The Vault: An Inspector Wexford Novel

By Ruth Rendell

INCLUDES AN EXCERPT OF RENDELL’S FINAL NOVEL, DARK CORNERS

In the stunning climax to Rendell’s classic 1998 novel A Sight for Sore Eyes, three bodies—two dead, one living—are entombed in an underground chamber beneath a picturesque London house. Twelve years later, the house’s new owner pulls back a manhole cover, and discovers the vault—and its grisly contents. Only now, the number of bodies is four. How did somebody else end up in the chamber? And who knew of its existence?

With their own detectives at an impasse, London police call on former Kingsmarkham Chief Inspector Wexford, now retired and living with his wife in London, to advise them. Wexford, missing the thrill of a good case, jumps at the chance to sleuth once again. His dogged detective skills and knack for figuring out the criminal mind take him to London neighborhoods, posh and poor, as he follows a complex trail leading back to the original murders a decade ago.

But just as the case gets hot, a devastating family tragedy pulls Wexford back to Kingsmarkham, and he finds himself transforming from investigator into victim. Ingeniously plotted, The Vault is a “masterful” (The Seattle Times) sequel to A Sight for Sore Eyes that will satisfy both longtime Wexford fans and new Rendell readers alike.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scribner
• Release date: Sep 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781451624090

Ruth Rendell

Ruth Rendell (1930–2015) won three Edgar Awards, the highest accolade from Mystery Writers of America, as well as four Gold Daggers and a Diamond Dagger for outstanding contribution to the genre from England’s prestigious Crime Writ­ers’ Association. Her remarkable career spanned a half century, with more than sixty books published. A member of the House of Lords, she was one of the great literary figures of our time.

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The Vault: An Inspector Wexford Novel, by Ruth Rendell.

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Praise for

THE VAULT

"To say Ruth Rendell is a master of surprise is akin to calling London a big city. The reputations of both are massive, well-earned, and time-tested. . . . The Vault is . . . the work of a prolific and talented author whose work exemplifies and transcends the genre."

—Richmond Times-Dispatch

This is Ruth Rendell at her authoritative best, restoring retired Chief Inspector Wexford to his world of crime investigation and taking the reader with him on an expertly conducted tour of London.

—Muriel Dobbin, The Washington Times

Rendell is brilliant at showcasing London as seen through the eyes of Wexford. . . . Rendell is at the top of her form here.

—Booklist (starred review)

An intriguing, stand-alone whodunit . . . Rendell fleshes out the tale with her customary eye for detail and characterisation.

—Herald Sun (Australia)

No one hides the clues better than her; no one else creates such a pervasive atmosphere of almost comic disgust and dread. . . . A vault, in addition to being an underground chamber, can also be a leap of imagination.

—London Evening Standard

It’s hard to imagine where the inspiration comes from, but find it she does—and there’s not a clue out of place or a shoehorned plotline in sight.

—Time Out London

Her prose is stylish, elegant, and atmospheric. . . . Her plots are surprising and original.

—Scottish Express (UK)

To Paul Sidey and Marianne Velmans, with love

THE

VAULT

1

A CURIOUS WORLD WE live in, said Franklin Merton, where one can afford a house but not a picture of a house. That must tell us some profound truth. But what? I wonder."

The picture he was talking about was Simon Alpheton’s Marc and Harriet in Orcadia Place, later bought by Tate Britain—simply the Tate in those days—and the house the one in the picture, Orcadia Cottage. His remark about the curious world was addressed to the Harriet of the picture, for whom he had bought it and whom he intended to marry when his divorce came through. Later on, when passion had cooled and they were husband and wife, Franklin said, I didn’t want to get married. I married you because I’m a man of honour and you were my mistress. Some would say my views are out-of-date, but I dispute that. The apparent change is only superficial. I reasoned that no one would want my leavings, so for your sake, the decent thing was to make an honest woman of you.

His first wife was Anthea. When he deserted her, he was also obliged to desert their dog, O’Hara, and to him that was the most painful thing about it.

You don’t keep a bitch and bark yourself, he said to Harriet when she protested at having to do all the housework.

Pity I’m not an Irish setter, she said, and had the satisfaction of seeing him wince.

