“Sorry, Aunt Felicity,” Feely said vaguely, “but funerals give me such awful gooseflesh—even on the television. I simply can’t bear to watch them.”

  For a moment, a coolish silence hung in the air, indicating that Aunt Felicity was not so easily mollified.

  “I know,” Feely added brightly. “Let me offer everyone a chocolate.”

  And she went for an end-table drawer.

  Visions of some Victorian hell flapped instantly into my mind: the caves, the flames, the burning pits, the lost souls queued up—much like those mourners outside Broadcasting House—all of them waiting to be flung by an avenging angel into the fire and molten brimstone.

  Brimstone, after all, was sulfur (chemical symbol S), with whose dioxide I had stuffed the sweets. Bitten into, they would—well, that would hardly bear thinking about.

  Feely was already walking towards the vicar, ripping the cellophane from the box of ancient chocolates Ned had left on the doorstep; the box with which I had so lovingly tampered.

  “Vicar? Aunt Felicity?” she said, removing the lid and holding the box out at arm’s length. “Have a chocolate. The almond nougats are particularly interesting.”

  I couldn’t let this happen, but what was I to do? It was obvious that Feely had taken my earlier, blurted warning as no more than a stupid bluff.

  Now the vicar was reaching for a sweet, his fingers, like the planchette on a Ouija board, hovering above the chocolates, as if some unseen spirit might direct him to the tastiest confection.

  “I have dibs on the almond nougats!” I shouted. “You promised, Feely!”

  I lunged forward and snatched the chocolate from the vicar’s fingers, and at the same instant, contrived to stumble on the edge of the carpet, my flailing hands dashing the box from Feely’s hands.

  “You beast!” Feely shouted. “You filthy little beast!”

  It was just like old times!

  Before she could recover her wits, I had trodden on the box, and in a clumsy, windmilling—but beautifully choreographed—attempt to regain my balance, had managed to grind the whole sticky mess into the Axminster carpet.

  Dieter, I noticed, had a broad grin on his face, as if it were all jolly good fun. Feely saw it, too, and I could tell that she was torn between her duchess act and swatting my face.

  Meanwhile, the hydrogen sulfide fumes, which my trampling of the chocolates had released, had begun their deadly work. The room was suddenly filled with the smell of rotten eggs—and what a stench! It smelled as if a sick brontosaurus had broken wind, and I remember wondering for an instant if the drawing room would ever be the same.

  All of this happened in less time than it takes to tell, and my rapid-fire reflections were broken into by the sound of Father’s voice.

  “Flavia,” he said, in that low, flat tone he uses to express fury, “go to your room. At once.” His finger trembled as he pointed.

  There was no point in arguing. With shoulders hunched, as if walking in deep snow, I trudged towards the door.

  Other than Father, everyone in the room was pretending that nothing had happened. Dieter was fiddling with his collar, Feely was rearranging her skirt as she perched beside him on the sofa, and Daffy was already reaching for a dog-eared copy of King Solomon’s Mines. Even Aunt Felicity was glaring fiercely at a loose thread on the sleeve of her tweed jacket, and the vicar, who had drifted across to the French doors, stood gazing out with pretended interest in the ornamental lake and the folly beyond.

  Halfway across the room, I stopped and retraced my steps. I had almost forgotten something. Digging into my pocket, I pulled out the envelope of extra-perforated stamps Miss Cool had given me, and handed it to Father.

  “These are for you. I hope you like them,” I said. Without looking at it, Father took the envelope from my hand, his quivering finger still pointing. I slunk across the room.

  I paused at the door … and turned.

  “If anyone wants me,” I said, “I shall be upstairs, weeping at the bottom of my closet.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  WHAT BETTER PLACE FOR a confession than at the end of a mystery novel? According to the great Eric Partridge, the words knowledge and acknowledgment come from the Middle English verb knawlechen, which means not only knowledge, but also confession or admission. So I’d better admit straightaway that I’m working with the assistance of a goodly number of partners in crime.

