A Red Herring Without Mustard by Alan BradleyA Red Herring Without Mustard by Alan Bradley

A Red Herring Without Mustard

byAlan Bradley

Paperback | October 18, 2011

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In the third installment of this bestselling, award-winning, sister-poisoning, bicycle-riding, murder-investigating, and utterly captivating series, Flavia de Luce must draw upon Gypsy lore and her encyclopaedic knowledge of poisons to prevent a grave miscarriage of justice.
“You frighten me,” the old Gypsy woman says. “Never have I seen my crystal ball so filled with darkness.” So begins eleven-year-old Flavia de Luce’s third adventure through the charming but deceptively dark byways of the village of Bishop’s Lacey. The fortune teller also claims to see a woman who is lost and needs help to get home—and Flavia knows it must be her mother Harriet, who died when Flavia was less than a year old. The Gypsy’s vision opens up old wounds for our precocious yet haunted heroine, and sets her mind racing in search of what it could mean.
When Flavia later goes to visit the Gypsy at her encampment, she certainly doesn’t expect to find the poor old woman lying near death in her caravan, bludgeoned in the wee hours. Was it an act of retribution by those who thought that the woman had abducted a local child years before? Certainly Flavia understands the bliss of settling scores; revenge is a delightful pastime when one has two odious older sisters. But how can she prove this crime is connected to the missing baby? Did it have something to do with the weird sect who met at the river to practice their secret rites?
While still pondering the possibilities, Flavia stumbles upon a corpse—that of a notorious layabout and bully she had only recently caught prowling about Buckshaw. The body hangs from a statue of Poseidon in Flavia’s very own backyard, and our unflappable sleuth knows it’s up to her to figure out the significance. Pedalling her faithful bicycle, Gladys, across the countryside in search of clues to both crimes, Flavia uncovers secrets both long-buried and freshly stowed—the dodgy dealings of a local ironworks, the truth behind the Hobblers’ secret meetings, her own ancestor’s ambitious plans—all the while exhausting the patience of Inspector Hewitt. But it’s not long before the evidence starts falling into place, and Flavia must take drastic action to prevent another violent attack.

From the Hardcover edition.
Alan Bradley was born in Toronto and grew up in Cobourg, Ontario. With an education in electronic engineering, Alan worked at numerous radio and television stations in Ontario, and at Ryerson Polytechnical Institute (now Ryerson University) in Toronto, before becoming Director of Television Engineering in the media centre at the Univer...
Title:A Red Herring Without MustardFormat:PaperbackDimensions:416 pages, 8 × 5.2 × 1.1 inPublished:October 18, 2011Publisher:Doubleday CanadaLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0385665873

