{"product_id":"the-dead-in-their-vaulted-arches-isbn-9780385344067","title":"The Dead in Their Vaulted Arches","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e BESTSELLER\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn a spring morning in 1951, eleven-year-old chemist and aspiring detective Flavia de Luce gathers with her family at the railway station, awaiting the return of her long-lost mother, Harriet. Yet upon the train’s arrival in the English village of Bishop’s Lacey, Flavia is approached by a tall stranger who whispers a cryptic message into her ear. Moments later, he is dead, mysteriously pushed under the train by someone in the crowd. Who was this man, what did his words mean, and why were they intended for Flavia? Back home at Buckshaw, the de Luces’ crumbling estate, Flavia puts her sleuthing skills to the test. Following a trail of clues sparked by the discovery of a reel of film stashed away in the attic, she unravels the deepest secrets of the de Luce clan, involving none other than Winston Churchill himself. Surrounded by family, friends, and a famous pathologist from the Home Office—and making spectacular use of Harriet’s beloved Gipsy Moth plane, \u003ci\u003eBlithe Spirit\u003c\/i\u003e—Flavia will do anything, even take to the skies, to land a killer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Dead in Their Vaulted Arches\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Part Harriet the Spy, part Violet Baudelaire from Lemony Snicket’s \u003ci\u003eA Series of Unfortunate Events, \u003c\/i\u003eFlavia is a pert and macabre pragmatist.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[Alan] Bradley’s award winning Flavia de Luce series . . . has enchanted readers with the outrageous sleuthing career of its precocious leading lady. . . . This latest adventure contains all the winning elements of the previous books.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Bradley’s latest Flavia de Luce novel reaches a new level of perfection as it shows the emotional turmoil and growth of a girl who has always been older than her years and yet is still a child. The mystery is complex and very personal this time, reaching into the past Flavia never knew about. . . . These are astounding, magical books not to be missed.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eRT Book Reviews \u003c\/i\u003e(Top Pick)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Excellent . . . Flavia retains her droll wit. . . . The solution to a murder is typically neat, and the conclusion sets up future books nicely.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It’s hard to resist either the genre’s pre-eminent preteen sleuth or the hushed revelations about her family.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Flavia . . . is as fetching as ever; her chatty musings and her combination of childish vulnerability and seemingly boundless self-confidence haven’t changed a bit.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Dead in Their Vaulted Arches\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Part Harriet the Spy, part Violet Baudelaire from Lemony Snicket’s \u003ci\u003eA Series of Unfortunate Events, \u003c\/i\u003eFlavia is a pert and macabre pragmatist.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[Alan] Bradley’s award winning Flavia de Luce series . . . has enchanted readers with the outrageous sleuthing career of its precocious leading lady. . . . This latest adventure contains all the winning elements of the previous books.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Bradley’s latest Flavia de Luce novel reaches a new level of perfection as it shows the emotional turmoil and growth of a girl who has always been older than her years and yet is still a child. The mystery is complex and very personal this time, reaching into the past Flavia never knew about. . . . These are astounding, magical books not to be missed.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eRT Book Reviews \u003c\/i\u003e(Top Pick)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Excellent . . . Flavia retains her droll wit. . . . The solution to a murder is typically neat, and the conclusion sets up future books nicely.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It’s hard to resist either the genre’s pre-eminent preteen sleuth or the hushed revelations about her family.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Flavia . . . is as fetching as ever; her chatty musings and her combination of childish vulnerability and seemingly boundless self-confidence haven’t changed a bit.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAcclaim for Alan Bradley’s beloved Flavia de Luce novels, winners of the Crime Writers’ Association Debut Dagger Award, Barry Award, Agatha Award, Macavity Award, Dilys Winn Award, and Arthur Ellis Award\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “If ever there were a sleuth who’s bold, brilliant, and, yes, adorable, it’s Flavia de Luce.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Irresistibly appealing.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003eon\u003ci\u003e A Red Herring Without Mustard\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Original, charming, devilishly creative.”\u003cb\u003e—Bookreporter\u003c\/b\u003e,\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eon\u003ci\u003e I Am Half-Sick of Shadows\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Delightful and entertaining.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSan Jose Mercury News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003eon\u003ci\u003e Speaking from Among the Bones\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eAlan Bradley\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of many short stories, children’s stories, newspaper columns, and the memoir \u003ci\u003eThe Shoebox Bible\u003c\/i\u003e. His first Flavia de Luce novel, \u003ci\u003eThe Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, \u003c\/i\u003ereceived the Crime Writers’ Association Debut Dagger Award, the Dilys Award, the Arthur Ellis Award, the Agatha Award, the Macavity Award, and the Barry Award, and was nominated for the Anthony Award. His other Flavia de Luce novels are \u003ci\u003eThe Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag, A Red Herring Without Mustard\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eI Am Half-Sick of Shadows\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eSpeaking from Among the Bones, The Dead in Their Vaulted Arches, As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust, Thrice the Brinded Cat Hath Mew’d, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Grave’s a Fine and Private Place, \u003c\/i\u003eas well as the ebook short story “The Curious Case of the Copper Corpse.”•One•\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo begin with, it was a perfect English morning: one of those dazzling days in early April when a new sun makes it seem suddenly like full-blown summer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSunshine broke through the fat white dumplings of the clouds, sending shadows chasing one another playfully across the green fields and up into the gently rolling hills. Somewhere in the woods on the other side of the railway line, a nightingale was singing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s like a colored plate from Wordsworth,” my sister Daphne said, almost to herself. “Far too picturesque.