  First and foremost among these conspirators are my editors: Bill Massey of Orion Books; Kate Miciak of the Random House Publishing Group; and Kristin Cochrane of Doubleday Canada. For their unwavering faith in Flavia from the very outset, I am forever in their debt. Bill, Kate, and Kristin have become family.

  Again, my dear friends Dr. John and Janet Harland have contributed beyond measure. From brilliant ideas to animated discussions over happy meals, they have never failed to be the best of patient friends.

  At Orion Books, in London, Natalie Braine, Helen Richardson, and Juliet Ewers are always marvels of friendly efficiency.

  My literary agent, Denise Bukowski, has worked diligently to tell the world about Flavia. Also at the Bukowski Agency, Jericho Buendia, David Whiteside, and Susan Morris have freed me from worrying about the thousands of tiny details.

  My deep indebtedness to Nicole, of Apple, whose magic wand turned what might have been a tragedy into a perfect triumph of online support. Thanks again, Nicole!

  At Random House, in New York City, Kate Miciak, Nita Taublib, Loyale Coles, Randall Klein, Gina Wachtel, Theresa Zoro, Gina Centrello, and Alison Masciovecchio provided a touching welcome that I will never forget. And having Susan Corcoran as one’s publicist is every author’s dream. And thanks to my copy editor, Connie Munro.

  Thanks also to the American Booksellers Association for inviting me to their Indie Lunch at Book Expo America. Happily, I found myself seated at a table with Stanley Hadsell, of Market Block Books in Troy, New York, who epitomizes independent bookselling. We could have talked all night.

  To Ann Kingman and Michael Kindness of “Books on the Nightstand,” for their early and abiding faith. When I ran into Michael unexpectedly at BEA, I found out that in spite of living in the smallest town in the smallest county in the smallest state, he’s one of Flavia’s biggest fans.

  In Houston, David Thompson and McKenna Jordan, Brenda Jordan, Michelle McNamara, and Kathryn Priest of Murder By the Book, made me understand instantly why so many people love Texas so much. Now I do, too.

  Sarah Borders and Jennifer Schwartz of the Houston Public Library did double duty in arranging a question-and-answer session.

  Special thanks to Jonathan Topper of Topper Stamps and Postal History in Houston, who took the time to spice up the evening with a fascinating display of Penny Blacks.

  And to John Demers of Delicious Mischief, who managed to turn a steeplechase interview into a sheer delight.

  Also in Houston, Random House representatives Liz Sullivan and Gianna LaMorte made me feel at home.

  To that legend among booksellers, Barbara Peters of The Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale, Arizona, my profound thanks for being the perfect hostess. Although she’s younger than I am, Barbara is nevertheless my long-lost twin.

  Patrick Milliken, John Goodwin, and Will Hanisko, also of The Poisoned Pen, kindly allowed me a peek behind the scenes of a busy bookstore and plied me with refreshments.

  Thanks, too, to Lesa Holstine and Cathy Johnson, for a very special evening during which we talked happily about everything under the sun.

  Kim Garza at the Tempe Public Library put together a delightful afternoon of animated discussion. I still carry in my mind the image of all those happy faces. Thank you, Tempe!

  In Westminster, Maryland, Lori Zook, Cheryl Kelly, Judy Pohlhaus, Camille Marchi, Ginny Mortorff, Wanda Rawlings, Pam Kaufman, Stacey Carlini, Sherry Drechsler plied me with soft drinks, cakes, and JuJubes (which, when we got around to recalling candy treats of long-gone movie matinees, they also taught me to pronounce correctly: It’s “JOO-joo-bays,” not “JOO-joobs”).

  Meanwhile, at Doubleday Canada, my publicist Sharon Klein has been a perfect dynamo. I must also admit that I’m in awe of Doubleday Canada’s team, including Martha Leonard, as well as Heather Sanderson and Sharmila Mohammed of the Digital Team, who have brought the Flavia Fan Club to life and provided a cosy haven for visitors.

  And I’d be remiss indeed if I failed to extend special thanks to Brad Martin, President and CEO of Random House of Canada, who has championed Flavia from her very beginnings.