They lived together for five years and were married for twenty-three, the whole time in that house, Orcadia Cottage or number 7a Orcadia Place, London NW8. Owing to Franklin’s sharp tongue, verbal cruelty, and indifference, and to Harriet’s propensity for sleeping with young tradesmen in the afternoons, it was not a happy marriage. They took separate holidays, Franklin going away ostensibly on his own but in fact with his first wife, and he came back from the last one only to tell Harriet he was leaving. He returned to Anthea and her present Irish setter, De Valera, intending to divorce Harriet as soon as feasible. Anthea, a generous woman, urged him to do his best to search for her, for Harriet couldn’t be found at Orcadia Cottage. The largest suitcase, most of her clothes, and the best of the jewellery he had bought her were missing, and Franklin’s belief was that she had gone off with her latest young man.

She’ll be in touch as soon as she’s in need, said Franklin to Anthea, and that won’t be long delayed.

But Harriet never got in touch. Franklin went back to Orcadia Cottage to look for some clue to where she might have gone but found only that the place was exceptionally neat, tidy, and clean.

One odd thing, he said. I lived there for all those years and never went into the cellar. There was no reason to do so. Just the same, I could have sworn there was a staircase going down to it with a door just by the kitchen door. But there isn’t.

Anthea was a much cleverer woman than Harriet. When you say you could have sworn, darling, do you mean you would go into court, face a jury, and say, ‘I swear there was a staircase in that house going down to the cellar’?

After thinking about it, Franklin said, I don’t think so. Well, no, I wouldn’t.

He put the house on the market and bought one for Anthea and himself in South Kensington. In their advertisements the estate agents described Orcadia Cottage as the Georgian home immortalized in the internationally acclaimed artwork of Simon Alpheton. The purchasers, an American insurance broker and his wife, wanted to move in quickly, and when Franklin offered them the report his own surveyors had made thirty years before, they were happy to do without a survey. After all, the house had been there for two hundred years and wasn’t likely to fall down now.

CLAY AND DEVORA SILVERMAN bought the house from Franklin Merton in 1998 and lived there until 2002 before returning to the house they had rented out in Hartford, Connecticut. The first autumn they spent at Orcadia Cottage the leaves on the Virginia creeper which covered the entire front and much of the back of the house turned from green to copper and copper to red and then started to fall off. Clay Silverman watched them settle on the front garden and the paving stones in the back. He was appalled by the red, sticky, sodden mass of leaves on which he and Devora slipped and slid and Devora sprained her ankle. Knowing nothing about natural history and still less about gardening, he was well-informed about art and was familiar with the Alpheton painting. It was one of his reasons for buying Orcadia Cottage. But he had assumed that the green leaves covering the house that formed the background to the lovers’ embrace remained green always and remained on the plant. After all of them had fallen, he had the creeper cut down.

Orcadia Cottage emerged as built of bricks in a pretty pale red colour. Clay had shutters put on the windows and the front door painted a pale greenish gray. In the paved yard at the back of the house was what he saw as an unsightly drain cover with a crumbling stone pot on top of it. He had a local nursery fill a tub with senecios, heathers, and cotoneaster to replace the pot. But four years later he and Devora moved out and returned home. Clay Silverman had given £800,000 for the house and sold it for £1.5 million to Martin and Anne Rokeby.

The Rokebys had a son and daughter; there were only two bedrooms in Orcadia Cottage, but one was large enough to be divided and this was done. For the first time in nearly half a century the house was home to children. Again there was no survey on the house, for Martin and Anne paid cash and needed no mortgage. They moved into Orcadia Cottage in 2002 and had been living there for four years, their children teenagers by this time, when Martin raised the possibility with his wife of building underground. Excavations to construct an extra room or two—a wine cellar, say, or a family room, a study, or all of those things—were becoming fashionable. You couldn’t build on to your historic house or add an extra story, but the planning authority might let you build subterraneanly. A similar thing had been done in Hall Road, which was near Orcadia Place, and Martin had watched the project with interest.

