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A Banquet of Consequences: A Lynley Novel Hardcover – October 27, 2015
Purchase options and add-ons
The #1 New York Times bestselling author’s award-winning series returns with another stunning crime drama featuring Scotland Yard members Detective Inspector Thomas Lynley and Detective Sergeant Barbara Havers. Look out for Elizabeth George’s newest novel, The Punishment She Deserves.
The unspoken secrets and buried lies of one family rise to the surface in Elizabeth George’s newest novel of crime, passion, and tragic history. As Inspector Thomas Lynley investigates the London angle of an ever more darkly disturbing case, his partner, Barbara Havers, is looking behind the peaceful façade of country life to discover a twisted world of desire and deceit.
The suicide of William Goldacre is devastating to those left behind who will have to deal with its unintended consequences—could there be a link between the young man’s leap from a Dorset cliff and a horrific poisoning in Cambridge?
After various issues with her department, Barbara Havers is desperate to redeem herself. So when a past encounter gives her a connection to the unsolved Cambridge murder, Barbara begs Thomas Lynley to let her pursue the crime, knowing one mistake could mean the end of her career.
Full of shocks, intensity, and suspense from the first page to the last, A Banquet of Consequences reveals both Lynley and Havers under mounting pressure to solve a case both complicated and deeply disturbing.
- Print length592 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherViking
- Publication dateOctober 27, 2015
- Dimensions6.5 x 1.81 x 9.56 inches
- ISBN-109780525954330
- ISBN-13978-0525954330
"Layla" by Colleen Hoover for $7.19
From #1 New York Times bestselling author Colleen Hoover comes a novel that explores life after tragedy and the enduring spirit of love. | Learn more
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Editorial Reviews
Review
“George’s mystery unfolds with great psychological depth, finely drawn characters and gorgeous portraits of the English countryside. . . . [George] is an essential writer of popular fiction today.”
—The Washington Post
“Irresistable.”
—The Seattle Times
“Undoubtedly one of Ms. George’s best mysteries, original in concept and fascinating in the breadth of its characters.”
—The Washington Times
“As absorbing as her first book in this acclaimed series. . . . [George is] one of the reigning queens of the genre.”
—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
Praise for Elizabeth George
"Elizabeth George is a superstar of the crime-fiction world, British Inspector Division. Deservedly so: Her tales always provide nuanced character studies and insights into social issues along with their intricate mysteries."
—The Seattle Times
"It’s tough to resist the pull of [George’s] storytelling once hooked."
—USA Today
"Ms. George can do it all, with style to spare."
—The Wall Street Journal
"George's . . . ability to continually enhance the portraits of Lynley, Havers, and other recurring characters while generating fully fleshed new ones for each novel is nothing less than superlative, and her atmospheric prose, complete with lovely and detailed descriptions of her setting, combines to add literary gravitas to her work . . . A worthy addition to her portfolio and one that simultaneously disturbs and satisfies."
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
"[Lynley is] one of the great character portraits in contemporary crime fiction."
—The Boston Globe
About the Author
Elizabeth George is the New York Times bestselling author of nineteen psychological suspense novels, three young adult novels, one book of nonfiction, and two short-story collections. Her work has been honored with the Anthony and Agatha awards, as well as several other prestigious prizes. She lives in Washington State.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
THIRTY-NINE MONTHS BEFORE
8 DECEMBER
SPITALFIELDS
LONDON
Since it was only to be a weekend jaunt to Marrakesh, Lily Foster reckoned they could use one suitcase, and a carry-on at that. What did they need to take, really? It had been deadly cold, grey, and wet in London since the middle of November, but it wasn’t going to be that way in North Africa. They would spend most of their time lounging round the pool, anyway, and when they weren’t doing that, they’d be getting romantic in their room, for which, obviously, they needed no clothes at all.
Packing took less than ten minutes. Sandals, summer trousers, a tee-shirt for William. Sandals, a clingy frock, and a scarf for her. Swimming suits for them both and a few other essentials. That was it. Then began the wait, which—confirmed by a glance at the plastic wall clock ticking away above the cooker—should have been less than thirty minutes. But it stretched instead into more than two hours during which time she texted him and she phoned him as well, only to receive no response. Just his pleasant voice saying “This is Will. Tell me and I’ll tell you back,” to which she said, “Where are you, William? I thought the job was only in Shoreditch. And why’re you still there in this rotten weather? Ring me soon as you get this, okay?”
