[Edmund Crispin's Love Lies Bleeding] shows some pleasant wit, great talent for bringing interesting characters vividly to life, a good plot with an exciting climax, and a nicely observed picture of school-life. The headmaster is credible, the school population authentic, and the senile homicidal bloodhound, Mr. Merrythought, a masterpiece of canine creation. But the Oxford don turned detective eludes him, and his detestable so-called modern miss positively creaks. His danger is over-writing…. Why talk of "olfactory delights" instead of "agreeable smells"? Can a doctor speak "vampirically" and a hand be waved "acerbly"? Does it assist a story for a man to "embark on a prolegomenon of discreetly consolatory phrases," or for special formalities to be "hurriedly consummated"? If Mr. Crispin will court verbal astringency, he can join the small class of reputable authors of detective fiction, who, like the Ancient Mariner, can tell a story which we "cannot...