“Marry, we live in perilous times.”

One of my first thoughts when I started reading The Lady Elizabeth, Alison Weir’s second novel, was thank god I’m not Mary Tudor. Before earning history’s dubious distinction as “Bloody Mary,” she suffered heaps of humiliation from her father, Henry VIII, who ticked off the Holy Roman Empire, discarded Mary’s mother, Catherine of Aragon, and married the one woman almost all of England thought to be a whore: Anne Boleyn. Worse, in the opening pages of The Lady Elizabeth, Mary is saddled with the unenviable obligation of telling her three-year-old half-sister Elizabeth that she, too, has been stripped of her title, declared a bastard and that Elizabeth’s mother was just beheaded for adultery and high treason on London’s Tower Green.

It’s a bad hand dealt to both highnesses, to be sure, but Elizabeth, especially, has a conjurer’s gift for turning adversity to advantage.  As Anne Boleyn’s beheading signals, the English court of the 16th century was a dangerous place to be. One false step and a courtier could find herself out of favor — or worse, dead. The child Elizabeth finds herself publicly rebuked by her father when she dares to suggest that perhaps her mother wasn’t guilty of adultery or incest. With the flick of a hand, Elizabeth is banished from court and bereft of royal protection. Relying on her own wits is the only way she wins back that favor.

As Elizabeth grows older, and her siblings — first Edward, then Mary –  become sovereign, the intrigues deepen. Weir, a prolific biographer of European monarchs, hews close to the documented facts of Elizabeth I’s life, starting with her as a child in 1533 to when she finally succeeds to the throne in 1558. But where she makes most free with the facts is where the narrative becomes most absorbing.  Apparently Elizabeth did consider marrying Thomas Seymour — who became the second husband of Elizabeth’s stepmother and sixth wife of Henry VIII, Katherine Parr (see the excellent site Tudor History) — and later the two had an ongoing flirtation. But in this story the courtship is more like a dangerous liaison with results more scandalous than certainly I ever imagined.

This is Weir’s second work of fiction and in it she shows a knack for balancing dramatization with detail. When you’re not on the edge of your seat wondering when Mary’s councilmen are going to turn up at Hatfield and haul Elizabeth off to the Tower, you’re savoring the sumptuous descriptions of dress and manners and banquet fare.

I know there are more than a lot of books about the Tudors out there, but few, I think, are as lively or well-paced.

Happy reading,

Elizabeth Frengel

Hard to believe that almost 100 years have passed since Christie broke on to the literary detective scene with The Mysterious Affair at Styles. The novel, serialized in England but first published in book format in America in 1920, debuted her immortally egg-headed sleuth, the fussy Belgian Monsieur Hercule Poirot.

Like Conan Doyle with Holmes, Christie would never live him down, even though she meticulously plotted Poirot’s death in the early 1940s. The book, Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case, was locked away in a bank vault and wouldn’t see the light of day until 1975, months before Christie’s own death on 12 January 1976.

Hers was a remarkable career and what better way to remember her life than revisiting a few of my favorites among her work? In no particular order, you might consider:

The Mysterious Affair at Styles (1920). As I’ve already mentioned, this is where Christie’s career began, so what better place to start? You’ll meet Poirot and the bumbling Captain Hastings, and get an excellent sample of Christie’s penchant for poisoning.

The Mystery of the Blue Train (1928). What ever could dampen the prospects of a holiday on the Riviera? Grand theft and murder, that’s what. Poirot takes the Blue Train to France to get to the bottom of it.

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (1926). Christie at her most clever, though some critics cried foul when it they found out whodunit. I disagree, of course. The plotting is tight, the characterization spot-on. This is the epitome of Golden-Age mystery.

After the Funeral (1953). Appearances are a matter of life and death in this classic drawing-room drama. The house described in the novel was based on Agatha’s sister’s own real-life gothic manse: Abney Hall.

