THE BRONTES WENT TO WOOLWORTHS

How I loathe that kind of novel which is about a lot of sisters. It is usually called They Were Seven, or Three—Not Out, and one spends one’s entire time trying to sort them all, and muttering, “Was it Isobel who drank, or Gertie? And which was it who ran away with the gigolo, Amy or Pauline? And which of their separated husbands was Lionel, Isobel’s or Amy’s?”

Katrine and I often grin over that sort of book, and choose which sister we’d be, and Katrine always tries to bag the drink one.

If the opening lines don’t render you instantly smitten with this obscure 1931 novel by Rachel Ferguson, you are dead inside made of sterner stuff than I. For me, this was like catnip. It certainly didn’t hurt that the next paragraph was:

A woman at one of mother’s parties once said to me, “Do you like reading?” which smote us all to silence, for how could one tell her that books are like having a bath or sleeping, or eating bread—absolute necessities which one never thinks of in terms of appreciation. And we all sat waiting for her to say that she had so little time for reading, before ruling her right out for ever and ever.

Snarky and a readaholic? Yep, I’m in love. Our narrator is Deirdre Carne, a journalist; her eccentric and imaginative family consists of her widowed mother and two younger sisters, actress Katrine and (home)schoolgirl Sheil. The Carnes’ shared hobby is telling each other richly detailed stories about fictional characters (the girls’ old dolls, for instance) as well as actual people who fascinate them (including Judge Toddington, who presided in the courtroom where Mrs. Carne once did jury duty). But reality and fantasy collide when Deirdre meets Mrs. Toddington in person, and the two families’ efforts to get acquainted are complicated by the fact that in the Carnes’ minds, “Toddy” has been a beloved friend for years.

This is a highly idiosyncratic book, and it takes some getting used to. Ferguson/Deirdre plunges you into her story with as little explanation as possible, and for the first few chapters I had no clue what was supposed to be real and what was supposed to be imaginary. Coupled with the 1930s slang/Britishisms/cultural references, it was as disorienting as a sci-fi book about an alien planet. I started the book on my homeward train commute, mentally exhausted after a long day, and got so confused I had to start it all over again the next day (it did become clearer upon rereading). Even once you think you’ve straightened out the truth and fantasy, the book still throws some weird curveballs—most notably, the actual ghosts of the Bronte sisters show up midway through. But the Carnes are so warm and witty, and their adventures so interesting and funny, I would happily follow them anywhere. Hilarity abounds, particularly as the kind Toddingtons discover and adorably play along with the imagined versions of themselves, but there’s also poignancy to balance out all the whimsy. As their friendship deepens, it becomes clear that not only are the childless Toddingtons charmed by the Carnes, but the girls’ obsession with imagining dear friendships with inanimate objects and strangers reveals a certain loneliness as well. And the sinister Bronte ghosts, coupled with young Sheil’s touching failure to comprehend that her family’s stories are only stories, lend a hint of darker themes.

This book reminded me a bit of a bizarro I Capture the Castle, though without the romance. It’s a great addition to my growing repertoire of quiet, humorous early-twentieth-century novels, which is fast becoming my favorite genre, perhaps because in addition to the pleasure of reading them I get all the thrill of the chase, as so many gems are out of print (god bless my public library with its musty collection of relics!). The Brontes Went to Woolworths was an extra-great discovery for me because it introduced me to the Bloomsbury Group, which specializes in republishing exactly this type of book (and in handsome designs that makes me yearn to collect the whole set), thus giving me a slew of delightful-looking titles to add to my “to be read” list. A’s mother thoughtfully bought this one and another off my Amazon wish list for Christmas, and if the rest of the Bloomsbury Group books are half as good as this one, I’ll be in heaven. (Alas, the very nice Bloomsbury Group website, which handily listed all the imprint’s titles in one place, seems to have been absorbed into the larger, terribly user-unfriendly Bloomsbury Publishing site since the last time I checked, so I’ll link you to Amazon instead.)

Still not sold? Here’s one last winsome, book-loving quote from Deirdre:

Three years ago I was proposed to. I could not accept the man, much as I liked him, because I was in love with Sherlock Holmes. For Holmes and his personality and brain I had a force of feeling which, for the time, converted living men to shadows….

