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    Striding Folly: A Collection of Mysteries
    Striding Folly: A Collection of Mysteries
    Striding Folly: A Collection of Mysteries
    Ebook115 pages1 hour

    Striding Folly: A Collection of Mysteries

    By Dorothy L. Sayers

    3.5/5

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    • Mystery

    • Detective Fiction

    • Crime

    • Investigation

    • Lord Peter Wimsey

    • Amateur Detective

    • Whodunit

    • Cozy Mystery

    • Amateur Sleuth

    • Class Differences

    • Police Procedural

    • Chessmaster

    • Haunted House

    • Mistaken Identity

    • Detective

    • Short Stories

    About this ebook

    In three stories, Lord Peter Wimsey confronts land barons, killers—and fatherhood: “One of the most skillful of mystery writers” (The New York Times).

    For decades, Lord Peter Wimsey has made life tough for England’s criminal class. In town and country he solved some of the most baffling mysteries of the Jazz Age, facing down killers armed only with wit, charm, and a keen nose for deception. His work brought him 1 great reward: the love of beautiful mystery novelist Harriet Vane. After years of pleading, he has finally convinced her to marry him. Now the real adventure begins.
     
    In the final 3 Wimsey stories, Lord Peter confronts land barons, killers, and the terror that comes from raising 3 young sons. Through it all, his clear thinking never fails him, and he solves these last puzzles as successfully as he did his 1st. He may be a family man now, but like good wine, a great detective only gets better with age.
     
    Striding Folly is the 15th book in the Lord Peter Wimsey Mysteries, but you may enjoy the series by reading the books in any order.

    This ebook features an illustrated biography of Dorothy L. Sayers including rare images from the Marion E. Wade Center at Wheaton College.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateJul 31, 2012
    ISBN9781453258989
    Striding Folly: A Collection of Mysteries
    Author

    Dorothy L. Sayers

    Dorothy L. Sayers (1893–1957) was a British playwright, scholar, and acclaimed author of mysteries, best known for her books starring the gentleman sleuth Lord Peter Wimsey. While working as an advertising copywriter, Sayers began writing Whose Body? (1923), the first Wimsey mystery, followed by ten sequels and several short stories. Sayers set the Wimsey novels between the two World Wars, giving them a realistic tone by incorporating details from contemporary issues such as advertising, women’s education, and veterans’ health. Sayers also wrote theological essays and criticism during and after World War II, and in 1949 published the first volume of a translation of Dante’s Divine Comedy. Although she considered this translation to be her best work, it is for her elegantly constructed detective fiction that Sayers remains best remembered.

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    Reviews for Striding Folly

    3.5/5

    170 ratings13 reviews

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    • 1/5
      Not to be read for enjoyment. Didactic short stories to allow Sayers to demonstrate her dislike of electricity and people who don't beat their children.
    • 3/5
      A collection of three stories featuring Lord Peter Wimsey. Wimsey really doesn't do that much in the first story, but the other two are important because they show Wimsey as a father of a growing family of boys. Fun, but not great crime literature.
    • 3/5
      In this collection of three short stories, Dorothy Sayers continues the adventures — both familial and criminal — of Lord Peter and his growing family. Striding Folly, published in 1972, is the last canonical Lord Peter book (and by that I mean written by Sayers). Two of the stories, "Striding Folly" and "The Haunted Policeman," had been previously published, unlike the third, "Talboys." I wasn't overly impressed with the mysteries, but they're a wonderful excuse for the scenes describing Peter's and Harriet's marriage. What is it about the relationship between these two characters that is so riveting? It's humorous and secure and intelligent, and just so much fun. Peter's reaction to his wife's labor and the subsequent production of an heir is especially priceless. There is also some highly amusing snark directed at modern attempts to reinvent traditional child-rearing.I can't comment on Janet Hitchman's introduction to this volume, as I skipped it on principle when I read the stories. I'm sure it's quite illuminating, but the book has gone mysteriously missing since I read it, so my good intentions of returning to the introduction are all in vain. Alas, I'm left to my own analysis, and so I say: this is not the best of the Lord Peter books, not by a long shot. But it's a a quick and entertaining read that Sayers fans will enjoy.
    • 4/5
      Light and fun, some nice touches of bloomsbury and poking fun at trendy child rearing...Long and odd introducttion with some weird errors (Since when did PW say "Come on Steve"?)
    • 3/5
      This short work contains the last three Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries. "Striding Folly" barely mentions Lord Peter at all, and the plot disappointed. "The Haunted Policeman" concerns a young constable who encounters Wimsey the night Harriet gave birth to their first son. Lord Peter loosens the officer's tongue with champagne. The third, "Talboys,"features Lord Peter's son Bredon in trouble for stealing a couple of peaches. Then all the neighbors' peaches disappear overnight. Many modern readers probably agree with Miss Quirk's dislike of the means Lord Peter chose of punishing the boy. However, I don't like what the boy (and his father) did to the woman later. All three were mediocre reads although it was nice to see Lord Peter and Harriet settling in as a family.
    • 4/5
      2022 reread didn't change my opinion :)

