Introduction

There is something mysterious, not to say suspicious, about Martin Edwards. How does he do so much? Leaving aside his highly successful legal career, which would be more than enough for most people, he’s the author of the critically-acclaimed Lake District mysteries, one of which was shortlisted for the Theakston’s Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year. His other books include a perceptive re-examination of the Crippen case in the form of a novel, a true crime book and a collection of some of his 40-odd short stories, one of which won the Dagger award of the Crime Writers’ Association. He has a third career as an editor and critic on the crime fiction genre. And then of course there are his legal books and more than a thousand articles, many of them concerning his professional speciality, which is employment law.

This crowded and nauseatingly distinguished curriculum vitae has one important omission: the Harry Devlin crime series, which features a Liverpool solicitor with a propensity for stumbling into murder cases. These were Martin Edwards’ first published novels. On both sides of the Atlantic, there’s a long tradition of lawyers moonlighting with crime fiction - and often writing novels with legal backgrounds. From the very start, however, Martin Edwards stood out among such lawyer-authors, even in a crowd that includes Erle Stanley Gardener and Michael Gilbert, Frances Fyfield and John Grisham.

Reviewers instantly recognised this - the first Harry Devlin novel, All The Lonely People, was shortlisted for the CWA’s John Creasey Memorial Dagger for the best first crime novel in 1991. The book had three particular strengths: its lovingly knowledgeable portrait of Liverpool; Martin Edwards’ quietly revolutionary refusal to follow the then-current trend for portraying overt violence in crime fiction; and the strength of the characterisation, in particular Harry himself - damaged, endearing, intelligent and obstinately attached to the notion of justice.

Since then, the series has gone from strength to strength. The pop songs of the Sixties provide titles for all the books, giving them an added resonance for readers old enough to remember the songs when they were hit singles. After a gap of some years, the eighth novel in the series, Waterloo Sunset, appeared in 2008.

The series isn’t frozen in time - both Harry and Liverpool have changed over the years. In the modern world it’s not easy to create a credible amateur detective. But Harry is convincing, perhaps because he lacks the superheroic qualities of the amateur sleuths of the Golden Age crime fiction. He is a very British hero. It’s a cause for celebration that he is still flourishing today.

Originally published in 1998, The Devil In Disguise is the sixth title in the series - though don’t let this put you off reading it if you haven’t yet read the earlier books; like all the Devlin novels, this works just as well as a standalone. The story focuses on the Kavanaugh Trust, a Liverpool arts charity, which hires Harry to deal with the vexed question of a benefactor’s will - a will that unexpectedly does not benefit the Trust. Then Luke Dessaur, the chairman of the Trust, vanishes; and when he reappears, fallen from the third-floor window of a hotel, he is very dead indeed.

Martin Edwards draws his readers - and the unfortunate Harry - into a tangle of villainy. As ever, the novel is a cunning mix of contemporary and traditional ingredients. However dark the story, however, it is characteristic of Edwards’ writing that an undercurrent of dry humour is often just perceptible. Watch out for the Liverpool’s gentlemen’s club, for example, the oldest in the country and equipped with the splendid collection of pornography in its members-only library. There’s also a certain nostalgic pleasure in the Speckled Band, a bookshop devoted to crime fiction. In those days, London boasted three bookshops dedicated to crime fiction - indeed, Martin and I shared a book-launch in one of them when this novel was first published. Time and the internet has put paid to all three of them.

Still, time and the internet has its advantages too: thanks to their mysterious workings, The Devil In Disguise has become available again. When I reviewed the novel on first publication in 1998, I concluded that it was ‘literate, quirky and intelligent… psychologically plausible and intelligently plotted.’ Thirteen years later, I stand by the verdict but I’d like to add a rider to it: The Devil In Disguise reads even better the second time around than it did the first.

Andrew Taylor