The problem with Eleanor Updale’s Montmorency is not that it wasn’t good, it’s that it wasn’t good enough. A clever set-up, decent writing, some lovely period detail, and for what?
In fact, the whole book felt like a set-up. That is, if it were made into a movie, eighty percent of what’s in the book would come before the titles. A petty thief discovers how to use Victorian London’s sewer system to carry off daring raids, and then uses the money to set up a sophisticate clubman alter ego. And then... well, of course he’s going to wind up spying for Her Majesty’s. That’s part of the set-up, too, right? But the actual adventure in spying, when it comes, is an anti-climax.
The odd thing, though, is that my disappointment in this book has left me with little interest in its sequels, when presumably this particular disappointment would be taken care of in the sequels, simply because the set-up was already done in the first book. So I should run right out and get Montmorency on the Rocks, right? Nope, sorry, too late, doesn’t work like that. Why not? Oh, er. Well.
chazak, chazak, v’nitchazek,
-Vardibidian.