A big room under Orcadia Cottage would be just the place for their children to have a large-screen television, their computers, their ever-more-sophisticated arrangements for making music, and maybe an exercise room too for Anne, who was something of a workout fanatic. In the late summer of 2006 Martin began by consulting the builders who had divided the large bedroom, but they had gone out of business. A company whose board outside the Hall Road house gave their name, phone number, and an e-mail address were next. But the men who came round to have a look said it wouldn’t be feasible. A different firm was recommended to him by a neighbour. One who came said he thought it could be done. Another said it was possible if Martin didn’t mind losing all the mature trees in the front garden.

Martin and Anne and the children all went to Australia for a month. The house was too old, prospective builders said; it would be unwise to disturb the foundations. Others said it could be done but at a cost twice that which Martin had estimated. They said all this on the phone without even looking at it. Nevertheless, he applied to the planning authority for permission to build underneath the house. The project was put an end to when planning permission was refused, having had a string of protests from all the Rokebys’ neighbours except the one who had recommended the builder.

All this took about a year. In the autumn of 2007 the Rokebys’ son, who had been the principal family member in favour of the underground room, went off to university. Time went on and the plan was all but forgotten. The house seemed bigger now their daughter was away at boarding school. In the early spring of 2009 Martin and Anne went on holiday to Florence. There, in a shop on the Arno, Anne fell in love with a large amphora displayed in its window. Apparently dredged up from the waters of the Mediterranean, it bore a frieze round its rim of nymphs and satyrs dancing and wreathing each other with flowers.

I must have that, said Anne. Imagine that replacing that hideous old pot.

You have it, Martin said. Why not? So long as you don’t try getting it on the flight.

The shop sent it, carefully packed in a huge crate, and it finally arrived in St. John’s Wood in May 2009 by some circuitous route not involving aircraft. A local nursery agreed to plant it with agapanthus and Sedum spectabile, but before this was done, Martin emptied the plants and soil out of the wooden tub, placed the remains of the tub into a black plastic bag, and put it out into the mews for the rubbish collection.

I’ve often wondered what’s under that lid thing but never bothered to have a look.

Now’s your chance, said Anne, uninterested.

It’s probably too heavy to lift.

But it wasn’t too heavy. Martin lifted the manhole cover to disclose a large, dark cavity. He could see nothing much beyond what appeared to be a plastic bag or sheet of plastic lying in the depths. Better get a torch, he thought, and he did, thus wrecking his life for a long time to come.

An exaggeration? Perhaps. But not much of one. By shining that torch down into the dark cavity, he gained a place for his wife and himself and his home on the front page of every daily newspaper, put an end to his and his family’s peace for months, attracting mobs of sightseers to the street and the mews, reducing the selling price of his house by about a million pounds, and making Orcadia Place as notorious as Christie’s home in Notting Hill and the Wests’ in Gloucester.

2

CHIEF INSPECTOR WEXFORD, who was no longer a chief inspector or a policeman or a permanent resident of Kingsmarkham in the county of Sussex, sat in the living room of his second home in Hampstead reading the Booker Prize winner. He was no longer any of those other things but he was still a reader. And now he had all the time in the world for books.

Of course he had many interests besides. He loved music, Bach, Handel, lots of opera. Walking he found a bore when he always walked the same route in Kingsmarkham, but London was different, London walks were a never-ending source of interest and excitement. Galleries he visited, usually with his wife, Dora. It was a mild winter and he went on the river with her, took the canal trip with her from Paddington Basin to Camden Lock and back. They went to Kew Gardens and Hampton Court. For all that, for all this richness, he missed what had been his life. He missed being a policeman.

So the chance encounter with Tom Ede as he was walking down the Finchley Road changed things. They had first met years ago when Tom had been a young police constable and Wexford staying with his nephew Chief Superintendent Howard Fortune in Chelsea. Wexford had taken an interest in one of Howard’s cases, and Tom had come to his attention as exceptionally bright and persevering. That had been more than thirty years ago, but he had recognised Tom at once. He looked older, of course, but it was the same face if overlaid with lines, the same hairline if gray now instead of brown. Must be because he hasn’t gained weight, Wexford had thought at the time, rueful about his own increased girth.

