PUBLISHED: 2010
GENRE: Crime-Solving Pilgrims! (a.k.a. Historical Fiction)
Yes, you read that right. “An Abigail Adams Mystery.” Abigail Adams, wife of the second president of the United States, solving crimes. Oh, I cannot tell you how excited I was. This was going to be awesome. It was going to be Nero Wolfe meets The Scarlet Letter. The Federalist Papers meets The Pentagon Papers.* Fair reader, your dearest blogger didest have but the highest hopes for such a tome.
But alas! I waseth so disappointed. Eth.
Mrs. Adams’ private investigation skills are put to the test when a young patriot, Henry Knox, is accused of murdering a randy Englishman in the employ of the King himself, Sir Jonathon Contrell. Sir Jonathon was in Boston on business from Maine where he was… doing something? I’m still not sure. Something with land rights. This book masters that mystifying paradox of being both so completely crammed with detail that it is virtually impossible to get through and yet so lacking in proper explanation of the story or the characters that the reader is, if he or she is anything like me, lost most of the time. The details! They were everywhere! Even worse, they were repetitive. If I learned anything from this book, it is that Boston is really, really cold in the winter. Really cold. Cold enough that the characters spend at least 25 of the 336 pages putting on or taking of their winter gear, and 10 more pages huddling around and/or stoking a fire. Did she mention it’s cold in Boston?
When Hamilton wasn’t writing about the cold she was introducing new characters – for every main character, there were servants, pages, maids, stable boys, that had to be named and characterized. My favorite had to be either magnificently or absurdly-named sailor, “The Heavens Rejoiced Miller”, who I only determined to be human after his ship mate started calling him Hev, having up to that point assumed him to be ship of some sort. But I get it. Those pilgrims named their kids wacky things. But if she wanted a colonial name, she couldn’t have gone for “Prudence” instead? Especially when everyone else is Paul or Jonathon or Margaret or Lucy? And I haven’t even mentioned that John Adams only calls his wife Portia or Nabby, never Abigail. Oy.
It’s a convoluted, densely-packed story that ends with a cross-dressing faux-crippled lady’s companion and an actor named Perocles, which sounds like it should be amazing, but instead is seriously unsatisfying. How did all go so very wrong? A cross-dressing faux-cripple lady’s companion and an actor named Perocles, people! I’m not sure if it was overexcitement or nervousness, or if Hamilton was overtaken by that common scholar’s affliction known as I-researched-it-so-it’s-making-it-in,-damn-it! Syndrome.** But all that information smothered whatever story was under there. And that’s a damnable shame. I guess Sam will have to wait for that pilgrim detective idea for a few more years.
PAGES: 336 pages
MAINSTREAM OR NOT: I sincerely doubt there are very many people who would get as excited about this concept as I did. Aside from West Wing fans.
SO, SHOULD I READ IT OR NOT?: As much as it breaks my heart, no. It just doesn’t fulfill its promise. So sad.
*Perhaps even more importantly, it was the embodiment of one of the greatest West Wing conversations of all time, exchanged while Sam and Toby try to write the President’s Thanksgiving Day Address:
Sam: Over three and a half centuries ago, linked by faith and bound by a common desire for liberty, a small band of pilgrims sought out a place in the New World where they could worship according to their own beliefs... and solve crimes.
Toby: Sam...
Sam: It'd be good. By day, they churn butter and worship according to their own beliefs, and by night they solve crimes.
Toby: Read the thing.
Sam: Pilgrim detectives.
Toby: Do you see me laughing?
Sam: I think you're laughing on the inside.
Toby: Okay.
Sam: With the big hats.
Toby: Give me the speech.
**Much like Stockholm Syndrome, this disease so addles the brain of the writer as to win them over to the side of crackpot theorists whose work the writer then includes in more scholarly endeavors, earning the writer a lower grade and a sorry shake of the head from his or her professor. Sad, but true.
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