A Matter of Time is the third instalment in the Faith Abbey mystery series, in which author David Manuel usually sets his detective fiction among the ecumenical Christian community on Cape Cod, where he lives. The action in this volume, however, almost all takes place in Bermuda.

Modern-day monk Brother Bartholomew, at the edge of a spiritual burnout, takes a personal retreat and sails down to Bermuda, where he is ensconced by friends in a cottage in Sandys. A more worldly character might have known that Sandys is no place to relax; it's a hotbed of international crime. Sure enough, evil work is quickly afoot.

Bartholomew arrives in Bermuda seven weeks after September 11, 2001, which is presumably when the author came down to do his due diligence, or whatever it's called. "The island was reeling," from the events of September 11, Mr. Manuel tells us, and an economic crisis is permanently at large in his book, one that memory does not recall holding us in quite the same grip. The monk duly becomes embroiled in the crime, a murder that involves an international drug ring, against the backdrop of the Gold Cup sailing races being held at the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club.

Of the plot, I will say no more, to avoid spoiling the reader's enjoyment of what becomes a cracking yarn. I will, however, say this: the drama flows all over Bermuda at such a pace that, eventually, you find yourself exhausted. "Oh no", you think, as Bart and his entourage of civic-minded crime fighters set off for the fray, "now we have to go the Frog & Onion again. We were just there two days ago". The sheer amount of travelling required to let the brother unwind from his stress and solve the mystery staggers the mind.

More Bermuda is packed into these pages than is packed into Bermuda itself. For a monk staring into the abyss, the highly literate Bartholomew sees a lot more action, and a lot more of Bermuda, than most of the rest us do in ten years. About two-thirds of the way through, I had to stop and read The New Yorker for a couple of evenings, to take the literary equivalent of a weekend break.

A Matter of Time is, however, a fairly easy read. Its tone is dry and Bartholomew something of a Gandhi-style superman and logician, who, like many of us, is happiest when the strain is tearing at his edges. Mr. Manuel has developed an efficient style for this series. Mystery is a genre in which a solid writer with good ideas and smart execution can earn a devoted core of support, if the tales rattle along, catching us up in their vapour trail. Mr. Manuel is one such writer.

The characters with whom he populates Bermuda are not immediately recognisable as anyone specific, more's the pity, but they fit the general mould quite well. In this regard, Mr. Manuel is a keen observer of humanity. His characters appear to thrive on the manic schedule they maintain. Here we are in St. George's harbour, sailing, and then quickly we hop the bus back to the West End for drinks and a chat, before we whip down to Hamilton for a spot of dinner.

Bermuda has "voodoo and witchcraft", Bartholomew is told. And, perhaps most unbelievably of all, there is "a younger, with-it group at the Coral Beach". Much of the action is set in the White Horse pub down in St. George's, which finally made it impossible for me to read this book in the dispassionate manner of the best reviewers. I go to the White Horse sometimes, although I rarely go anywhere else on the same day, or even that week, unlike Bartholomew, who is everywhere at once. But then, I have never solved a murder mystery. It's fun following the action and, for the general reader who knows nothing of Bermuda, A Matter of Time will prove an attractive travelogue, or perhaps a souvenir. Wherever a visitor might stay, it will surely be somewhere that Brother Bartholomew visited as he worked out whodunit, down among the Onions.

Roger Crombie