He’d looked at Tom, hesitated, then said, It’s Thomas Ede, isn’t it? You won’t know me.

But Tom did—just—when he had taken a long look. He was Detective Superintendent Ede now, based at the new Metropolitan Police headquarters in Cricklewood. They had exchanged phone numbers, Wexford had gone on his way with an extra spring in his step, and he was now hoping Tom would phone. For what? To arrange to meet on some social occasion? No, don’t deceive yourself, he thought. You want the improbable, that he’ll ask for help. He went back to last year’s Booker winner, enjoying it but with maybe a small fraction of his mind thinking about the phone and how Tom had said he would ring around lunchtime.

It was six months now since Wexford had retired up and been presented with the pretty carriage clock, which, on the coach house (how appropriate!) living-room mantelpiece, told him that the time was well into what he called lunchtime. He had eaten the lunch Dora had left him, the meat and ciabatta and ignoring most of the salad. Still, even now, his mind went back to what might have happened, would have happened, if Sheila hadn’t offered them this place.

Of course we don’t want rent, Pop. You and mother will be doing us a favour, taking on the coach house.

The real meaning of retirement had come to him the first day. When it didn’t matter what time he got up, he could stay in bed all day. He didn’t, of course. Those first days, all his interests seemed petty, not worth doing. It seemed to him that he had read all the books he wanted to read, heard all the music he wanted to hear. He thought of closing his eyes and turning his face to the wall. That was on the first days, and he put on a show of enjoying having nothing to do for Dora’s sake. He even said he was relishing this slack and idle time. She saw through that, she knew him too well. After about a week of it he said how much he wished they could live in London. Not all the time, he loved their Kingsmarkham house, neither of them would want to give that up.

You mean have somewhere in London as well?

I suppose that’s what I do mean.

Could we afford it?

I don’t know.

A studio flat, he had thought. That was an elegant term for a bed-sitter with one corner cut off for a kitchen and a cupboard turned into a shower room. Gradually learning how to use the Internet, he found estate agents online and looked at what they had to offer. Dora asked her question again.

Could we afford it?

An unqualified No this time.

They said nothing about it to either of their daughters. Saying you can’t afford something to a rich child is tantamount to asking for financial aid. Their elder, Sylvia, was comfortable but not rich. But Sheila, the successful actress on stage and TV, had an equally successful husband. Their large Victorian house on the edge of Hampstead Heath, if it were up for sale, would be one of those that estate agents’ websites offered as in excess of eight million. So they said nothing to Sheila, even pretended how happily their lives had been transformed by his retirement. But Sheila knew him almost as well as his wife did.

Have the coach house for a second home, Pop.

That was what it was called, a kind of garage for a brougham when people possessed such transport, with a stable for the horse and a flat over the top for the coachman. Carefully converted, it was now a small house with two bedrooms and—unheard-of luxury—two bathrooms.

I still can’t really believe it, Dora said on their first evening.

I can, said Wexford. Don’t forget, I’ve lived in a world where the improbable happens all the time. What would you rather do tomorrow, go by train to Kew Gardens or have a boat up the river to the Thames barrier?

Couldn’t we do both?

During those months they had twice been back to Kings-markham for a week at a time, and that too had been enjoyable, like coming home from a holiday while still wanting to resume that holiday later. But it was a mixed pleasure: this was his manor, this was where he had been the law incarnate for so long. It brought home to him how much he missed being that law.

He walked such a lot in London that he was losing weight and was beginning to know his way around without the sat-nav of the London Guide. He had his car with him and he drove it, but not often. Driving and being driven he didn’t miss. Being a policeman was what he missed. Would he always?

He picked up the Booker winner once more, and as he opened it at the marked place, the phone rang. Pleasantries were exchanged, the How are yous? that no one really wanted an answer to but seemed to be requisite at every meeting. In spite of his fantasy, Wexford couldn’t quite believe it when, after replying that he was well, Tom said it was help he wanted.

In what capacity?