Lily went to the window. The afternoon was spitting rain outside, the sky dark and angry with erupting clouds. In the best of weather, this particular housing estate was grim: a mixture of filthy brick blocks of flats tossed by the handful across a level plain, which was crisscrossed by cracked and heaving pavements that the residents ignored in favour of trudging across a dying patchwork of lawns. In weather like this, the place looked like a death trap and what was at risk of extermination was hope. They didn’t belong here, and Lily knew it. It was bad for her; it was worse for William. But it was what they could afford for now, and it was where they would remain until she built her business larger than what it was and William had his own on firmer footing.
That part was tricky: William’s business. He regularly argued with his clients, and people didn’t like that when they were paying someone to work for them.
“You do have to take on board what people think,” she kept telling him.
“People,” he countered, “need to stay out of my way. I can’t concentrate when they yammer at me. Why don’t they get that? It’s not like I don’t tell them straightaway.”
Well, yes, right, Lily thought. Telling people was part of the problem. William needed to stop doing that.
Lily frowned down at the street. There was no one on the pavements below, certainly no William with his collar up, making a dash from his car to the narrow tower that contained their building’s lift. Instead there was only a woman on a balcony of the block of flats sitting at an angle to theirs. She was gathering laundry in her arms, her bright yellow sari whipped by the wind. As for the rest of the buildings’ balconies with their lines of dispirited laundry and their children’s toys and their few haggard-looking plants and—always—their satellite dishes, whatever they contained was being left to fend for itself in the weather.
Through the window Lily could dimly hear the unrelenting city noise: the squeal of tyres on wet pavement as a car took a corner too swiftly, the metallic roar of a building site where yet something else was being redeveloped nearby but out of view, the siren of an ambulance on its way to hospital, and, much closer, the thump thunka thump of a too-loud bass underscoring someone’s musical preference.
She texted William again. After two minutes of no response, she rang him as well. She said, “William, you must be getting my texts. Unless . . . Oh damn it, you haven’t got your mobile on silent again, have you? You know I hate it when you do that. And this is important. I don’t like to say but . . . Oh hell, hell, hell. Look. I’ve a surprise planned for our anniversary. I know, I know. You’ll say ten months can’t be an anniversary but you know what I mean, so don’t be difficult. Anyway, this surprise involves our being somewhere at a particular time, so if you’re just not replying because you’re playing silly buggers for some reason, please ring me back.”
And then there was nothing to do but to wait. She watched the minutes tick by and she tried to reassure herself that they had plenty of time to get to Stansted. All William had to do, really, was walk in the door because she had their passports in her bag, she had the tickets printed already, and every plan that needed to be made when one journeyed to another country even for a weekend had been made by her.
She realised that she should have told him that morning. But he’d been displeased with how the job in Shoreditch was shaping up, and she hadn’t liked to break into his thoughts. Sometimes his clients took a bit of work on his part to bring on board, for even when William had a superb idea that he knew would work on their property, people liked to be in charge of things, even when they hired an expert, which was definitely what William Goldacre was. Expert, visionary, artist, and labourer. Give him your weed-choked garden and he worked magic.
When she finally saw his ancient Fiesta rounding the corner from Heneage Street, she had been waiting for him for four hours, and the Marrakesh plan was shot to hell. The money was wasted, they were stuck, and Lily was looking for someone to blame.
Where had he been? What had he been doing? Why hadn’t he answered his bloody phone? Had he just done that early on—it was one simple thing, William—she could have told him about her plans and advised him to meet her at the airport. They could have even now been sitting happily shoulder to shoulder on that stupid plane as it winged them towards sunshine and a weekend of simple pleasure.
Lily was winding herself up as he got out of his car. She was choosing her words. Inconsiderate and thoughtless were at the top of her list. But then she caught sight of his face as he passed under one of the street lamps. She saw the set of his shoulders, and the way he walked towards the lift in the evening darkness. She thought, Oh no, and she knew what had occurred. He’d lost the Shoreditch client. That was two clients in three months, with both projects ending in acrimony, anger, and accusation. That would be on William’s part. On the part of the clients would be a demand for the return of a rather hefty deposit, most of which would already have been spent on supplies.
Lily watched his progress from pool of light to pool of light till he disappeared from view. Then she took the carry-on through to the bedroom. She shoved it out of sight under the bed. By the time she’d got back to the sitting room, William’s key was in the door lock, the door was opening, and she was sitting on the sagging sofa with her smartphone in her hand. She was checking her email. “Pleasant trip, darling!” from her mum didn’t do much to lift her spirits.
