The Flavia de Luce Series 4-Book Bundle (The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, the Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag, a Red Herring Without Mustard, I Am Half-Sick of Shadows)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Award-winning author Alan Bradley is a master of the British cozy mystery, and in Flavia de Luce, he has created a wickedly clever and intrepid young sleuth, hailed as "one of the most remarkable creations in recent literature" (USA Today). Now, in this captivating eBook bundle, readers can follow Flavia as she stirs up trouble to solve the most confounding of crimes.
The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie: It is the summer of 1950--and at the once-grand mansion of Buckshaw, Flavia de Luce, an eleven-year-old 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.
The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag: Flavia de Luce, a genius at investigating murders, thinks that her days of crime-solving in the bucolic English hamlet of Bishop's Lacey are over--until puppeteer Rupert Porson has his own strings sizzled in an unfortunate rendezvous with electricity. But who'd do such a thing, and why? All clues point toward a suspicious death years earlier and a case the local constables can't solve--without Flavia's help. But in getting so close to who's pulling the strings of this dance of death, has Flavia gotten in way over her head?
A Red Herring Without Mustard: In the hamlet of Bishop's Lacey, the unflappable Flavia de Luce had asked a Gypsy woman to tell her fortune--never expecting to later stumble across the poor soul, bludgeoned almost to death in her own caravan. Was this an act of retribution by those convinced that the soothsayer abducted a local child years ago? As the red herrings pile up, Flavia must sort through clues fishy and foul to untangle dark deeds and dangerous secrets.
I Am Half-Sick of Shadows: It's Christmastime when a film crew arrives at Buckshaw, Flavia de Luce's beloved home, to shoot a movie starring the famed Phyllis Wyvern. Amid a raging blizzard, the entire village of Bishop's Lacey gathers to watch Wyvern perform, yet nobody is prepared for the evening's shocking conclusion: a body found strangled to death with a length of film. Who among the assembled guests would stage such a chilling scene? As the storm worsens, Flavia must ferret out a killer hidden in plain sight.
death. Fortunately for Feely, though, Carica digitata does not grow in England. Fortunately for me, fool’s parsley, better known as poison hemlock, does. In fact, I knew a low and marshy corner of Seaton’s Meadow, not ten minutes from Buckshaw, where it was growing at that very moment. I could be there and back before supper. I’d recently updated my notes on coniine, the active principle of the stuff. I would extract it by distilling with whatever alkali was handy—perhaps a bit of the sodium
at any given moment which of the two is driving us. On the one hand, I knew, I would never be like Aunt Felicity, but on the other, would I ever become like Harriet? Eight years after her death, Harriet was still as much a part of me as my toenails, although that’s probably not the best way of putting it. I read the books that she had owned, rode her bicycle, sat in her Rolls-Royce; Father had once, in a distracted moment, called me by her name. Even Aunt Felicity had put aside her gorgon
already walking away, lured by the sight of Ned Cropper, the ginger-haired potboy at the Thirteen Drakes who, with a certain muscular grace, was energetically tossing wooden batons at the Aunt Sally. His third stick broke the wooden figure’s clay pipe clean in two, and Feely pulled up at his side just in time to be handed the teddy bear prize by the madly blushing Ned. “Anything worth saving from the bonfire?” I asked Daffy, who had her nose firmly stuck in what, judging by its spotty oxidized
Lacey—this time on foot. By keeping to the hedgerows and skulking behind trees whenever I heard the sound of an approaching vehicle, I was able to make my way, by a devious route, to the far end of the High Street which, this late in the day, was deep in its usual empty sleep. A shortcut through Miss Bewdley’s ornamental garden (water lilies, stone storks, goldfish, and a red lacquered footbridge) brought me to the brick wall that skirted the inn yard of the Thirteen Drakes, where I crouched
secret panel in the woodwork, a wisp of a woman materialized. She wore a white uniform and a blue cap, under which she was busily poking limp strands of damp straw-colored hair with one of her forefingers. She looked as if she had been up to no good, and knew perfectly well that I knew. “Yes?” she said, in a thin but busy, standard-issue hospital voice. “I’ve come to see Dr. Kissing,” I said. “I’m his great-granddaughter.” “Dr. Isaac Kissing?” she asked. “Yes,” I said, “Dr. Isaac Kissing. Do