Well, I was thinking. I mean, you may not want to do this at all. You may not want anything to do with it. You’ve retired and no doubt thanking your stars you have but . . . If you did, if you’d just think about it, you could be an adviser. Expert advisers are very popular these days, not to say trendy. And I do see you as an expert. Maybe I’m kidding myself, but years and years ago, I think you spotted some sort of aptitude for police work in me, and now—well, I’m remembering a real talent for it in you. If you were my adviser, you could come anywhere with me, have access to anything—well, almost anything. I expect you’re busy now, but if not . . .

I’m not at all busy, said Wexford.

It’s the Orcadia Place case I’m talking about, and if—

Are you at your new HQ in Cricklewood?

That’s it. Mapesbury Road. Strike while the iron is hot then. Tom paused, said with slight embarrassment, There wouldn’t be any—er, emolument, I’m afraid. We have to tighten our belts in these hard times.

Wexford wasn’t surprised.

He meant to walk all the way but it was longer than he thought, and carefully buying a ticket from a machine, he got on a bus. It was a beautiful day, June as it should be but seldom was, the sky a cloudless blue, the sun hot but cool in the shade of the trees. To think that before he came here, in spite of numerous visits, he had believed there were no gardens in London or, if there were a few, they would be arid plots of dry grass and dusty bushes. The flowers amazed him. Roses were everywhere, bush roses, standards, climbers, and ramblers dripping blossom over ancient, moss-grown brick walls.

Even Shoot-up Hill had its share of flowers. The bus stopped near the end of Mapesbury Road, where the new Met headquarters was a huge glass ziggurat in a street of big Victorian villas, and he felt glad he would be visiting and not working there. That word working stimulated a rush of adrenaline and he speeded up his pace.

Automatic doors, of course, and a huge foyer that seemed to be mostly windows and marble floor. It might have been a hospital or the offices of some large company. The houseplants standing about in black ceramic tubs were the kind you can’t tell are real or artificial unless you actually touch their leaves.

A young woman sat behind the long, boomerang-shaped counter, engrossed by the screens of three desktop computers. He was so used to presenting his warrant card that he was feeling in his pocket for it before he remembered that he no longer had it, that he was no longer entitled to have it. He gave his name, said Detective Superintendent Ede was expecting him.

Take the lift, she said, scarcely looking up. Third floor, turn left, and it’s the third door on the right.

While he waited for the lift to come, he was transported back in time to when, in very different surroundings, he had started his first day as Detective Constable Wexford with Brighton Police. Years, decades, had gone by, yet he thought he felt much the same, apprehensive, excited, wondering what the coming weeks would bring.

3

YOU’LL HAVE READ about it or seen it on TV. God knows it’s had enough media coverage. It’s one of those cases where people start asking if they’ve found any more bodies."

Except that these were all in the same place, said Wexford.

That’s true. We don’t even know if they were murdered—well, one was. Probably.

Only probably?

Three of them have been there so long we can’t tell how long they’ve been dead, let alone what they died of.

Detective Superintendent Thomas Ede was sitting in his chair behind his desk in his glass-walled box of an office, the glass being the kind you can see out of but no one can see in. Laminated-wood floor with a faux fur rug, the fur looking like the skin of a hybrid tiger and giraffe. Ede was a tall, thin man with a small head and tense, sharp features. He wore a dark gray suit and a white shirt but no tie, a style of dressing Wexford thought looked fine on women, less right on men, though it was becoming universally popular. Wexford sat opposite him in the client’s seat, the interviewee’s place. This was something new to him, something he had to get resigned to. And he was getting there, it was all right, it was inevitable.

I’ve read about it, he said, but you tell me. That way I’ll get it right.

Well, as you know, this all started a month ago. We were first called at the beginning of May. The location is a street in St. John’s Wood called Orcadia Place, but that detail wasn’t in the papers, was it? You’re looking as if something’s struck you.

I’ll tell you later, Wexford said. Go on.

