Richard Hull was the pseudonym of Richard Henry Sampson (1896-1973), a British accountant who became a crime novelist, publishing 16 books beginning in 1934. During World War II he revived his accounting skills and became an auditor for the Admiralty. His first book, The Murder of My Aunt (Faber & Faber, 1934), was hugely successful, and he followed it with Keep It Quiet (Faber & Faber, 1935), a tale of murder, theft, pettiness, and ineptitude in a posh London gentleman’s club.

The Whitehall Club contained the usual allotment of tiresome members, who could not be pleased with the food, seating arrangements, room temperature, or anything actually. When one of them was found to have quietly died in the club library, the chef reported to the club secretary, a bumbling man named Ford, that he may have accidentally poisoned Morrison through the dessert specially prepared for him. But the chef couldn’t be sure. Ford, quick to make a bad situation worse, cornered another member, Dr. Anstruther, and coaxed him to provide a death certificate to avoid calling the police, which Anstruther did. They both began to receive letters of blackmail. Ford’s letters demanded that he make small changes around the club, many that were long overdue but that Ford’s indolence or the club’s budget had forestalled. Then the second death occurred.

I found this book slow going at first. Similar to the other Hull I’ve read, none of the primary personalities are likable, except perhaps the much put-upon waiter Hughes. It took a bit for me to realize that this very obnoxiousness was the point. Hull knew his subject here. Only someone deeply familiar with the irritants of a closed community like a London club could replicate them so faithfully. The description of the members and the hapless secretary are simultaneously hilarious and cringeworthy.

I especially loved the thread about someone stealing books from the club library. Detective novels at first and then the more expensive biographies and travel guides. One of the attorneys in the club began to study the problem, convinced he could pinpoint the thief by examining who was in the club when the books went missing. He referenced Sherlock Holmes repeatedly in explaining his deductions. His solution for the Sayers volume that goes missing every May is ingenious if parsimonious.

The dinner menu was an ongoing aggravation to many of the members, which I understand. Why fried curled whiting is more desirable than whiting filets escapes me but the objection to steaming as the sole method for cooking vegetables I can support wholeheartedly. Especially when the vegetables are turnips, swedes, or mangelwurzels. They remind me that winter menu planning in the 1930s had severe limitations. And the description of the various sauces is bitingly caustic, i.e., the sauce for fish is mayonnaise beginning to spoil.

The antics of the club members and staff are so diverting it’s easy to overlook the mystery which has a surprisingly dark resolution. The shift from silliness to bleakness is startling.

Recommended as an excellent window into the milieu and the time first and for the mystery second.