Nemesis of the Dead
by Frances Lloyd
Robert Hale, 2009http://www.franceslloyd.co.uk/
And Then There Were.... Still Ten
The premise of Frances Lloyd's debut novel, Nemesis of the Dead, sound pure Agatha Christie: ten English characters with pasts that secretly interconnect, isolated on a picturesque Greek isle with no police, doctors, or other means of assistance, and then one of them mysteriously perishes. Who, beneath this communal dining area pergola, is the killer?
Lucky thing that one of the vacationing couples is Detective Inspector Jack Dawes of Scotland Yard's Murder Squad and his wife Corrie, of Corriander's Cuisine. While these forty-somethings should be enjoying a second honeymoon, they are confronted with a mystery- and the atrocious food at Hotel Stasinopoulos. Who's the one with murder on their mind- the angry New Age Traveller? "Old Misery Guts," the beligerent Insurance Man with a weak heart? His beaten-down Wife? Professor Cuthbert Gordon, renowned botanist? His Glamourous Young American Playgirl Wife? The Clerk? The Nanny? The Plumber? Even Yanni and Maria, who run the hotel, are not telling the whole truth.
The novel is presented in a third-person omniscient voice, with point-of-view wafting from one character to another. The main protaganist, Corrie Dawes, struck me as The Return of the Tea Lady Who Solves Crime. Against the DI's wishes, she noses about and formulates her own inventive, mythology-based theories about the nefarious high jinks here on this enchanting isle of Katastrophos. That is, when she is not eating at least ten chocolate bars, reading diet magazines, or whipping up a huge moussaka and Greek salad with herbs and feta cheese. There's no foul language and only a little titilating sex. With rustic churches, olive trees, beaches, bars and villages, Katastrophos, the "Brigadoon of the Greek islands" (page 66) is explored in terms that recall Mamma Mia! It's very... girly.
Sure, I'm a bloke who loves Dawn of the Dead and Land of the Dead. but another problem I had with Nemesis of the Dead is its extrememly low body count. In a murder mystery, aren't victims supposed to be killed? Lloyd's novel features a couple of dangerous situations and suspicious accidents, but these Ten Little Indians stay Ten. For most of the novel's 223 pages the villainous presence is Ambrose Dobson, the sour Insurance Man. A hundred pages are spent, it seems, in an aside describing what a letcherous bastard this abusive tightwad of husband is to poor Marjorie. Dobson says unkind things to her, he is the group's killjoy, he tries to grope the professor's beautiful wife... scene after repetitous scene. Without one redeeming quality or spark of originality, he's a crap villain.
Finally some action turns deadly, and the ending did contain a surprise or two that I did not see coming. But as with Last Man Standing by David Baldacci, most of the fun in Nemesis of the Dead came from a humorous sidekick. Outrageous Arsenal-supporting plumber Sid Foskett was more appealing to this bloke than the middle-aged crime-solving caterer. Crime fans of a different demographic might become more involved and intrigued, but Nemesis of the Dead kept reminding me of that awful made-for-TV version of Christie's The Man in the Brown Suit with that chick from Remington Steele.
There is one redhead in the novel, but she's frail and scrawny. And all her honeymoon lovemaking takes place off-scene. Not great.
Critical Mick says: I like my crime with less cooking, more spice.
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