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Yesterday, in honour of the Bank Holiday, I went on the first book spending spree that I’ve had in a long time. I haven’t been writing much about new books simply because I haven’t really been buying any; the Book God’s largesse at Christmas and my birthday at the end of January satisfied my cravings, and I was determined to make inroads into the tbr pile which now resembles nothing so much as the Great Pyramid.
But yesterday was a public holiday close to payday, and I found myself in a book shop and just had to succumb.
The spoils were:
- The Bone Garden by Tess Gerritsen – following on from my recent post I just had to get the next one in the series, possibly to hold for August Crime Month
- Henry by David Starkey – my love for the sixteenth century is well-known and I’ve been watching Starkey’s series on TV so this was a bit of a no-brainer
- Bloomsbury Ballerina by Judith Mackrell – this has been on my wishlist for ages, snaffled now that it’s out in paperback; and
- A Literature of Their Own by Elaine Showalter – British women writers from Charlotte Bronte to Doris Lessing – ’nuff said.
Not a bad haul for someone who really wasn’t intending to get anything at all – well, maybe Henry was always in the cards, the others were a bonus!
Who was I rooting for in Monsters vs Aliens?
What did The Doctor find on Planet of the Dead?
Am I better off not Knowing?
Will I miss The Departed?
Did the Mothman Prophecies ring true?
Head here to find out….
So, you are the daughter of a nineteenth century professor, and the ancient Egyptian mummy owned by your father wakes up for the first time in 3000 years or so; what do you do?
Well in this case you dress him up in Dad’s top hat and tailcoat and swan around London arm in arm, all the while falling in love. But inevitably there are misunderstandings and parental disapproval on both sides to stand in the way of true love. Plus Her Majesty Queen Victoria ending up in the Thames…
This is a lovely book, a sweet story beautifully illustrated and, according to the blurb inside the cover, best enjoyed with romantic company and a pot of fine Darjeeling (though I would always go for Earl Grey myself.)
So, cards on the table, I really, really like Tess Gerritsen. I like the fact that her two main recurring characters are women. I like the fact that her books are pacy and easy to read. I like the fact that the plots are nicely judged so that they are a bit (but not too) complicated. I like the fact that there is just enough bloody murder to satisfy the gorehounds but not so much that the crime fan who’s a bit squeamish about the whole serial killer thing will be put off. The Mephisto Club fits the bill, and I lapped it up.
I’m not even going to attempt to explain the plot because the whole point of a good crime/detective novel is not to know what’s going to happen in advance and then having the fun of trying to work it out yourself. So here we have dismemberment, ancient symbols, mirror-writing, revenge, evil, an elite group with a mysterious purpose and all the right connections, a long-buried secret, and lots and lots and lots of blood. What’s not to like?
I absolutely adore anything with a decent secret society; even though I don’t believe any of them really exist, the idea of some kind of cabal running the world, or at least a little bit of the world, or maybe just having influence in a particular sphere, manages to be both comforting and worrying at the same time.
Failed once again to work out the murderer but still huge fun.
Bride of the Book God 