Book Review: Lady Audley’s Secret
Posted on | May 18, 2010 | No Comments
Lady Audley’s Secret
M.E. Braddon
http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/8954
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When lay-about gentleman barrister Robert Audley finds his friend missing on a lazy summer’s day at his uncle’s house, he starts from a dreadful suspicion and goes on to unravel a story of bigamy, deception and murder.
It’s not as good as it sounds like.
First of all, this isn’t really a detective novel. Audley is not a detective, and the secret in almost all of its particulars can be inferred before the disappearance even occurs. It is really more of a gothic romance, save that its hero is a gentleman rather than a harassed lady; in fact, the harassed lady is the villain.
Secondly, the novel is woefully predictable. The only two twists of the plot that I did not anticipate I am inclined to think the author made up on the spot. The novel very much has the air of being written in one go, from returning in latter descriptions to earlier points in the story with a “as I have said before”, and correcting an outburst of description in the previous paragraph with “I am speaking now of his feelings in the period that…”
It almost begs to be rewritten as a real mystery, by withholding details and elements from the reader by rearranging he events and how those events are revealed.
So why two stars instead of one?
Even though many of the characters, events and situations are cliché upon cliché, on occasion the author hits upon a character portrait that’s nothing short from spot-on and charming, or a playful, naughty paragraph that shows that she ought to have been writing comedies. Squeeze out some of the sappiness, leave out the gothic thrills and have the plot be about a missing dog or what-have-you, tidy up the results in editing and amp up the comedy, and you really could have had something. It’s almost a shame to waste a slow-moving, pleasure-seeking, well-intentioned Robert Audley on all this gloomy anguish and the edifying example of a man growing to have a purpose in life. It’s a pity that Sir Harry Towers was only there for a moment to harrumph and haw and feel pleased with himself, or that we didn’t see Mr Harcourt Talboys’ harsh narcissistic personality compromised. Miss Alicia, too, could have had a delightful comedy written all about her.
But no. Gloom and anguish it is, and horrors of madness and blackmail, and my lady punished cruelly with what, really, amounted to not being able to get divorce papers before remarrying and temporary insanity – at least until she tried to protect herself against accusations of the same.
I would not recommend this novel, unless you’re specifically curious about Victorian detective novels (or novels that could broadly fit that description), as I was. The predictability and the slow rhythm of the novel may very well be too much for any casual reader, and the virtues of it are few in comparison.
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