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOphelia, my oldest sister, was a still, pale, silent shadow, lost in her own thoughts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the appointed time, which happened to be ten o’clock, we were all of us gathered more or less together on the little railway platform at Buckshaw Halt. I think it was the first time in my life I had ever seen Daffy without a book in her hand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFather, who stood a bit apart from us, kept glancing every few minutes at his wristwatch and looking along the track, eyes squinting, watching for smoke in the distance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDirectly behind him stood Dogger. How odd it was to see these two men—gentleman and servant—who had been through such ghastly times together, standing dressed in their Sunday best at an abandoned country railway station.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlthough Buckshaw Halt had once been used to bring both goods and guests to the great house, and although the rails remained, the station proper, with its weathered bricks, had been boarded up for donkey’s years.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the past few days, though, it had been hurriedly made ready for Harriet’s homecoming: swept out and tidied up, its broken windowpanes replaced, the tiny flower bed weeded and planted with a small riot of flowers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFather had been asked to go up to London and ride with her back to Buckshaw, but he had insisted on being at the little station at Buckshaw Halt to meet the train. It was, after all, he had explained to the vicar, the place and manner in which he had first met her all those many years ago when both of them were young.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs we waited, I noticed that Father’s boots had been polished to a high-gloss perfection, from which I deduced that Dogger was currently in a much improved state. There were times when Dogger screamed and whimpered in the night, huddled in the corner of his tiny bedroom, visited by the ghosts of far-off prisons, tormented by the devils of the past. At all other times he was as competent as any human is capable of being, and I sent up thanks that this morning was one of them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNever had we needed him more.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere and there on the platform, small, tight knots of villagers, keeping a respectful distance, talked quietly to one another, preserving our privacy. More than a few of them stood huddled closely round Mrs. Mullet, our cook, and her husband, Alf, as if doing so made them, by some magic, part of the immediate household.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs ten o’clock approached, everyone, as if at an arranged signal, fell suddenly quiet, and an unearthly hush settled upon the countryside. It was as though a bell jar had been lowered upon the land and all the world was holding its breath. Even the nightingale in the woods had abruptly ceased its song.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe very air on the station platform was now electric, as it often becomes when a train is approaching but not yet in sight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePeople shifted uneasily from foot to foot, and the faint wind of our collective breathing made a soft sigh on the gentle English air.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd then, finally, after what seemed like an eternal stillness, we saw in the distance the smoke from the engine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNearer and nearer it came, bringing Harriet—bringing my mother—home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe breath seemed sucked from my lungs as the gleaming engine panted into the station and squealed to a stop at the edge of the platform.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was not a long train: not more than an engine and half a dozen carriages, and it sat resting for a few moments in the importance of its own swirling steam. There was an odd little lull.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen a guard stepped down from the rear carriage and blew three sharp blasts on a whistle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDoors opened, and the platform was suddenly swarming with men in uniform: military men with a dazzling array of full medals and clipped mustaches.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey formed up quickly into two columns and stood stiffly at attention.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA tall, tanned man I took to be their leader, his chest a wall of decorations and colored ribbons, marched smartly to where Father stood and brought his arm up in a sharp salute that left his hand vibrating like a tuning fork.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlthough he seemed in a daze, Father managed a nod.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom the remaining carriages poured a horde of men in black suits and bowler hats carrying walking sticks and furled umbrellas. Among them were a handful of women in severe suits, hats, and gloves; a few, even, were in uniform. One of these, a fit but forbidding woman in RAF colors, looked such a Tartar and had so many stripes on her sleeve that she might have been an Air Vice-Marshal. This little station at Buckshaw Halt, I thought, in all of its long history, had never before been so packed with such an assortment of humanity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo my surprise, one of the suited women turned out to be Father’s sister, Aunt Felicity. She hugged Feely, hugged Daffy, hugged me, and then without a word took up her station beside Father.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt an order, the two columns marched smartly towards the head of the train, as the large door in the luggage van slid open.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was difficult, in the bright daylight, to make out anything in the dim depths of the van’s interior. All I could see at first was what seemed to be a dozen white gloves dancing suspended in the darkness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd then gently, almost tenderly, a wooden box was handed out to the double column of waiting men, who shouldered it and stood motionless for a moment, like wooden soldiers staring straight ahead into the sunshine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI couldn’t take my eyes off the thing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was a coffin which, once clear of the shadows of the luggage van, gleamed cruelly in the harsh sunlight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn it was Harriet. Harriet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy mother.New York Times bestseller; Author of The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie","brand":"Bantam","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301512761573,"sku":"NP9780385344067","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780385344067.jpg?v=1767738954","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-dead-in-their-vaulted-arches-isbn-9780385344067","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}