The Weed that Strings the Hangman's Bag

I know I've said it before, but I absolutely adore Flavia de Luce.  And despite the morbidity of Alan Bradley's latest installment, I also adored The Weed that Strings the Hangman's Bag.  I suppose 'morbid' may not be the best word, but it does describe it accurately -- well, maybe just a bit, anyway.

When I read The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie a few months ago, I was smitten.  I thoroughly enjoyed every moment of that book, and have not been afraid to let everyone know.  So naturally expectations were rather high for this latest in Bradley's series.  Did it disappoint, you ask?  Not at all.  However, I don't think it was as good as the first.  But let me explain.  My dad still claims that the best Harry Potter book was the first one.  Period.  End of story.  (I totally disagree, I think the best was the fifth -- and that the seventh was complete rubbish, but that's just me.)  Anyway, he claims that this is because everything was so new and exciting when he sat down to read it the first time, and I guess I can appreciate that.  This must be what I am suffering from with The Weed that Strings the Hangman's Bag.   But I shouldn't be, because the book is marvelous, really.  And truthfully it is every bit as good as the first.

The story goes like this:  Porson's Puppets (a popular kids show on the BBC) rolls, quite literally as their van has broken down, into the village of Bishop's Lacey (somewhere outside of London) sometime during the summer of 1950.  They ultimately decide to set up shop for a few days, while hoping to get their van fixed.  On the night of their final performance, however, Rupert Porson dies in the middle of the show.  The question quickly becomes whether or not Rupert was murdered, and why on earth anybody would want to do such a ghastly thing to a virtual celebrity.

Flavia, not missing a beat and riding her trusty bike, Gladys, attempts to solve the mystery of Rupert's death.  In doing so, she inadvertently brings another tragic story in the village to the forefront.  Gordon and Grace Ingelby's son Robin died six years earlier.  Robin was only five when he died, presumably by accidental hanging (enter the morbidity, as mentioned earlier), and no one, particularly Robin's mother, have been able to move past the death.  The events of these two deaths become seemingly connected as Flavia manages, without the help of the police or her family, to unearth the actual events. (Her sister Ophelia is too preoccupied with looking at herself in the mirror, while her other sister Daphne is too busy reading everything in sight.  Her father is also rather busy with his stamps, not to mention the fact that his sister, the hilarious Aunt Felicity, has come for a visit.)   

True to form, there are moments in the book when I found myself laughing out loud, and not only when Flavia's father refers to the telly as 'The One-Eyed Beast.'  He has a rather serious aversion to the telly (much like the telephone), and only after Aunt Felicity rents one, 'at ruinous expense', does he agree to let it sit in the drawing room, so that everyone might watch the live broadcast of the funeral of Rupert Porson.

The cast of characters is spectacular -- not just Flavia and her family, but also Dogger and the rest of the people in the village.  One of the new characters introduced in this book is Dieter, the German pilot who was shot down during the war, on account of his (and his unfortunate co-pilot's) obsession with the Brontë's. 

I happen to be a rather devout Brontë fan myself, and so when Mrs. Mullet talks about seeing a movie based on one of their books, I was in near hysterics.  In fact, I made Michael read it shortly after I finally got a grip and was able to hand the book over:

'I just 'appened to overhear a bit of what 'e said while I was dustin' the hall -- about 'Eathcliff, an' all that.  I mind the time me and my friend, Mrs. Waller, took the bus over to Hinley to see 'im in the cinema.  Wuthering Heights, it was called, and a good name for it, too!  That there 'Eathcliff, why, 'e kept 'is wife 'id up in the attic as if she was an old dresser!  No wonder she went barmy.  I know I should 'ave!  Now then, what you laughin' at, miss?'

And another gem:

'When it came to village gossip, Mrs. M was infallible, like Pope Pius IX.'

And another:

'What she really wanted, of course, was to have a better squint at Dieter.  Too vain to wear her spectacles, Feely had probably seen no more of Rupert's funeral than a dishwater blur.  And isn't it pointless being admired at close range by an anxious swain if one is unable to see said swain's rapture?' 

I could go on all day but I will refrain, as it gets rather tedious typing out long (albeit fantastic) quotes one after another.  Just suffice it to say that I will be patiently waiting until the next installment hits the press.  And not a moment too soon, if you ask me.