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lgpiper's review against another edition
4.0
So, it seems that Inspector Alan Grant has had a nervous breakdown and has taken a leave of absence from Scotland Yard. He's off to Scotland to stay with his best friend from his school days Tom Rankin, and Tom's wife, Laura, who is also Grant's cousin. He plans many lovely days fishing in the streams and rejuvenating himself.
But, as he is leaving the train, he sees the conductor trying to wake up an apparent drunk in one of the sleeping compartments. Grant knows instantly that the man is dead. The man has a rather arresting countenance, which haunts Grant. Grant also discovers later on that he had lifted a news paper from the man's compartment with a rather intriguing fragment of a poem written in a blank spot.
Well, Grant can't seem to let the vision of the young man in the compartment, nor his poem, go. So, he calls up an old friend from Scotland Yard to fill him on. Allegedly, the young man is one Charles Martin and he fell over in his compartment and cracked his skull on the sink. Somehow, he'd managed to crawl onto his bed before he expired.
As for the singing sands and such like, perhaps they refer to one or several of the islands west of the coast of Scotland. Singing sands, walking rocks and the way to paradise all appear to have a place in Gaelic folk lore. So, for a few days Grant goes off to the most likely island to have a look around.
But, he also places an ad in the London papers asking for information about the poem. He gets lots of crank replies, of course, but also one seemingly serious one from a young flyer named Tad Cullen. It seems that the poem stirred a rembrance of Cullen's best buddy, Bill Kenrick. It seems that Cullen and Kenrick were to meet in Paris the day the dead young man was found in Grant's train. Furthermore, Kenrick looks somewhat like the dead young man, allegedly a Frenchman, Charles Martin.
Cullen seems to think the poem might have something to do with Arabia, so Grant goes off interviewing experts in Arabian exploration.
Well, I've already droned on too long, so I'll stop. This is really a quite interesting and well written story. I think it's the third by Tey that I've read, and her work is a cut above the standard "mystery" novel. I'll surely read more of her work.
But, as he is leaving the train, he sees the conductor trying to wake up an apparent drunk in one of the sleeping compartments. Grant knows instantly that the man is dead. The man has a rather arresting countenance, which haunts Grant. Grant also discovers later on that he had lifted a news paper from the man's compartment with a rather intriguing fragment of a poem written in a blank spot.
The beasts that talk,
The streams that stand,
The stones that walk,
The singing sand,
...
...
That guard the way to Paradise
Well, Grant can't seem to let the vision of the young man in the compartment, nor his poem, go. So, he calls up an old friend from Scotland Yard to fill him on. Allegedly, the young man is one Charles Martin and he fell over in his compartment and cracked his skull on the sink. Somehow, he'd managed to crawl onto his bed before he expired.
As for the singing sands and such like, perhaps they refer to one or several of the islands west of the coast of Scotland. Singing sands, walking rocks and the way to paradise all appear to have a place in Gaelic folk lore. So, for a few days Grant goes off to the most likely island to have a look around.
But, he also places an ad in the London papers asking for information about the poem. He gets lots of crank replies, of course, but also one seemingly serious one from a young flyer named Tad Cullen. It seems that the poem stirred a rembrance of Cullen's best buddy, Bill Kenrick. It seems that Cullen and Kenrick were to meet in Paris the day the dead young man was found in Grant's train. Furthermore, Kenrick looks somewhat like the dead young man, allegedly a Frenchman, Charles Martin.
Cullen seems to think the poem might have something to do with Arabia, so Grant goes off interviewing experts in Arabian exploration.
Well, I've already droned on too long, so I'll stop. This is really a quite interesting and well written story. I think it's the third by Tey that I've read, and her work is a cut above the standard "mystery" novel. I'll surely read more of her work.
horthhill's review against another edition
4.0
"The Singing Sands" by Josephine Tey is a strange murder mystery novel. The detective is Inspector Alan Grant. He has taken sick leave as his doctor prescribes a month in the country. Grant arranges to stay in Scotland with his cousin's family. He takes the night train up from London. In the morning, as he walks down the corridor leaving the train, Grant notes that the cabin steward is trying to wake a passenger. Grant senses a problem and leans in to take a quick look. Being a homicide detective, Grant recognizes a dead body when he sees one. Grant tells the steward that his passenger is a dead passenger. He leaves the train as he suspects nothing unusual about the death. While eating breakfast at the station terminal Grant finds that he has quite accidentally purloined the dead man's newspaper: a newspaper that has a clue. Quite a good story except for the odd fanciful ending.
doobyus's review against another edition
4.0
Golden age murder mystery with a difference.