I’m through with Holmes now, but I often think that he and I could have hit it off wonderfully well in Baker Street, as I am not at all demanding, and rather love old clothes and arm-chairs, and silence, and smoking, and dispassionate flights of pure reason.

THE MOON BY NIGHT

Madeleine L’Engle’s second novel about the Austin family is more interesting than the first (the family takes a cross-country road trip while Vicky comes of age as a teenager) and definitely a solid, classic YA novel, but it still felt rather stale and square to me in contrast to the awesomeness of the Murry family. (Maybe because I’m pretty sure Meg Murry would never say of her parents, “Daddy doesn’t like women in pants and Mother never wears them.”) I felt no real attachment to Vicky as a character and found myself most interested in the period details: the Austins’ journey gives a good snapshot of America circa 1963, and Vicky’s bad-boy crush, Zachary Gray, is such a Holden Caulfield type (“Religious guys are phonies, that’s all, phonies, every crumby one of them”). I much prefer the Time Quartet with its fantasy/sci-fi elements, and my understanding is that the later Austin books tend more strongly in that direction, so I’m hoping I’ll love them more. But I’ll admit that L’Engle’s strength as a writer lies in grounding those wacky metaphysical adventures in warm, good, levelheaded characters like the Austins, so it’s entirely likely that the relatively mundane first two volumes are just setting the stage for things to come.

TRUE GRIT

I saw the new movie in December and loved it, so of course I had to check out the book. My favorite things about the film had been (a) the fact that Mattie Ross is such a total badass and (b) the quirky, highly stylized dialogue, and I was curious whether those elements came from the Coen brothers or the book’s author, Charles Portis. I was further interested to discover that the book was published in 1968 and not, as one might figure for the source material of a John Wayne western, the 1940s or something—in other words, it was a brand-new bestseller when it was first adapted for film.

It turns out that, except for a few Coenish touches (the man in the bear suit, LaBoeuf’s tongue injury) and minor plot streamlining, the movie is very faithful to the book (apparently much more so than the John Wayne version, which I haven’t seen, but just reading the “differences from the novel” section of the Wikipedia article made me all twitchy) and does a great job of capturing its major appeal, which is Mattie’s dogged, stoic, idiosyncratic narrative voice. (That voice and the quintessentially American odyssey it relates both reminded me strongly of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, which then got me to thinking that as a quick, action-packed read with a strong 14-year-old heroine, I’m surprised no one’s touted this book as a rediscovered potential YA classic. It’s obviously intended for adults, but I think it could also have broad crossover appear for teens. I might have gotten into westerns earlier if I’d read it at that age.) Not surprisingly, since it gives us Mattie’s first-person tale in unadulterated form, the book is even better than the movie, bleak, poignant, and hilarious by turns (Ed Park’s great Believer article about Portis quotes Roy Blount, Jr., as saying that Portis “could be Cormac McCarthy if he wanted to, but he’d rather be funny”).

Side note: I had to laugh the other day when I read some Oscar-related article griping that Jeff Bridges wore his Rooster Cogburn eye patch on the “wrong side” in the 2010 film—meaning the opposite eye that Wayne had worn it on in the 1969 version. Not only is the 2010 movie most emphatically not a remake of the earlier one, just a different adaptation of the same source material, but one of the things I specifically noticed while reading the book was that Cogburn doesn’t even have an eye patch in it! He’s only described as a “one-eyed man,” and Mattie mentions the appearance of his bad eye, so it’s clearly not covered. Obviously, it’s far easier for an actor to strap on an eye patch than change his eye, so I can see why Wayne’s patch was added, but the Coens might have done it with special effects and still chose the eye patch, which I can only assume means that the image of Wayne as Cogburn has become too indelible to mess around with—especially since the Coens also chose an actor who, like Wayne, was in his 60s, when in the book Cogburn is 40ish (albeit out of shape for his age; in one of my favorite quotes, Mattie describes him as “built along the lines of Grover Cleveland”).

WHO’S BURIED IN GRANT’S TOMB?

