The Case of the Gilded Fly

By Edmund Crispin

It is October 1940 and at Oxford the Full Term has just begun. Robert Warner, up and coming playwright known for his experimental approach, has chosen an Oxford repertory theater for the premiere of his latest play, Metromania. Together with his cast he comes to Oxford to rehearse a week before the opening, but Warner's troupe is a motley group of actors among whom is the beautiful but promiscuously dangerous Yseut Haskell . She causes quite a stir with her plots, intrigues and love triangles. When she is found shot dead in the college room of a young man who is infatuated with her, everyone is puzzled and worried –most of the actors have had a reason to get rid of the femme fatale and few have alibis.

The police are at loss for answers and are ready to proclaim the incident as suicide, but Gervase Fen, an Oxford don and professor of literature, who thrives off solving mysteries, is ready to help.

The Case of the Gilded Fly, first published in 1944, is Edmund Crispin's debut novel and also the first Gervase Fen Mystery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: May 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781448214242

Edmund Crispin

Robert Bruce Montgomery was born in Buckinghamshire in 1921, and was a golden age crime writer as well as a successful concert pianist and composer. Under the pseudonym Edmund Crispin, he wrote 9 detective novels and 42 short stories. In addition to his reputation as a leader in the field of mystery genre, he contributed to many periodicals and newspapers and edited sci–fi anthologies. After the golden years of the 1950s he retired from the limelight to Devonshire until his death in 1978.

Book preview

1. Prologue in Railway Trains

Hast thou done them? speak;

Will every saviour breed a pang of death?

Marlowe

To the unwary traveller, Didcot signifies the imminence of his arrival at Oxford; to the more experienced, another half-hour at least of frustration. And travellers in general are divided into these two classes; the first apologetically haul down their luggage from the racks on to the seats, where it remains until the end of the journey, an encumbrance and a mass of sharp, unexpected edges; the second continue to stare gloomily out of the window at the waste of woods and fields into which, by some witless godling, the station has been inexplicably dumped, and at the lines of goods trucks from all parts of the country, assembled like the isle of lost ships of current myth, in the middle of a Sargasso Sea. A persistent accompaniment of dark muttering and shouting, together with a brisk tearing of wood and metal reminiscent of early Walpurgis Night in a local cemetery, suggest to the more imaginative of the passengers that the engine is being dismantled and put together again. The delay in Didcot station amounts as a rule to twenty minutes or more.

Then there are about three fausses sorties, involving a tremendous crashing and jolting of machinery which buffets the passengers into a state of abject submission. With infinite reluctance, the cortège gets on the move at last, carrying its unhappy cargo in an extremely leisurely manner through the flat landscape. There are quite a surprising number of wayside stations and halts before you arrive at Oxford, and it misses none of these, often lingering at them beyond all reason, since no one gets either in or out; but perhaps the guard has seen someone hurrying belatedly down the station road, or has observed a local inhabitant asleep in his corner and is reluctant to wake him; perhaps there is a cow on the line, or the signal is against us – investigation, however, proves that there is no cow, nor even any signal, pro or contra.

Towards Oxford matters become a little more cheerful, within sight of the canal, say, or Tom Tower. An atmosphere of purposefulness begins to be felt; it requires the utmost strength of will to remain seated, and hatless, and coatless, with one’s luggage still in the rack and one’s ticket still in an inside pocket; and the more hopeful occupants are already clambering into the corridors. But sure enough, the train stops just outside the station, the monolithic apparitions of a gas-works on one side, a cemetery on the other, by which the engine lingers with ghoulish insistence, emitting sporadic shrieks and groans of necrophilous delight. A sense of wild, itching frustration sets in; there is Oxford, there, a few yards away, is the station, and here is the train, and passengers are not allowed to walk along the line, even if any of them had the initiative to do so; it is the whole torture of Tantalus in hell. This interlude of memento mori, during which the railway company reminds the golden lads and girls in its charge of their inevitable coming to dust, goes on usually for about ten minutes, after which the train proceeds grudgingly into that station so aptly called by Max Beerbohm ‘the last relic of the Middle Ages’.

But if any traveller imagines that this is the end, he is mistaken. Upon arrival there, when even the most sceptical have begun to shift about, it is at once discovered that the train is not at a platform at all, but on one of the centre lines. On either side, waiting friends and relations, balked at the eleventh hour of their re-union, rush hither and thither waving and uttering little cries, or stand with glum, anxious faces trying to catch a glimpse of those they are supposed to be meeting. It is as if Charon’s boat were to become inextricably marooned in the middle of the Styx, unable either to proceed towards the dead or to return to the living. Meanwhile, internal shudderings of seismic magnitude occur which throw the passengers and their luggage into impotent shouting heaps on the floors of the corridors. In a few moments, those on the station are surprised to see the train disappearing in the direction of Manchester, with a cloud of smoke and an evil smell. In due time it returns backwards, and, miraculously, the journey is over.

