Anthony Horowitz : The Twist of a Knife

As my days are currently being consumed by a deep de-cluttering, I am only capable of reading books that require little thought. I dropped into the library for some crime reading and, even though I said I wouldn’t do it again, came away with the latest Anthony Horowitz.

I said it last time, and I’ll say it again; the author as character does not work, especially when his counterpart is a supremely uninteresting person, who is said to have detection skills, but which don’t seem to involve any understanding of other people. Horowitz keeps telling us there is a secret about Daniel Hawthorne the ex-detective, but we are up to book four now, and it still hasn’t emerged.

This book opens with Horowitz, the author as character, telling Hawthorne their association is at an end. He feels bad about it but determined.

At the end of the day, it’s not possible to investigate the deaths of seven human beings without becoming close. I admired Hawthorn. I liked him and I’d always tried to make him likeable when I was writing.

Well, it’s a pity he failed to do that. The reader really doesn’t care to know why Hawthorn says he’s younger than he is, why he rarely eats or what happened at Reeth.

Of course, because we have book four about the duo in our hands it’s obvious he hasn’t managed to get away from Hawthorn.

The device is that Horowitz is having a play, Mindgame, performed in London at the Vaudeville Theatre. We are given a bit of background about the way theatre works, the actors, the promoter and the first night of the play.

But stop, there is in the audience an evil critic from the Sunday Times, Harriet Throsby. Will she give a bad review and thus ruin the play’s future?

The first night goes quite well, with the audience laughing in appropriate places. At the after party, however the critic turns up, making meaningful remarks designed to put various people on edge. It’s no surprise when the review, which is leaked early to the party-goers, is a mocking and uncomplimentary take down of the play. The opening of her review gives an indication of its tone.

Is there any torment greater than the comedy thriller that is neither comedic nor thrilling? It’s so easy to fall between the two stools…and what you might call a theatrical stool, in quite another sense will inevitably result. That, I’m afraid, is what Anthony Horowitz provides at the Vaudeville Theatre.

We are given to believe this review has the power to crush the career of the playwright and actors. Last time I was there, London had a great many newspapers, with many diverging views.

Of course, the producer has given those connected with the play memorial knives as gifts. And of course, by morning one of these knives has done for Harriet Throsby.

Anthony Horowitz is arrested and charged with her murder. He then needs to get Hawthorn to save him from prison.

The book mainly takes the path of exploring all the potential suspects, actors and others involved with the play.

Of course, Hawthorn saves the day. although it is never quite clear how he does it.

The book ends with the author signing a contract for several more Hawthorn and Horowitz books.

Now wouldn’t you rather read a book called Clerical Errors by D M Greenwood, about the goings on in the Anglican church which involve canons and deacons and bishops?

The Bishop is making an address following murder of a bullying Archdeacon

Dhani scrutinised the Bishop’s figure. He looked tense around the shoulders, probably suffered from migraine as well as arthritis. He would benefit from a change of diet and a course of body work, thought Dhani compassionately. He could help him.  But of course the Bishop would never dream of either detecting his own illnesses or seeking help from him. Marks of sorrow, marks of woe.

I feel better now I’ve got that off my chest. Off to pack another box of my once loved possessions that have now become a nuisance.