In which one of the perils of series novels is illustrated: James Pibble, the British detective hero of Peter Dickinson's [The Lizard in the Cup], is apparently beloved for his past adventures in previous novels, but the author has forgotten to re-create his character in this current episode, set on a Greek island. We find Pibble reluctantly hard at work there among the highly exotic entourage of Thanassi Thanatos, an Onassis-type zillionaire who is, perhaps, about to be murdered…. Dickinson … weaves all [his] plots and counterplots with skill, and with an obvious passion for his setting, which is lovingly conveyed here. Yet my own response was to sit idly by, enjoying the scene but indifferent as to whether or not Thanatos was safe because I was never sure just who Pibble was: He is clearly in the low-key, even depressed tradition of [Per Wahlöö's and Maj Sjöwall's] lovable Martin Beck, but Dickinson has been unforgivably presumptuous about his renown for previous adventures, and it's hard to root for Pibble's client with no allegiance to the shadowy hero himself. I harp on this major flaw at such length only because this is a novel one wants to become absorbed in and to admire for its obvious virtues, which include a respect for the details of both exterior landscape and interior human emotion that is preciously rare in its genre.
One final complaint: In a closing act, Pibble demonstrates that he's on the side of right by turning over to the authorities one of the major members of the cast, a woman whose crimes have been unrelated to the mystery at hand. He does so, Dickinson would have us believe, because he's against the violence she represents. This seems a weird act of gratuitous goody-goodiness on the murky Pibble's part, for Dickinson has had ample opportunity throughout to deplore the far more lethal violence of the regime that rules over the idyllic Greek setting of his novel. (p. 13)
Sara Blackburn, in Book World—Chicago Tribune (© 1970 Postrib Corp.), July 19, 1970.
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