The passengers surge self-consciously through the ticket-barrier and disperse in search of taxis, which in wartime collect fares without regard of rank, age or precedence, but according to some strictly-adhered-to logic of their own. They thin out and disappear into the warren of relics, memorials, churches, colleges, libraries, hotels, pubs, tailors and bookshops which is Oxford, the wiser looking for an immediate drink, the more obstinate battling through to their ultimate destination. Of this agon there eventually remain only a solitary few who have got out to change, and who dawdle unhappily on the platform among the milk-cans.

To the ordeal described above the eleven persons, who, at different times and for different purposes, travelled from Paddington to Oxford during the week of 4–11 October 1940, reacted in different and characteristic ways.

Gervase Fen, Professor of English Language and Literature in the University of Oxford, frankly fidgeted. At no time a patient man, the delays drove him to distraction. He coughed and groaned and yawned and shuffled his feet and agitated his long, lanky body about in the corner where he sat. His cheerful, ruddy, clean-shaven face grew even ruddier than usual; his dark hair, sedulously plastered down with water, broke out into disaffected fragments towards the crown. In the circumstances his normal overplus of energy, which led him to undertake all manner of commitments and then gloomily to complain that he was overburdened with work and that nobody seemed to care, was simply a nuisance. And as his only distraction was one of his own books, on the minor satirists of the eighteenth century, which he was conscientiously re-reading in order to recall what were his opinions of these persons, he became in the later stages of the journey quite profoundly unhappy. He was returning to Oxford from one of those innumerable educational conferences which spring up like mushrooms to decide the future of this institution or that, and whose decisions, if any, are forgotten two days after they are over, and as the train proceeded on its snail-like way he contemplated with mournful resignation the series of lectures he was to deliver on William Dunbar and smoked a great many cigarettes and wondered if he would be allowed to investigate another murder, supposing one occurred. Later he recalled this wish without satisfaction, since it was to be granted in that heavily ironic fashion which the gods appear to consider amusing.

He travelled first-class because he had always wanted to be able to do so, but at the moment even this gave him little pleasure. Occasional pangs of conscience afflicted him over this display of comparative affluence; he had, however, succeeded in giving it some moral justification by means of a shaky economic argument, produced extempore for the benefit of one who had unwisely reproached him for his snobbishness. ‘My dear fellow,’ Gervase Fen had replied, ‘the railway company has certain constant running costs; if those of us who can afford it didn’t travel first, all the third-class fares would have to go up, to the benefit of nobody. Alter your economic system first,’ he had added magnificently to the unfortunate, ‘and then the problem will not arise.’ Later he referred this argument in some triumph to the Professor of Economics, where it was met to his chagrin with dubious stammerings.

Now, as the train stopped at Culham, he lit a cigarette, threw aside his book, and sighed deeply. ‘A crime!’ he murmured. ‘A really splendidly complicated crime!’ And he began to invent imaginary crimes and solve them with unbelievable rapidity.

Sheila McGaw, the young woman who produced the plays at the repertory theatre in Oxford, travelled third-class. She did this because she thought that art must return to the people before it could again become vital, and she occupied herself with showing a volume of Gordon Craig designs to a farmer who was sitting next to her. She was a tall young woman, with trousers, sharp-cut features, a prominent nose, and straight flaxen hair cut to a bell. The farmer seemed uninterested in the techniques of contemporary stage-craft; an account of the disadvantages of a revolving stage failed to move him; he showed no emotion, except perhaps for a momentary disgust, on being told that in the Soviet Union actors were called People’s Merited Artists and paid large sums of money by Josef Stalin. At the advent of Stanislavsky, seeing no opportunity of flight, he came off the defensive and attempted an outflanking movement. He described the methods used in farming; he waxed enthusiastic over silage, the bulling of cows, bunt, smut, and other seed-borne diseases, chain-harrows of an improved type, and similar subjects; he deplored with a wealth of detail, the activities of the Ministry of Agriculture. This harangue lasted until the train finally got into Oxford, when he bade Sheila a warm farewell and went away feeling slightly surprised at his own eloquence. Sheila, who had been somewhat taken aback at this outburst, eventually managed to persuade herself by a form of autohypnosis that it had all been very interesting. However it seemed likely, she reflected with regret, that a farming life bore little actual resemblance to Eugene O’Neill’s Desire under the Elms.

