Whose Body? by Dorothy Sayers (1923) – Lord Peter Wimsey, Book #1
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Alongside our lengthy 13-book reading list for this year’s Siblings’ Book Club came this secondary list from my father, which included the first publications of ten of his favorite mystery authors:
- A Study in Scarlet by Arthur Conan Doyle (1887) – first in the Sherlock Holmes series
- Whose Body? by Dorothy Sayers (1923) – first in the Lord Peter Wimsey series
- The Black Dudley Murder by Margery Allingham (1929) – first in the Albert Campion series
- Murder at the Vicarage by Agatha Christie (1930) – first in the Miss Marple series
- A Man Lay Dead by Ngaio Marsh (1934) – first in the Inspector Roderich Alleyn’s series
- Fer de Lance by Rex Stout (1934) – first in the Nero Wolfe series
- Westward the Tide by Louis L’Amour (1951) – first in the Marr Bardoul series
- Fallen into the Pit by Ellis Peters (1951) – first in the George Felse series, set in the 1950s
- Friday, the Rabbi Slept Late by Harry Kemelman (1964) – first in the Rabbi David Small series
- A Morbid Taste for Bones by Ellis Peters (1977) – first in Cadfael’s series, set in the 1100s
- The Last Jihad by Joel Rosenberg (2002) – first in the Jon Bennett series
It’s my own personal goal to read through this entire list over the coming years, though the first books (chronologically) haven’t been my cup of tea.
Brief Summary of Whose Body?
In Lord Peter Wimsey’s debut novel, he follows the clues surrounding a man found naked and dead in an upscale London bathroom and proves himself a wise crack at detective work—though to him it’s only a hobby.
He follows not only the clues themselves but the people—and this first story sure seemed to have a lot of them. Social classes matter, and it being a century old and an ocean away, that’s something I wasn’t tracking too well.
Appreciating Dorothy Sayers but Not Begging for More
I personally had a hard time getting into this book, maintaining an interest, and following each thread. I guess it shows my own impatience with mystery stories, when I get upset at red-herring characters and motives and want every bit of information to be relevant. This is my fault, obviously. I’m still trying to break into mysteries with delight—like by reading Robert van Gulik, for example—but it’s otherwise been hard going.
I did like Lord Peter as a character, of course. He’s introduced with humor and he maintains a dry wit throughout the book. In fact, I loved this little exchange with Lady Swaffham—nothing uproarious, but certainly a levity that I’d like to read more of someday:
“But if you were investigating a crime,” said Lady Swaffham, “you’d have to begin by the usual things, I suppose—finding out what the person had been doing, and who’d been to call, and looking for a motive, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” said Lord Peter, “but most of us have such dozens of motives for murderin’ all sorts of inoffensive people. There’s lots of people I’d like to murder, wouldn’t you?”
“Heaps,” said Lady Swaffham. “There’s that dreadful—perhaps I’d better not say it, though, for fear you should remember it later on.”
“Well, I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Peter, amiably. “You never know. It’d be beastly awkward if the person died suddenly tomorrow.” (84)
The Mystery Genre through the Mouth of Lord Peter
I also enjoyed Lord Peter’s description in Chapter 7 of why he’s doing this detective work at all. It’s a description, in my opinion, of the entire Mystery genre. Why do people enjoy reading about murder and corruption? Why do people want to spend hours rooting for some bad guy to get it in the end?
“It’s a hobby to me, you see. I took it up when the bottom of things was rather knocked out for me, because it was so damned exciting, and the worst of it is, I enjoy it—up to a point. If it was all on paper I’d enjoy every bit of it. I love the beginning of a job—when one doesn’t know any of the people and it’s just exciting and amusing. But if it comes to really running down a live person and getting him hanged, or even quodded, poor devil, there don’t seem as if there was any excuse for me buttin’ in, since I don’t have to make my livin’ by it. And I feel as if I oughtn’t ever to find it amusin’. But I do.” (85)
Conclusion
My history as a reader has proven that I’m much more prone to enjoy books from the 1960s than the 1920s, so if I’m ever going to get through this list, I may need to start with something closer to my own appeals—Friday the Rabbi Slept Late by Harry Kemelman (1964), perhaps.
If you think I need to give Dorothy Sayers another try and know a title that’s unputdownable, by all means, let me know!
©2025 E.T.