I love vintage mysteries and am partial to fiction written during the war years. I wanted very much to like Edmund Crispin's books (especially since he's written quite a few), but this is the second one I've read and I can't say I thought much of it. As with the last one, I didn't care enough about the characters to mind what happened to them. Instead of witty, I found his writing pretensious, trying too hard to incorporate literary quotes, long words, and pithy Latin epigrams. I lost interest so many times while I was reading that every time I'd make myself go back to it, I'd have to re-read a whole chapter to remember who all the people were. The plot meandered and by the time I got to the end, I wasn't surprised or chilled. I did enjoy the descriptions of Oxford life and the world of small theater troupes. I doubt though that I will try another Crispin.