Robert Warner and his Jewish mistress, Rachel West, travelled up together for the first performance of his new play Metromania at the Oxford Repertory Theatre. It had come as somewhat of a shock to his friends that a satirical dramatist as well known as Warner should have had to put on a new play in the provinces, but there were one or two excellent reasons for this. In the first place, his last London production had despite his reputation not been a success, and the managements, assailed by a first-class theatrical slump as a result of the blitz, had become extremely wary; and in the second place, it contained certain experimental elements which he was not entirely certain would come off. From all points of view, a try-out was indicated, and for reasons which I need not go into now, Oxford was chosen. Robert was to produce the play himself, with the company as it stood, but with Rachel, whose West End reputation was a more than adequate box-office draw, in one of the leads. The relationship between Robert and Rachel was an amiable and enduring one, and during the last year had become almost platonic; moreover it was backed by common interests and a genuine mutual esteem and sympathy. From Didcot onwards they sat in silence. Robert was in his late thirties, with rather coarse black hair (a rustic forelock drooping over his brow), heavy horn-rimmed spectacles shielding alert, intelligent eyes, tall, rather lanky and dressed inconspicuously in a dark lounge suit. But there was a certain authority in his bearing and an impression of severity, almost of asceticism in his movements. He reacted to the dallyings of the railway company with practised self-control, only getting up once, to go to the lavatory. Passing down the corridor, he caught a glimpse of Yseut and Helen Haskell two or three compartments away, but passed hurriedly on without attempting to speak to them and hoped they had not seen him. Returning, he told Rachel they were on the train.

‘I like Helen,’ said Rachel reasonably. ‘She’s a sweet child, and an extremely competent actress.’

‘Yseut I abominate.’

‘Well, we can easily miss them when we get to Oxford. I thought you liked Yseut.’

‘I do not like Yseut.’

‘You’ll have to produce both of them on Tuesday, anyway. I don’t see that it makes much difference whether we join up with them now or not.’

‘The later the better, as far as I’m concerned. I could cheerfully murder that girl,’ said Robert Warner from his corner. ‘I could cheerfully murder that girl.’

Yseut Haskell was frankly bored; and as was her habit, she made no secret of the fact. But whereas Fen’s impatience was a spontaneous, unselfconscious outburst, Yseut’s was more in the nature of a display. To a considerable extent we are all of necessity preoccupied with ourselves, but with her the preoccupation was exclusive, and largely of a sexual nature into the bargain. She was still young – twenty-five or so – with full breasts and hips a little crudely emphasized by the clothes she wore, and a head of magnificent and much cared-for red hair. There, however – at least as far as the majority of people were concerned – her claims to attractiveness ended. Her features, pretty enough in a conventional way, bore little hints of the character within – a trifle of selfishness, a trifle of conceit; her conversation was intellectually pretentious and empty; her attitude to the other sex was too outspokenly come-hither to please more than a very few of them, and her attitude to her own malicious and spiteful. She was of that very large company of women who at an early age are sexually knowledgeable without being sexually experienced, and even now the adolescent outlook persisted. Within limits, she was charitable, within limits even conscientious about her acting, but here again it was the opportunity of personal display which chiefly interested her, Her career, after leaving dramatic school, had been mainly in repertory, though a rapid affair with a London manager had at one time got her a lead in a West End show, which for one reason and another was not a very great success. So that two years ago she had come to Oxford, and remained there ever since, talking about her agent and the state of the London stage and the probability of her returning thither at any moment, and in general showing a condescension which was not only totally unjustified by the facts but which also not unnaturally succeeded in infuriating everyone. Matters were not improved by a bewildering succession of affairs which alienated the other women in the company, caused a harassed and totally innocent undergraduate to be sent down, and left the men with that unsatisfied oh-well-it’s-all-experience-I-suppose feeling which is generally the only discernible result of sexual promiscuity. She continued to be tolerated in the company because repertory companies, thanks to their special and frequently changing methods of work and precedence, exist emotionally on a very complex and excitable plane, which the slightest commotion will upset; with the result that the more sensible members of the company refrained from any overt expression of dislike, being well aware that unless at least superficially friendly relations are maintained, the apple cart goes over once and for all, hostile cliques are formed, and wholesale changes have to be made.

Robert Warner Yseut had known about a year before the events with which we are concerned, and moreover known intimately; but as he was a man who demanded a great deal more than mere bodily stimulation from his affairs, the relationship had been brutally cut short. In the normal way, Yseut preferred to break off these things herself, and the fact that Robert, wearied of her beyond endurance, had anticipated her on this occasion, had left her with a considerable dislike of him and, by a natural consequence, a strong desire to capture him again. As she travelled, she brooded over his coming visit to the theatre and wondered what could be done about it. In the meantime she concentrated her attention on a young Captain in the Artillery, who was sitting in the corner opposite reading No Orchids for Miss Blandish and entirely unaware of the maddening dilatoriness of the train. She tried a few words of conversation with him, but he was not to be drawn, and after a short time returned to his book with a charming but distant smile. Yseut sat back in her corner with unconcealed disgust. ‘Oh, hell!’ she said. ‘I wish this bloody train would get a move on.’

