Book Jacket:
It is the summer of 1950–and at the once-grand mansion of Buckshaw, young Flavia de Luce, an aspiring chemist with a passion for poison, is intrigued by a series of inexplicable events: A dead bird is found on the doorstep, a postage stamp bizarrely pinned to its beak. Then, hours later, Flavia finds a man lying in the cucumber patch and watches him as he takes his dying breath.
For Flavia, who is both appalled and delighted, life begins in earnest when murder comes to Buckshaw. “I wish I could say I was afraid, but I wasn’t. Quite the contrary. This was by far the most interesting thing that had ever happened to me in my entire life.”
You can read an excerpt here.
Review:
Harriet the Spy, meet Agatha Christie.
Flavia de Luce is truly, as they say, a character. Her narration is authentically (and hilariously) that of an eleven year old, yet she is sharp as a tack and easily believable as an intrepid sleuth. From Nancy Drew to Harriet the Spy, youngsters investigating crime is hardly a new genre, but Sweetness is far from pale imitation – Flavia is without question an original. From her endless war with her elder sisters, and her escapades on her trusty bicycle (Gladys), to her glib lies and undying love of distillation, Flavia is a wonderfully fresh and compelling voice.
A taste:
Even though we De Luces had been Roman Catholics since chariot races were all the rage, that did not keep us from attending St. Tancred’s Bishop’s Lackey’s only church and a fortress of the Church of England if there ever was one.
There were several reasons for our patronage. The first was its handy location, and another the fact that Father and the Vicar had both (although at different times) been to school at Greyminster. Besides, Father had once pointed out to us, consecration was permanent, like a tattoo. St. Tancred’s, he said, had been a Roman Catholic Church before the Reformation and, in his eyes, remained one.
Consequently, ever Sunday morning without exception we straggled across the fields like ducks, Father slashing intermittently at the vegetation with his Malacca walking stick, Feely, Daffy, and me in that order, and Dogger, in his Sunday best, bringing up the rear.
No one at St. Tancred’s paid us the slightest attention. Some years before, there had been a minor outbreak of grumbling from the Anglicans, but all had been settled without blood or bruises by a well-timed contribution to the Organ Restoration fund.
“Tell them we may not be praying with them,” Father told the Vicar, “but we are at least not actively praying against them.”
Once, when Feely lost her head and bolted for the Communion rail, Father refused to speak to her until the following Sunday. Ever since that day, whenever she so much as shifted her feet in church, Father would mutter, “Steady on, old girl.” He did not need to catch her eye; his profile, which was that of the standard-bearer in some particularly ascetic Roman legion, was enough to keep us in our places. At least in public.
Now, glancing over at Feely as she knelt with her eyes closed, her fingertips touching and pointed to Heaven, and her lips shaping soft words of devotion, I had to pinch myself to keep in mind that I was sitting next to the Devil’s Hairball.
The congregation at St. Tancred’s had soon become accustomed to our ducking and bobbing, and we basked in Christian charity – except for the time that Daffy told the organist, Mr. Denning, that Harriet had instilled in all of us her firm belief that the story of the Flood in Genesis was derived from the racial memory of the cat family, with particular reference to the drowning of kittens.
That had caused a bit of a stir, but Father had put things right by making a handsome donation to the Roof Repair Fund, a sum he deducted from Daffy’s allowance.
As in any story of small town Britain, Flavia’s world is populated with eccentrics – from her Father, with his stamp collecting passion, to Miss Mountjoy the retired librarian whose Reign of Terror was still the stuff of legend (all sweetness on the outside, but “The Palace of Malice” within), to Maximilian Brock, a retired musician who rumor has earning a secret living penning scandalous stories for American magazines under feminine pseudonyms, this story oozes British small town color. And while it may flirt a bit with British stereotypes, it manages to keep from ever straying over the line into archetypes.
The mystery itself is an interesting one, with a good number of clues for Flavia to chase, and a nice mix of Flavia exploring places she shouldn’t and inveigling people into sharing their confidences and memories – and I found it utterly believable that adults would be willing to tell their tales to an eleven year old girl. The mystery delves into Flavia’s father’s past, and though there is one session where he waxes on a bit too long about his boyhood, overall it makes for an interesting and personal story. I particularly enjoyed Flavia’s evolving understanding of her father – watching Flavia as she starts to realize her father’s limits and fallacies, and the true nature of their father-daughter relationship, adds a nice emotional underpinning to the murder investigation. And while I’ll admit I did get a bit ahead of the whodunit towards the end, I still enjoyed the process of watching Flavia unravel the mystery.
This is a book that I think in many ways defies categorization, and will likely confound librarians when it comes to shelving – in terms of quality character work, and a genuinely interesting mystery, this book could easily have a rightful place in the adult mystery section, yet with the eleven year old protagonist, I wouldn’t be surprised to find it just as likely to be stocked on a teen shelf. Wherever it is, whatever you expect, you will find something to enjoy in this book.
With its wickedly tongue in cheek sense of humor and plenty of delightful small down British kookiness, The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie is a refreshing change of pace from your average British cozy. Flavia is a delight, and more than worthy of a series to call her own. What a character…
Byrt Grade: A
As Levar Burton used to say – you don’t have to take my word for it…
Michele Leber for Library Journal says:
Winner of the Debut Dagger Award, this is a fresh, engaging first novel with appeal for cozy lovers and well beyond.
Marilyn Stasio for The New York Times sasy:
Impressive as a sleuth and enchanting as a mad scientist (“What a jolly poison could be extracted from the jonquil”), Flavia is most endearing as a little girl who has learned how to amuse herself in a big lonely house.
A well paced story, written with Dickensian flair, Sherlockian suspense and tongue-in-cheek fun, Alan Bradley’s sterling novel sets the bar for the series to follow.
For all of the book’s cleverness (the title alone threatens a storm of cuteness), Alan Bradley never loses touch with the darker realities of this rustic English paradise: a town still haunted by the atrocities of World War II and trying to regain its footing in daily life. Flavia’s real detective strength is getting adults to tell her what they remember — in a place where no one wants to talk about the past. In Sweetness, disappointment creeps in only when you sense the plot tilting toward its final scenes. If a few of those feel inevitable, that’s all right. It’s a rare pleasure to follow Flavia as she investigates her limited but boundless-feeling world. And it’s nice to know she’ll be back
This is wonderfully fun book with spot on dialogue. THe sibling rivalry is realistic as is the dialogue.
This book was a fun romp with a delightfully quirky heroine. I like how Bradley made Flavia a realistically inexperienced preteen without dumbing down the mystery too much.