Subtitled A Tour of Presidential Gravesites, this book was a slam-dunk Christmas gift from A’s aunt and uncle. They know that my BFF K and I share an ambition to visit all of the presidential libraries together—after all, they kindly hosted us at their home in Iowa City the night before we visited the Hoover Library, kicking off a three-library roadtrip two summers ago (the second of two trips we’ve taken specifically to visit presidential libraries, or the third if you count K’s visit to me in California when we knocked the Reagan and Nixon libraries off her list). I had already been lamenting the fact that National Archive-sponsored presidential libraries don’t go any further back than Hoover, and subsequently considering expanding my goal to visiting a site (home? birthplace?) for every single president, but gravesites hadn’t occurred to me. It makes perfect sense, though: Many of the presidential graves tend to be at significant places I’d like to visit anyway, like their libraries or homes (Jefferson’s at Monticello, for example), and besides, I love graveyards and will frequently consult Find a Grave when planning a trip in case there are any historical personages buried nearby (among others, I’ve paid my respects to Colonel Sanders in Louisville, Kentucky, and Hoagy Carmichael in Bloomington, Indiana—oh, and I just discovered that Octavia Butler, Eldridge Cleaver, and Richard Feynman are all buried just up the road from me in Altadena!). I also got an inadvertent head start on the presidential gravesite quest on my last trip to DC, when I saw JFK and Taft’s graves in Arlington (while, on a literary note, tragically missing Dashiell Hammett, having neglected to do my Find a Grave research first) and Washington’s at Mount Vernon—though if I’d read this book beforehand, I would have pushed harder to go to the National Cathedral, where we almost went before changing plans and where it turns out Wilson is buried (and also Helen Keller, of all people). With the graves I’ve already seen at presidential libraries (Hoover, Truman, Eisenhower, Nixon, and Reagan), that brings my total to a whopping eight—just 30 currently-dead presidents to go!

As you can see, I found this book informative and inspirational. There are several pages on every president, mostly brief biographical notes focusing on their demises and burials, with plenty of quirky factoids with which to delight your friends if they’re into mildly gruesome trivia (mine, mostly, are). The authorship was rather odd—it’s credited to “Brian Lamb and the staff of C-SPAN,” and while the introduction made much of how Lamb undertook the task of visiting every presidential gravesite, the only real personal touches in the book don’t come from Lamb himself, but from Richard Norton Smith, the expert brought in to provide a brief historical-perspective essay on each president, who occasionally veers into personal reminiscences/opinions (a bit jarringly at times: he manages to wax nostalgic about Nixon’s funeral not once but twice, working in a Bob Dole lovefest alone the way). I would so much rather have read a narrative one man’s quirky personal odyssey, a la Assassination Vacation, and done away with all the straight-up guidebook-style info (of which there is a lot, including admission prices, directions, hours, etc., all of which I’d rather look up on the Internet anyway) in exchange for more historical detail. Also, while the book had a number of useful appendixes, including one that lists all the gravesites by state (I’m not surprised that New York state has the most, with six, but who knew that Ohio would be the runner-up, with five? And no presidents west of the Mississippi except the two in California and LBJ in Texas [though the Bushes will eventually follow]?), it seemed like a major oversight that there was no map showing their locations within each state. Overall, however, this will be a valued addition to my reference library and is highly recommended for any fan of presidential lore.

THE GUERNSEY LITERARY AND POTATO PEEL PIE SOCIETY

I pretty much ignored this book during its many weeks on the bestseller lists, partly because of my mysterious natural tendency to avoid bestsellers (at least until years after everyone has stopped talking about them and I can suppress my curiosity no more) and partly because of my corollary perverse aversion to the sort of earnest women’s literary fiction Oprah might select for her book club (yes, I know a lot of those are actually good books; it’s just a knee-jerk reaction). With its quirky, convoluted title mentioning food, Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows’s book sounded like Oprah bait, and for some reason (despite the mention of Guernsey) I assumed it was about the South (maybe I was confusing it with the Sweet Potato Queens or something?), and therefore not my cup of tea. (Not that I reject all books about the South; I just mean I don’t deliberately seek them out based on that fact.) So I was surprised when, at a family reunion in August, my librarian aunt raved about the book and told me it was about the German occupation of the British Channel Islands during World War II. I hadn’t known that the Germans had occupied any part of Britain, or even that Guernsey was a Channel Island (all I knew is that it has cows), so my interest was piqued enough to seek out some online reviews. What I read made it sound right up my alley: Charming, nostalgic novel? Set in post-WWII Britain? An homage to book lovers? Sold!

