I am hopelessly addicted to the Albert Campion novels of Margery Allingham; they’re like literary crack. Actually, how would I know about crack? More like a Belinda Jeffrey’s Oat and Ginger Slice. Amazingly good to eat while reading, by the way.
I’ve just read three novels in quick succession – 1934’s Death of 
a Ghost, Flowers for the Judge from 1936 and then Traitor’s Purse, published in 1940. The first two are set, respectively, in London, in the art world and in an old-established publishing house; Campion, accompanied by his henchman/servant Magersfontein Lugg, is his usual urbane and clever self. The plots are slippery and satisfying, they’re peopled with hapless innocents, despicable murderers and classic English eccentrics. Justice, of course, is served which is very consoling in these evil times.
I would have been happy with more of the same, but Traitor’s Purse was quite a surprise; it is so very different to the other Campion books I’ve read. More of a thriller than a detective novel, it never lets up on the action. It’s got a taut and shatteringly believable wartime plot, and shows Campion, for the first time, completely at a loss.
He wakes in a hospital bed. Gradually he realises that he must been involved in a fight, and a blow to the head has left him with amnesia. He overhears a conversation between a nurse and a doctor, and leaps to a horrifying conclusion; he’s killed a policeman. All he knows that there is something terrifyingly important he needs to do. Disabled, vulnerable and scared, he has to feel his way to accomplishing his unknown mission.
And that’s all I can say without giving anything away. There’s pace, there’s menace, there’s remorseless ratcheting-up of suspense. One of the best I’ve read for ages. Un-put-downable!