it's a mystery

peake says, apropos of Dorothy L. Sayers' The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club, that when he was a young crime-fiction reader, he "found it a tremendous disappointment. Now I understand why, it is barely a crime novel at all. That is just the excuse for a novel about the social consequences of the First World War, which is fascinating but not what I expected back then."

My comment was that I find this interesting, because the only thing that can make a murder mystery palatable to me is for the mystery to be the least important part of the plot. Which is why I like Sayers. It was many re-readings before I could even remember whodunnit in a Sayers novel.

I think the reason is that the necessity, in a classic by-the-rules mystery, to try to hide the culprit's identity from the reader means that that identity is not contingent. By merely jiggling the clues a little, it could just as easily turn out to be someone else (or mere happenstance) without altering the book much at all. The murderer could have been innocent, or an innocent person the murderer, without changing their observed behavior or personality. Consequently it doesn't matter emotionally who the murderer is, and I can't bring myself to care.

I realize this makes me sound like Edmund Wilson, a fate normally to be avoided, but honestly ...