Of the Golden Age mysteries I’ve been reading lately, Richardl Hull’s The Murder of My Aunt was one of my favorites. So, I looked for another by him and found Excellent Intentions. Like The Murder of My Aunt, it has a gimmick—that it begins with the trial but doesn’t tell who the defendant is until the end. However, with its time tables and finicky details, it is the kind of mystery that makes my head spin.
No one is at all upset when Henry Cargate dies of an apparent heart attack on the train. He was a wealthy man who bragged about how much he paid for things, refused to help the local economy by buying from them or employing locals, insulted servants and guests equally, forged stamps and then accused others of doing so, and liked to accuse people of stealing items he planted on them. But when it turns out a passenger saw him take snuff and immediately die, and there is a poison in the snuff box, well then.
So far so good. Inspector Fenby manages to narrow the time that the poison got into the snuffbox to a few hours the day before. But then we get into details like what time the poison bottle was on the windowsill versus the desk, where was the snuffbox, what color were the roses in the next room. Sigh.
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