
I’ve been intrigued by the title of this book for a while, and I can’t quite explain why. There’s something to it – a haunting quality, maybe similar to The Last of Philip Banter or The Shade of Time – where it strikes this chord of curiosity and I have to find out what it means. Granted, you can’t judge a book by its… err, title, but like some nice cover art, a well chosen name can add some extra allure to a read.
Of course, it helps that I’ve loved the books by Norman Berrow that I’ve read so far. He has a way with words and can turn out a memorable line to rival the best of them – see also Theodore Roscoe, Anthony Berkeley, Anthony Boucher, Christianna Brand, and – in his first few decades – John Dickson Carr. I’m astounded that it’s been over a year since I last picked up anything by Berrow, as what I’ve read so far places him towards the top authors of the Golden Age.
Continue reading “The Secret Dancer – Norman Berrow (1936)”