer Murder was a newly published book by a new author. I also thought it was a spoof of the genre, notably from the title as a nod to the TV show Midsomer Murders, and from the switched up place name of Paulsfield for Petersfield. As it turns out, Witting’s from the OG era of crime fiction! Someone old, and new (to me at least) and local! I don’t live far from Petersfield either, so absolutely had to take the book there for a photo shoot.

Midsummer Murder is a classic cosy crime/procedural that follows Detective-inspector Charlton, a friendly and charismatic police officer, as he attempts to solve the murder of three deaths by shooting. (And all of them shot before the halfway mark! at which point we’re treated to a helpful little pause in the story by way of an Intermission, where the readers are given the chance to review what we’ve learned so far.)

We meet the usual quirky characters you expect to see in a small-town crime novel, such as Mr. Alexander Pope, tobacconist and ‘confoundedly nice old chap,’ Joseph Beamish, the hard of hearing purveyor of a ramshakle second-hand shop who lives with his two sisters, and Mr. Farquarson, secretary of the Horticultural Society, early morning feeder of ducks, and insufferable busybody.

“Ah, Inspector!” Said the secretary. “I was looking for you.”

Charlton would have dearly liked to express his deep regret that the quest had met with so much success, but a police officer had to be above such human weaknesses.