Helen was Yseut’s half-sister. Their father, an expert on medieval French literature, and a man who showed little interest in anything else, had nevertheless had a sufficient sense of worldly affairs to marry a rich wife, and Yseut had been their first child. The mother had died three months after she was born, leaving half her fortune in trust for the child until she was twenty-one, with the result that Yseut was now considerably richer than was good for her. Before she died, however, there had been a furious quarrel over Yseut’s outlandish name, on which the husband had with unexpected firmness insisted. He had spent the best years of his life in an intensive and entirely fruitless study of the French Tristan romances, and was determined that some symbol of this preoccupation should remain; and eventually he had somewhat to his own surprise had his own way. Two years later he married again, and two years later still Helen had been born, the second baptism causing his more sarcastic friends to suggest that if any further daughters appeared they should be called Nicolette, Heloise, Juliet and Cressida. When Helen was still three, however, both her parents had been killed in a railway accident, and she and Yseut were brought up by a distant and business-like cousin of her mother, who, when Yseut was twenty-one, persuaded her (by what means heaven alone knows, since Yseut disliked Helen intensely) to sign a deed leaving the whole of her money, in the event of death, to her half-sister.

The dislike was mutual. To begin with, Helen was different from Yseut in almost every way. She was short, blonde, slim, pretty (in a childish way which made her look much younger than she actually was), had big candid blue eyes, and was entirely sincere. Although not particularly intellectual in her tastes, she was able to talk intelligently, and with an intellectual humility which was charming and flattering. She was prepared to flirt, but only when the process did not interfere with her work, which she regarded with justifiable if slightly comic seriousness. In fact, she was for her age an extremely clever actress, and though she had none of the hard intellectual brilliance of the Shaw actress, she was charming in quieter parts, and two years previously had made an astonishing and very well deserved success as Juliet. Yseut was only too well aware of her sister’s superiority in this respect, and the fact did nothing to create any additional cordiality between them.

Helen had not spoken since the journey began. She was reading Cymbeline, with a little frown of concentration, and was not sure that she was enjoying it very much. Occasionally, when the train halted for a particularly long time, she gave a little sigh and gazed out of the window; then returned to her book. ‘A mortal mineral,’ she thought: what on earth does that mean? And who is who’s son, and why?

Sir Richard Freeman, Chief Constable of Oxford, was returning from a police conference at Scotland Yard. He sat back comfortably in the corner of his first-class compartment, his iron-grey hair carefully brushed back and a light of battle in his eye. He was holding a copy of Fen’s Minor Satirists of the XVIIIth Century and was in process of registering emphatic disagreement with the opinions of that expert on the work of Charles Churchill. On hearing this criticism later, Fen was not impressed, since publicly at any rate he manifested nothing but a superb indifference for his subject. And in fact, the relation between the two men was a peculiar one, Sir Richard’s chief interest being English literature, and Fen’s police work. They would sit for hours expounding fantastic theories about each other’s work, and developing a fine scorn for each other’s competence, and where detective stories, of which Fen was an avid reader, were concerned, they frequently nearly came to blows since Fen would insist, maliciously but with some truth, that they were the only form of literature which carried on the true tradition of the English novel, while Sir Richard poured out his fury on the ridiculous methods used in solving them. Their relationship was further complicated by the fact that Fen had solved several cases in which the police had come to a dead end, while Sir Richard had published three books of literary criticism (on Shakespeare, Blake, and Chaucer) which were regarded by the more-enthusiastic weekly papers as entirely outmoding conventional academic criticism of the sort which Fen produced. It was, however, the status of each as an amateur which accounted for their remarkable success; if they had ever changed places, as

Reviews for The Case of the Gilded Fly

[overgaard-2 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Fen is fun

[thornton37814 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

This somewhat intellectual "locked room" mystery features a professor solving the murder of an actress with a bad reputation when it comes to men. The police believe it to be a case of suicide, but Gervase Fen makes a compelling case for why it is not. This tedious and boring book contains attempts at humor. The characters grated on my nerves, partly because I disliked the "theatrical" setting, and partly because of their unlikable natures. Even the professor himself fails to engage the reader. I kept plugging away at it, hoping the book would improve. In the end I wished I returned this one to my friend long ago unread.

