The fifth Flavia de Luce: Speaking from Among the Bones

I’m very fond of novels set in rural England, especially when they’re packed with dead bodies and genteel old ladies and vicars and odd-sounding desserts (the chocolate shape!), and so I follow Alan Bradley’s Flavia de Luce mystery series, set in a post-war English village seething with murderous intent below a keep-calm-and-carry-on surface. Flavia is a precocious eleven-year-old whose deep knowledge of chemistry comes in handy for her vocation as an amateur detective. She lives in a decaying manor with her father and her two older sisters, and her relationship with the latter is filled with resentment and fierce love and devilry (their interaction is one of the highlights of this series). I wasn’t entirely taken with the first Flavia book (The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie)–I often found Flavia irritating, almost verging on caricature, and felt that the emphasis on the Britishness of the setting and principals was overdone. But my grievances didn’t last long, for in the subsequent books, Bradley struck a winning balance between Flavia’s intelligence and her vulnerability as a child unable to fully enter the adult world around her. For instance, in I am Half-Sick of Shadows, Flavia bends her wits to catching the murderer, but she’s also setting a cunning trap for Father Christmas. And the setting doesn’t feel as studiedly British anymore.

In Speaking from Among the Bones (to be released later this month), Flavia is, as usual, sticking her small nose into everything that’s not her business, and this time it’s a saint. It’s the five-hundredth anniversary of Saint Tancred’s death, and the saint’s tomb (in the village churchyard) is being opened for the occasion. But something has jammed the entrance. Being small and bendy and full of ‘satiable curiosity, Flavia volunteers to crawl into the tomb, where she promptly finds the body of the church organist. Who killed Mr. Collicutt, why is he in the saint’s tomb, and why is he wearing a gas mask? The answer takes Flavia through a hunt for a diamond, tin soldiers, secret tunnels, tombs (and sometimes, tunnels through tombs), a person afflicted with leprosy, and much more. Meanwhile, the de Luce family’s finances have dipped dangerously low…

I enjoyed the writing in this installment very much. Bradley is a funny guy, and I think this one is the funniest of the series so far. I spilled my coffee when I read Flavia’s version of  “We Three Kings of Orient Are”.

“We Three Kings of Leicester Square,
Selling ladies underwear,
So fantastic, no elastic,
Only tuppence a pair.”

You hummed this one while reading, didn’t you?

And there are some lovely thoughtful moments–for instance, Flavia, musing about motherhood, remarks it’s often a “a grim old business, and one that could never, really, be shared”; there’s a part of all mothers that is “forever beyond knowing”. And of course, we readers remember at this point that Flavia has never known her dead mother. I’ve really warmed to Flavia’s characterization over the five books–what seemed obnoxious and smug now seems merely spirited and faintly pathetic, and oh, the thought of this bright odd child entering adolescence gives me the shivers for her.

While I did find much to like, I’ve concluded that Bradley’s plotting style is just not my thing. Bradley makes a sort of stew of idiosyncratic characters and period detail and meaty chunks of history, and keeps stirring the pot while adding fanciful new ingredients, and brings it all to a boil with a flourish. The resulting dish will no doubt please many, but the whole thing felt messy and overcrowded to me. For instance, there’s a lengthy riff about British military history in the eighteen century, but the whole section is very tenuously linked to the actual murder. Interesting, yes, but ultimately distracting, I thought. If you prefer, as I do, mysteries featuring elegant diamond-cut plots that march inexorably towards a solution, this is not a series for you. But Bradley’s wit  and my fondness for Flavia (and an absolute corker of a last line in this book) have me eagerly anticipating the next installment. MOAR!

The Traitor and The Tunnel by Y.S.Lee (Agency Series #3)

The Agency novels rank amongst my favorite YA works of all-time, and so I’m  hugely chuffed that I got a review copy of Lee’s latest novel way before the scheduled North American release, so I could review it for the Hong-Kong based Asian Review of Books.  Oh, the sweet life of a reviewer.  I’m also utterly delighted that  the Kingston-based Lee *just* won the 2011 Canadian Children’s Literature Award for these books.


The Traitor and the Tunnel is the third installment of Canadian author Y. S. Lee’s Agatha Award-nominated YA series The Agency, which features Mary Quinn, a teen detective for a Victorian-era secret spy agency staffed and run by women. The latest novel replicates the successful formula of its predecessors—Mary is assigned a minor case, which turns out to harbor myriad complications that involve her family secrets, and a run-in with the “better than handsome” James Easton. What’s not to like?