"The house itself is called Orcadia Cottage. It’s not a cottage as we know it but a sizable detached house, very pretty if you like that sort of thing. Front garden’s full of flowers and trees, the back is a kind of courtyard or patio. Orcadia Place is one of those streets in St. John’s Wood that are more like

Reviews for The Vault

[marlyn_11 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

After all his years on the job, Reg Wexford has finally retired. He and Dora have turned the carriage house of actress-daughter Sheila's Hampstead home into a second home, keeping their house in Kingsmarkham. Wexford is enjoying retirement, especially walking around and exploring London, but he admits to himself that he misses police work.Enter Tom Ede, whom Reg had met years earlier when Ede was new to the Force. Now a Detective Superintendent in London, Ede asks Wexford to "consult" on a puzzling case.During an inspection prior to some home renovations, a couple living in an affluent part of the city found four bodies dumped in what used to be a coal storage hole.The staircase leading to the house from the hole was bricked over, and the outside entrance, a manhole cover, was also sealed. There's no identification on any of the bodies, though one of the two males has some fine jewellery in his pocket.As expected, Wexford becomes almost obsessed with the case, and keeps on digging after the police have essentially given up.As always, there is a second plotline involving Wexford's family. This time, daughter Sylvia has some complications with a romantic relationship.The Vault is the twenty-third book in the Chief Inspector Wexford series. The first book in the series, From Doon with Death, was published in 1964. That (if my English-major math is correct) is 47 years ago. As a result, many readers worldwide have have plenty of time to become familiar and comfortable with Reg Wexford, his family and colleagues.However, familiarity does not breed discontent here. Rendell's writing continues to be exceptional, and more Wexford novels are eagerly awaited by this reviewer!*Many thanks to the publisher for the e-galley!

[samsattler · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

In The Vault, Ruth Rendell introduces her longtime readers to a new world – one in which her beloved Inspector Wexford no longer has a policeman’s badge to flash. Wexford, now officially retired, wants to experience the things his long career left him so little time to explore. To that end, he and his wife are living on a London property belonging to their daughter, Sheila, from which Wexford plans to explore methodically all the London landmarks he has mostly only read about.During one of his long walks on the London streets, Wexford, who already misses his connection to the police, happens upon Detective Superintendent Tom Ede. The two had worked together for a short time when Ede was a young man, and Ede is still a bit in awe of Wexford’s crime-solving skills. Based on his brief experience with Wexford, and involved in a bizarre murder investigation that is going nowhere, Ede is rather eager to hire Wexford as his personal adviser on the case. Wexford, it turns out, is just as eager to accept the offer – despite there being no salary attached to the job.Thus begins Wexford’s efforts to identify the four bodies found in an old coal cellar that can only be accessed via a manhole cover located smack in the middle of the driveway of a fashionable London home. Wexford, despite his lack of authority and the waning support of D.S. Ede, doggedly moves from interview to interview even as the case begins to make less and less sense to him. The Vault reads like a traditional police procedural but, as Wexford eliminates one false lead after the other, the cast of suspects begins to blend together. The investigation, as such, does not make for compelling reading because much of what Wexford learns about the crime is based on chance or leaps of faith that somehow connect odd clues together. More interesting, to me at least, is the side plot involving his Kingsmarkham daughter, Sylvia, and her love affair gone bad. Wexford reacts to this threat to his daughter’s safety as any parent would, and finds himself spending as much time in Kingsmarkham as he does in London.The Vault will particularly appeal to Wexford fans wanting to see how the man eases his way into retirement, but it is probably not the best place to be introduced either to Rendell or to Wexford. It should also be noted that The Vault is a sequel (of sorts) to A Sight for Sore Eyes but that it works equally well as a standalone Wexford mystery.Rated at: 3.5

[bsquaredinoz · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Reg Wexford has retired and he is enjoying some aspects of his new lifestyle, especially living part-time in the converted coach house in the grounds of his daughter’s north London home. He and his wife Dora enjoy the change of scenery from their home in Kingsmarkham and Wexford in particular has taken to having long walks around the city (Dora gets her exercise at a gym). However Wexford does miss being a policeman so when and old colleague, Tom Ede, asks him to act as a specialist advisor on a curly case Reg jumps at the opportunity. Four bodies have been discovered in the dis-used coal hole of a house in St John’s Wood; forensic evidence indicates 3 of the bodies have been there for about 12 years while the fourth has only been there for 2 years. Given the house has changed hands several times over this period police are somewhat baffled by the case, especially as there is not much to go on in the way of identification.