Cards on the Table (1936). Who knew that the key to collaring a murderer rests in the single hand of a game of bridge? The diabolical shades with which Christie paints Mr. Shaitana will make you shiver. Also introduced here: Ariadne Oliver, the apple-eating, feminist-minded detective novelist (excellently portrayed by Zoë Wannamaker in the 2005 film version).

Death Comes as the End (1945). This is one of my favorite-favorites, I think, because it’s so unexpected. Set in 2000 B.C.E. Egypt, Christie goes to surprising lengths to show that malicious-minded murder among polite society is no twentieth-century (British) invention. You may know that Agatha’s second husband, Max Mallowan, was a celebrated archaeologist, and she accompanied him on — and financed — many digs.

The Mysterious Mr. Quin (1930). Probably the quirkiest character in Christie’s repertoire, Mr. Harley Quin is best summed up thus: He comes and he goes. But always his appearances are marked by a kaleidoscope of color, just as his abrupt disappearances seem to leave a dark void. This collection of short stories are just the thing to have on hand for the morning subway commute.

The Thirteen Problems (1932). I couldn’t leave out Miss Marple, the hopelessly behind the times spinster aunt from St. Mary Mead. But don’t be fooled by her grandmotherly exterior. Always at the ready with a “village parallel” Miss Marple sharpens her already razor wit to solve thirteen criminal conundrums — with nary a step out of the drawing room.

Christie’s corpus has never been out of print and her books are available in all sorts of editions. I’m particularly partial to the paperbacks from Dell, published in the late 60s and early 70s. HarperCollins, Christie’s UK publisher, recently began issuing hardcover facsimiles of the first editions, which I also like.

But whatever the edition, so long as it’s Agatha Christie, you’re not likely to be disappointed.

Happy reading,
Elizabeth Frengel

I decided to give him a go with The Moonstone, published in 1868. In short, it’s a very long tale about a precious gem stolen from the brow of a Hindu deity that wreaks havoc on the Herncastles, an English family related to the man who may or may not have been the gem’s original Western thief.

I admit to feeling daunted by the teensy print and endless page count. But let me say this book has been well worth the eyestrain. First off, Collins has a wicked sense of humor. He manages to sustain a satirical pitch that takes you by surprise and is guaranteed to make you laugh. All human foibles are fair game: xenophobia, religious fanaticism, the idle rich and even the Yorkshire accent find themselves at the end of Collins’s skewer.

Second, and perhaps most enjoyable for me, was that I could totally see Collins’s influence on Agatha Christie. Sergeant Cuff, the superstar detective from London put on the case when the diamond goes missing at Rachel Verinder’s birthday party, has all the logical invincibility of a Poirot and an ego to match.

Third, Collins has a startling gift for wholly inhabiting diverging narrative points of view. There’s the insufferable Miss Clack, a spinster whose mission, much to the annoyance of her fellow characters, is to save the unrepentant English soul. She’s constantly planting religious tracts where they’re not wanted and busy-bodying about with The Mothers’ Small Pants Conversion Committee.

And there’s Gabriel Betteredge, the Verinders’ faithful servant and shrewd observer of human nature. To give you a taste:

While I was being ordered about in this way, I looked at the great Cuff. The great Cuff, on his side, looked at Superintendant Seegrave in that quietly expecting way which I have already noticed. I can’t affirm that he was on the watch for his brother-officer’s speedy appearance in the character of an ass — I can only say that I strongly suspected it.

As you can see, Betteredge is mightily impressed by Sergeant Cuff and catches a nasty strain of what he refers to as “detective fever” and pursues the case of the cursed gem with wit and alacrity.

There are many memorable others, too, who share their part in unraveling the mystery of the moonstone, but I’ll leave them to you to discover.

All this is to show, of course, that people and things are rarely what they first seem to be. Change you’re perspective, and you’ll likely get a very different picture. Agatha Christie took that theme and turned it into a legacy.

Happy reading,
Elizabeth Frengel

So it’s with school days and book reports in mind that I highly recommend Mary Tudor: Courageous Queen or Bloody Mary?, by Jane Buchanan. It’s among the latest in Scholastic’s “A Wicked History” series, an excellent line-up of biographies of historical figures tailored to a ‘tween audience.