Eventually, I checked out a copy of the book from the library and read the first few dozen pages, but still felt a little resistant; I love novels written in that era, but am more suspicious of those written about it, and I kept worrying that the period setting seemed too inauthentic and forced. Also, epistolary novels are not my favorites, as it takes a deft hand to write in multiple characters’ styles without sounding like a caricature, let alone to manage exposition without resorting to the obvious and artificial “As you know…” trick. Then I realized that this would be a perfect candidate to listen to as an audiobook; it’s light and story-driven, and I wouldn’t pay as much attention to any stylistic failings. And I was right: I heartily enjoyed it as a distraction from commuting. The multiplicity of stories and voices were a natural fit for the audiobook form (I loved it that different actors voiced the different characters), and while some parts were better than others, the variety kept me entertained, with a perfect blend of humor, romance, and drama. The details about Guernsey during the occupation are by far the best part, followed by the testimonials to the joy of reading (although they weren’t as central to the story as I’d expected), and while the characters never became quite real enough for me to fall in love with, I was amused by them and even, I admit, touched enough to cry a little when it turned tragic. The book felt as though it was trying really hard to be like the gentle, old-fashioned, everyday-adventures-in-an-eccentric-small-town early-twentieth-century comedies of manners I adore (E.F. Benson or Elizabeth von Arnim, for example), and while it didn’t quite measure up in comparison, it was a satisfactory simulation. I won’t be adding a copy to my library, but I’m really glad I read it and would recommend it (particularly the audio version) as a fun and diverting read.

AT HOME

Months ago, I was searching for Bill Bryson audiobooks in the library catalog when I came across the entry for his forthcoming book, At Home: A Short History of Private Life. As soon as I saw the title, I knew that, as a consummate homebody, I had to read it. I put it on hold instantly and when it came out, I was the first library patron to get a copy. But I was in the midst of reading something else at the time, and At Home is not as brief as its title promises, and with one thing and another I didn’t finish it by the time it was due (and I couldn’t renew it because there was a waiting list of other people who had it on hold). By this time, of course, I was thoroughly enjoying it, but I reluctantly wrote down the page number I was on, returned the book to the library, and placed a new hold—only to find that now there were more than 50 people ahead of me on the hold list. Luckily, my friend M happened to mention At Home in conversation, prompting me to pour forth my woes to her, after which she very thoughtfully bought it for me for Christmas, and at last I was able to finish it.

All of this is to say that I had to read this book in fits and starts, but it’s a good book to read that way. At Home is reminiscent of A Short History of Nearly Everything in its quirky-informative tone, but here Bryson turns his omnivorous attention from science to social history. He uses his house, a Victorian parsonage in rural England, as a rough organizing principle for his explorations, focusing each chapter on a different room—so that the “Kitchen” chapter discusses the story of the spice trade, the “Scullery” chapter domestic servitude, the “Bedroom” chapter sexual practices and medicine, etc.—and mainly limits his study to England (and some of America) in the last 150 years or so, but in reality this is a miscellaneous compendium that meanders across a huge range of subjects at the author’s whim. I happen to like that sort of thing, at least when it’s chock full of historical trivia and written in Bryson’s witty, always enthusiastic style, but your mileage may vary. I just love the nifty interconnections of history, the way large-scale events can have repercussions in the smallest of everyday items, and Bryson does a good job of elucidating them. For me, the most cohesive, interesting, and memorable part was the section in which he outlines the history of the very concept of houses, their accompanying domestic comforts, and the very idea of privacy. Beyond that, I will admit to having forgotten* most of the wealth of information on a myriad of subjects that Bryson throws his readers’ way, but at least that means that this will make an equally enjoyable reread in a few years.

*In fact, just the other day, A was telling me about some “Weird Weapons of WWII” show he’d watched on the History Channel about how the U.S. tried to strap tiny explosives to bats, and it sounded like something I’d read about really recently, but I couldn’t imagine where. It was driving me so crazy, I actually had to get out the list of all the books I’ve read in the past few months and look for likely candidates. Since I haven’t been reading much nonfiction lately, I quickly narrowed it down to either Packing for Mars or At Home, although I couldn’t quite see how either of them got around to the topic of WWII weaponry. Fortunately, At Home has an index, and amazingly, there was an entry for “Bats,” and sure enough, there were several paragraphs on the bat-bomb project. So as you can see, this book ranges fairly far afield from its stated subject.

