Death Walks in Eastrepps

Some novels are comforting to my soul. Francis Beeding’s Death Walks in Eastrepps is a fine example. This 1931 story about a multiple murderer terrorizing a seaside town reminds me of a warm fire, a grilled-cheese sandwich with a piping hot bowl of soup, and daytime pajamas. Familiar but comforting. Besides, focusing on novelty is a foolish endeavor. The notes have all been played and for good reason; they work. We may as well enjoy the familiar when it is presented with competence and flair.

And make no mistake; Death Walks in Eastrepps is a well-worn story. The question isn’t if you’ll guess the killer but rather when. I did it about a third of the way, along with the motive and strategy. Still, I thoroughly enjoyed diving into this world.

One of the novel’s great strengths is its ease with shifting point of view. We get scenes with the main players in town. Their temperaments and problems are clear and concise, so we see them vividly. I know Miss Hewitt and she’s only in one chapter. The geography of Eastrepps is also adeptly established, sparing the reader from tedius minutiae.

The story begins on a train where one of our characters reveals that he has taken a false identity. He was once James Selby, an investor who swindled his clients out of their respective life savings. After years on the run, he returned to England with a new name (Robert Eldridge) and a new life. He’s now romancing a woman in Eastrepps, but he must remain vigilant about his identity. Several of his victims live there.

It isn’t long before the murders begin, and Eldridge’s presence (along with the devestation wrought by his past actions) are clearly at the center of things. The murders (save for 1) all take place on the same day at the same time. The victims (save for 1) are all found with a stab wound to the temple.

If you’re hoping for the manner of death to be revealed as a delicious clue, you’re going to be disappointed. It’s used off the page to link the killer. The cops find the murder weapon which obviously matched the wounds. That’s it. And let me say now that Francis Beeding (John Palmer and Hilary Saunders) doesn’t know how to plant a clue to save his life, or at least in this book he doesn’t. Near the end, one of the characters sees the final damning clue, the one that proves the identity of the killer. The clue’s existence is presented brilliantly. The character stops talking. Her mind begins racing. We know she’s seen something. And we know we must have seen it too. We can’t wait until we find out what it is. I love that feeling! And then….

We find out we hadn’t seen it. It was a visual clue and the only way we can know about it is for the character to describe it later. What a let down! I was so angry.

But then I reminded myself, “You have been enjoying this novel. Just forget about this shitty clue and finish the book on a good note.”

And I had been enjoying the novel. Look at the courtroom sequence. Beeding tells it through mulitple points of view in a relaxed and confident way. It was such a pleasure to read. I like the character flaws. I like the quiet moments when they watch the sun begin to fade and they ruminate on the killer. I love the stalking scenes.

So, would you read this book based on my review? It’s not a great investigation. It’s not a howdunnit at all. The clues are either obvious or non-existent. And you’ll guess whodunnit almost straight away.

But there are times when you’re in the mood for a book like this. Yesterday, the temperature in Chicago was -11 Fahrenheit. What else was I going to do but curl up and read a novel about murder in an English country town? If you’re in the mood for a warm, bloody hug, Eastrepps is a fine destination.