ISBN - 13:9780385665872


Rated 4 out of 5 by from Another great Flavia De Luce book I have read several of Alan Bradley's books and this one didn't disappoint. Funny, interesting and entertaining. Looking forward to more.
Date published: 2018-04-19
Rated 5 out of 5 by from You've gotta love Flavia Flavia with steal your heart from the very first novel in the series. She is a sleuth that will have you laughing, crying and cheering her on. this is the first one in the series that is somewhat sentimental not only for Lavia's sense of belonging but also for her father's relationship with the girls.
Date published: 2018-03-23
Rated 3 out of 5 by from Not so typical Not technically a 'murder' mystery but still a mystery and still as enjoyable as the first two. Perhaps slightly better than the second one, and yet not as good as the first. However, it is an enjoyable read and definitely worth collecting to go with the rest of the series.
Date published: 2017-10-31
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Third in series enjoyed! Continue to enjoy this series. I'm hooked!
Date published: 2017-03-03
Rated 5 out of 5 by from I'm still hooked The series continues, as do the excellent writing, the intriguing storylines, and the fascinating character portrayals.
Date published: 2017-02-28
Rated 3 out of 5 by from fun and easy Another good de Luce mystery. Somewhat predictable but involves a bit more character development which was nice.
Date published: 2017-01-07
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Good as always I recommend all the books in this series. They're one of those books you can go long periods without reading, then you read the next book in the series and don't feel lost at all. Quite entertaining read.
Date published: 2016-12-03
Rated 3 out of 5 by from My least favourite of the series This was my least favourite of the Flavia de Luce stories so far. It felt as though she was out of her depth and barely treading water. It all started with a trip to the local fair where somehow the gypsy fortune teller`s tent burns down as a result of Flavia`s visit. Then the same gypsy is visciously attacked on the de Luce property. This violence doesn`t deter eleven year old Flavia from investigating. Most children this age would be happy to stay at home and play or read, but not her, she is constantly out and about in her home town aboard her faithful stead, or rather her bicycle name Gladys. (yes, she`s still a lonely little girl who has named her bicylcle) She pokes her nose into every day space and doesn`t hesitate to turn over even the heaviest rock in the expectation of finding secrets. I particularly enjoyed the sections where Flavia reflects on her relationship with her sisters. She is growing up and learning that her sisters are much more than just bigger people who seem to torture her. The Hobblers, a religious sect in the book, appear to be fashioned after historical English dissenters. My research didn`t locate any group actually named the Hobblers. For me, the mysteries that Flavia explored were second place to the continuing story of her dead mother. Each book has revealed tiny bits about her. She is still an unknown figure who`s absence is a major influence on the young girl`s life. I do hope that we learn more about her in future books in this series. I listened to the audio book version as read by Jane Entwistle, unabridged 11 hours.
Date published: 2015-12-29
Rated 3 out of 5 by from Great read Best of the three Flavia de Luce books so far. I see that the 4th installment is in stores now. I hope it is as good!
Date published: 2013-03-12
Rated 4 out of 5 by from I Love Flavia! Oh, you just can't put it down. Trapped in the mind of a very inquisitive 11 year old, makes me wish I was half as smart as her when I was at age (or even now!). So many adventures, can't wait to read about the next body that surfaces in Bishop Lacey!
Date published: 2013-03-11
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Gypsies, tramps & Thieves Reason for Reading: next in the series Oh what a welcome it is indeed to be back amongst Flavia's world, at Buckshaw, her ancestral home in the hamlet of Bishop's Lacey! The mature 11 year old chemist with a special fascination in poisons continues to dodge her two older sisters' tortures and seek revenge against them while once again unwittingly stumbling upon a crime. The gypsy fortune teller, whom Flavia has invited to park her caravan on their extensive property for the night, is found by Flavia in the middle of the night beaten to a bloody pulp but with the flutterings of a pulse. Flavia calls in the police and once again she and Inspector Hewitt run their own separate cases and Flavia outwits him in more ways than one. An 11 year old girl has much more access to villagers for covert questioning than the official police. This story turns into one that will unearth secrets of the past that have been buried for many years, Flavia's own family has secrets that are unearthed and before story's end their is a murder, unfortunately of Flavia's prime suspect, and Flavia rescues someone else from certain death. Just as expected, Bradley brings forth a top-notch mystery. While it has all the makings of an Agatha Christie, Flavia's mysteries are by no means cozies. With her own macabre sense of character, fascination with poisons and death, she runs into the most unusual crimes with many eerie components. This story involves baby-stealing gypsies, crystal gazings of the future, a man hung from the trident of a huge fountain statue of Poseidon and a strange religious sect started during the 17th century called the Hobblers on account of how they shuffle when they walk. With a large cast of people, suspects, interviewees and witnesses, Bradley manages to make good character development all around. Even on the secondary characters. One thing I'm seeing now that we're into the third book, is some growth in the characters from a writer's point of view. Bradley has managed to flesh out all of the major characters and we really have a feel for them now. There is only one thing that irks me about this book, and it is a publishing complaint. Nothing to do with the story itself. I have the book in my hands published by Doubleday Canada, written by a Canadian author, story set in Britain and for some ungodly reason we, here in Canada,have been given the American English version. This is a major pet peeve of mine. We speak and write English in Canada, not American. If Canadian publishers can't keep the English language alive in Canada, who will?
Date published: 2011-03-22
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Yaroo Flavia!! How can you not fall in love with a character like Flavia de Luce and her trusting, ever faithful, bicycle Gladys? Once again Flavia encounters a delicious mystery in Bishop's Lacey and her unique perspective makes the third book in this series an ever delightful read. I can't wait until the next instalment! Perhaps I should have savoured this just a wee bit longer :)
Date published: 2011-02-23