      The final 3 short stories about Lord Peter.

      I much preferred the second 2 (The Haunted Policeman & Talboys) to the somewhat odd first story (Striding Folly). I particularly liked the way Lord Peter and his eldest son worked together at the end of Talboys!
    • 4/5
      This is a small book, containing only three stories, prefaced by a passionate verbal portrait of Sayers herself, written by Janet Hitchman. Having read the preface, I initially found the first story a let down, but as I progressed through the collection I was more and more fascinated.

      The title story, while interesting, was possibly the weakest of the stories across the two collections, with surreal dream sequences, and tortuous plot logic. The other two stories, which as asides show us Wimsey as family man, were more interesting. Having said that, some of the same surreal quality is seen in the second story ("The Haunted Policeman"), told through two viewpoints - that of Wimsey, who has stayed up late while his wife is giving birth, and a local copper (P C Burt) who Wimsey has lured in to tell of the odd events of the night. But here the surreal quality feels more justified - the reality of the copper's experience really was peculiar, and across the telling of the story both Wimsey and Burt become more and more drunk on Wimsey's celebratory champagne, leading to believably vague characterisation.

      The final story reads as allegory about the role of society and the family in the rearing of children, with interferring society embodied in the visiting Miss Quirk, who neither Wimsey nor his wife Harriet seem to have any real connection with, but who has been foisted upon them. Woven in amongst the mystery of who, exactly, has stolen which of a neighours peaches, is a pointed commentary on discipline of children and the long-term effects thereof. I'm not convinced that the arguments necessarily held up at the time of writing, and they are very much contrary to what I consider to be current child-rearing wisdom, but as extremes of view and arguments either way, there is an interesting juxtaposition.
    • 3/5
      As a teen I loved the Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries, and read them all after seeing a couple of the BBC productions starring Ian Carmichael. So when I found a book by the same author, and about Lord Peter Wimsey, I expected a winner. Unfortunately, I was underwhelmed. This volume includes an incredibly long introduction (31 pages!) and three short stories/novellas.

      Problems? There wasn't much mystery or suspense. Or maybe Wimsey just doesn't work as well in a shorter format, at least not for me. Or maybe my tastes have changed four decades later. I have no plans for a reread of what I considered to be pablum.
    • 3/5
      In this collection of three short stories, Dorothy Sayers continues the adventures — both familial and criminal — of Lord Peter and his growing family. Striding Folly, published in 1972, is the last canonical Lord Peter book (and by that I mean written by Sayers). Two of the stories, "Striding Folly" and "The Haunted Policeman," had been previously published, unlike the third, "Talboys."

      I wasn't overly impressed with the mysteries, but they're a wonderful excuse for the scenes describing Peter's and Harriet's marriage. What is it about the relationship between these two characters that is so riveting? It's humorous and secure and intelligent, and just so much fun. Peter's reaction to his wife's labor and the subsequent production of an heir is especially priceless. There is also some highly amusing snark directed at modern attempts to reinvent traditional child-rearing.

