This post is really an admission of guilt to a crime against books. I found this Edmund Crispin paperback before I had read any of his books and decided that he wasn't for me. I kept it in my errands backpack as an emergency read if I ever get stuck somewhere and don't have my main book with me. Short story collections are good for that. I have become quite consistent in my chore habits and tend to not have much waiting time and when I know I have a wait (like anything health-related), I will make sure to bring whatever book I'm reading. So Beware of the Trains ended up in my backpack inside pocket for several years, getting more and more beat up as it shared the pocket with plastic bags for shopping and cutlery for lunches. Taking off a chunk of the cover one day, I finally decided to clean it up and realized I had basically destroyed the book. I've now taken to scrubbing my hands incessantly to get the little bits of pulp fibre that have dug their way into my skin.
Crispin is a great writer. I enjoy the way he can paint an English scene and he often has interesting characters. It's just that his books are primarily built around an intricate mystery that is supposedly solvable by the reader. Not this reader! These short stories are the same, which is kind of incredible, that he can come up with so many little mysteries. These are like Encyclopedia Brown for grown-ups. So if that is your jam, I would strongly recommend Crispin.
Now what to do with the body?
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