[cbl_tn · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Amid the rehearsals of a new play by a noted playwright, an Oxford theatre company is thrown into turmoil by the antics of one of the actresses, the beautiful and amoral Yseut Haskell. When Yseut's body is discovered in an admirer's rooms, apparently having shot herself in the head, the general reaction is more relief than sorrow. Although Yseut doesn't seem the suicidal type, it is seemingly impossible for anyone to have entered the room and murdered her. Yet that's exactly what English professor and amateur detective Gervase Fen declares has happened.This would fall into the "locked room" category of mystery stories. I figured out (correctly) early on who the murderer must have been, but not the motive or the means. I enjoyed the lively and intelligent dialogue, although I sometimes felt it was over my head. Crispin's vocabulary is broader than mine, and it would have helped to have a dictionary close at hand, but stopping to look up an unfamiliar word on every other page would break the flow of the story. It's full of literary allusions, some that I recognized, and some I'm sure that I missed.Ngaio Marsh often used theatrical settings in her novels, and her readers might enjoy this mystery. Crispin's writing is definitely earthier than Marsh, Christie or Sayers, or at least more explicit. Recommended for all classic mystery lovers.

[pgmcc · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Case of the Gilded Fly was first published in 1944 and the story is set in wartime Oxford. Author Edmund Crispin, real name “Robert Bruce Montgomery”, graduated from Oxford in 1943 and it is obvious his experience in that centre of learning was plied into the pages of this book.The character, “Gervase Fen”, is an Oxford don and is the amateur sleuth in this, the first of nine Gervase Fen mysteries written by Crispin.Rehearsal and performance of a new play provide the focus for the murder mystery and many colourful and intriguing actors, actresses and others associated with the play populate this novel.Overall I enjoyed the book and I believe it will entertain those who favour murder mysteries that include a bit of humour. I must, however, add a word of caution. Edmund Crispin was obviously a very knowledgeable chap and he wanted to let people know that he was a very knowledgeable chap. This manifested itself in several ways.Firstly, Gervase Fen considers himself to be intellectually superior to most people and is forever alluding to literary and musical works that I would suggest the majority of people would have to look up to appreciate the significance of the reference fully. I believe Crispin identified with this character.Secondly, Fen uses many words that will also require looking up in a dictionary; at least I had to look them up.Thirdly, and this was blatant teasing, there is a character named “Nigel” who is used as the reader’s eyes and ears into the mystery. Fen frequently turns to Nigel and jibes him for not having yet worked out who the murderer is. In this way Crispin is telling the reader that he is the smarter and that without his brilliance the poor dullard of a reader will never find out the solution to the mystery.Fourthly, as one would expect in a golden age murder mystery, the police inspector is portrayed as rather stupid and not a match for Fen’s obviously superior mind.Despite these elements of showing-off by Crispin the book is entertaining and there are many quotes that I have underlined and will reference time and again.I may not read all eleven Gervase Fen mysteries, but I will read one or two more.

[mrslee_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A book written in the 1940s which takes place in Oxford, this is a fun look at life and lifestyles then. It centers around the players as they prepare to perform a new play which is opening in Oxford rather than the West End. As a mystery, it satisfies with some witty humour throughout. I did not fall in love with any of the characters, but enjoyed the read and all the literary references, though I probably missed a lot of them.

[quibee · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

This is the first book in a series featuring Gervaise Fen, an Oxford professor back in the 1940's.
A promiscuous actress dies with so many people that disliked her, it's hard to believe that she committed suicide, which is what the police are led to believe.
Fen, of course, is the only one who realizes the truth and we are lead around from suspect to suspect, such that it's hard to keep track of people and alibis.
By the end of the book, it was hard to keep up sympathy for Fen or for his playing with people nor for his reasoning for not revealing the truth. His eccentricities weren't really appealing, just annoying.

[figgles_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A somewhat unsatisfying book, unpleasant people, unsympathetic victim and a lot of time spent wondering if the perpetrator should be brought to justice because the victim was so deserving of murder.

[johnclaydon · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

There were two great competitions in Golden Age mysteries. The most eccentric detective, and the most wildly improbable explanation of the crime. Fen comes close to the top in the first, and this book comes close to winning the second. I rate John Dickson Carr the best, and Crispin second.

[susankrzywicki · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

The author's sexism intruded and I couldn't simply enjoy the story.

[jonfaith · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The resonance of The Pickwick Papers remains in its transgressions of form and style; it is a comic novel punctuated with ghost stories and finding its finest footing in a debtor's prison. Edmund Crispin achieves a similar success; this is a droll portrait of theatre folk during wartime; one which doesn't flinch nor shirk from low humor or dazzling erudition. I laughed freely and marveled at the elocution. I'm nerdy like that. People around here appear to lack that eloquence.

The actual details of the crime to be solved were flighty and improbable. What if a locked room wasn't actually a room? That isn't a spoiler , but a nod to with weird wit at the core of the denouement. Another detail to savor is the amount of beer consumed before lunch in a rationed Oxford. Whither austerity?

