Summary
Commissaire Adamsberg investigates the death of three men linked by their childhood at an orphanage in Nimes, all killed by the venom of the recluse spider, in the new novel by the #1 bestselling French crime writer
"A wildly imaginative series."-- The New York Times
"Adamsberg is a terrific creation and his team of misfits a joy to watch in action." --Peter Robinson, New York Times bestselling author of the Inspector Banks series
A murder in Paris brings Commissaire Adamsberg out of the Icelandic mists of his previous investigation and unexpectedly into the region of Nîmes, where three old men have died of spider bites. The recluse has a sneaky attack, but is that enough to explain the deaths of these men, all killed by the same venom?
At the National Museum of Natural History, Adamsberg meets a pensioner who tells him that two of the three octogenarians have known each other since childhood, when they lived in a local orphanage called The Mercy. There, they had belonged to a small group of violent young boys known as the "band of recluses." Adamsberg faces two obstacles: the third man killed by the same venom was not part of the "band of recluses", and the amount of spider venom necessary to kill doesn't add up.
Yet after the Nîmes deaths, more members of the old band succumb to recluse bites, leading the commissaire to uncover the tragedy hidden behind the walls of the orphanage.
Author Notes
Fred Vargas was born in Paris in 1957. A historian and archaeologist by profession, she is now a bestselling novelist. Vargas was the winner of the inaugural British Crime Writers' Association Duncan Lawrie International Dagger for her novel The Three Evangelists . Her books have sold over 10 million copies worldwide and have been translated into 45 languages.
Publisher's Weekly Review
In French author Vargas's brilliantly twisty ninth whodunit featuring eccentric Commissaire Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg (after 2016's A Climate of Fear), Adamsberg, who leads the Paris Serious Crimes Squad, makes quick work of a brutal vehicular homicide case to focus on his hunch that foul play was involved in the deaths of three elderly men, each of whom was bitten by a recluse spider. As its name suggests, this type of spider is not aggressive, and its venom is not usually lethal. But an uptick in such fatalities in France have led to panic that the spiders may have mutated or had their toxin's strength affected by global warming. The expert Adamsberg consults at the Natural History Museum shoots those theories down, and his colleagues are convinced that the age of the victims made them particularly susceptible to venom. The sleuth's doggedness identifies a link among the dead men, which he pursues. That the members of Adamsberg's investigative team are distinct individuals adds depth to the sophisticated and rewarding plot. Vargas deserves a wide American readership. (Aug.)
Booklist Review
Vargas and her translator, Siân Reynolds, have won the CWA International Dagger for four previous collaborations; this ninth Commissaire Adamsberg mystery (after A Climate of Fear, 2017) is another fine entry in a consistently strong series. As in the previous installments, Adamsberg pays polite but nominal attention to the rules of his Paris police job but quietly takes the cases that please him, even if, as in this tale, the work isn't clearly a police matter. This time the problem is recluse spiders several men have died after being bitten by the spiders, though the bites aren't normally fatal. Adamsberg and his delightfully Gallic, languorous colleagues are stumped, and the clever investigation takes readers through spider-related science, ancient history that may have come back to haunt the victims, and various promising but wrong paths, until a satisfying and surprising ending. The translation retains a pleasant French air and a laid-back tone that's shot through with moments of piercing insight and, sometimes, horrible truths. Fans of the series won't be disappointed; this could also work for Cara Black's readers.--Henrietta Verma Copyright 2019 Booklist
Library Journal Review
Urgently recalled from his Icelandic vacation to solve a vehicular homicide, Commissaire Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg of Paris's Serious Crimes Squad swiftly dispatches that case, only to incite departmental discord with his next focus: three elderly men residing near Nimes, dead of necrosis induced by the venom of the recluse spider. Only Adamsberg appears unfazed by crucial setbacks to this murder probe--recluse bites are not fatal to humans, and his superiors have not authorized him to investigate. Casting aside online speculation that climate change and pollution have triggered spider mutation, the uncannily perceptive Adamsberg senses dark repercussions from the victims' teen years, which were all spent in the same orphanage. Vargas (A Climate of Fear) infuses compelling insights from legend, science, and history into her intricate, truly puzzling police procedural. Narrator Chris MacDonnell differentiates characters nimbly, conveying the moods of their interactions and the complicated bond between Adamsberg and his eccentric squad. VERDICT This clever, entertaining case will reward both those encountering Adamsberg for the first time and those already captivated by the Chief Inspector's quixotic persona. Not for readers seeking action and thrills but a marvelous find for fans of atmospheric, character-driven mysteries like those of Louise Penny and Martin Walker.--Linda Sappenfield, Round Rock P.L., TX
Excerpts
I Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg, sitting on a rock at the quayside, watched the Grimsey fishermen return with their daily catch, as they moored their boats and hauled up their nets. Here, on this tiny island off the coast of Iceland, people called him simply 'Berg'. An onshore breeze, temperature 11 degrees, hazy sunshine, and the reek of discarded fish entrails. He had forgotten that, not so long ago, he was a commissaire, the police chief in charge of the twenty- seven officers of the Paris Serious Crimes Squad, based in the 13th arrondissement. His mobile phone had fallen into some sheep dung, and the ewe had trodden it firmly in with its hoof, no malice intended. That was a novel way to lose your mobile, and Adamsberg had appreciated it as such. Gunnlaugur, the landlord of the little inn, was just arriving down at the harbour, preparing to choose the best fish for the evening meal. Adamsberg waved to him with a smile. But Gunnlaugur did not look his usual jovial self. He was heading straight for Adamsberg, ignoring the fish market just getting under way. Frowning under his blond eyebrows, he held out a piece of paper. ' Fyrir þig, ' he said - with a gesture. For you . ' Ég? ' Me? Adamsberg, who was normally incapable of memorising the most basic rudiments of any foreign language, had inexplicably amassed a stock of about seventy words of Icelandic, in just seventeen days. People spoke to him as simply as possible, with a lot of sign language. From Paris, the message must be from Paris. And they wanted him back, that must be it. He felt combined sadness and anger and shook his head, refusing to look, turning towards the sea. Gunnlaugur insisted, unfolding the paper and thrusting it into his fingers. Woman run over. Husband or lover. Not straightforward. Your presence required. Details follow. Adamsberg looked down, opened his hand and let the paper blow away in the wind. Paris? How could it be from Paris? Where was Paris, anyway? ' Dau∂ur ma∂ur? ' Gunnlaugur asked. Someone's died? ' Já. ' Yes. ' Ertu a∂ fara, Berg? Ertu a∂ fara? ' So you're leaving us, Berg? You're leaving? Adamsberg drew himself up wearily and looked towards the pale sun. ' Nei.' No. ' Jú, Berg, ' Gunnlaugur sighed. Yes you are, Berg. 'Já,' Adamsberg admitted. Gunnlaugur shook his shoulder, pulling him along. ' Drekka bor∂a ,' he said. You must eat, drink. ' Ja. ' OK. The shock, as his plane's wheels touched down on the tarmac at Roissy-Charles de Gaulle airport, triggered a sudden migraine such as he had not had for years, and at the same time he felt as if he were being battered all over. Back to base, all that aggression, Paris, city of stone. Unless it was the number of glasses downed the night before, at his farewell party at the inn in Iceland. The glasses had been very small. But numerous. And it was his last night. And it had been brennivín . He gave a furtive glance out of the window. Not to get out. Not to have to go anywhere. But he was there already. Your presence required . Excerpted from This Poison Will Remain by Fred Vargas All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
