The Inklings Detective Agency
by John R. Kelly
In the streets of 1936 Oxford, dark forces are at play and members of a secret society keep turning up dead. After being called upon to help solve these murders, J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and their fellow literary enthusiasts known around town as the Inklings trade their pens for magnifying glasses to catch this evasive killer. With time running out, they get a helping hand from mystery writers Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers to help unravel a sinister web of secrets. Can they crack the case before the murderer strikes again?
A premise like this carries its own kind of magic — Tolkien, Lewis,
Christie, and Sayers drawn into a shared mystery, their voices echoing
through 1930s Oxford. Before I even opened the book, I felt that
familiar anticipation: the sense that this could be something special,
something that blends literary affection with a genuinely engaging
mystery.
And in many
ways, the book does have that charm. Kelly writes with clear respect for
these figures, and there’s a warmth in the way he brings them to life.
The interactions between Tolkien and Lewis, in particular, were a
highlight for me — there’s an ease and authenticity to their exchanges
that feels grounded in who they were as friends and thinkers. Those
moments carried a quiet pleasure, the kind that reminds you why these
writers still matter to so many of us.
The
historical details also added a richness to the experience. The
references to real people, real places, and the intellectual atmosphere
of the era gave the story a texture that felt both enlightening and
affectionate. Even when the plot wasn’t gripping me, I enjoyed
inhabiting that world — the pubs, the colleges, the literary circles,
the sense of a particular moment in time.
But
as much as the concept pulled me in, I found myself waiting for the
story to deepen. The novel has real promise, yet the lack of action and
the absence of any true sense of danger softened the experience for me.
For much of the book, the mystery moves at a gentle pace — pleasant, but
without the tension or urgency that would make the stakes feel real.
With a cast this remarkable, I kept hoping for the narrative to rise to
meet them.
To the book’s
credit, the momentum does pick up near the end. There’s a late spark — a
sense that the story is finally leaning forward, finally gathering some
energy. Those final chapters hint at what the novel could have been had
that drive been present earlier. But for me, that shift came a bit too
late to fully satisfy the expectations set by such a promising premise.
Most
mystery lovers will likely enjoy this. There’s a coziness to it, a
literary warmth that will appeal to readers who prefer gentler stakes
and familiar voices. And the historical touches, along with the
affectionate portrayals of these writers, offer plenty to appreciate.
Still,
with some of the titans of the literary world on the page, I finished
the book wanting more — more tension, more momentum, more of the spark
the premise promises. The ingredients are all there; they just don’t
ignite until the final stretch.
Verdict:
A
thoughtful, affectionate concept with a late burst of energy, enriched
by engaging historical details and genuinely enjoyable interactions
between Tolkien and Lewis — but ultimately a story that left me wishing
it had embraced its own potential more fully.