[elimatta_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I disliked the characters, I disliked the excessive complication of following who was whom, and I particularly disliked the writing. Time and again the author tried to impress the reader with words which were long obsolete even in the 1940s. Cinereous, sempiternal, apostophised, minatory, whilom. All of these words, and others reached their peak usage in 1800 or before. How clever the author, how pompous.

[atimco-1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Edmund Crispin's The Case of the Gilded Fly is his first Gervase Fen mystery and follows the relationships of a theater troupe recently arrived in Oxford to put on a new play by a celebrated playwright. When one of the actresses, the universally disliked Yseut Haskell, is found dead, the police are boggled. It looks like suicide, but things don't quite add up. And it seems that everyone in the troupe has a motive to kill Yseut. Enter Gervase Fen, Oxford don and amateur detective. Impatient, given to literary quotations, and eccentrically brilliant, Fen loves nothing more than a good murder to investigate.Overall, I'm not impressed with my first Crispin novel. The mystery itself is a bit farfetched, with too much coincidence and luck needed for the means of the murder. The gilded fly of the title turns out to be the most pointless clue ever; even as a red herring it flops. The obligatory romance doesn't have much to it and feels very obligatory indeed. The character of Fen is fun, I suppose, but he's no Lord Peter. And as for theater mysteries, Ngaio Marsh has that subgenre pretty well covered. It's hard to see what Crispin brings that is new or interesting.I will say that I enjoyed the writing itself. Crispin is certainly clever and there are oodles of literary allusions. I felt my vocabulary stretch as I read (sempiternal, anyone?). Despite my lack of enthusiasm for this particular title, I think I'll give Gervase Fen another try eventually and see if Crispin hones his plots in later books. Fen does have potential as an enjoyable character. But I have a feeling that Dorothy Sayers' Lord Peter is much to be preferred.

[chrissterry_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is an Oxford mystery where the University (despite both murders taking place in a College) takes something of a back seat to the Repertory Theatre. It is the sort of ‘intellectual’ murder mystery which I love, and I look forward to following Gervase Fen through future adventures. Unlike some other reviewers I enjoyed looking up a plethora of obscurev words in the Dictionary. ‘Whilom’ is now added to my vocabulary, and will be employed at the first appropriate opportunity. In one of those delightful link-clicking excursuses which are so easy with online dictionaries I also discovered jumentous (smelling like horse urine) and lateritious (brick red). Though neither appears in the book they might well have done! On the whole I found the characters rather two dimensional, and the Dramatis personae gratuitously provided in the first chapter was a constant source of reference to distinguish some of them. All the bibliographical information suggests this is the first Gervase Fen mystery, but the plot cleverly suggests otherwise. I was also puzzled by the copyright being vested in 1937 in J.I.M.Stewart (aka Michael Innes).

[deltaqueen50 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

At first I didn’t think I was going to enjoy The Case of the Gilded Fly, I thought Edmund Crispin’s writing style was condescending and entirely too judgemental but, eventually I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and consider it as literate satire. I also found his amateur detective, Gervase Fen to be a rather annoying and pompous man, but, he also grew upon me until by the end of the book I was quite fond of the fellow. An eccentric professor of English literature who must be on the move at all times, he is witty, brilliant and rude.As Professor Fen and his wife are entertaining in their rooms at the college one evening, a gunshot rings out. An unpopular and scheming actress is lying dead in the rooms below. At first appearing like suicide, it quickly becomes apparent this was a murder. The case seems unsolvable to the police, but Gervase Fen proclaims to know who the murderer is but doesn’t wish to announce the name until he can tie all the pieces together.Reminiscent of an Agatha Christie novel, the main characters are introduced at the start of the book with their motivations and desires laid out. It should have been easy for me to put the pieces together and solve this puzzler, but I got so involved in the story that the ending was a surprise to me.An interesting book and one that I had to struggle with a bit, there were a lot of literary references that went completely above my head, but once I decided to relax into the read I found I enjoyed this book and I would definitely consider reading another of this author’s books.

[musicmom41 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This is the first book in the Gervase Fen mystery series and but is the third one I read. This was the weakest of the three but I found it entertaining enough to finish because I was already familiar with the main character and the way puzzles were presented. A minor character that appears in The Moving Toy Shop, Wilkes--a fellow don with Fen, also has a brief appearance here where he tells an Oxford ghost story which I thoroughly enjoyed. Over all this was an entertaining read, especially if you are fond of these types of mysteries, which I am. However I would not recommend this to be read first even though it is first in the series.