In most crime fiction some suspension of disbelief is required and here it is that a senior policeman with all manner of resources at his disposal would need (or even consider) relying on a retired person for the resolution to a case however it is made just about believable when the prior relationship between the two is described as being something of a mentoring one. Stretching the credibility further though is the wide acceptance of Wexford by Ede’s younger subordinates, none of whom slow the slightest hint of being miffed at being lumbered with the ageing Wexford as interviewing partner/meddler. Such acceptance of the wisdom of the older person is certainly not my experience of the modern workplace.

However, it’s not that hard to put this aside and become immersed in this gentle but satisfyingly complex tale complete with a nicely observed take on several aspects of modern life. One of the things I appreciated most about this book, and its predecessor, was the well-rounded sense we get of Wexford’s personal life including his various familial relationships and his friendship with his old colleague Mike Burden who he has a drink with each time he goes back to Kingsmarkham. A couple of years ago I read the very first Wexford book, From Doon with Death, and I was struck by how little of the personal side of the characters we saw. Clearly a lot has changed in the 40 years that Rendell has been writing this series. We see the gentle side of Wexford with his various grandchildren and also the distraught parent shines through when one of his daughters is severely injured. As far as the case goes Wexford struggles sometimes with having no official role, he even goes so far as to lament that he is not like the famous amateur detectives of fiction such as Hercule Poirot and Peter Wimsey. However, his imagination is captured by the puzzle of the case and I enjoyed the way he was depicted as figuring out various aspects of the problem, using new technology where appropriate and old-fashioned interviewing techniques when that was called for.

Another thoroughly enjoyable aspect of the book is its presentation of London as something of a character in its own right. Via Wexford’s walks (and bus rides, taxi trips etc) we’re treated to an eclectic but quite delightful picture of the city. There are observations about particular buildings, the changes brought by waves of migration and the way a place can go from being a mansion to a slum (and back again) over time.

There are things that don’t quite work about the novel too. The idea that a senior policeman could have retired within the last year or two having never sent an email seems utterly preposterous for example and the resolution of the case at the heart of the novel is a bit contrived. But the character studies and observations about the life of a newly retired man make up for these minor deficiencies and I can recommend this book to both fans of the series and those unfamiliar with the characters as you really don’t need to have read the rest of the novels to enjoy this one.

I do have to say something about the editing though and not in the way that I usually do when I just want words cut out. Here the book is not too long but it is very poorly edited with names of characters being different in different places, information being repeated unnecessarily (we’re twice told in some detail about the layout of the coach house for example), a character talking of something before the fact is revealed in the narrative and several other errors. At first I thought it was me as I was listening to the book (superbly narrated by Nigel Anthony) but after laboriously re-listening to several passages I realised I had remembered properly and it was the book itself which contained the rather alarming number of errors.

[martitia_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Four decomposed bodies are found in a vault under a manhole cover in the garden of Orcadia Cottage. Newly retired Reginald Wexford becomes a consultant for the case. Rendell creates a strong sense of place describing the neighborhoods of London. This mystery is a kind of sequel to Rendell's psychological novel A Sight for Sore Eyes.

[downtownlibrarian · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

What a pleasure to open a book by Ruth Rendell! Always high quality, always a wonderful mystery, always something to think about.

[romonko · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I am sad that we're getting to the end of Reg Wexford. I have been reading this series for many, many years, and I have always loved. it. In this book, Reg is newly retired, and he and his unflappable wife Dora are dividing their time between their house in Kingsmarkham and a converted carriage house in London. Reg has been enjoying his retirement, but does find that time sometimes hangs heavy on his hands. When he is asked by a former subordinate who is a DCI in London to help with a cold case he jumps at it. Four bodies are found in an underground culvert in the yard of an old and infamous house. And three of them had been there for at least 12 years. The fourth body had only been there for about two. It's difficult for Wexford to piece together who the bodies are, why they are there and why has one body only been there for two years. I found that a retired Wexford is just as enoyable as a full DCI Wexford. He's still as sharp as a tack and he uncannily knows People and what makes them tick. Ms. Rendell is a master novelist and no one can touch her in plot building; or in character building either for that matter. I really enjoyed this book and am sad to be coming to the end of Wexford's long and storied career.