Read from the Book

ONE"You frighten me," the Gypsy said. "Never have I seen my crystal ball so filled with darkness."She cupped her hands around the thing, as if to shield my eyes from the horrors that were swimming in its murky depths. As her fingers gripped the glass, I thought I could feel ice water trickling down inside my gullet.At the edge of the table, a thin candle flickered, its sickly light glancing off the dangling brass hoops of the Gypsy's earrings, then flying off to die somewhere in the darkened corners of the tent.Black hair, black eyes, black dress, red-painted cheeks, red mouth, and a voice that could only have come from smoking half a million cigarettes.As if to confirm my suspicions, the old woman was suddenly gripped by a fit of violent coughing that rattled her crooked frame and left her gasping horribly for air. It sounded as though a large bird had somehow become entangled in her lungs and was flapping to escape."Are you all right?" I asked. "I'll go for help."I thought I had seen Dr. Darby in the churchyard not ten minutes earlier, pausing to have a word or two at each stall of the church fête. But before I could make a move, the Gypsy's dusky hand had covered mine on the black velvet of the tabletop."No," she said. "No . . . don't do that. It happens all the time."And she began to cough again.I waited it out patiently, almost afraid to move."How old are you?" she said at last. "Ten? Twelve?""Eleven," I said, and she nodded her head wearily as though she'd known it all along."I see--a mountain," she went on, almost strangling on the words, "and the face--of the woman you will become."In spite of the stifling heat of the darkened tent, my blood ran cold. She was seeing Harriet, of course!Harriet was my mother, who had died in a climbing accident when I was a baby.The Gypsy turned my hand over and dug her thumb painfully into the very center of my palm. My fingers spread--and then curled in upon themselves like the toes of a chicken's severed foot.She took up my left hand. "This is the hand you were born with," she said, barely glancing at the palm, then letting it fall and picking up the other. ". . . and this is the hand you've grown."She stared at it distastefully as the candle flickered. "This broken star on your Mount of Luna shows a brilliant mind turned in upon itself--a mind that wanders the roads of darkness."This was not what I wanted to hear."Tell me about the woman you saw on the mountain," I said. "The one I shall become."She coughed again, clutching her colored shawl tightly about her shoulders, as though wrapping herself against some ancient and invisible winter wind."Cross my palm with silver," she demanded, sticking out a grubby hand."But I gave you a shilling," I said. "That's what it says on the board outside.""Messages from the Third Circle cost extra," she wheezed. "They drain the batteries of my soul."I almost laughed out loud. Who did this old hag think she was? But still, she seemed to have spotted Harriet beyond the veil, and I couldn't let skepticism spoil even half a chance of having a few words with my dead mother.I dug for my last shilling, and as I pressed the coin into her hand, the Gypsy's dark eyes, suddenly as bright as a jackdaw's, met mine."She is trying to come home," she said. "This . . . woman . . . is trying to come home from the cold. She wants you to help her."I leapt to my feet, bashing the bottom of the table with my bare knees. It teetered, then toppled to one side as the candle slid off and fell among a tangle of dusty black hangings.At first there was a little wisp of black smoke as the flame turned blue, then red, then quickly orange. I looked on in horror as it spread along the drapery.In less time than it takes to tell, the entire tent was in flames.I wish I'd had the presence of mind to throw a wet cloth over the Gypsy's eyes and lead her to safety, but instead I bolted--straight through the circle of fire that was the entranceway--and I didn't stop until I reached the coconut pitch, where I stood panting behind a canvas drape, trying to catch my breath.Someone had brought a wind-up gramophone to the churchyard, from which the voice of Danny Kaye was issuing, made nauseously tinny by the throat of the machine's painted horn:"Oh I've got a lov-ely bunch of coconuts.There they are a-standin' in a row . . ."I looked back at the Gypsy's tent just in time to see Mr. Haskins, St. Tancred's sexton, and