It would be easy to dismiss The Affair of the Chalk Cliffs, the latest in James P. Blaylock’s occasional series of Langdon St. Ives adventures, as a sort of steampunky Sherlock Holmes pastiche. After all, there’s the Holmes and Watson stand-ins (St. Ives and his plucky companion, Jack Owlesby). There’s a Moriarty type for the ages in the nefarious Ignacio Narbondo. And there’s, well, there’s gadgets and gizmos and the appropriate time period and setting for classic steampunkerie.
Except, of course, it’s Blaylock, which means its going to be something else altogether.
Speaking of something else, the book is dotted with a full 20 illustrations by J.K. Potter. Artfully framed and suitably restrained in subject matter, these add to the illusion that the book is a period artifact. The narrative itself is quite short – 34000 words, according to Subterranean’s website – but it’s a full narrative. There’s no flab here, no wasted maundering or sideplots that exist merely to show off the world. Things may start around a table in a country inn, but they start moving shortly thereafter, and they don’t let up.
Again, the setup seems basic enough – something drove all the members of the hoary Explorers’ Club mad, and now the same effect is being reported elsewhere. St. Ives, meanwhile, has troubles of his own. He feels his marriage to the lovely Alice is on the rocks, and when she disappears, it’s up to St. Ives and his intrepid band – Owlesby, the inimitable Tubby Frobisher, and and Tubby’s energetic uncle – to rescue the fair lady, uncover the secret behind the madness, and foil the scheming of the insidious Narbondo. It all ties together, of course, as such things inevitably do, and then its all action and timed explosives and derring-do in the titular chalk cliffs of Beachy Head before Narbondo can put his evil plan into operation.
Done in straightforward fashion, that would be satisfying enough. But it’s Blaylock, which means everything’s just a little bit off kilter. Stout and loyal sidekick Frobisher and his uncle are quite the bloodthirsty duo when they get going, goosing their “comic relief” status in uncomfortable ways. St. Ives disappears from the stage for extended chunks of time, not the sort of thing a proper hero does. While Narbondo’s plan is sufficiently nefarious (and his henchmen suitably evil), he’s barely present long enough for the reader to work up a proper hate for him. Indeed, it’s almost as if both he and St. Ives agree that his plan is less important than the two of them getting to bang heads once again. And while Owlesby is suitably rock-ribbed (and rock-headed) as a sidekick, there’s a hint he’s a little too taken with his friend’s wife, the steadfast and charming Alice.
All of which is to say that those who go in expecting just the straightforward are going to find something of a strange taste in their mouths by the end of the novella, and they may not quite know why. Those looking for a little subversion with their gears and infernal devices, however, are likely to find more to enjoy here, with hints of more skulduggery and adventure still to come.
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