[madamejeanie · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Theater companies are notorious hotbeds of intrigue, and few are more intriguing than the company currently in residence at Oxford University. Center-stage is the beautiful, malicious Yseut -- a mediocre actress with a stellar talent for destroying men. Rounding out the cast are more than a few of her past and present conquests, and the women who love them. And watching from the wings is Professor Gervase Fen -- scholar, wit, and fop extraordinaire -- who would infinitely rather solve crimes than expound on English literature. When Yseut's murder touches off a series of killings, he more than gets his wish.A British lady I know on another forum recommended Crispin to me and this book in particular, when we were discussing witty novels. Ordinarily, I trust this gal's judgment on authors because we seem to have similar tastes. But this time, I have to say this book was a real oinker. While Fen is supposed to be "brilliant, eccentric, and rude, much taken with himself and his splendid yellow raincoat, and given to quoting Lewis Carroll at inappropriate occasions," I found this novel extremely hard to get interested in. It's written in the "old school" style of murder mysteries, but also obviously written by a man who is quite taken with his own verbosity. My eyes kept glazing over and it took me nearly two weeks to get all the way through! I'd have declared it a DNF and moved on, but I had promised this lady I'd read at least one of Crispin's mysteries. Ok, I've done that. The book gets a 1.

[janesteen_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Where I got the book: purchased used through Amazon. Absolutely marvelous dreadful cover.Having had a few days to allow this murder mystery to percolate through my brain, I have come to the conclusion that the whole thing is a novel-length p*ss-take of the genre and that the author was laughing up his sleeve at the reader the whole time. Set in Oxford during World War II, the story revolves around a repertory theater group who are putting on--from scratch in one week--a play by a brilliant playwright who is also involved in the production. Bitchy actress Yseut makes trouble for everyone and practices her seductive wiles on as many men as possible, and gets her comeuppance via a bullet hole in the head. Is the ring on her finger (a gilded fly) a clue?We are introduced to the amateur detective Gervase Fen, a professor and literary critic who works out the crime in three minutes and spends the rest of the book dropping hints about how he knows what went on but he's not going to tell anyone until they've worked it out for themselves, neener neener neener. This, of course, allows time for another murder to take place, so Fen is in fact responsible for a death. In the meantime, the rest of the cast and crew get on with the show that must go on, nobody really caring a rat's *ss about the murder victim because she was a beyotch and a ho anyway. Which demonstrates that the author knew a lot about actors.Fen makes me think of the lead character in the brilliant BBC Sherlock, so irritating he's fascinating (I think the original Sherlock was supposed to be that way, but time has hallowed him). The supporting cast is fairly unmemorable, except for Mrs. Fen whom I adore utterly. The "official" detective--whose passion is for literary criticism--is an absolutely brilliant idea, but he's not rounded out well enough for me.Yep, I honestly think that everything I found annoying about this book was put there on purpose to annoy. I think Crispin was having his bit o' fun with us stupid readers. When he makes Fen say, mid-book, "In fact I'm the only literary critic turned detective in the whole of fiction", I think he's showing us right there that his intention is to subvert the murder mystery genre rather than add to it.The writing, on the other hand, was superb and often very funny. Crispin displays very little sympathy for the world he describes and the people in it; he's laughing AT everyone, I swear. This book may get a re-read just because. In the meanwhile, my feelings about a rating hover between a 3 (for being bloody annoying) and a 5 (for being a bloody good writer). Let's just call it a 4 and have done with it.

[leslie398 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I am upgrading my rating from the 2* I gave this in September 2012 to 3*. One of the aspects of this book that I disliked was Fen's repeated remarks about knowing who did it. So annoying when the reader (in this case myself) can't figure it out! I had no recollection of the solution but did manage (based upon motive alone) to puzzle out who it must have been but without solving the how.

[lahochstetler · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A wildly unpopular actress is murdered in Oxford. No one is especially sorry that Yseut Haskell is dead, and no one seems all that willing to track down her killer. Everyone is happy to profess their hatred of Yseut. Literature professor Gervase Fen knows immediately who the killer is, but that will stay under wraps until the end of the book. The mystery is a closed-room case. It seems like no one could have gotten into the room to shoot Yseut. This is not necessarily a remarkably unique closed-room case. It relies heavily on the characters to carry it along. I rather enjoyed the university setting of the book. Fen is certainly not my favorite literary academic, but he's well-drawn enough to keep me entertained. I was less interested in the world of the theater. Actors can be very tiresome. I'm hoping that the later installments in this series dispense with the theater and focus on the university

[richardderus · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Rating: 2.5* of fiveThe Book Description: Theater companies are notorious hotbeds of intrigue, and few are more intriguing than the company currently in residence at Oxford University. Center-stage is the beautiful, malicious Yseult, a mediocre actress with a stellar talent for destroying men. Rounding out the cast are more than a few of her past and present conquests, and the women who love them. And watching from the wings is Professor Gervase Fen--scholar, wit, and fop extraordinaire--who would infinitely rather solve crimes than expound on English literature. When Yseult is murdered, Fen finally gets his wish. Though clear kin to Lord Peter Wimsey, Fen is a spectacular original--brilliant, eccentric and rude, much taken with himself and his splendid yellow raincoat, and given to quoting Lewis Carroll at inappropriate occasions. Gilded Fly, originally published in 1944, was both Fen's first outing and the debut of the pseudonymous Crispin (in reality, composer Bruce Montgomery), whom the New York Times once called the heir to John Dickson Carr . . . and Groucho Marx.My Review: Tedious, fusty, and supercilious.Well, that about sums that up.