William saw her at once—he could hardly help it as the place was so small—and he averted his eyes. Then his gaze came back to her again, and she noticed that it shifted from her face to her phone. He said, “Sorry.”
She said, “I texted and rang you, William.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you respond?”
“I broke the phone.”
He had a rucksack with him. As if to prove to her the truth of what he was saying, he unzipped the thing and dumped its contents. His mobile toppled to one side, and he handed it over. It was destroyed.
“Did you drive over it or something?” Lily asked him.
“I smashed it with a shovel.”
“But—”
“You kept . . . I don’t know, Lily. I couldn’t answer, but still you kept . . . It was the ringing and then the buzzing and every bloody thing was happening at once over there. My head felt like it was on the verge of exploding and the only thing I could do to make it all stop was to use a shovel on the phone.”
“What’s going on?”
William left the contents of the rucksack where he’d strewn them. He crossed the room to a sling-back chair. He flung himself into it, and she saw his face clearly. He was double blinking in that way he had when things were moving from bad to what was going to be worse.
“It’s no good,” he said.
“What?”
“Me. This. The whole bloody thing. I’m no good. It’s no good. End of story.”
“Did you lose the Shoreditch clients, then?”
“What do you think? Losing things is what I do, isn’t it? My car keys, my notebooks, my rucksack, my clients. You as well, Lily, and don’t deny it. I’m losing you. Which is—let’s face it—what you wanted to tell me, isn’t it? You rang and you texted and it was all to get me to ring you back so you could do to me pretty much what everyone does. End things. Right?”
He was triple blinking. He needed to be calm. Lily knew from experience there were very few ways to calm him if he got too far along in the direction he was taking, so she said, “I was taking you to Marrakesh, actually. I’d found a hotel on the cheap, a pool and all the trimmings. It was supposed to be a surprise weekend and I should have told you this morning—at least that I had a surprise trip planned—but that would have meant . . . Oh, I don’t know.” She ended rather lamely with, “I thought it would be fun.”
“We’ve no money for that sort of thing.”
“My mum lent it me.”
“So now your parents know how bad things are? What a loser I am? What did you tell them?”
“Not him, her. Just my mum. I didn’t tell her anything. And she didn’t ask. She’s not like that, William. She doesn’t intrude.” Not like your mum was what she didn’t add.
He heard it anyway because his look became sharp the way it always became when the subject of his mother came up between them. But he didn’t go there and instead he said, “I should have seen from the first they were bloody mad fools, but I didn’t. Why do I never see what people are like? They say they want something special and I can give them something special and they will love it if they only let me get at it. But no, they want drawings and sketches and approval and control and daily receipts and I can’t work like that.”
He stood. He walked to the same window at which she’d waited for so long for him. She didn’t know what to tell him, exactly, but what she wanted to say was that if he couldn’t work under the aegis of someone else, if he could only work alone, then he would have to learn how to deal with people because if he didn’t learn that, then he would fail over and over and over again. She wanted to tell him that he wasn’t being reasonable with people, that he couldn’t expect them to hand over their gardens or even part of their gardens to his creative impulse. What if they don’t like what you have in mind? she wanted to ask him. But she’d said it before and she’d asked it before and here they were again where they kept ending up.
“It’s London,” he said abruptly, to the window glass.
“What’s London?”
“This. It. Me. London’s the reason. People here . . . They’re different. They don’t get me and I don’t get them. I’ve got to get out of here. It’s the only answer because I’m not going to freeload off you.”
He swung from the window then. The look on his face comprised, she knew, the very same expression he wore when his clients asked questions he deemed unreasonable. It signaled that he’d made his mind up about something. She reckoned she was seconds away from learning what that was.
He told her. “Dorset.”
“Dorset?”
“I’ve got to go home.”
“This is your home.”
“You know what I mean. I’ve spent all day thinking and that’s the answer. I’m going back to Dorset. I’m starting over.”
THIRTY-NINE MONTHS BEFORE
8 DECEMBER
SPITALFIELDS
LONDON
Since it was only to be a weekend jaunt to Marrakesh, Lily Foster reckoned they could use one suitcase, and a carry-on at that. What did they need to take, really? It had been deadly cold, grey, and wet in London since the middle of November, but it wasn’t going to be that way in North Africa. They would spend most of their time lounging round the pool, anyway, and when they weren’t doing that, they’d be getting romantic in their room, for which, obviously, they needed no clothes at all.
