Landlady is a domestic word doing sinister work. It belongs to rent books, spare keys and somebody else’s rules inside a house you are paying to live in, which is precisely the sort of everyday power arrangement that British crime writing has always found productive.
That is the territory Jane E. James occupies on the evidence of The Landlady. Our catalogue files it on the crime and thriller shelf without qualification, and the length, a shade under eight hours, is the build of a novel written to be finished quickly rather than one that sprawls across a fortnight.
Nothing beyond the work is asserted here. The novel is left to make its own case, which on the available evidence it does briskly.