This was like the two books before it in the series, an ok book; not good, not bad, just ok. It’s a low ok, because for a book that was originally published 44 years ago, and the edition I read was first printed 14 years ago, this had the most errors I have read in a book in a long time; you would think someone in all the years might have pointed them out and the type might have been corrected.
Thomas and Charlotte both come across like ciphers, or ideas of (or a combination of types) different Victorian placeholder ideals, rather than actual characters. I actually don’t know what I think of them, especially Thomas; which I suppose is fine, as most of the other characters don’t quite know what they think of Charlotte and Thomas either.
Aunt Vespesia, Emily’s (Charlotte’s sister) aunt by marriage comes across like a cross between the Dowager Empress in Anastasia, and a more likable Great-Aunt Adelaide from Nanny McPhee (the fact that they’re both Angela Lansbury roles is one of those strange coincidences). I just hope if she makes a reappearance in a future book, she doesn’t fall into the truly annoying type of character that older people Pop Culture other have a bad habit of becoming: a “hoot”. In my opinion, people are called (or call themselves) a “hoot” when they’re nosy, annoying, obnoxious wretches, but think the word “hoot” makes them adorable, and forgivable, because you “just can’t help but love them”; I don’t.
And the mysterious Monsieur Alaric, whose identity becomes a part of the plot until it isn’t, goes unsolved, and apparently doesn’t matter enough to continue? Is that because he’s going to make a return appearance, realism because priorities, or just lazy writing? Even knowing they are incredibly true to life, the representation of the class system and societal do’s and don’ts of Victorian England get frustrating and tiresome to read.
The whodunnit did keep me guessing to the end, even if the whos are a little bit “really?” Jealous ex-lovers, blackout drunk rapists, black magic cults, servants whose jobs would entail going through the house in the morning apparently missing the Master of the House having hanged himself off the Entry Hall banister; it’s all a little unbelievable.
Never mind the lightning fast assembling of clues to a solution; if period-sexism wasn’t in place, I think Charlotte Pitt might make a better detective than her husband! I wonder if in future books we’ll ever get away from interconnecting the murders to Emily and George and their little corner of society?
And why on Earth would Charlotte and Thomas name their daughter Jemima, instead of Sarah like her deceased sister?
And will they ever stop printing the exact same, word-for-word interview with Anne Perry in every single book. This is all putting aside the fact, though, that at the age of 15, Perry and a friend killed Perry’s mother; seeing as Anne Perry wrote 102 books, I guess it goes to show that publishers will forgive anyone anything if there’s a chance they’ll bring in money.