The beloved series returns as Flavia de Luce, along with her pestilent younger cousin, investigates the murder of a former public hangman and uncovers secrets that bring the greatest shock of her life. Flavia de Luce has taken on the mentorship of her odious, moon-faced cousin Undine, who has come to live at Buckshaw following the death of her mother. Undine''s main talent, aside from cultivating disgusting habits, seems to be raising Flavia''s dander, although in her best moments she shows potential for trespassing, trickery, and other assorted mayhems.;; When Major Greyleigh, a local recluse and former hangman, is found dead from a breakfast of poisonous mushrooms, suspicion falls on the de Luce family''s longtime cook, Mrs. Mullet. After all, wasn''t it she who picked the mushrooms, cooked the omelette, and served it to Greyleigh in the moments before his death? “I have to admit,” says Flavia, an expert in the chemical nature of poisons, “that I’d been praying to God for a jolly good, old-fashioned mushroom poisoning. Not that I wanted anyone to die, but why give a girl a gift such as mine without giving her the opportunity to use it?” But Flavia knows the beloved Mrs. Mullet is innocent. Together with Dogger, estate gardener and partner-in-crime, and the obnoxious Undine, she sets out to find the real killer and clear Mrs. Mullet''s good name. Little does she know that following the case''s twists and turns will lead her to a most surprising discovery--one with the power to upend her entire life.

Autorentext

Alan Bradley

Klappentext

NATIONAL BESTSELLER • Amateur sleuth Flavia de Luce, along with her pestilent younger cousin, investigates the murder of a former public hangman and uncovers a secret that brings the greatest shock of her life.

“I love the Flavia de Luce novels! Flavia is the best female detective I’ve ever read, full of realism, self-confidence, and emotion (in roughly equal parts), and her tales are hilarious, engaging, and occasionally heartbreaking.”—Diana Gabaldon, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Outlander series

A WASHINGTON POST BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR

Flavia de Luce has taken on the mentorship of her odious moon-faced cousin Undine, who has come to live at Buckshaw following the death of her mother. Undine’s main talent, aside from cultivating disgusting habits, seems to be raising Flavia’s hackles, although in her best moments she shows potential for trespassing, trickery, and other assorted mayhem.

When Major Greyleigh, a local recluse and former hangman, is found dead after a breakfast of poisonous mushrooms, suspicion falls on the de Luce family’s longtime cook, Mrs. Mullet. After all, wasn’t it she who’d picked the mushrooms, cooked the omelet, and served it to Greyleigh moments before his death? “I have to admit,” says Flavia, an expert in the chemical nature of poisons, “that I’d been praying to God for a jolly good old-fashioned mushroom poisoning. Not that I wanted anyone to die, but why give a girl a gift such as mine without giving her the opportunity to use it?”

But Flavia knows the beloved Mrs. Mullet is innocent. Together with Dogger, estate gardener and partner-in-crime, and the obnoxious Undine, Flavia sets out to find the real killer and clear Mrs. Mullet’s good name. Little does she know that following the case’s twists and turns will lead her to a most surprising discovery—one with the power to upend her entire life.

Leseprobe
One

The greatest minds in the world are often cranky when they first awaken in the morning, and mine is no exception. If I am to ascend above the ordinary, I require solitude the way a balloon needs helium.

Which is why, barely a quarter of an hour after a hasty and solitary breakfast at Buckshaw, I am hunched under a black umbrella in the ancient churchyard of St. Tancred’s: the only place I can be certain of being left alone and in peace.

There is a particular kind of graveyard soil that bubbles when it rains. I have my own theory about the cause of this phenomenon but have come here for further study before committing my thoughts to paper.

In my experience, nothing is more deeply refreshing than to huddle under a bumbershoot in the rain and the raw fog of a country graveyard. Bare inches above your head, the downpour drums a military tattoo on the taut black silk as your nose greedily drinks in the invigorating pong of tombstones, wet grass, and ancient moss: a smell that opens doors in your mind you didn’t even know you had.

Churchyard moss is soft to sit on—­but wet. Mrs. Mullet says I’ll get rheumatism and need to have my bones replaced.

It may sound cold and clammy, but there is a special warmth in knowing that you are utterly alone—­except for the dead.

With the dead, there are no sudden rages; no fits of hissing savagery; no flung plates or cutlery; no petulant sulks or towering rages. Just beneath your feet the deceased are being devoured by fat black beetles, in a vast and grand banquet, while merry mushrooms digest the welcome leftovers of coffin wood. It is a world of harmony and dark contentment, a world of quiet grace and beauty. It is a happy dance of death.

I thought about the year I had sent up an armful of skyrockets from a remote corner of this same churchyard on All Souls’ Night, each labeled by hand with the name of one of the nearby but almost forgotten dead:

Blam!

That was Nettie Savage (1792–­1810).

Kaboosh!

Samuel Pole (1715–­1722).

Blassh! Arden Glassfield (1892–­1914).

Boom! Poom! Poom! A triple salvo for Annie Starling, Spinster of this Parish (1744–­1775).

Unfortunately, one of Annie’s fuses had come down in the gutters of the church, igniting a stupid cluster of accumulated moss and debris and thus setting on fire the House of God. The Bishop’s Lacey Fire Brigade had to be called to extinguish the small but fierce blaze. Father had expressed his displeasure by requiring me to make a monthly donation to the Fireman’s Fund, which, since it was ultimately his money, was no hardship at all. The tough thing was that I had to deliver each donation in person, which at first was excruciating and made me feel like a worm, but in the end I got to know a lot of firemen and learn the chemistry of quenching blazes.

Oh, those days of glory! And oh, to have them back again!

These days, my only friends are fungi.

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I pretend that I myself am a fungus, creeping silently and unobserved along some slimy moonlit surface, greedily feeding on unsuspecting bits of bark, smacking my fungus lips as only a fungus can smack them.

Smack! A nice bit of pine needle. Smack! A taste of bitter willow. Smack! An unexpected splinter of coffin lid, with its faint bouquet of formaldehyde. Encouraged, I move on, hoping for something more meaty.

And so on and so forth . . . until I fall into a gray and groggy sleep.

Which brings us back to St. Tancred’s churchyard in the rain.

I needed time alone.

“Flavia!”

Oh, jellied curses! It was Undine, my pestilent little cousin: the Bane of Buckshaw. How had she found me? I had tucked my trusty bicycle, Gladys, away in the church porch, both to keep her dry (Gladys loves running in the rain, but hates standing in it) and to keep her from unwelcome eyes.

I squatted even more deeply, scrunching my body slowly, as much as I was able, as if doing so would make me smaller, or maybe even invisible. Perhaps the pest would mistake my wet umbrella for part of a black marble tomb.

“Flavi…