I thoroughly enjoyed this well written novel, even though the plot twists were occasionally, um, out there. Terrific, middle class, middle England, detective story with a little unkind unionist stereotyping thrown in for good measure (despite the author being from Inverness).
This was Tey’s last novel, and (therefore) the last starring Alan Grant, but I’d love to read the earlier ones now.
I thoroughly enjoyed this well written novel, even though the plot twists were occasionally, um, out there. Terrific, middle class, middle England, detective story with a little unkind unionist stereotyping thrown in for good measure (despite the author being from Inverness).
This was Tey’s last novel, and (therefore) the last starring Alan Grant, but I’d love to read the earlier ones now.
rellimarual's review against another edition
lighthearted
mysterious
reflective
relaxing
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
3.0
This is the last of the Grant novels I've read, and here was where the smug Britishness began to grate. I mostly like Grant and his gentlemanly ways, but at several points in the later books, dismissive remarks are made about nations colonized by the British and how ridiculous their citizens are to wish for independence when British rule is so sensible and constructive. Grant literally speculates that if Britain hadn't colonized India, Indian culture would have been "diluted" because an alternate colonizer, like the Dutch wouldn't have forbidden mixed-race marriages! The Irish, in case you didn't know, are too undisciplined and fanciful to be in charge of their own lives. Also, an American is informed that the British aristocracy is not the least bit snobby and is in fact the most down-to-earth population in the country, which was frankly hilarious given that 400 years of British literature attests to just the opposite.
I consider myself an Anglophile, but this was all way too much for me. Plus, it's not that great of a mystery, so I would recommend the earlier Grant books instead. I remember being very impressed with Daughter of Time the first time I read it, but this time (a re-read), I did find myself bridling at all the smugness about British colonialism in that novel as well. But The Franchise Affair is very good, as are the others before that.
I consider myself an Anglophile, but this was all way too much for me. Plus, it's not that great of a mystery, so I would recommend the earlier Grant books instead. I remember being very impressed with Daughter of Time the first time I read it, but this time (a re-read), I did find myself bridling at all the smugness about British colonialism in that novel as well. But The Franchise Affair is very good, as are the others before that.
tracey_stewart's review
5.0
Quite a few murder mysteries begin with their victim alive, just long enough that the reader comes to know and like him. (I hate that.) With The Singing Sands, the victim is dead from the beginning, but I still got to know and like him through the course of the book, even as Alan Grant did. (I hate that too, but at least there's a requiem feeling about it here.)
Much as with Daughter of Time, Alan is laid up and in need of something to take him outside himself. Here, though, Alan is on medical leave from the Force due to nervous issues and severe claustrophobia – and I quite like that he did not find it easy requesting this leave. Being forced to acknowledge what he sees as a weakness not merely to his no-nonsense Super but to himself was a major hurdle. But it was necessary, and he was intelligent enough to recognize that he had to get away or snap once and for all: since an incident on the job, he has been growing steadily less able to tolerate enclosed spaces, steadily less able to rely on his own reactions to stress. Among other things, travel is a nightmare for him. The setting where the book begins, a train just pulling in to the station, is the least hideous option … which means only that he is, barely, able to keep hold of himself. A car or, worse, airplane, would have been nearly fatal for this trip to his cousin Laura and her family in Scotland: the train car is confining, but pride and sheer stubbornness get him through the long sleepless night. Barely. The journey by car from the station to his cousin's home nearly does him in.
It's a disturbing, absorbing depiction of claustrophobia and its effects on a strong man in his prime who never suffered from any such thing before. He is horrified and not a little put out at its intrusion into his life now. Alan's sensible, though, in dealing with it, determined to push himself, but not beyond the bounds of reason. He approaches the situation much the way he does other problems, and forces himself to proceed logically and – again – sensibly; I think I'm coming back to that quality because it's one that seems to go out the window in so many cases, fictional and non-.
Alan's discovery of a dead man on his train – young, with a highly individual face – is disturbing, though not as disturbing as it would be if a) he were a civilian, and b) he were not so preoccupied with his own misery. Everyone from the police onward takes the situation as it appears: young man went "one over the eight", fell, hit his head on the sink, and sadly died. But there is something which, even in Alan's present state, doesn't sit well. Then he discovers that he accidentally carried away the man's newspaper, and that written in a blank space is an extraordinary attempt at poetry, and the man's life, identity, and death become a puzzle he cannot leave alone. It all leads him on a quest to learn the truth and maybe, just maybe, regain his own self-possession.