another man whom I didn't recognize heave a tub of water, apples and all, onto the flames.Half the villagers of Bishop's Lacey, or so it seemed, stood gaping at the rising column of black smoke, hands over mouths or fingertips to cheeks, and not a single one of them knowing what to do.Dr. Darby was already leading the Gypsy slowly away towards the St. John's Ambulance tent, her ancient frame wracked with coughing. How small she seemed in the sunlight, I thought, and how pale."Oh, there you are, you odious little prawn. We've been looking for you everywhere."It was Ophelia, the older of my two sisters. Feely was seventeen, and ranked herself right up there with the Blessed Virgin Mary, although the chief difference between them, I'm willing to bet, is that the BVM doesn't spend twenty-three hours a day peering at herself in a looking glass while picking away at her face with a pair of tweezers.With Feely, it was always best to employ the rapid retort: "How dare you call me a prawn, you stupid sausage? Father's told you more than once it's disrespectful."Feely made a snatch at my ear, but I sidestepped her easily. By sheer necessity, the lightning dodge had become one of my specialties."Where's Daffy?" I asked, hoping to divert her venomous attention.Daffy was my other sister, two years older than me, and at thirteen already an accomplished co-torturer."Drooling over the books. Where else?" She pointed with her chin to a horseshoe of trestle tables on the churchyard grass, upon which the St. Tancred's Altar Guild and the Women's Institute had joined forces to set up a jumble sale of secondhand books and assorted household rubbish.Feely had seemed not to notice the smoking remnants of the Gypsy's tent. As always, she had left her spectacles at home out of vanity, but her inattentiveness might simply have been lack of interest. For all practical purposes, Feely's enthusiasms stopped where her skin ended."Look at these," she said, holding a set of black earrings up to her ears. She couldn't resist showing off. "French jet. They came from Lady Trotter's estate. Glenda says they were quite fortunate to get a tanner for them.""Glenda's right," I said. "French jet is nothing but glass."It was true: I had recently melted down a ghastly Victorian brooch in my chemical laboratory, and found it to be completely silicaceous. It was unlikely that Feely would ever miss the thing."English jet is so much more interesting," I said. "It's formed from the fossilized remains of monkey-puzzle trees, you see, and--"But Feely was 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 pages, might have been a first edition of Pride and Prejudice.It seemed unlikely, though. Whole libraries had been turned in for salvage during the war, and nowadays there wasn't much left for the jumble sales. Whatever books remained unsold at the end of the summer season would, on Guy Fawkes Night, be carted from the basement of the parish hall, heaped up on the village green, and put to the torch.I tipped my head sideways and took a quick squint at the stack of books Daffy had already set aside: On Sledge and Horseback to Outcast Siberian Lepers, Pliny's Natural History, The Martyrdom of Man, and the first two volumes of the Memoirs of Jacques Casanova--the most awful piffle. Except perhaps for Pliny, who had written some ripping stuff about poisons.I walked slowly along the table, running a finger across the books, all of them arranged with their spines upwards: Ethel M. Dell, E. M. Delafield, Warwick Deeping . . .I had noticed on another occasion that most of the great poisoners in history had names beginning with the letter C, and now here were all of these authors beginning with a D. Was I on to something? Some secret of the universe?I squeezed my eyes shut and concentrated: Dickens . . . Doyle . . . Dumas . . . Dostoyevsky--I had seen all of them, at one time or another, clutched in Daffy's hands.Daffy herself was planning to become a novelist when she was older. With a name like Daphne de Luce, she couldn't fail if she tried!"Daff!" I said. "You'll never guess--""Quiet!" she snapped. "I've told you not to speak to me when I'm reading."My sister could be a most unpleasant porpoise when she felt like it.It had not always been this way. When I was younger, for instance, and Father had recruited Daffy to hear my bedtime prayers, she had taught me to recite them in Pig Latin, and we had rolled among the down-filled