A.N.Wilson Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death by James Runcie (Bloomsbury, £14.99). At last, an Anglican Father Brown. Runcie has sensibly set his detective stories in the 1950s, before the boring era when DNA and science spoilt the poetry of crime investigation. Canon Chambers, a self-effacing, clever clergyman with a taste for pubs and shove-halfpenny,
‘I’m not a reaper any more. In the modern NHS, my title is Grim Pathway Co-ordinator.’
‘OK, Pip and Estella . . . ’
‘Oh, well, if there aren’t any programmes on about policemen chasing scantily clad, drunken fat girls around the centre of Cardiff, I’m off to bed.’
‘They say that the crew are all hopeless Tories, doomed to spend eternity wittering on about Europe and limits on abortion.’
‘Let’s see. Coma. Coma. Coma. Coma. Coma. Chameleon.’
‘Fruit juice, shaken not stirred . . . ’
‘My mistake — petting zoo is next door along.’
‘We have some time to kill.’
‘We’re going to rush you straight through to intensive neglect.’
‘I’m undecided which way I would vote in an election — just as I’m undecided whether to let off the thermal nuclear device I’m building in my garage.’
‘Here endeth the texting’
‘I’d say it’s Chinese.’
‘We have very high standards here — all our staff are undercover reporters.’