[piemouth · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The first Gervase Fen mystery, murder in a theater company. Mrs. Fen appears, and apparently there are small Fens. None of these were in the #2 that I started with. Anyway, more wit and quotations and implausible motives and plot, but I enjoyed it very much. Many words and references I had to look up which added to the fun. The Fimble Fowl and the Quangle-Wangle!

[dorritt_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

If you enjoy mid-century British murder mysteries, you should find this satisfying, for it contains all the prerequisite elements: a large cast of suspects (the cast & crew of an Oxford dramatic production); an unlikeable victim (a female actress/femme fatale); a "how could the murder possibly have happened" intellectual puzzle; lots of clues; a complicated timetable; and an eccentric detective - Gervase Fen, irrascable college English Lit don, in harness with a literature-loving Scotland Yard inspector. Crispin's a competent writer and a deft hand at irony.Unfortunately, the novel also includes many genre staples that date these novels and sometimes render them less accesssible/entertaining to modern audiences: little/no character development; a bewildering cast of characters (many of them with similar names, just to add to the confusion); lots of improbable coincidence; little action; and that hoariest of cliches, the "gather all the suspects in the living room and announce the murderer" denoument. As it happens, I'm a fan of the Golden Age of British mystery (viva la Agatha Christie!), but even so, had trouble warming up to this one. One major reason is the red herrings. I love a cunningly planted misdirection as well as the next gal, but the problem here is that the red herrings (sorry - can't list them without spoiling the ending) turn out not to be even peripherally related to the outcome; which still might be forgivable if only the red herrings weren't so much more entertaining and fraught with dramatic potential than the rather lame, unexceptional solution that is eventually provided! A second reason I think I had trouble warming to this was way Crispin basically "phones in" the character of Gervase Fen. In later books in the series, he develops into an intriguing and believable character; in this first outing, however, Crispin does little to make Fen's eccentricities either relevant or interesting. So there it is: though not without flaws, Gilded Fly is a creditable archetype of the genre, and you could certainly do a whole lot worse. (Cough - mysteries featuring cats, quilts, or recipes - cough!)

[lbspen · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

The beginning of the book was quite promising and I enjoyed the introduction of each of the many players in this story. However, this book was too clever by half. I would have enjoyed it more if I was much more familiar with classic English literature. I would venture to say that much of the books humor and meaning would be lost to someone whose day-to-day experience does not revolve around literature, such as an English professor or book reviewer.Intricate plots are par for the course, but this one was so complex that when the time came to reveal all, I scarcely cared who did it and just skimmed over the details. Having the brilliant detective determine the murderer almost immediately then chastise others for not having his superhuman intellect added to the frustration. I had hoped to find another good source of well-plotted mysteries, but I fear I shall not be trying another Crispin book.

[chazzifrazz · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Yseut Haskell may be a young and pretty actress, but she is also has a like for destroying men's lives. She is at Oxford, with a repertory company to perform a new play. She is up to her usual ways of disruption and creating ill feelings. When she is found shot dead in a college room by a gun that she had been waving around at a party the previous evening, it is no surprise that the list of suspects is long. The question is who is the most likely to have committed the crime. Seems more are glad to be relieved of her irritating presence than sad about her demise.Gervase Fen is an Oxford Professor of English Language and Literature, and an amateur detective on the side. For him, this is a great distraction from his usual duties. Nigel Blake, a former student of Fen's and who is now a journalist, is visiting the college. Blake serves as Watson to Fen's Holmes. With each character having a backstory that ties to their dislike of Yseut, Fen has to sift through that and the movements of the suspects to get rid of the chaff and find the guilty party. During the whole process, Fen keeps his solution to himself and keeps the reader guessing.The style of this book is similar to Sayers, Christie, Tey and Chesterton. The Golden Age of mysteries. A fun Brit read with many twists and turns. This is the first in the 10 book series. Interesting to note is that Crispin's background is similar to one of the characters! Oh, and Crispin is a pen name.

[pinkozcat · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I found this book to be slow moving and slightly annoying. I guessed who did the murder very early on although there were various red herrings sent to distract me.However, the real motive was not revealed until the very end and I found this to be unfair to the point of cheating.Overall I found the book disappointing and had to push myself to finish it. Sad, really ...