Despite the incendiary cover (this one is stamped with a bloody “LETHAL”), Mary Tudor is in fact a balanced, informative and hi6hly readable account of the second (if you count Lady Jane Grey) reigning queen in England’s early modern history.

Buchanan is successful because she does that thing so key to good biography: she humanizes Mary Tudor through good, plain storytelling. Even adult readers are likely to discover things they didn’t know about “Bloody” Mary — like that she loved to play the virginal, a sort of miniaturized harpsichord and was very musical like her father; or that she was engaged, at age two-and-a-half, to France’s Prince Francis. (In an elaborate ceremony, the toddler kissed the Lord Admiral of France solemnly on the cheek, thinking the messenger her betrothed.)

Things of course do turn bloody when Mary takes the throne in 1553 and commences burning heretics for the good of England’s soul. But even in her decline, Buchanan manages to muster sympathy for Queen Mary. She doesn’t shrink from Mary’s phantom pregnancy, and, on balance, does a fine job laying out the major players during this treacherous time without saddling the narrative with confusing detail. In other words, it’s clear who Martin Luther is, and Archbishop Cranmer, but they don’t distract from Mary Tudor’s story.

What’s more, the style is crisp and simple, and according to Scholastic’s site, the vocabulary is controlled. I also like the selection of portraiture and overall design of the book. The timeline and glossary should be especially useful to younger readers.

Other notorious ne’er-do-wells in the series include Genghis Khan, Robespierre, Vlad the Impaler, and forthcoming next month: Henry VIII: Royal Beheader. I can hardly wait.

Books in the series run $30 for hardcover and $5.95 for paperback. The paperback edition of Mary Tudor is due out in September.

Until next time,
Elizabeth Frengel

The answer Picardie offers is not so different from the one posited by Harold Bloom in 1973, though — in my mind — a much more enjoyable read. What they both seem to say is that influence can be fatal to success.

Because Daphne is, in essence, a story about failure, albeit a fascinating one. Centered on the life of Daphne du Maurier (famed author of the highly recommended Rebecca) and her effort to write a groundbreaking biography of Branwell Brontë (Anne, Charlotte and Emily’s profligate brother), the novel traces the intertwining of three real-life figures who struggle to make their literary mark.

There’s Daphne, of course, and a singular J. Alexander Symington, an acquisitive librarian whose passion for collecting goes a little too far. And there’s a contemporary figure, a sort of modern-day Mrs. de Winter married too young, who is the nameless narrator searching desperately for a dissertation idea in which she can contribute some original scholarship.

She decides, coincidentally enough, to research Daphne du Maurier’s correspondence with Mr. Symington, and then finds herself swept up in the search for a missing Brontë manuscript.

I found myself recommending this book to one of the researchers who comes frequently to the library where I now work. He’s mad for history and tells me that he practically grew up in libraries and is always fascinated by a good literary chase. He’ll love this novel.

Indeed if you consider yourself a bibliophile in any way, you’ll love this novel, too.

Happy reading,
Elizabeth Frengel

Well, I’ve finally gotten around to the first installment, Dissolution, and am just as taken.

Again (or, technically, for the first time) Matthew Shardlake proves an enlightening guide to the dark political recesses of early modern England.

Sansom holds a Ph.D. in history and was a practicing attorney, and so has little trouble dramatizing the turbulent and treacherous politics of Henry the VIII and, especially, Thomas Cromwell, who on the King’s authority and in the spirit of ecclesiastical reform, sought to dissolve the monasteries in England — hence the book’s title.

Shardlake, an interesting study himself for his crooked back and straightforward character, is summoned by Lord Cromwell to investigate the murder of a commissioner sent to persuade the abbot of a monastery at Scarnsea to surrender its property and turn over its wealth to the crown. What’s more, at the time of the murder the monastic alter is desecrated and Scarnsea’s most precious relic — the withered hand of the penitent thief said to be crucified with Jesus — goes missing.

