Praise for Alan Bradley and the Flavia de Luce novels
SPEAKING FROM AMONG the BONES
“Flavia de Luce can be described very accurately as precocious, irrepressible, incorrigible and so much more. [Her] world is populated with a distinctly quirky cast of characters, which author Alan Bradley obviously takes great pleasure in creating, and which will delight all who enter.”
—Fredericksburg Free Lance–Star
“Memorable, often funny prose complements the crafty plot.… The precocious and irrepressible Flavia continues to delight. Portraying an eleven-year-old as a plausible sleuth and expert in poisons is no mean feat, but Bradley makes it look easy.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Bradley’s Flavia cozies, set in the English countryside, have been a hit from the start, and this fifth in the series continues to charm and entertain.”
—Booklist
“Bradley’s assured, bemused style never causes the reader to disbelieve the little scamp’s precocious abilities.”
—The Seattle Times
“An excellent reminder that crime fiction can sparkle with wit, crackle with spirit and verge on the surreal … Flavia, once more, entertains and delights as she exposes the inner workings of her investigative mind to the reader.”
—National Post (Canada)
I AM HALF-SICK of SHADOWS
“Every Flavia de Luce novel is a reason to celebrate, but Christmas with Flavia is a holiday wish come true for her fans.”
—USA Today (four stars)
“This is a classic country house mystery in the tradition of Agatha Christie, and Poirot himself would approve of Flavia’s skills in snooping and deduction. Flavia is everything a reader wants in a detective—she’s smart, logical, intrepid and curious.… This is a refreshingly engaging read.”
—RT Book Reviews
“With its sharply drawn characters, including the hiss-worthy older de Luce sisters, and an agreeable puzzle playing out against the cozy backdrop of a British village at Christmas, this is a most welcome holiday gift for Flavia fans.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This is a delightful read through and through. We find in Flavia an incorrigible and wholly lovable detective; from her chemical experiments in her sanctum sanctorum to her outrage at the idiocy of the adult world, she is un-equaled. Charming as a stand-alone novel and a guaranteed smash with series followers.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Bradley masterfully weaves a ghoulish Yuletide tale.… The story breathes characters full of charisma, colour and nuance.… Bradley gives a thrilling ride.”
—The Globe and Mail
A RED HERRING Without MUSTARD
“Alan Bradley’s third Flavia de Luce mystery, A Red Herring Without Mustard, exceeds in every way, if that’s even possible, his first two. Flavia is always feisty, always smart. I adore her. And while it is wonderful to read her as an adult, I wish I’d had Flavia as a role model while growing up. It’s cool to be smart. It’s cool to be Flavia! And it’s great to be among her legion of fans.”
—LOUISE PENNY, bestselling author of The Brutal Telling
“Outstanding … In this marvelous blend of whimsy and mystery, Flavia manages to operate successfully in the adult world of crimes and passions while dodging the childhood pitfalls set by her sisters.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Bradley’s third book about tween sleuth Flavia de Luce will make readers forget Nancy Drew.”
—People
“Oh, to be eleven again and pal around with irresistible wunderkind Flavia de Luce.… A splendid romp through 1950s England led by the world’s smartest and most incorrigible preteen.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“As satisfying as the mystery is, the multiple-award winning Bradley offers more.… Beautifully written, with fully fleshed characters … [Bradley] secures his position as a confident, talented writer and storyteller.”
—The Globe and Mail
“Think preteen Nancy Drew, only savvier and a lot richer, and you have Flavia de Luce.… Don’t be fooled by Flavia’s age or the 1950s setting: A Red Herring isn’t a dainty tea-and-crumpets sort of mystery. It’s shot through with real grit.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Whether battling with her odious sisters or verbally sparring with the long-suffering Inspector Hewitt, our cheeky heroine is a delight. Full of pithy dialog and colorful characters, this series would appeal strongly to fans of Dorothy Sayers, Gladys Mitchell, and Leo Bruce as well as readers who like clever humor mixed in with their mysteries.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“[Flavia] remains irresistibly appealing as a little girl lost.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Delightful … The book’s forthright and eerily mature narrator is a treasure.”
—The Seattle Times
“Bradley has created a marvelous character in Flavia—very adult in some ways, very childish in others, full of energy and curiosity. His story should appeal to readers of all ages looking to escape into a thoroughly entertaining world.”
—Tulsa World
“Bradley’s characters, wonderful dialogue and plot twists are a most winning combination.”