      I can't comment on Janet Hitchman's introduction to this volume, as I skipped it on principle when I read the stories. I'm sure it's quite illuminating, but the book has gone mysteriously missing since I read it, so my good intentions of returning to the introduction are all in vain. Alas, I'm left to my own analysis, and so I say: this is not the best of the Lord Peter books, not by a long shot. But it's a a quick and entertaining read that Sayers fans will enjoy.
    • 3/5
      Indeholder en meget lang introduktion af Janet Hitchman, som røber at Penberthy skyder sig og Talloboy lader sig køre over. (Talloby hedder nu Tallboy i Annoncer, der dræbte). Hele introduktionen kunne fint undværes for min skyld.
      Indeholder også tre noveller: "Striding Folly", "The Haunted Policeman", "Talboys".
      Den første handler om Mr. Mellilow der har købt Striding Hall for at nyde freden og roen på sine gamle dage. Desværre har Mr. Creech solgt det omliggende land til et nyt el-værk og højspændingsmasterne rykker tættere på i skarpt trav. Mr. Creech bliver myrdet og Mellilow forsøgt hængt op på mordet vha et skakspil med en modpart som ingen andre har set noget til.
      Peter Wimsey vil det anderledes og Mellilow bliver befriet for mistanke. Striding Folly er det stentårn, som Mr. Creech bliver fundet myrdet i.
      Den anden handler om en politimand, Burt, der er blevet grundigt forvirret og lidt til grin, fordi han hævder at have set et lig gennem brevsprækken i et hus med nr 13 i en gade - Merriman's End - hvor alle numrene er lige. Det bliver ikke bedre af at trappen ifølge Burt er i den modsatte side af huset i forhold til alle husene i gaden.
      Wimsey er lige blevet far og inviterer politimanden på champagne og får hans historie. Han gætter at det er manden i nr 12, der har drevet gæk og er en glimrende maler af falske perspektiver. Spøgen var egentlig møntet på Sir Lucius Preston fra Royal Academy, så politimanden var et uskyldigt offer.
      Den tredje handler om Peter og Harriets ældste søn Bredon - på 6 år - og naboens forsvundne ferskner som denne gerne ville have haft med på næste dags blomstermarked, hvor de plejer at vinde førstepræmien. Peter finder ud at fersknerne er fjernet af et par af naboens uvenner vha en stige og et fiskenet. En diskussion om børneopdragelse med en lidt uvelkommen gæst Miss Quirk ender med at Peter Wimsey lægger en levende snog i hendes seng og derved fremskynder hendes afrejse.
      Bagatelagtige glimt fra Peter Wimseys liv som gift med Harriet Vane og far til tre drenge, Bredon, Roger og Paul.
    • 3/5
       Three short stories set later than the novels. The second & third Peter & Harriet have children. Not sure they'd necessarily work if you didn't know the characters from the novels, as there's so much less space for fleshing out a character in a short story than there is in a novel. But entertaining inspite of that reservation.
    • 3/5
      A collection of long-short stories that are so slight in substance as to be in danger of being blown away by the next healthy wind. The detection, such as it is, ranges from unconvincing (in the titular story) to obvious and trivial. The true thrill of the stories is to get a glimpse of Wimsey after Sayers ceased writing novels about his exploits.

      The degree to which Wimsey's life is cushioned by money and privilege is not a minor detail in theses stories. Without hat privilege, access and special treatment nothing that happened could have happened. The reader of these stories is no less required to suspend their rationality than is the reader of most science fiction stories.

      That said, as a long time fan of Wimsey and Sayers I found these stories lightly enjoyable although not worth rereading.
    • 1/5
       I almost awlays get nothing out of crime fiction, and this was no exception

      I listened to this, just like I'll be listening to a few other hallowed crime authors to give them a chance, but certainly this did nothing to change my mind; this remains a genre I can live without.

    Book preview

    Striding Folly - Dorothy L. Sayers

    Striding Folly

    including three final Lord Peter Wimsey stories

    Dorothy L. Sayers

    NOTE

    Two of the three final Lord Peter Wimsey stories, Striding Folly and The Haunted Policeman were previously published in Detection Medley, edited by John Rhode (Hutchinson & Co. Ltd.), in 1939. Talboys, written in 1942, has not been published before.

    Contents

    Striding Folly

    The Haunted Policeman

    Talboys

    A Biography of Dorothy L. Sayers

    STRIDING FOLLY

    A Lord Peter Wimsey Story

    ‘SHALL I EXPECT YOU next Wednesday for our game as usual?’ asked Mr Mellilow.