pillows, laughing until we nearly split."Od-gay ess-blay Ather-fay, Eely-fay, and Issis-may Ullet-may. And Ogger-day, oo-tay!"But over the years, something had changed between my sisters and me.A little hurt, I reached for a volume that lay on top of the others: A Looking Glasse, for London and Englande. It was a book, I thought, that would appeal to Feely, since she was mad about mirrors. Perhaps I would purchase it myself, and store it away against the unlikely day when I might feel like giving her a gift, or a peace offering. Stranger things had happened.Riffling through its pages, I saw at once that it was not a novel, but a play--full of characters' names and what each of them said. Someone named Adam was talking to a clown:". . . a cup of ale without a wench, why, alas, 'tis like an egg without salt or a red herring without mustard."What a perfect motto for a certain someone, I thought, glancing across to where Ned was now grazing away at my sister's neck as she pretended not to notice. On more than one occasion I'd seen Ned sitting at his chores in the courtyard of the Thirteen Drakes with a tankard of ale--and sometimes Mary Stoker, the landlord's daughter--at his elbow. I realized with an unexpected shock that without either ale or a female within easy reach, Ned was somehow incomplete. Why hadn't I noticed that before? Perhaps, like Dr. Watson on the wireless in A Scandal in Bohemia, there are times that I see, but do not observe. This was something I needed to think about."Your handiwork, I suppose?" Daffy said suddenly, putting down a book and picking up another. She gestured towards the small knot of villagers who stood gawking at the smoking ruins of the Gypsy's tent. "It has Flavia de Luce written all over it.""Sucks to you," I said. "I was going to help carry your stupid books home, but now you can jolly well lug them yourself.""Oh, do stop it!" she said, clutching at my sleeve. "Please desist. My heartstrings are playing Mozart's Requiem, and a fugitive tear is making its way to my right eye, even as we speak."I wandered away with a careless whistle. I'd deal with her insolence later."Ow! Leave off, Brookie! You're 'urtin' me."The whining voice was coming from somewhere behind the shove ha'penny booth and, when I recognized it as belonging to Colin Prout, I stopped to listen.By flattening myself against the stone wall of the church and keeping well back behind the canvas that draped the raffle booth, I could eavesdrop in safety. Even better, I was pleased to find that I had an unexpectedly clear view of Colin through the gaps in the booth's raw lumber.He was dancing at the end of Brookie Harewood's arm like a great spectacled fish, his thick eyeglasses knocked askew, his dirty blond hair a hayrick, his large, damp mouth hanging open, gasping for air."Leave off. I didn't do nothin'."With his other hand, Brookie took hold of the seat of Colin's baggy trousers and swiveled him round to face the smoking remains of the Gypsy's tent."Who did that, then, eh?" he demanded, shaking the boy to accentuate his words. "Where there's smoke, there's fire. Where there's fire, there's matches. And where there's matches, there's Colin Prout."" 'Ere," Colin said, trying to ram a hand into his pocket. "Count 'em! You just count 'em, Brookie. Same number as I had yesterday. Three. I ain't used a one."As Brookie released his grip, Colin fell to the ground, rolled over on his elbows, dug into his trouser pocket, and produced a box of wooden matches, which he waved at his tormentor.Brookie raised his head and sniffed the air, as if for guidance. His greasy cap and India rubber boots, his long moleskin coat and, in spite of the hot summer weather, a woolen scarf that clung like a scarlet serpent to his bulldog neck made him look like a rat catcher out of Dickens.Before I could even wonder what to do, Colin had scrambled to his feet, and the two of them had ambled away across the churchyard, Colin dusting himself off and shrugging elaborately, as though he didn't care.I suppose I should have stepped out from behind the booth, admitted I was responsible for the fire, and demanded that Brookie release the boy. If he refused, I could easily have run for the vicar, or called for any one of the other able-bodied men who were within earshot. But I didn't. And the simple reason, I realized with a little chill, was this: I was afraid of Brookie Harewood.From the Hardcover edition.