  In spite of the worst blizzard of the year, Bryce Zorn and Curtis Weston of Chapters in Kelowna, British Columbia, managed a full house for the Canadian launch of the first book in this series, The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie. Thanks also to Paul Hasselback, who saw me safely home through black ice and all the windblown drifts.

  Trish Kells of Random House Canada, who arranged a memorable book event in Vancouver, also acted as chauffeur and laughed at my jokes in spite of the rain.

  Deb McVitie of 32 Books in North Vancouver was the charming sponsor of my first away-from-home reading and book signing. My co-readers, Hannah Holborn and Andrea Gunraj, helped to make it an unforgettable evening. If Hannah and Andrea are indicative of our up-and-coming young writers, we have no need whatsoever to worry about the future.

  And finally, to my wife, Shirley, whose love, company, and patient support have allowed me the luxury of writing. Amadeus and Cleo have helped a lot, too.

  A Postcard from Everywhere

  The International Response to the Flavia de Luce Novels

  Alan Bradley

  The Flavia de Luce books have so far been published in thirty-four countries and thirty-one languages. I sometimes ask myself—and am asked by others—if I could have foreseen the phenomenally warm reception with which they have been received around the world.

  Probably not.

  It’s been like witnessing a miracle to watch as, over the months, the postman delivered to my door editions in Hebrew, Mandarin Chinese, Russian, Croatian, Korean, Estonian, and Catalan, each with its own unique interpretation of Flavia and of Buckshaw, her ancestral home. The Dutch edition, for instance, has on its cover a picture of Flavia on her bicycle, Gladys, her hair flowing out behind her and metamorphosing into the branches of a tree, while the Russian edition has Flavia in a traditional Russian folk costume and boots!

  Hardly a day goes by that I don’t hear from readers in some new (to me) part of the world. Word comes from Australia of a ninety-five-year-old great-grandmother sharing The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie with her eleven-year-old great-granddaughter, and from a pensioner in the UK who tells me that Flavia transports him back to his youth. I’ve had news of parents reading the book aloud to their children, of children reading aloud to their parents, and of children and parents—and grandparents—reading aloud to one another. All of which makes me as proud as Punch.

  I wanted to capture, or at least recapture, in these books that joyous, burning enthusiasm and intensity of obsession with which eleven-year-olds are so easily ignited.

  I was about Flavia’s age in 1950, the year in which the series begins, growing up in a family of storytellers. My grandfather had run away to sea as a little boy, and when he finally came home, because he had grown up, no one in his family recognized him. He went on to serve in the British Army in Afghanistan and South Africa, and again in World War I. In Afghanistan he learned to knit socks and in South Africa he learned needlepoint. I asked him once if he’d ever killed anyone, and he said, “I hope not.”

  Stricken with rheumatoid arthritis, he spent the last seventeen years of his life confined to a bed in what would then have been called the parlor, and we used to gather at his bedside and listen to tales of his old pals and his travels.

  It was probably there that the Flavia de Luce novels had their real beginning: in my grandfather’s stories of an England and a British Empire that no longer existed. For more than sixty years I often dreamed about flying to England, only to awaken before the plane landed. When The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie won the Crime Writers’ Association Debut Dagger Award and I flew to London to receive it, I realized that it was almost precisely one hundred years to the day since my grandparents had left their beloved country to emigrate to Canada.

  Since then I’ve become something of a traveler.

  As I set out on a recent reading and book signing tour of Germany, The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie had just been published in paperback under the title Mord im Gurkenbeet (Death in the Cucumber Patch), and had already made its appearance on Der Spiegel’s bestseller list. The book’s sequel, The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag, was newly out in hardcover as Mord ist Kein Kinderspiel (Death Is Not Child’s Play).

  I must admit I’d been just a little apprehensive about how Dieter, the German ex–prisoner of war, would be received in Germany, but everywhere I went—everywhere! from Berlin to Hanover, and from Frankfurt to Cologne—people would come up after the reading, begging to be assured that Dieter would return in future books.