Mary is now posing as a housemaid to investigate a rash of thefts of trinkets and ornaments—in Buckingham Palace. She soon eavesdrops her way into a maze of royal secrets, including a nasty scandal surrounding the Prince of Wales, Albert Edward (Bertie to his family). While carousing with a titled friend at an opium den, Bertie set in motion (or at least witnessed) events that led to his friend’s murder by a Chinese sailor. The kicker: the sailor accused of murder shares Mary’s last name, and just might be her long-lost father. Mary has always kept her mixed-race heritage a secret, choosing to pass as black Irish, but she must now decide where her loyalties lie.

It takes a certain confidence for a writer (even one like Lee, with a PhD in Victorian literature and culture) to assign Queen Victoria and the future Edward VII major roles in a YA novel, and I’m happy to report that Lee succeeds brilliantly in bringing them to life—they are interesting people first and historical figures next. This book made research the Prince of Wales (on Wikipedia) where I discovered that he opposed votes for women, smoked twelve cigars a day, laid the cornerstone for Parliament Hill in Ottawa—and that his long list of mistresses included Winston Churchill’s mother. This history business is more interesting than I’d thought.

And what about James Easton, you ask, whom we last saw in The Body at the Tower, tut-tutting over Mary’s unsuitable childhood? Well, James has seen the error of assuming he’s CEO of the Moral Universe and begs Mary’s forgiveness by page 71, so we can like him again. James’s engineering firm has just been awarded a secret contract to repair the sewers of Buckingham Palace. When Mary finds a mysterious tunnel that’s not in James’s maps, the two must work together to figure out the purpose of a tunnel that leads nowhere. Will their third adventure together finally lead, you know, to romance? (Incidentally, well-aware that three coincidental run-ins are a tad much, Lee sets the stage for a more organic partnership for the couple in the future.)

The Traitor and the Tunnel is the most overtly feminist of Lee’s books thus far, exploring a wide range of women’s roles from Queen Victoria (arguably the most powerful person on the planet at that time) to an infinitely helpless domestic servant, and in each instance, Lee makes a strong case for financial independence as the key to a woman’s freedom. Mary truly comes into her own in this book as a courageous, principled woman, and Lee gives her some great lines—for instance in this scene when one of the Palace equerries attempts to molest her.

He wanted her [Mary] to struggle.

He wanted her to cry, to beg, to be terrified.

He hadn’t the first clue with whom he was dealing.

“You stupid little boy,” she said in a clear, acidic voice. “What d’you think Bertie’s going to say when I tell him what you’re trying to do?”

Instantly he went still.

[…] “You’ll lose your post of course. But there’ll also be the cost of paying me off. Do you have that sort of ready money? And there’s the scandal: you’ll have to explain things to your father. D’you really want to tell him that your entire family lost favour with the future king, all because you couldn’t keep your mitts off a parlour-maid?”

The Agency series is very deliberately constructed around the political and cultural climate of the era, and this book tackles the subject of Asians living in Victorian Britain. Whilst generations of Chinese peacefully made their homes in London, recent political events have led to attacks on their persons as well as their business interests, and Mary wonder whether Queen Victoria will be quite as concerned with justice when the man charged with murder is Chinese.

And as always, Lee injects her story with a wealth of information about the period, from the kind of cakes served at tea-time at Buckingham Palace (ooh, butterfly buns sound good) to the “flushers” who work in the royal sewers. The richness of detail, the intelligent writing, the intricate plots, and superbly-drawn characters elevate this series miles above most YA offerings on the shelves today; I’m delighted to hear this trilogy now has a fourth installment in store for its many devotees.


Spoilerish whine, not part of the original review: The only place where Lee didn’t quite carry me along was in the dissention between the founders of the Agency. The two owners, Anne and Felicity, disagree on whether to expand (and dilute the original vision), or to stay small but faithful to the dream of a woman-only organization, and ask Mary to choose whom she’d like to follow. (Typically, she finds a third way; this is Mary Quinn we’re talking about, Queen of the Daring Initiative.) I wish, though, that we knew more about the founders–they remain shadowy right till the end, and their split is thus largely academic as it is shorn of any personal history about the two women, which would have made their disagreement truly meaningful to the reader. I can’t help but wonder about the genesis of The Agency, and given the way this book ends,  I don’t think we’re going to learn much more. Sooooo…how about a prequel, Ying? And I bet the ever-multiplying horde of devotees will second my plea.