The relic was believed to have the power to reverse physical deformity, and so there’s more than one layer of dramatic irony woven into Sansom’s mesmerizing yarn.

The commissioner’s death looks to Shardlake very much like an execution and brings to mind the beheading of Queen Anne, a stroke believed to be engineered by Cromwell.

Dissolution sets a high bar for this series, which as far as I can tell, continues to meet the mark. When I was in London in May, I noticed there’s a fourth book out called Revelation. If the title’s anything to go by, that’s one for the “to read” pile, too.

Until next time,
Elizabeth Frengel

The title character in Esther Waters, by George Moore, is just such an unfortunate creature — pushed by her stepfather out of the family and into service as soon as she is able. But her story is as absorbing and as well told as any I’ve read in a long while. All the more so because of Moore’s unusual brand of realism, a narrative style he honed and experimented with in the wake of his literary forebear and acquaintance, Emile Zola.

I realize, of course, that when I invoke the name Zola, you all know that Esther’s story isn’t likely to be a happy one. But Moore (born in County Mayo, Ireland, in 1852 and died in 1933) does not subscribe wholesale to the school of naturalism. Esther is a servant and of the lower class, indeed; but her life is not predetermined by her social circumstances. The novel Esther Waters, published in 1894, is really a novel about making difficult choices. Or, as perhaps Moore might say, hedging your bets.

And those interested in horse racing should love this book. Moore’s father was a racehorse trainer and owner, and at one time Moore thought seriously of becoming a jockey. Moore weaves this passion of his into the narrative tension. For example, the first situation Esther lands for herself is at a racing estate; and the footman there who seduces Esther goes on to become a bookmaker. Esther’s fate becomes entangled with William’s, a relationship that is founded equally on chance and choice.

The book is an interesting one to me — not only for its pace, which is unusually fast for a nineteenth-century novel, but also for its melding of styles. I recognized a bit of Dickens, Zola and even Hardy, as Esther reminds me in some ways of Tess. But at the same time Esther Waters is completely Moore’s own. There are moments, for example, unlike in Zola, when Esther experiences sublime happiness. And more than one time or two, the choices she makes pay off. There are narrative inconsistencies, as you’ll discover, but I think they add to the novel’s quirky appeal.

Esther Waters, about to be republished by Oxford World Classics, is certainly worth a read.

Until next time,
Elizabeth Frengel

But if you’ve already seen all the Sherlock Holmes dramatizations — and read all the stories — then the next logical step would be to track down a copy of Arthur Conan Doyle: A Life in Letters, for an unparalleled view of the mind behind the celebrated sleuth.

A Life in Letters is just that: a collection of Conan Doyle’s correspondence, beginning with his days at boarding school in 1867 and continuing through 1920 when he was in Australia and his mother died of a cerebral hemmorhage. The letters were put together by Charles Foley (Conan Doyle’s great nephew), Jon Lellenberg and Daniel Stashower, all three of whom are members of The Baker Street Irregulars, an organization devoted to Sherlock Holmes scholarship.

The bulk of the correspondence is addressed chiefly to Mary Doyle, “the mother” or “the Mam,” as Conan Doyle liked to refer to her. Several of the letters are illustrated by Conan Doyle and the editors have included just the right amount of context where necessary.

I love to read letters in general, and Conan Doyle’s are a particular treat. From his earliest days at Stonyhurst he proves himself a vivid correspondent with a knack for both description and narrative. You’ll find in this collection his determination to become a success as a physician and to support his family, as well as the deliberate cultivation of his own literary gifts. For example, in 1883, Conan Doyle, still struggling with his practice in Portsmouth, writes to his mother:

[...] I hear the Boys Own Paper are going to publish something of mine. I must hurry on and write something larger & more ambitious. I want some three figure cheques and shall have them too. Why should I not have a future before me in letters. Surely no one ever went through a more successful novitiate. It is seldom indeed that my yarns have come to grief. James Payn [editor of the The Cornhill] had 20 refused in a year — I hardly ever have one now. I am conscious too of a well marked style of my own which should single me out among the crowd for good or evil…[.]