  Every night, as actress Anna Thalbach read aloud from the second book, I could feel the radiant warmth of the response—especially when she read the chapter in which Dieter first appears. (Anna’s mother, Katharina Thalbach, by the way, was one of the stars of The Tin Drum.) Anna is a regular on Flemming, a popular German TV crime series, in which she plays the part of Dr. Alissa Markus, a forensics specialist. No matter where we were reading that evening, she would spend the day filming in a studio somewhere—Berlin, I think—examining particularly nauseating corpses who had met particularly nasty ends (makeup, I hope!), then calmly take the train or the plane to rejoin us in the evening, where she would once again bring Flavia to life on the stage.

  It was thrilling—there’s no other word for it—to sit at Anna’s elbow night after night, and hear her breathe life into Flavia in another language. She had the audience on the edges of their chairs: hanging on every word!

  The menacing undertone of certain passages was perfect. Everywhere, we were swarmed by people queuing up for Anna’s autograph—which she signed with a fat felt-tip pen in a huge, swirling hand—on the title page of my book. I had to squeeze my tiny signature in underneath hers!

  “Has it all been fun?” I’m often asked.

  Yaroo!

  Questions and Topics for Discussion

  1. The novel opens with Flavia going over the circumstances of her own death as she lies in a churchyard. What effect did this opening have on your reading, or your understanding of Flavia?

  2. In interviews, Alan Bradley has often spoken of Flavia’s idealism and how her extensive understanding of chemistry is offset by a complete lack of understanding about family relationships. Discuss Flavia’s place within the de Luce family.

  3. As Flavia shows Nialla and Rupert the way to Culverhouse Farm, they run into Mad Meg, who tells them, “the Devil’s come back to Gibbet Wood” and also quotes Matthew 10:16: “Be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.” What does Meg mean? Do you think she is trying to give Flavia a clue about what she’s seen?

  4. The first two Flavia de Luce novels both deal, in part, with a crime occurring in the midst of a seemingly innocent pastime. In The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, it was stamp collecting. In The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag, it’s a puppet show. What do you suppose is the author’s intent in centering the mysteries around these activities?

  5. Despite its lightness of tone, The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag is a dark novel, dealing with the death of a child and the deceptions that both preceded and followed that tragic event. How does Bradley balance the novel’s style with its subject matter?

  6. How do you see Flavia being helped in her investigations by being an eleven-year-old? How is she hindered?

  7. Flavia uses chemistry to solve crimes. Do you think Flavia would be just as adept a detective if her main interest were that of either of her sisters—books, like Daffy, or music, like Feely?

  8. The title The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag comes from a Sir Walter Raleigh poem quoted in the front of the book. How does it fit the story?

  9. Aunt Felicity is domineering and awful, despite the Colonel’s claims to the contrary; Cynthia is not the vicar’s helpful wife, but an “ogress.” Where do Flavia’s dark opinions of others come from? Is she purposefully undercutting the village’s charming veneer, or does she just not trust anyone?

  10. Discuss the circumstances of Robin Ingleby’s death, and how Grace and Gordon Ingleby have lived for the five years since. Do you foresee an end to their grieving once the truth comes to light?

  11. Does Flavia truly engage with the surrounding world, or is her connection merely one of intellectual curiosity?

  12. Why does Flavia find it fairly easy to relate to Mad Meg while others in the village do not?

  13. In an interview, Alan Bradley commented, “I don’t think we trust children enough anymore [or] leave them alone enough.… I recall being that age, and one of the greatest blessings was being left to myself. You find your own interests and amusements and pursue them—and that has a huge effect on the outcome of your life.” Are kids today given enough freedom? Or, is Flavia given too much?

  14. Book reviewers have called Flavia a rougher, tougher Hermione Granger; Prime Suspect’s Jane Tennison as a child; a combination of Eloise and Sherlock Holmes; and Harriet the Spy by way of Agatha Christie, with a dash of Lemony Snicket and the Addams Family. How would you describe her?

  15. Should Rupert’s killer be sent to prison? Were you satisfied by the way the mystery was solved? Were you surprised by the identity of the guilty party?

  16. These novels are so entertaining thanks largely to the originality of the supporting characters, those villagers and interlopers who unknowingly come under Flavia’s microscope with every page turned. Who are the most interesting characters in the novel? Are there some you would like to see more of in future books?