Finding the shortest way to Hades

By Sarah Caudwell
Dell, 1995

320 pages

By Comrade Reviewer Marienka

Sarah Caudwell's name is probably a familiar one for those who enjoy witty murder mysteries. However, for rest of you, here’s a brief history of Sarah Caudwell. First of all, she’s dead—she’s been sick for quite a long time as we say in the south. Before she died, she hung out at the Chancery Bar, not to be confused with Chancery’s Bar and Grill, and hobnobbed with all the Lincoln Inn nobs (i.e., barristers). She specialized in tax law and wrote four mystery novels: The Shortest Way to Hades, Thus Was Adonis Murdered, The Sibyl in Her Grave, and The Sirens Sang of Murder.

On my bookshelf, I find only three of the novels listed here. Perhaps the fourth was purloined, or perhaps I have been hanging out at Chancery’s Bar a wee bit too long. Whatever. Yesterday I decided to take The Shortest Way to Hades since many of my Tea Partying neighbors suggested that would be a good place for me to spend my Thanksgiving vacation. Herewith follows my experience.

Based on hearsay, which appears to be reliable in this case, one Hilary Tamar narrates, investigates, and generally provides services as Johnny on the spot in all of Caudwell's novels. When not engaged in the aforementioned, Tamar teaches law or something like that at St. George’s College, Oxford. If you can’t find her there, check all the pubs, bars, and restaurants in the area. Before she died, Caudwell did not see fit to reveal Professor Tamar’s gender; however, based on all available evidence it appears Tamar is either male or female. I myself tend to think of Tamar as male, so I will refer to him as such for the remainder of this epistle. If anyone wishes to take issue with or umbrage at my designation, please feel free to comment. Currently, I can be found at a little cafe in Soho—The Virago Naughty Room—eating figs and hanging out under the name of G. Saunders.

But I digress. On to The Shortest Way to Hades. The charm of Caudwell’s novel lies not in the plot (someone is murdered, a usual occurrence in mystery novels I am told), but in the wit. Professor Tamar is no prude although he does have a slight bias against Cambridge and considers all its graduates educationally deficient. Other than this normal fellow feeling toward a rival university, Tamar is quite likeable and disarming—a talent that serves him well in his investigations, in this case the murder of one Deidre Robinson, who lacks the good fortune of being an heiress, beautiful, or even nice. Her cousin Camilla, who possesses all three charming qualities, affectionately refers to her as Dreary, a nickname that helps remind the reader of Dreary’s shortcomings—useful as she dies shortly after a brief and unpleasant appearance in chapter one.

Since no one has any motive for murdering Dreary, one might conclude that one can pack up the book and head elsewhere. Indeed, early on the wily Professor Tamar informs his less credulous colleagues that no murder has occurred. But murder will out . . . and as my dear readers should have surmised mysterious accidents that bear a distinct resemblance to attempted murder start popping out all over the place. Eventually everyone is nearly murdered except, of course, the murderer. And that is all I can say. Although I do not generally care for mysteries, I give this one my hearty recommendation. I shortly expect to witness the death of Adonis and even as I write I hear sirens singing of murder.