“The Grave’s a Fine and Private Place”, by Alan Bradley

 

400 pages, Bantam, ISBN-13: 978-0345540003

The Grave’s a Fine and Private Place is the next-to-last Flavia de Luce mystery (so far), and as with the last several books I have read in Bradley’s chronicle of the Divine Flavia, I have been slow-walking it, limiting myself to a chapter a night before bed in order to savor what could very well be one of the last times this utterly fascinating character comes to life (Bradley has never definitively announced that the series is over, only that “he and Flavia are taking a break to sit and mull the future while enjoying a nice cup of tea”; Flavia, I’m certain, wants to come back and continue her chemical and investigatory antics). So I will continue to savor the tales of this rather peculiar and utterly engaging young lady for as long as I can.

We find the de Luce’s on holiday after the tragedy that befell them at the end of Thrice the Brinded Cat Hath Mew’d, attempting to reconnect as a family and find their way in the world – which is when Flavia, her hand idly trailing over the side of the punt they are relaxing in, snags a recently-drowned corpse of a man dressed in theatrical garb by his gaping mouth (really, now; what better way for Flavia to get her mind off of things than a smashing murder?). And so we’re off as Flavia investigates the death of this young man far away from the confines of Bishop’s Lacey and Inspector Hewitt and all of her other familiar haunts. But Flavia makes due – helped as always by the ever-accommodating Dogger, who takes on a greater role in this book.

What follows is a standard Flavia de Luce mystery in which our freelance detective pursues her own criminal investigation quite apart from the local constabulary, led in this instance by one Constable Otter, who – like Inspector Hewitt – is impressed and exasperated by Flavia in equal measure. But outside of the confines of Buckshaw (and her laboratory), Flavia must make due with slap-dash techniques, like using a teapot to conduct an experiment in her pub bedroom, an experiment in which Dogger proves to be invaluable (an instance of foreshadowing, perhaps?). But while Dogger assists throughout the book, it is Flavia, as always, who is the motor that drives this vehicle, and she does so with her usual verve, imagination and chutzpah.

And the mystery itself is satisfying in its complexity and ambiguity. The corpse that Flavia discovers is of one Orlando Whitbread, the son of the late lamented Canon Whitbread, a clergyman who was executed three years previously for the murder of three of his parishioners, known as the Three Graces. Was Orlando murdered and, if so, why and by whom? Did his death have something to do with his father’s and, consequently, with the Three Graces? If Canon Whitbread was innocent of their deaths, then the real murderer must still be at large – and willing to go to any means to keep their identity and crimes a secret. All good stuff that keeps one guessing until the end and, if I do say so myself, satisfied that the mystery was legit and justice was done, all thanks to Flavia.

As well, the long-delayed conclusion to the fate of Buckshaw, the de Luce familial estate, should be coming to an end – and about damn time, too. We also have an insight into what awaits Flavia in upcoming books, as well as others in her circle: loyal Dogger; Aunt Felicity, member of the secret organization, the Nide; Mildred Bannerman, once-convicted murderess and former teacher at Miss Bodycote’s Female Academy; the floralarchaeologist Adam Tradescant Sowerby; and even cousin Undine – as a new chapter promises to be written in the life of this unique character – and, if I may be so bold, I applaud myself for foreseeing a potential change in the character and her circumstances, sans short skirts or go-go boots or Vespas or poisons and bombs.

At the end of my review of Thrice the Brinded Cat Hath Mew’d, I said that Flavia must be allowed to grow up, as all children do; perhaps Bradley thought so, too, for he has Flavia, after contemplating all of the chemicals (and poisons) to be found in a church’s stained-glass windows, observe: “Such happy thoughts are proof that I have become an adult. I am now ruled by not only what I see, what I hear, what I taste, and what I smell, but also, and perhaps most important, by what I think”. If so, then Flavia has always been an adult, for she has been cerebral much more than emotional, more driven by her intellect than by her baser functions. But the very fact that she (and Bradley) have decided to take the training wheels off speaks volumes for what awaits us.