—USA Today
The WEED That STRINGS the HANGMAN’S BAG
“Flavia is incisive, cutting and hilarious … one of the most remarkable creations in recent literature.”
—USA Today
“Bradley takes everything you expect and subverts it, delivering a smart, irreverent, unsappy mystery.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“The real delight here is her droll voice and the eccentric cast.… Utterly beguiling.”
—People (four stars)
“Brisk, funny and irrepressible, Flavia is distinctly uncute, and the cozy village setting has enough edges to keep suspicions sharp.… Bradley gives a pitch-perfect performance that surpasses an already worthy debut.”
—Houston Chronicle
“Her sleuthing skills both amaze and amuse.”
—Mystery Scene
“Endlessly entertaining … The author deftly evokes the period, but Flavia’s sparkling narration is the mystery’s chief delight. Comic and irreverent, this entry is sure to build further momentum for the series.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Smart, funny … His second novel confirms the promise of the first.… Bradley is a writer of great charm and insight, and he infuses even minor characters with indelible personality.… Flavia de Luce, both eleven and ageless, is a marvel and a delight.”
—Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
The SWEETNESS at the BOTTOM of the PIE
“Sophisticated, series-launching … It’s a rare pleasure to follow Flavia as she investigates her limited but boundless-feeling world.”
—Entertainment Weekly (A–)
THE MOST AWARD-WINNING BOOK OF ANY YEAR!
WINNER:
Macavity Award for Best First Mystery Novel
Barry Award for Best First Novel
Agatha Award for Best First Novel
Dilys Award
Arthur Ellis Award for Best Novel
Spotted Owl Award for Best Novel
CWA Debut Dagger Award
“If ever there was a sleuth who’s bold, brilliant, and, yes, adorable, it’s Flavia de Luce.”
—USA Today
“A wickedly clever story, a dead-true and original voice, and an English country house in the summer: Alexander McCall Smith meets Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Please, please, Mr. Bradley, tell me we’ll be s
eeing Flavia again soon?”
—LAURIE R. KING, bestselling author of Garment of Shadows
“Impressive as a sleuth and enchanting as a mad scientist … Flavia is most endearing as a little girl who has learned how to amuse herself in a big lonely house.”
—MARILYN STASIO, The New York Times Book Review
“A delightful new sleuth. A combination of Eloise and Sherlock Holmes … fearless, cheeky, wildly precocious.”
—The Boston Globe
The Dead in Their Vaulted Arches is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Alan Bradley
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
DELACORTE PRESS and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Bradley, C. Alan
The dead in their vaulted arches : a Flavia de Luce novel / Alan Bradley.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-385-34405-0 (hardback) —
ISBN 978-0-345-53969-4 (eBook) 1. De Luce, Flavia (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Girls—England—Fiction. 3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 4. Family secrets—Fiction. I. Title.
II. Title: Flavia de Luce novel.
PR9199.4.B7324D43 2014
813′.6—dc23
2013027898
www.bantamdell.com
Font used as art on this page and this page courtesy of Bonez Designz.
Case design: Joe Montgomery
Case images: Suksakon Soponpatumruk/
Depositphotos (keyhole and ladder);
Sirylok/Yay Images (tree branches)
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Other Books by This Author
About the Author
The Marble Tombs that rise on high,
Whose Dead in vaulted Arches lye,
Whose Pillars swell with sculptur’d Stones,
Arms, Angels, Epitaphs and Bones,
These (all the poor Remains of State)
Adorn the Rich, or praise the Great;
Who while on Earth in Fame they live,
Are senseless of the Fame they give.
Thomas Parnell,
A Night-Piece on Death (1721)
PROLOGUE
“Your mother has been found.”
Nearly a week after he had made it, Father’s shocking announcement was still ringing in my ears.
Harriet! Harriet found! Who could believe it?
Harriet, who had been lost in a mountaineering accident when I was barely a year old; Harriet, whom I can’t remember seeing, ever, with my own eyes.
My reaction?
Numbness, I’m afraid.
Sheer stupid silent numbness.
Not joy—not relief—not even gratitude to those who had found her more than ten years after her disappearance in the Himalayas.
No, I felt only a cold numbness: a cold, shameful sort of numbness that made me need desperately to be alone.
ONE
TO BEGIN WITH, IT was a perfect English morning: one of those dazzling days in early April when a new sun makes it seem suddenly like full-blown summer.
Sunshine broke through the fat white dumplings of the clouds, sending shadows chasing one another playfully across the green fields and up into the gently rolling hills. Somewhere in the woods on the other side of the railway line, a nightingale was singing.
