J. J. Connington was a pseudonym for Alfred Walter Stewart (1880-1947), a Scot educated in Glasgow, Germany, and London. Stewart had a long career as a university lecturer and professor in Chemistry at Glasgow and Belfast. He wrote two dozen mysteries between 1926 and 1947. His primary series characters were Sir Clinton Driffield and Squire Wendover. He also wrote one science fiction novel, Nordenholt’s Million, which became a classic.

Both John Dickson Carr and Dorothy L. Sayers were among Connington’s fans. The Times Literary Supplement, 8th November 1928, said: “Mr. Connington has established his name in the front rank of detective story writers. His particular strength lies in his respect for his readers’ intelligence, and his stories are essentially puzzles with honestly worked out solutions…..”  For more biographical data, a bibliography, and critical analysis, see the following websites:

• http://gadetection.pbworks.com/w/page/7930246/Connington,%20JJ
• http://mikegrost.com/allingh.htm#Connington
• http://thepassingtramp.blogspot.com.au/2012/03/alfred-walter-stewart-alias-j-j.html

Truth Comes Limping (Hodder & Stoughton, 1938; Orion, 2013; Coachwhip, 2016) is the 13^th of his Sir Clinton Driffield mysteries. Not considered one of his best efforts, I still found it a pleasant read, if a little slow.

The peace of the village of Abbots Norton-on-the-Green was disturbed one summer night when a courting couple stumbled over the body of a stranger in a side lane. The local constable lost no time in calling his superiors. Chief Constable Driffield was on the scene within hours. Unlike most chief constables, who saw their roles as administrative, Driffield took an active interest in collecting and analyzing evidence. For instance, at the murder scene a number of match ends were located and he painstakingly sorted them so that their brands and sources could be identified. He checked the almanac for the timing of the sunset and moonrise to gauge visibility around the time of the murder. In many ways he was more thorough than his subordinates.

The dead man was discovered to be an impecunious freelance writer from London, whose reason for visiting the village was unknown. A large sum of pound notes was found near the body, which added to the mystery. Within a day or two, two more murders occurred. The connections between them were not clear but the idea that the village was suddenly harboring two separate killers was simply not tenable.

Questions of identity, that favored plot device of the Golden Age, and misbehavior among the previous generation of village residents factor largely into the resolution, which I could never have guessed. I liked this one enough to locate some of Connington’s earlier books, which have received greater critical praise, and have added them to the TBR.