Packing took less than ten minutes. Sandals, summer trousers, a tee-shirt for William. Sandals, a clingy frock, and a scarf for her. Swimming suits for them both and a few other essentials. That was it. Then began the wait, which—confirmed by a glance at the plastic wall clock ticking away above the cooker—should have been less than thirty minutes. But it stretched instead into more than two hours during which time she texted him and she phoned him as well, only to receive no response. Just his pleasant voice saying “This is Will. Tell me and I’ll tell you back,” to which she said, “Where are you, William? I thought the job was only in Shoreditch. And why’re you still there in this rotten weather? Ring me soon as you get this, okay?”
Lily went to the window. The afternoon was spitting rain outside, the sky dark and angry with erupting clouds. In the best of weather, this particular housing estate was grim: a mixture of filthy brick blocks of flats tossed by the handful across a level plain, which was crisscrossed by cracked and heaving pavements that the residents ignored in favour of trudging across a dying patchwork of lawns. In weather like this, the place looked like a death trap and what was at risk of extermination was hope. They didn’t belong here, and Lily knew it. It was bad for her; it was worse for William. But it was what they could afford for now, and it was where they would remain until she built her business larger than what it was and William had his own on firmer footing.
That part was tricky: William’s business. He regularly argued with his clients, and people didn’t like that when they were paying someone to work for them.
“You do have to take on board what people think,” she kept telling him.
“People,” he countered, “need to stay out of my way. I can’t concentrate when they yammer at me. Why don’t they get that? It’s not like I don’t tell them straightaway.”
Well, yes, right, Lily thought. Telling people was part of the problem. William needed to stop doing that.
Lily frowned down at the street. There was no one on the pavements below, certainly no William with his collar up, making a dash from his car to the narrow tower that contained their building’s lift. Instead there was only a woman on a balcony of the block of flats sitting at an angle to theirs. She was gathering laundry in her arms, her bright yellow sari whipped by the wind. As for the rest of the buildings’ balconies with their lines of dispirited laundry and their children’s toys and their few haggard-looking plants and—always—their satellite dishes, whatever they contained was being left to fend for itself in the weather.
Through the window Lily could dimly hear the unrelenting city noise: the squeal of tyres on wet pavement as a car took a corner too swiftly, the metallic roar of a building site where yet something else was being redeveloped nearby but out of view, the siren of an ambulance on its way to hospital, and, much closer, the thump thunka thump of a too-loud bass underscoring someone’s musical preference.
She texted William again. After two minutes of no response, she rang him as well. She said, “William, you must be getting my texts. Unless . . . Oh damn it, you haven’t got your mobile on silent again, have you? You know I hate it when you do that. And this is important. I don’t like to say but . . . Oh hell, hell, hell. Look. I’ve a surprise planned for our anniversary. I know, I know. You’ll say ten months can’t be an anniversary but you know what I mean, so don’t be difficult. Anyway, this surprise involves our being somewhere at a particular time, so if you’re just not replying because you’re playing silly buggers for some reason, please ring me back.”
And then there was nothing to do but to wait. She watched the minutes tick by and she tried to reassure herself that they had plenty of time to get to Stansted. All William had to do, really, was walk in the door because she had their passports in her bag, she had the tickets printed already, and every plan that needed to be made when one journeyed to another country even for a weekend had been made by her.
She realised that she should have told him that morning. But he’d been displeased with how the job in Shoreditch was shaping up, and she hadn’t liked to break into his thoughts. Sometimes his clients took a bit of work on his part to bring on board, for even when William had a superb idea that he knew would work on their property, people liked to be in charge of things, even when they hired an expert, which was definitely what William Goldacre was. Expert, visionary, artist, and labourer. Give him your weed-choked garden and he worked magic.
When she finally saw his ancient Fiesta rounding the corner from Heneage Street, she had been waiting for him for four hours, and the Marrakesh plan was shot to hell. The money was wasted, they were stuck, and Lily was looking for someone to blame.
Where had he been? What had he been doing? Why hadn’t he answered his bloody phone? Had he just done that early on—it was one simple thing, William—she could have told him about her plans and advised him to meet her at the airport. They could have even now been sitting happily shoulder to shoulder on that stupid plane as it winged them towards sunshine and a weekend of simple pleasure.
Lily was winding herself up as he got out of his car. She was choosing her words. Inconsiderate and thoughtless were at the top of her list. But then she caught sight of his face as he passed under one of the street lamps. She saw the set of his shoulders, and the way he walked towards the lift in the evening darkness. She thought, Oh no, and she knew what had occurred. He’d lost the Shoreditch client. That was two clients in three months, with both projects ending in acrimony, anger, and accusation. That would be on William’s part. On the part of the clients would be a demand for the return of a rather hefty deposit, most of which would already have been spent on supplies.
