The Club of Queer Trades by G.K. Chesterton

That I should have come at last upon so singular a body [as the Club of Queer Trades] was, I may say without vanity, not altogether singular, for I have a mania for belonging to as many societies as possible: I may be said to collect clubs, and I have accumulated a vast and fantastic variety of specimens ever since, in my audacious youth, I collected the Athenaeum. At some future day, perhaps, I may tell tales of some of the other bodies to which I have belonged. I will recount the doings of the Dead Man's Shoes Society (that superficially immoral, but darkly justifiable communion); I will explain the curious origin of the Cat and Christian, the name of which has been so shamefully misinterpreted; and the world shall know at last why the Institute of Typewriters coalesced with the Red Tulip League. Of the Ten Teacups, of course I dare not say a word.

-The Club of Queer Trades

The Club of Queer Trades is an excellent name for a book, is it not? It's a collection of linked short stories by G.K. Chesterton, all featuring the anti-deductive detective work of mystic ex-judge Basil Grant. Basil quit the court after a public incident generally regarded as a total meltdown. He now spends most of his time up in his garret, philosophizing. In the course of these stories, Basil's brought in on various cases involving the curious titular club at the behest of his brother Rupert - an actual detective, though one far more prone to leaping to erroneous conclusions. The brothers are accompanied on their adventures by the book's narrator, the society-loving Swinbourne. These are no Sherlock Holmes stories: Basil has no interest in the evidence that drives Doyle's famous detective. He's far more interested in the morality of the people he meets, and what they're capable of.

I'd never read any Chesterton before, although I've seen him named as one of England's best writers, as well as one of the funniest - mentioned in the same breath as Wodehouse, whom I love. Certainly the Drones Club might come to mind when one is reading the passage above. Although The Club of Queer Trades is cleverly written, I didn't find it to be as overtly funny as I had hoped. However, a little research informs me that it's not considered to be the peak of Chesterton's fiction writing and, as he was almost frighteningly prolific, I'm sure I'll try something else in the future. It was certainly an enjoyable read - one must admire the creativity it would require to construct both the mysteries and the trades themselves. I also must say that it was quite short (less than 150 pages in my edition*). After the behemoth that was Keats, that was a welcome change. However, the length also leaves me feeling as though I don't have much to comment on, particularly given that much of the joy in reading these stories comes from uncovering the quirky cases along with the characters. Thus, saying less is probably good policy anyway.

Up next: The Private Patient by P.D. James, one of my favorite mystery writers. Hooray!

*I couldn't find a decent picture of the cover, which is why I provided the picture of Mr. Chesterton, looking thoughtful.