You’ll also encounter a marvellous sense of humor, especially as he looked at himself. Writing to Charlotte Drummond (a sort of second mother to Conan Doyle) he thanks her for some shirts she sent him and says:

The collar too is a masterpiece. I have a crutch stick of ebony and silver which I won as a prize and with the collar I am more than a masher — I am a dude — which is an Americanism for the masherest of mortals.

Look out, world!

Happy reading,
Elizabeth Frengel

Blaming is the equally amusing and sad (somehow “bittersweet” is not the right word) story of an unlikely friendship that forms between Amy, an Englishwoman, and Martha, an American, when Amy’s husband dies suddenly while on holiday in Istanbul.

The bond is all eagerness on Martha’s part and reluctance on Amy’s. Martha was the only one of the tour group who reached out to Amy and saw her home to London. And as perverse as human nature can be, Amy sets out (more or less unconsciously) to punish Martha for the unasked-for kindness.

An afterword by Taylor’s daughter notes that Taylor knew she was dying as she wrote this novel. And there is a sense of resentment at losing one’s place in the world that resonates throughout the story. After her husband’s death, for example, time hangs heavily for Amy, who continually glances at her watch only to discover that a minute at most has passed. Martha, for her part, feels at home only in London, but when circumstances call her back the United States, her sense of self unravels.

Fortunately, Taylor’s wicked sense of fun derived from observing those around her never failed her, even at the very end. Reading her portrayal of Amy’s two granddaughters, Dora and Isobel, alone is worth the price of this novel.

Isobel, her older sister Dora observes, always sleeps like the angelic. “Then she wakes up in a temper,” she promised Amy. And the tempers, I promise you, are something else.

Happy reading,
Elizabeth Frengel

To celebrate the unexpected milestone — and perhaps to keep up with the times — Michael Bond, Paddington’s authorial steward, has set the indefatigable bear in a new set of adventures called Paddington Here and Now.

Rumor has it Paddington finds himself mulling over such modern dilemmas as displacement and wrestling with that metaphysical conundrum: where is home? Darkest Peru or No. 32, Windsor Gardens, London?

I’ve not yet laid my hands on a copy, but when I heard the news, I immediately went to the shelf for my well-used copy of A Bear Called Paddington. I never get tired of reading this, the first installment in a delightful series of unfortunate events that befall a bear that arrives stowaway at Paddington Station in London and is taken in by the Brown Family.

There are so many delightful nuances to this series, begun in 1958, and that now stretches over 13 volumes. In many ways (especially with this 13th installment), I think of Paddington as the forerunner to Lemony Snicket’s Series of Unfortunate Events. Both series strike that magical balance that perfectly melds the real with the absurd.

One of the things that takes you in right away in A Bear Called Paddington is the way that all of London scarcely turns a hair at the idea of a talking bear with an insatiable appetite for marmalade. The only exception is the merest hesitation on Mr. Brown’s part, when he exclaims that taking a stowaway bear home from Paddington Station would be “most irregular!” Paddington, above all, is polite, and that, it seems, is what buys his breezy acceptance into British society.

Of course, as with the Lemony Snicket series, there’s no shortage of gentle satire in these books, especially when it comes to people and their affectations and idiosyncrasies.

To give you a little taste is this excerpt from when Mrs. Brown takes Paddington on one of her infamous shopping expeditions.

The man in the gentlemen’s outfitting department at Barkridges held Paddington’s hat at arm’s length between thumb and forefinger. He looked at it distastefully.
“I take it the young … er, gentleman, will not be requiring this any more, Modom?” he said.

Bond is also brilliant with dialogue, as is evident when Paddington gets his first taxi ride (after a mishap with some jam-filled buns).

The driver looked hard at Paddington and then at the inside of his nice, clean taxi.
“Bears is sixpence extra,” he said gruffly. “Sticky bears is ninepence!”

Indeed!

In my humble opinion, Paddington Brown, you’re aging quite well.

Happy reading,
Elizabeth Frengel