Alan Hunter – about whom I can find essentially nothing on the vast World Wide Web – is one of the great writers of our time. (He died in 2005.) How can I instigate a belated vogue for his careful writings, chronicling the Taoist adventures of Inspector Gently, an aging detective from East Anglia?
Each of his novels (or each of the ones I’ve read) has a specific geographical setting. This one centers on Heron Cottage, “near Barford Broad” [in the county of Norfolk]:
“The cottage was situated on a by-road about a mile from Alderford village, standing back behind trees that almost hid it from passers-by. It was single-story, built of flint and rusty brick, the roof thatched with reed thatch and the windows furnished with green shutters. It wasn’t large, but it was delectable.”
You see what I mean? The prose is efficient, modest, but shining. Hunter – is that his real name? – writes the way Coleman Hawkins plays the saxophone.
I hate to reveal the plot of any book, especially a mystery, so I will just mention the name Stella Rushton. She’s a novelist, and this book is about her.