“It’s like a colored plate from Wordsworth,” my sister Daphne said, almost to herself. “Far too picturesque.”
Ophelia, my oldest sister, was a still, pale, silent shadow, lost in her own thoughts.
At the appointed time, which happened to be ten o’clock, we were all of us gathered more or less together on the little railway platform at Buckshaw Halt. I think it was the first time in my life I had ever seen Daffy without a book in her hand.
Father, who stood a bit apart from us, kept glancing every few minutes at his wristwatch and looking along the track, eyes squinting, watching for smoke in the distance.
Directly behind him stood Dogger. How odd it was to see these two men—gentleman and servant—who had been through such ghastly times together, standing dressed in their Sunday best at an abandoned country railway station.
Although Buckshaw Halt had once been used to bring both goods and guests to the great house, and although the rails remained, the station proper, with its weathered bricks, had been boarded up for donkey’s years.
In the past few days, though, it had been hurriedly made ready for Harriet’s homecoming: swept out and tidied up, its broken windowpanes replaced, the tiny flower bed weeded and planted with a small riot of flowers.
Father had been asked to go up to London and ride with her back to Buckshaw, but he had insisted on being at the little station at Buckshaw Halt to meet the train. It was, after all, he had explained to the vicar, the place and manner in which he had first met her all those many years ago when both of them were young.
As we waited, I noticed that Father’s boots had been polished to a high-gloss perfection, from which I deduced that Dogger was currently in a much improved state. There were times when Dogger screamed and whimpered in the night, huddled in the corner of his tiny bedroom, visited by the ghosts of far-off prisons, tormented by the devils of the past. At all other times he was as competent as any human is capable of being, and I sent up thanks that this morning was one of them.
Never had we needed him more.
Here and there on the platform, small, tight knots of villagers, keeping a respectful distance, talked quietly to one another, preserving our privacy. More than a few of them stood huddled closely round Mrs. Mullet, our cook, and her husband, Alf, as if doing so made them, by some magic, part of the immediate household.
As ten o’clock approached, everyone, as if at an arranged signal, fell suddenly quiet, and an unearthly hush settled upon the countryside. It was as though a bell jar had been lowered upon the land and all the world was holding its breath. Even the nightingale in the woods had abruptly ceased its song.
The very air on the station platform was now electric, as it often becomes when a train is approaching but not yet in sight.
People shifted uneasily from foot to foot, and the faint wind of our collective breathing made a soft sigh on the gentle English air.
And then, finally, after what seemed like an eternal stillness, we saw in the distance the smoke from the engine.
Nearer and nearer it came, bringing Harriet—bringing my mother—home.
The bre
ath seemed sucked from my lungs as the gleaming engine panted into the station and squealed to a stop at the edge of the platform.
It was not a long train: not more than an engine and half a dozen carriages, and it sat resting for a few moments in the importance of its own swirling steam. There was an odd little lull.
Then a guard stepped down from the rear carriage and blew three sharp blasts on a whistle.
Doors opened, and the platform was suddenly swarming with men in uniform: military men with a dazzling array of full medals and clipped mustaches.
They formed up quickly into two columns and stood stiffly at attention.
A tall, tanned man I took to be their leader, his chest a wall of decorations and colored ribbons, marched smartly to where Father stood and brought his arm up in a sharp salute that left his hand vibrating like a tuning fork.
Although he seemed in a daze, Father managed a nod.
From the remaining carriages poured a horde of men in black suits and bowler hats carrying walking sticks and furled umbrellas. Among them were a handful of women in severe suits, hats, and gloves; a few, even, were in uniform. One of these, a fit but forbidding woman in RAF colors, looked such a Tartar and had so many stripes on her sleeve that she might have been an Air Vice-Marshal. This little station at Buckshaw Halt, I thought, in all of its long history, had never before been so packed with such an assortment of humanity.
To my surprise, one of the suited women turned out to be Father’s sister, Aunt Felicity. She hugged Feely, hugged Daffy, hugged me, and then without a word took up her station beside Father.
At an order, the two columns marched smartly towards the head of the train, as the large door in the luggage van slid open.
It was difficult, in the bright daylight, to make out anything in the dim depths of the van’s interior. All I could see at first was what seemed to be a dozen white gloves dancing suspended in the darkness.
And then gently, almost tenderly, a wooden box was handed out to the double column of waiting men, who shouldered it and stood motionless for a moment, like wooden soldiers staring straight ahead into the sunshine.