“The Murder Room,” by P.D. James; Knopf ($25.95)
In the latest P.D. James novel, a pair of murders is committed at the Dupayne Museum, a small, private London institution devoted to the interwar years of 1919-1939. Three siblings who inherited the management of the museum from their father are fighting over whether it should be closed. Not surprisingly, the brother who advocated shutting the museum down is killed.
Then, a visitor is discovered dead in the Murder Room, a gallery highlighting some of the period’s most notorious homicides. Enter Commander Adam Dalgliesh, a detective with New Scotland Yard, who is charged with the investigation.
While Dalgliesh is a fastidious, orderly detective, James gives her alter ego some softness and humanity by describing his love of poetry and mourning for his long-dead wife.
All James mysteries are very specific to place. “The Murder Room” is no different in that the museum’s activities and those associated with it are integral to the plot.
Through the course of his investigation, Dalgliesh learns about the personalities and foibles of the three siblings, the museum’s curator, housekeeper, handyman, administrator and calligrapher, among others. Of course, all have a vested interest in whether the museum stays open and depend on it for their livelihood if not their identity. To throw readers off the trail of the true killer, James introduces infidelity, medical malpractice, illegitimate children, sex clubs and Alzheimer’s disease all as possible reasons leading up to the crimes.
James’ strength as a writer lies in her ability to craft characters with depth. She doesn’t just supply names and ages but gives the readers a sense of her characters’ desires and motives (and not just murderous ones). However, this descriptive strength could be considered a weakness in the book because the excruciating detail makes it plod along, sometimes seemingly with no purpose.
Though there is plenty of mayhem and malice, “The Murder Room” isn’t as gripping as a John Grisham novel. Rather, much in the same way one wouldn’t barrel through a stroll in Kensington Gardens or high tea at Claridge’s, James is to be enjoyed languorously.
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