The central conceit behind much of P D James' mystery writing is that "murder is the ultimate invasion of privacy". She likes to take people and places apart, to dissect them, to examine them in microscopic detail, and she does this very well. Her prose is smooth, elegant and polished, her settings are fascinating, and her tempo neither rushes nor plods.

Alas, the ultimate result of all this fastidiousness is a drone of frumpy tedium. She lavishes hundreds of words on incidental characters. She draws her minute observations from a world that I suspect either doesn't exist any more, or is so far removed from the world I see every day on my way to work that I lose all interest and empathy. (In "Death In Holy Orders", everybody refers to "guest sets" instead of "suites" or "rooms". Bring on the doilies, the chintz, and the antimacassars!) She inevitably presents fascinating and deep psychological portraits of her main characters, but I don't care much for any of them. I usually end up not even caring which one is the murderer.

Of course this is all deliberate, and I admire P D James' exquisite craft. Her books aren't boring - they're much too well-written for that - but they are dull.