As always, the mystery is merely a device to give Alan and his psyche a workout. He just can't let go of the problem, can't accept the official verdict, can't escape the conviction that there's more to it all. His mind is not the usual simple and undemanding sort I'm used to riding along with in a mystery novel. As was established in Daughter of Time, he doesn't handle forced inactivity very well, and forced introspection is not his favorite past-time; it's an unsettling revelation to both him and the reader just how little he enjoys his own company. Even the prospect of all the fishing he can handle doesn't help: he needs something more, and alternates between almost determinedly despairing plans to reinvent his future – and the, for him, much more constructive pursuit of the truth of the matter of the dead man on the train.
The relationships in the book are pure pleasure. Alan and his colleagues – his Super is not a cardboard cutout, however small his role in the book; Alan and his cousin, Laura, who is very much his Might Have Been; Alan and the dead man's shade; Alan and the dead man's friend, and the Lady who is stopping over in the area. Laura's small son is a creature who skews the likeability average for fictional kids drastically upward – he's fabulous.
There is a joy to this novel, an air of finality and farewell as Alan puts himself back together again and returns to his life, that makes it fitting for this to be the end of the series, the last of the Alan Grants (though I do have one more Tey book left, when I find it). It's a solid satisfying ending. I'd love more, which of course is impossible (unless, she said hopefully, there is a cache somewhere of Elizabeth Mackintosh's papers which might yield more Alan Grant – but she doesn't seem to have been the type of person to leave boxes full of uncategorized papers), so this is a good note on which to say goodbye, whether it was intended to be the end or not. Josephine Tey was the second, lesser pseudonym Mackintosh used: Gordon Daviot was the name she used for her serious work, her plays. But I remember being surprised to learn of the popularity of her stage work. Richard II was almost its generation's Cats, with people going back over and over, buying dolls of the characters and mobbing the stars. Yet the plays are, best I can see, out of print (I had to go to eBay for a copy of Richard, and I believe that came from England); it is Alan Grant who lives on. I think he was severely undervalued by his creator. The novels are superb, and it has been a joy to reread them.
Now if only some "angel" would back a production of Richard, preferably either in New York or on film...
Much as with Daughter of Time, Alan is laid up and in need of something to take him outside himself. Here, though, Alan is on medical leave from the Force due to nervous issues and severe claustrophobia – and I quite like that he did not find it easy requesting this leave. Being forced to acknowledge what he sees as a weakness not merely to his no-nonsense Super but to himself was a major hurdle. But it was necessary, and he was intelligent enough to recognize that he had to get away or snap once and for all: since an incident on the job, he has been growing steadily less able to tolerate enclosed spaces, steadily less able to rely on his own reactions to stress. Among other things, travel is a nightmare for him. The setting where the book begins, a train just pulling in to the station, is the least hideous option … which means only that he is, barely, able to keep hold of himself. A car or, worse, airplane, would have been nearly fatal for this trip to his cousin Laura and her family in Scotland: the train car is confining, but pride and sheer stubbornness get him through the long sleepless night. Barely. The journey by car from the station to his cousin's home nearly does him in.
It's a disturbing, absorbing depiction of claustrophobia and its effects on a strong man in his prime who never suffered from any such thing before. He is horrified and not a little put out at its intrusion into his life now. Alan's sensible, though, in dealing with it, determined to push himself, but not beyond the bounds of reason. He approaches the situation much the way he does other problems, and forces himself to proceed logically and – again – sensibly; I think I'm coming back to that quality because it's one that seems to go out the window in so many cases, fictional and non-.
Alan's discovery of a dead man on his train – young, with a highly individual face – is disturbing, though not as disturbing as it would be if a) he were a civilian, and b) he were not so preoccupied with his own misery. Everyone from the police onward takes the situation as it appears: young man went "one over the eight", fell, hit his head on the sink, and sadly died. But there is something which, even in Alan's present state, doesn't sit well. Then he discovers that he accidentally carried away the man's newspaper, and that written in a blank space is an extraordinary attempt at poetry, and the man's life, identity, and death become a puzzle he cannot leave alone. It all leads him on a quest to learn the truth and maybe, just maybe, regain his own self-possession.