TROUBLE FOR LUCIA

Fittingly, E.F. Benson’s Mapp & Lucia series ends with Lucia reaching the pinnacle of her accomplishment by becoming mayor of Tilling. There’s also a very amusing episode where she learns to ride a bicycle (much to the awe and delight of her neighbors), and, to my great joy, a return appearance by opera diva Olga Braceley. A gem, just like the previous five books.

SCOTT PILGRIM VOLUME 3

I will always remember this particular installment in Bryan Lee O’Malley’s Scott Pilgrim series because I read the entire book while waiting in line. You see, while A was in Indiana for Christmas, one of his friends there asked for a favor: the friend’s favorite author was coming to Vroman’s, our local independent bookstore in Pasadena, for a reading and signing, so would A take his friend’s book there and get it signed? Sure! Why not? We like to support people’s literary obsessions! The author in question was George R.R. Martin, a fantasy writer I’d never heard of (although I later realized I’d read an article in Entertainment Weekly about how his book A Game of Thrones is being adapted for an HBO show).We showed up a good 40 minutes before the reading was scheduled to start, only to find that the upstairs room where it was to take place was completely full and a line was snaking down the stairs and throughout the bookstore. Not sure what else to do, we got into line. A did some reconnaissance and counted hundreds of people in line in front of us, and as we waited hundreds more arrived behind us—these were people who knew they weren’t even going to get to see the reading, mind you, but they were still willing to wait just to get their books signed. Most people had brought more than one book; some had their arms full. The George R.R. Martin shelves in the store were completely cleaned out, but clearly a lot of the fans had brought their own well-worn copies from home. It was a pretty amazing spectacle. I’ve been to Vroman’s for readings by writers I’d consider much more “famous”—including Christopher Moore, Julie Powell, and Michelle Huneven—and I’d never seen a turnout like that, except for the one time I happened to be strolling by on the night that Jimmy Carter was signing and there was a line out the door.

A and I kept talking about bailing and going home, but we decided to stick it out and see what happened, even though it seemed as though we might not even have a chance to get our book signed at all; surely Martin would get tired and leave eventually? On the one hand, I was annoyed by the crowd and the thought that I might spend my entire Sunday evening standing in line, but on the other hand, it was inspiring to see so many devoted readers so excited about something, even if it was something that (to me) seemed a little silly. (Yes, I am still a bit of a closet genre snob. And I’ve never been as much into the cult-of-personality aspect of reading. It’s really interesting to see writers in real life and hear them talk about their work, and signed books are nice artifacts, but ultimately I’ve already got the books themselves, and isn’t that the main point? I kept thinking: Who would I be willing to wait so long to see? Joss Whedon? Mary Roach? Connie Willis? Michael Chabon? Maybe.) So A and I took turns holding our place in line and browsing the bookstore, and I found a copy of Scott Pilgrim and the Infinite Sadness and started reading to pass the time. It was a perfect choice, because I’ve had a really hard time getting my hands on copies at the library (apparently I’m not the only one who got intrigued after seeing the movie, and my library does this annoying thing with comics/graphic novels where all the books in a series will be cataloged as one entry, so you can’t put a specific volume on hold). Besides, Scott Pilgrim is light enough to read without one’s full attention (when one is standing in a crowded bookstore, for instance) but absorbing enough to keep an otherwise-bored mind entertained and fun enough to keep a potentially frustrating situation mellow.

Obviously Martin must be used to the crowds he draws, because he only spoke briefly rather than doing a full reading. However, everyone who’d managed to get seated at the actual reading still had to get their books signed before our line would even budge. But eventually, after about an hour and a half, it did start to move, and we inched upstairs. As we progressed, I glanced at the book we’d brought with us to get signed. It didn’t look like any of the other books people were carrying; it was actually a collection of short stories that Martin had edited. A said that his friend wants to get the signatures of every author in the collection. “Oh, how many does he have already?” I asked brightly. “Uh, this will be the first.”

All I can say is that George R.R. Martin is a frakking hero, because not only did he valiantly sign every single book a fan put in front of him, but when it was finally our turn, he noted our unusual book choice, signed the title page, and then offered, with absolutely no prompting from us, “You know, if you’d like to get Melinda Snodgrass [one of the other authors in the collection] to sign this too, she’s right behind you.” And darling Melinda Snodgrass cheerfully stepped forward and signed the book. And then A called his friend, who was ecstatic, and then we went out for Indian food. The End.

