An Oxford Tragedy

Odd sort of book, this. Even for an early twentieth century piece, it's old-fashioned. Pre-war adventure and/or detective fiction is a favourite genre of mine (if you can call it a genre - I've never quite worked out what qualifies as one), and I'm used to most of the quirks. All cars have running boards, all the men wear hats, and all dinners are grand affairs that are followed by brandy and cigars. And women all wear gloves, and are usually ruled out of every murder inquiry on the grounds that they're women. Or on the grounds that the detectives are stupid. Probably the same thing.

( More beneath )