[smik_3 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

When Wexford decides to take up Detective Superintendent Tom Ede's offer of being an unpaid serious crimes adviser to him at Cricklewood he really doesn't understand what that will mean. What he does think is that this will put some meaning back into his life. He is not yet ready for the scrapheap of retirement and there is only so much reading and walking that he can do.What he doesn't immediately see is that he is in essence powerless. He is no longer a policeman and really can't do anything like interview people without permission and without a police officer with him. What Tom Ede seems to need is another pair of eyes, and someone else to take on a little bit of the hack work, and to come up with some ideas of new directions to take. So in many senses Reg is not working with Tom, and add to that the fact that Tom's attention is divided by other cases under his supervision, and he doesn't seem to have the sense of urgency that Wexford expects.And then family life, problems for their daughter Sylvia, intervene into the Wexfords' retirement and life becomes a bit complicated. This sub-plot adds substance to the book and puts the main plot in perspective.For a while there, I thought Reg would never get it all sorted out, but in the long run serendipity, itself the result of Reg Wexford's urge to tie up loose ends, reveals the eventual answer.From what I have read, THE VAULT appears to be an extension of the plot of a stand alone A SIGHT FOR SORE EYES which Rendell published in 1998. I don't remember reading that book, although I probably did a decade or so ago. But I'm going to correct that soon, because I'm intrigued. It doesn't mean however that you can't read THE VAULT independently.Having retired myself less than a year ago, I was interested to see how Reg felt about it. I felt throughout the novel that Rendell is trying out a new role for Reg. I'm not sure that unpaid adviser to the police force is really for him.Not Rendell's best book, but fans will enjoy it.

[druidgirl_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This was my first Inspector Wexford book and it will not be my last. It held my interest and peaked my curiosity throughout. A retired inspector being asked to help the police on a tough and old case adds his experience and knowledge to the local police. He also has a few problems of his own to sort out. But all the twists and turns of the story keeps the readers attention until the very end.

[yogiabb_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Vault is one of Ruth Rendell's "Inspector Wexford" novels. Reginald Wexford has retired from being a policeman and is kind of bored although he finds plenty of stuff to do. None of it really has any meaning for him. He is a good detective but he is not very dashing, athletic, and is the opposite of the tough guys we love so much in America.He gets a call from the police asking for his help on his case. They need the help really bad but not so bad as they are going to pay him or really give him any sort of official status or even cover his expenses. The case involves a hidden underground vault near a house where several bodies have been found. Several from over ten years ago and the latest just two years ago.The case is a real headscratcher and Wexford proceeds to work on it by talking to the present occupants of the house, neighbors, and others. He does it almost apologetically explaining to everybody that they don't really have to talk to him, but they do. He slowly starts piecing together what happens. The people he talk to are all characters, most of whom have secrets of their own, and are not necessarily that helpful, but they are helpful enough.In the meantime he has family drama to attend to. His daughter is involved in a love affair with a man half her age who really can't handle rejection and things really take a bad turn there. His daughter is hiding what really happened and he has to figure that story out while solving the police puzzle.I give this book four stars out of five. I love the interplay between Wexford's work on the case and his family life and all the different "difficult" characters he has to talk to, and the portayal of a mine trying to find some meaning in his life.Go to library and get this book! The Kindle edition is $12.99 which is way too much in my opinion.

[annbury_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Please make it just the latest, not the last, of Inspector Wexford's adventures. He is now fully retired, spending part of his time in London, and is asked to serve as a consultant on a particularly grisly murder. He does so, and makes some progress, but has to work entirely on his own after a singularly unpleasant character complains about his presence during an interview. Off he goes, with his usual acute readings of character, and acute ability to reimagine the past. He spends a good deal of time dealing with the inconveniences of not being official -- particularly having to find parking spaces, very funny -- but triumphs, somewhat damaged, by the end. Meanwhile, of course, his family affairs remain complex, with Sylvia in high form. I miss the old days, when the Inspector was the Inspector and could sit down in the Olive and Dove and go over things with Mike. Any Inspector Wexford, however, is better than none at all.