THE GIVER

This Lois Lowry 1994 Newbery winner was my YA book club’s pick for January. Yes, I’m that far behind on my updates, which is shameful, but at least that ensures that I can still maintain a regular posting schedule while I bog myself down with my annual Dickens novel (Our Mutual Friend, woot!).

I’d actually read this once before but apparently forgotten it entirely, because I was on the edge of my Metro seat this time around. I tore through the whole book in just a single day of train commuting, riveted, then horrified, then ultimately moved (and desperately trying to keep my eyes from welling up in public). The story is a fairly archetypal dystopian narrative (special talents/circumstances set the protagonist apart from his society, allowing him to gradually understand its dysfunction/oppressiveness and eventually inspiring him to rebel against/change it), but it’s elevated by (a) the creative concept of The Giver and Receiver, which adds a more magical and emotional element to the SF setup, and (b) Lowry’s masterfully handling. At first glance, the world she presents seems like it might be a utopia—complete with great elder care and bicycles for all—but of course, a disturbing truth lies beneath, which Lowry unfolds so gradually that even though I knew enough to suspect what was coming (if you’ve seen Logan’s Run you’ll guess at least part of it), I was still in suspense.

If I’d read this as a teen, it would have been a great introduction to the pitfalls of utilitarianism (this aspect reminded me a lot of Ursula K. LeGuin’s “The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas,” which I did read as a teen and it blew my mind—is the greatest good for the greatest number really worth it if everyone lives in total happiness but one person must endure complete suffering?) and the idea that organizing a society around certain ideals may come at the sacrifice of other ideals. But it’s still good to be reminded of those things as an adult. Our book group discussion revealed a few logical holes (or, at least, questions about smaller details), and while I liked the ambiguous ending, others may see it as a cop-out, but overall we agreed that this is a powerful and compelling book.

The Giver has two loosely related “sequels” set in the same world, one that I’ve read (but, again, forgotten) and one that I hadn’t even know about until someone in the book group mentioned it. I definitely want to check out both of them.

2010 IN BOOKS

So, in case you were wondering (I know you totally were!), I read 75 books last year, a whopping seven more than I read in 2009. I wish I could attribute this upward trend to growing erudition on my part, but I’m afraid it has more to do with my increased consumption of young-adult books, graphic novels, audiobooks, and other quick reads—although commuting on the Metro, which provides an extra four to six solid reading hours per week, is a big help too.

And to quantify my dorkiness, here’s a bar chart showing how last year compares to previous reading years!


(Sadly, my record-keeping only goes back to 1993. I wish I’d been keeping track back in the halcyon days of my childhood when I had nothing to do but read and every book was under 200 pages. I’m sure I tore through hundreds of books per year; I certainly remember having to attach multiple supplementary pages to my MS Read-a-Thon form, and my parents wouldn’t let me solicit by-the-book sponsorship from relatives or neighbors for fear I’d bankrupt them [they just donated a flat fee instead]).

I apparently wasn’t feeling the love for cold, hard facts in 2010; I read just 18 nonfiction books compared to 57 works of fiction. About a quarter (18) of all the books I read were rereads, which I think is a pretty good proportion—although there are still so many new books out to explore that it oppresses me at times, I also think it’s worth knowing some books really well, and I often lament that I don’t have infinite free time to reread my favorites.

My ten happiest discoveries of 2010 were (in chronological order):
Little Dorrit, by Charles Dickens
The Mapp & Lucia series: Queen Lucia, Lucia in London, Miss Mapp, Mapp and Lucia, The Worshipful Lucia, and Trouble for Lucia (review forthcoming), by E.F. Benson
My Antonia, by Willa Cather
Walk Two Moons, by Sharon Creech
The Custom of the Country, by Edith Wharton
When You Reach Me, by Rebecca Stead
Packing for Mars, by Mary Roach
Carney’s House Party, by Maud Hart Lovelace
Blackout and All Clear, by Connie Willis (This is basically just a single book broken into two volumes, so it counts as one.)
Brat Farrar and Miss Pym Disposes, by Josephine Tey (It’s a tie. Don’t make me choose.)