As always, the mystery is merely a device to give Alan and his psyche a workout. He just can't let go of the problem, can't accept the official verdict, can't escape the conviction that there's more to it all. His mind is not the usual simple and undemanding sort I'm used to riding along with in a mystery novel. As was established in Daughter of Time, he doesn't handle forced inactivity very well, and forced introspection is not his favorite past-time; it's an unsettling revelation to both him and the reader just how little he enjoys his own company. Even the prospect of all the fishing he can handle doesn't help: he needs something more, and alternates between almost determinedly despairing plans to reinvent his future – and the, for him, much more constructive pursuit of the truth of the matter of the dead man on the train.
The relationships in the book are pure pleasure. Alan and his colleagues – his Super is not a cardboard cutout, however small his role in the book; Alan and his cousin, Laura, who is very much his Might Have Been; Alan and the dead man's shade; Alan and the dead man's friend, and the Lady who is stopping over in the area. Laura's small son is a creature who skews the likeability average for fictional kids drastically upward – he's fabulous.
There is a joy to this novel, an air of finality and farewell as Alan puts himself back together again and returns to his life, that makes it fitting for this to be the end of the series, the last of the Alan Grants (though I do have one more Tey book left, when I find it). It's a solid satisfying ending. I'd love more, which of course is impossible (unless, she said hopefully, there is a cache somewhere of Elizabeth Mackintosh's papers which might yield more Alan Grant – but she doesn't seem to have been the type of person to leave boxes full of uncategorized papers), so this is a good note on which to say goodbye, whether it was intended to be the end or not. Josephine Tey was the second, lesser pseudonym Mackintosh used: Gordon Daviot was the name she used for her serious work, her plays. But I remember being surprised to learn of the popularity of her stage work. Richard II was almost its generation's Cats, with people going back over and over, buying dolls of the characters and mobbing the stars. Yet the plays are, best I can see, out of print (I had to go to eBay for a copy of Richard, and I believe that came from England); it is Alan Grant who lives on. I think he was severely undervalued by his creator. The novels are superb, and it has been a joy to reread them.
Now if only some "angel" would back a production of Richard, preferably either in New York or on film...
afield's review against another edition
mysterious
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? No
3.75
kittykornerlibrarian's review against another edition
5.0
A man's dead body is found in a train compartment and Inspector Alan Grant is a bystander. He can't forget about the incident. Is it a natural death or a murder?
teresac's review against another edition
lighthearted
reflective
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
3.75
celina31's review against another edition
mysterious
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? No
4.0
jodar's review against another edition
dark
emotional
inspiring
mysterious
reflective
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? No
4.0
An apparently gentle, introspective novel in which the mystery to be solved turns out to be more of a plot device to explore other existential matters.
There is a darkness to the novel, though: There is the evil of depression that the MC detective eventually succeeds in overcoming, the evil of the narcissistic, sociopathic criminal – suspected but only revealed at the end – and the kindred evil of the arrogant mischief-maker encountered along the way (“The vain, worthless little bastard”, Chapter 8).
Counterbalancing this is the light: There is true friendship that is willing to make sacrifices and continues beyond death. There is the recognition by the MC of his own destined life in the service of others and not...
There is a darkness to the novel, though: There is the evil of depression that the MC detective eventually succeeds in overcoming, the evil of the narcissistic, sociopathic criminal – suspected but only revealed at the end – and the kindred evil of the arrogant mischief-maker encountered along the way (“The vain, worthless little bastard”, Chapter 8).
Counterbalancing this is the light: There is true friendship that is willing to make sacrifices and continues beyond death. There is the recognition by the MC of his own destined life in the service of others and not...
In too much peace… With too much time to think about himself and his bondage to unreason. Too much time to take his own mental and spiritual pulse. (Chapter 13)
… even if the consequences are a single life, with friendships, yes, but necessarily unattached and so focused on his vocation that a relationship of domestic intimacy is not viable, however much this is regretted.
This novel was found among the author’s papers and published posthumously. It has traces of incompleteness, particularly in the first chapter. Yet to me it shows wonderful characterisation and a striving for the depths of things, as with her other novels. It is not the author’s best novel, but I’ve added 0.5 stars out of admiration, respect and a realisation of the novel’s greater potential had the author lived to complete it fully.
This novel was found among the author’s papers and published posthumously. It has traces of incompleteness, particularly in the first chapter. Yet to me it shows wonderful characterisation and a striving for the depths of things, as with her other novels. It is not the author’s best novel, but I’ve added 0.5 stars out of admiration, respect and a realisation of the novel’s greater potential had the author lived to complete it fully.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Death
Moderate: Toxic relationship
Minor: Panic attacks/disorders