Book Review: The Monogram Murders

The Monogram
Murders

Many an iconic literary character such as James Bond, Philip Marlowe and Sherlock Holmes have been revived by authors like Jeffery Deaver, William Boyd, John Banville, Michael Dibdin and Anthony Horowitz in recent times, and following their footsteps is Sophie Hannah's The Monogram Murders featuring Belgian Private Investigator Hercule Poirot. Being a huge fan of the Dame and the character alike, it was almost a given that I would be reading this book. But for a novel approved by Agatha Christie Estate, this is sadly no House of Silk. Not even close to that.

Taking a leaf out of the Golden Age of Detective Fiction that flourished in the 1920s and 30s following Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's popular detective stories, Sophie Hannah's latest mystery conforms to the very familiar Christie'esque setting. There are bizarre murders, a host of suspects, and then you have Poirot, who is typically Poirot'ish in every possible way - he breaks into occasional French, grumbles about things being not in perfect order, assembles his suspects in big rooms and is never shy off showing off his talents as he unravels the mystery during the climax.

But this Poirot remains at most a "lifeless" third-person character sketch. For the entire story is narrated by a Hastings-like-naive (and incompetent even) detective by the name of Catchpool. He is a major turn off as a character, never feeling interested in the case as he should and willingly letting Poirot investigate it for him (think of a far stupider version of Inspector Japp and Superintendent Battle). The plot twists and turns are themselves interesting though, and the intentional misdirection adds to the denouement's punch. However, the book could have been done with some judicious editing. It seems to be overly-long, rambling and at times struggling to get to the point.