Books: To Be or Not to Be

In popular myth the conflict between a writer's literary aspirations and the coarser demands of the marketplace besets only the "serious" author. Novelists who turn out the mystery, thriller, police or spy story are presumed to have long since made their peace with the printer's devil. In fact, however, the ranks of crime writers are as beleaguered as any other by the need for compromise. The battle rarely focuses on setting, which may be urban or rural, domestic or foreign, modern or ancient, or on subject matter, for which these days the rule seems to be the kinkier the better. The clash comes instead over format. Most writers seem to prefer one-shot stories, as full of catharsis as a classic tragedy, while publishers -- and readers -- clamor for series in which a likable, marketable character appears again and again. The series hero offers predictable pleasures, and some outstanding examples -- Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, Nero Wolfe -- attract faithful followers who are not otherwise fans of the mystery form. For writers, however, the series format imposes so many constraints that they may feel they are writing the same book over and over. Small wonder that Conan Doyle sent Holmes plummeting over the Reichenbach Falls, only to have to give in and magically bring him back.

By whatever means, the vast majority of crime writers reconcile themselves to return engagements. Thus despite the dangers, or at least doldrums, of repetition, series account for most of the current crop of top crime fiction. Perhaps the most impressive cumulative performance comes from Sir John Appleby, the fictional retired head of Scotland Yard and the signature detective of Michael Innes, a.k.a. J.I.M. Stewart, 80, a retired Oxford don who has been crafting wry, sprightly, often fanciful mysteries for more than half a century. The "ex-bobby," as he coyly calls himself, reappears in an umpteenth adventure, Appleby and the Ospreys (Dodd Mead; 185 pages; $15.95), to investigate the murder of a dotty peer struck down in the library of his ancestral country pile. There is not much out of the ordinary in either the premise or the solution, but Innes' plot prestidigitation is as deft as ever, and his celebrated sense of humor is in full flood, whether sketching a social-climbing mother or recounting a literal manifestation of bats in the belfry of a parish church.

Another remarkable record of consistency has been notched by Edith Pargeter, a prolific British writer and translator (of Czech poetry, among other pursuits). Under the nom de crime Ellis Peters she has produced The Rose Rent (Morrow; 190 pages; $15.95), her 13th highly evocative novel about Brother Cadfael, a 12th century monk in the abbey town of Shrewsbury. Like his 20th century soulmate, Father Brown of the G.K. Chesterton stories, Cadfael attractively suggests that the highest act of faith is the use of reason. Robert Barnard, whose mordantly funny one-off mysteries are as good as any currently being produced, has tended to sag in the too cute series featuring Perry Trethowan, a highborn cop. In Cherry Blossom Corpse (Scribners; 213 pages; $14.95), Barnard is back at his malicious best. Perry accompanies his sister to a convention of romance novelists where, literarily speaking at * least, murder is the least of the crimes on display.