This detective story from the early 20th century is not cozy. Not hard-boiled, either. It’s old-fashioned, but not theatrical.

The centerpiece is detective Alan Grant of Scotland Yard. He’s young, handsome, and not like a police officer at all. He’s not what you’d call a “character” in the same way that Poirot, Wimsey, Marple, and Holmes are characters with distinctive quirks and traits—sometimes unbelievable ones. Grant is vanilla in comparison.

This book is beautifully written, with a lot of attention to detail and emotional nuance. But, as far as character and plot, it was just okay. I did get a little bored, truth be told.

The inciting incident is fantastic. A queue of people is waiting outside a London theater to see the final performance of a beloved London actress before she departs for America. I imagine it to feel something like waiting for a Disneyland parade to start. People are squished up next to each other. Vendors are selling stuff. Street performers are doing their thing. When the line finally starts to move, a man drops to the ground. He’s been knifed through the heart! In plain sight of all those people?!?

From there, things proceed in a relatively unremarkable way. Grant is polite and logical, and he collects clues that all point to a certain suspect, yet, in his gut (he calls it his imagination) he doesn’t believe the man is guilty. He’s got lots of proof that points to this guy, but he finds himself with a (rather womanlike) gut feeling…can he find proof that this guy isn’t the murderer?

This is all good, but the execution could’ve been more exciting for my taste. I enjoy detective stories with lots of color. I don’t want to say anything about the outcome because I don’t want to spoil anything, but I do have opinions about how it wrapped up. I guess that’s better than NO opinions, right?