Bookclub Guide

1. Alan Bradley has often said that Flavia’s appeal as a protagonist lies in the fact that eleven-year-old girls are invisible: they can go anywhere, ask anything, and no one thinks anything of it—or has the sense to keep their mouth shut! Discuss how well Flavia suits her role as an accomplished master sleuth, and her role as an eleven-year-old girl.2. “Stepping through the door into my laboratory was like gaining sanctuary in a quiet church: The rows of bottled chemicals were my stained-glass windows, the chemical bench my altar.” Why is chemistry so important to Flavia?3. Poor Inspector Hewitt . . . no one tells him anything. Why are Flavia and the other residents of Bishop’s Lacey so tight-lipped? Discuss the various ways that truth is hidden in the novel (by who, and from whom), and how knowledge can be power— especially in a gossipy little village like Bishop’s Lacey.4. What do you make of the scene in which Porcelain wears Harriet’s red dress to dinner?5. Red herrings, those distracting clues that divert one’s eye from the truth, abound in this novel, as you might have expected from the title. Discuss a few of the more notable plot points that took you and/or Flavia down the wrong sleuthing path. (Perhaps the name Hilda Muir?) Are red herrings necessary to mystery novels?6. Is the stoic silence of the de Luce clan something to be admired or to feel sympathy for?7. For someone devoted to the scientific method, Flavia is awfully quick to believe in fortune-telling and old wives’ tales, like the one about Gypsies stealing babies (which she assumed true until she figured out what really happened to Mrs. Bull’s). How do these different aspects of Flavia’s personality play against each other in the novel?8. “Oh everybody knows Brookie,” Flavia says when she arrives at his mother’s cottage, “He’s one of the village characters.” Discuss Brookie Harewood and how central he is to the novel, despite appearing only a few times. Were you surprised that his gruesome death didn’t have more effect on the residents of Buckshaw and Bishop’s Lacey? Also, how could Flavia’s comment be applied to the novel’s characters in general?9. Flavia spends a great deal of time missing Harriet, and wondering about her. Vanetta Harewood clearly knew Harriet well, yet Flavia can hardly face her. Why doesn’t Flavia ask more people about her mother’s life and what she was like?10. Flavia is quick to bring Porcelain into her private world, despite her preference for working alone, and Flavia becomes quite attached to her. What role does Porcelain play for Flavia— friend, sister, something more?11. Although Bishop’s Lacey seems to exist in idyllic isolation from the outside world, the effects of the war crop up in various characters and locales: Colonel de Luce never speaks of his military service, Dogger suffers from shell shock, and former German POWs work on local farms. How do the realities of postwar Britain show up in characteristics of the village and its villagers?12. Why does Colonel de Luce hang the portrait of Flavia’s mother in the laboratory, where no one but Flavia will see it? Discuss Flavia’s relationship with her father. Does she have a special connection with him that Ophelia and Daphne do not?13. Itinerant Romani, or Gypsies, had a distinct presence in postwar Britain, one that clearly offended the refined sensibilities of the nation. Talk about the Gypsy stereotypes you are familiar with and how Alan Bradley uses them (sometimes humorously) in this novel. Did you find on occasion that your own assumptions about Fenella and Porcelain were undermined?

Editorial Reviews

“Flavia de Luce rides out of the pages of Alan Bradley’s new mystery and straight into our hearts. . . . [Bradley] has created one of the most endearing protagonists the traditional mystery genre, typified by the works of Agatha Christie, has seen in a very long time. . . . With this, his third novel in the Flavia de Luce series, Bradley . . . secures his position as a confident, talented writer and storyteller.” — Elizabeth J. Duncan, The Globe and Mail“[Flavia de Luce] remains irresistibly appealing as a little girl lost.”— The New York Times“A splendid romp through 1950s England led by the world’s smartest and most incorrigible preteen.” — Kirkus, starred review“Bradley’s outstanding third Flavia de Luce mystery set in post-WWII rural England . . . In this marvelous blend of whimsy and mystery, Flavia manages to operate successfully in the adult world of crimes and passions while dodging the childhood pitfalls set by her sisters.” — Publishers Weekly, starred review“The 11-year-old sleuth with a penchant for chemistry and a knack for discovering corpses triumphantly returns in this third installment of Bradley’s award-winning mystery series . . . Whether battling with her odious sisters or verbally sparring with the long-suffering Inspector Hewitt, our cheeky heroine is a delight.” — Library Journal “. . . A spirited, surprisingly innocent tale, despite murky goings on at its center. Think of Flavia as a new Sherlock in the making.” —Booklist “[The] idiosyncratic young heroine [Flavia] continues to charm.” — The Wall Street Journal From the Hardcover edition.