I am always attracted by the green of the old Penguin Crime series. This time it beguiled me into forgetting that Robert Robinson was a very annoying man. Never mind, a couple of hours and one pound fifty isn't too drastic a wasted outlay.
For those who don't know, Robert Robinson was the Andrew Marr of his time, although rather more heard than seen - those were the days when radio was king. He was cocky, interrupted regularly, never in my hearing said anything of note nor, a greater failing, anything remotely amusing. Are you beginning to see the similarities?
Anyway, it turns out, looking at the timeline, that he may have joined the ranks of commentator journalists only after realising, via this novel, that he could not make a living writing detective novels. This was published in 1956, and I think he joined the BBC in 1955. Probably he had just written this manuscript and, despite hawking it around hopefully, knew that it was no good. Or someone told him it was lousy - the Robert Robinson I remember would not, I suspect, have been capable of such honest self-criticism.
The book is set in Oxford, and Robinson probably believed that the setting was enough to carry all before it. The story concerns murders in a college, none of which the author manages to make us care about. This is because his approach is so shallow and dull. To be scrupulously fair, there is quite a good set piece, portraying some boat races. However, the quality of Robinson's attempt at characterisation can be indicated by the fact that a pesky hack journalist character is given the name of Mr Bum. Just in case you didn't know what to think about him.
Perhaps I was in a bad mood - lockdown can do that to a person - but I cannot recommend this book.
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