The Golden Tresses of the Dead by Alan Bradley

Bantam, 352 pages, $17

There are so many books toppling off of piles and tables in my house, all of them waiting to be read. I have “Motherless Brooklyn” to re-read — although I seldom re-read books — because of the new film based on it. I have Attica Locke’s wonderful “Heaven, My Home” half read. I have Wil Medearis’ “Restoration Heights,” not yet begun, even though it has been winking at me from the pile since it debuted in January. And the list goes on with current and old titles vying for a quiet corner and a comfortable chair. 

I admit I have been especially distracted the last couple of months. I remember when the World Trade Center fell, there were almost no customers in my bookstore. When they finally started coming in again, they uniformly said that it had been impossible to concentrate on reading. I knew what they meant, because I, too, had had the same difficulty. This is not meant to be a political post; it simply acknowledges that no matter what your political position, even if you have been paying only scant attention to the news, you know the known world had been whirling atilt at a dizzying pace.

So what do I grab in the midst of the daily bombardment of bad news (or good news, depending on your turn of mind)? Flavia de Luce is my comfort. She is my tomato soup and toasted cheese sandwich. She is a “Friends” marathon. She is a pet to hug.

At this point in the series, I’m not sure I even care if there is a mystery. Is there a dead body? Really? When? It doesn’t matter, I’m certain Flavia and Dogger have solved the whodunnit part. Moving on…

What do I really get out of Alan Bradley’s works? Flavia is, what, thirteen, fourteen years old at this point, although it has been ten years since her debut in “The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie.” Literary dog years. She is plucky in the traditional sense of precocious child sleuths. She has taken her setbacks and mourned and moved forward.

Talk about comfort. Flavia takes comfort in scrupulously tidying her lab, studying scientific texts, testing for poisons. Although she is the youngest child in her family, she is the one left holding the bag in terms of ownership of her drafty family mansion. Her oldest sister has just married, her other sister remains firmly hidden behind books. With the help of gentle Dogger, her father’s — how to describe him? — best friend, factotum, fellow war survivor, Flavia feels visible and acknowledged. However, Dogger is beset occasionally by PTSD flare-ups, although, it being 1952, PTSD had the luridly descriptive name of “shell shock.” His background is unusual and mostly unknown. He has a vast knowledge of things medical, chemical, exotic, and can also relay the recent village gossip.

Together Flavia and Dogger have developed a consulting detective agency, Arthur W. Dogger and Associates. It sounds frivolous and one wonders if Dogger is simply doing it to distract Flavia, but he plays it with a straight face. And, of course, the dead bodies continue to roll in, as they have in the nine previous novels, so the agency is a useful strategy.

I love how Flavia rides her bicycle Gladys throughout the village. I love how her bicycle has a name! I love Flavia’s indomitable spirit, housekeeper Mrs. Mullet’s kindness, younger cousin Undine’s brainy madness, and sister Daffy’s occasional non-hostile attention.

For the record, Mrs. Anastasia Prill hires the Dogger Agency to solve a mystery involving purloined letters. Then she dies under mysterious circumstances. There are rugby-playing divinity students, missionary ladies determined to give a talk about health issues in Africa, someone’s severed finger stuffed into sister Feely’s wedding cake, and a doddery old person.

Ahhhh…