    ‘Of course, of course,’ replied Mr Creech. ‘Very glad there’s no ill feeling, Mellilow. Next Wednesday as usual. Unless …’ his heavy face darkened for a moment, as though at some disagreeable recollection. ‘There may be a man coming to see me. If I’m not here by nine, don’t expect me. In that case, I’ll come on Thursday.’

    Mr. Mellilow let his visitor out through the French window and watched him cross the lawn to the wicket gate leading to the Hall grounds. It was a clear October night, with a gibbous moon going down the sky. Mr Mellilow slipped on his goloshes (for he was careful of his health and the grass was wet) and himself went down past the sundial and the fish-pond and through the sunk garden till he came to the fence that bounded his tiny freehold on the southern side. He leaned his arms on the rail and gazed across the little valley at the tumbling river and the wide slope beyond, which was crowned, at a mile’s distance, by the ridiculous stone tower known as the Folly. The valley, the slope and the tower all belonged to Striding Hall. They lay there, peaceful and lovely in the moonlight, as though nothing could ever disturb their fantastic solitude. But Mr Mellilow knew better.

    He had bought the cottage to end his days in, thinking that here was a corner of England the same yesterday, today and for ever. It was strange that he, a chess-player, should not have been able to see three moves ahead. The first move had been the death of the old squire. The second had been the purchase by Creech of the whole Striding property. Even then, he had not been able to see why a rich business man – unmarried and with no rural interests – should have come to live in a spot so remote. True, there were three considerable towns at a few miles’ distance, but the village itself was on the road to nowhere. Fool! he had forgotten the Grid! It had come, like a great, ugly chess-rook swooping from an unconsidered corner, marching over the country, straddling four, six, eight parishes at a time, planting hideous pylons to mark its progress, and squatting now at Mr Mellilow’s very door. For Creech had just calmly announced that he was selling the valley to the Electrical Company; and there would be a huge power-plant on the river and workmen’s bungalows on the slope, and then Development – which, to Mr Mellilow, was another name for the devil. It was ironical that Mr Mellilow, alone in the village, had received Creech with kindness, excusing his vulgar humour and insensitive manners, because he thought Creech was lonely and believed him to be well-meaning, and because he was glad to have a neighbour who could give him a weekly game of chess.

    Mr Mellilow came in sorrowful and restored his galoshes to their usual resting-place on the verandah by the French window. He put the chessmen away and the cat out and locked up the cottage – for he lived quite alone, with a woman coming in by the day. Then he went up to bed with his mind full of the Folly, and presently he fell asleep and dreamed.

    He was standing in a landscape whose style seemed very familiar to him. There was a wide plain, intersected with hedgerows, and crossed in the middle distance by a river, over which was a small stone bridge. Enormous blue-black thunderclouds hung heavy overhead, and the air had the electric stillness of something stretched to snapping point. Far off, beyond the river, a livid streak of sunlight pierced the clouds and lit up with theatrical brilliance a tall, solitary tower. The scene had a curious unreality, as though of painted canvas. It was a picture, and he had an odd conviction that he recognised the handling and could put a name to the artist. ‘Smooth and tight,’ were the words that occurred to him. And then: ‘It’s bound to break before long.’ And then: ‘I ought not to have come out without my goloshes.’

    It was important, it was imperative that he should get to the bridge. But the faster he walked, the greater the distance grew, and without his goloshes the going was very difficult. Sometimes he was bogged to the knee, sometimes he floundered on steep banks of shifting shale; and the air was not merely oppressive – it was hot like the inside of an oven. He was running now, with the breath labouring in his throat, and when he looked up he was astonished to see how close he was to the tower. The bridge was fantastically small now, dwindled to a pin-point on the horizon, but the tower fronted him just across the river, and close on his right was a dark wood, which had not been there before. Something flickered on the wood’s edge, out and in again, shy and swift as a rabbit; and now the wood was between him and the bridge and the tower behind it, still glowing in that unnatural streak of sunlight. He was at the river’s brink, but the bridge was nowhere to be seen – and the tower, the tower was moving. It had crossed the river. It had taken the wood in one gigantic leap. It was no more than fifty yards off, immensely high, shining, and painted. Even as he ran, dodging and twisting, it took another field in its stride, and when he turned to flee it was there before him. It was a double tower – twin towers – a tower and its mirror image, advancing with a swift and awful stealth from either side to crush him. He was pinned now between

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