Lily watched his progress from pool of light to pool of light till he disappeared from view. Then she took the carry-on through to the bedroom. She shoved it out of sight under the bed. By the time she’d got back to the sitting room, William’s key was in the door lock, the door was opening, and she was sitting on the sagging sofa with her smartphone in her hand. She was checking her email. “Pleasant trip, darling!” from her mum didn’t do much to lift her spirits.
William saw her at once—he could hardly help it as the place was so small—and he averted his eyes. Then his gaze came back to her again, and she noticed that it shifted from her face to her phone. He said, “Sorry.”
She said, “I texted and rang you, William.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you respond?”
“I broke the phone.”
He had a rucksack with him. As if to prove to her the truth of what he was saying, he unzipped the thing and dumped its contents. His mobile toppled to one side, and he handed it over. It was destroyed.
“Did you drive over it or something?” Lily asked him.
“I smashed it with a shovel.”
“But—”
“You kept . . . I don’t know, Lily. I couldn’t answer, but still you kept . . . It was the ringing and then the buzzing and every bloody thing was happening at once over there. My head felt like it was on the verge of exploding and the only thing I could do to make it all stop was to use a shovel on the phone.”
“What’s going on?”
William left the contents of the rucksack where he’d strewn them. He crossed the room to a sling-back chair. He flung himself into it, and she saw his face clearly. He was double blinking in that way he had when things were moving from bad to what was going to be worse.
“It’s no good,” he said.
“What?”
“Me. This. The whole bloody thing. I’m no good. It’s no good. End of story.”
“Did you lose the Shoreditch clients, then?”
“What do you think? Losing things is what I do, isn’t it? My car keys, my notebooks, my rucksack, my clients. You as well, Lily, and don’t deny it. I’m losing you. Which is—let’s face it—what you wanted to tell me, isn’t it? You rang and you texted and it was all to get me to ring you back so you could do to me pretty much what everyone does. End things. Right?”
He was triple blinking. He needed to be calm. Lily knew from experience there were very few ways to calm him if he got too far along in the direction he was taking, so she said, “I was taking you to Marrakesh, actually. I’d found a hotel on the cheap, a pool and all the trimmings. It was supposed to be a surprise weekend and I should have told you this morning—at least that I had a surprise trip planned—but that would have meant . . . Oh, I don’t know.” She ended rather lamely with, “I thought it would be fun.”
“We’ve no money for that sort of thing.”
“My mum lent it me.”
“So now your parents know how bad things are? What a loser I am? What did you tell them?”
“Not him, her. Just my mum. I didn’t tell her anything. And she didn’t ask. She’s not like that, William. She doesn’t intrude.” Not like your mum was what she didn’t add.
He heard it anyway because his look became sharp the way it always became when the subject of his mother came up between them. But he didn’t go there and instead he said, “I should have seen from the first they were bloody mad fools, but I didn’t. Why do I never see what people are like? They say they want something special and I can give them something special and they will love it if they only let me get at it. But no, they want drawings and sketches and approval and control and daily receipts and I can’t work like that.”
He stood. He walked to the same window at which she’d waited for so long for him. She didn’t know what to tell him, exactly, but what she wanted to say was that if he couldn’t work under the aegis of someone else, if he could only work alone, then he would have to learn how to deal with people because if he didn’t learn that, then he would fail over and over and over again. She wanted to tell him that he wasn’t being reasonable with people, that he couldn’t expect them to hand over their gardens or even part of their gardens to his creative impulse. What if they don’t like what you have in mind? she wanted to ask him. But she’d said it before and she’d asked it before and here they were again where they kept ending up.
“It’s London,” he said abruptly, to the window glass.
“What’s London?”
“This. It. Me. London’s the reason. People here . . . They’re different. They don’t get me and I don’t get them. I’ve got to get out of here. It’s the only answer because I’m not going to freeload off you.”
He swung from the window then. The look on his face comprised, she knew, the very same expression he wore when his clients asked questions he deemed unreasonable. It signaled that he’d made his mind up about something. She reckoned she was seconds away from learning what that was.
He told her. “Dorset.”
“Dorset?”
“I’ve got to go home.”
“This is your home.”
“You know what I mean. I’ve spent all day thinking and that’s the answer. I’m going back to Dorset. I’m starting over.”
Product details
- ASIN : 0525954333
- Publisher : Viking; First ed edition (October 27, 2015)
- Language : English
- Hardcover : 592 pages
- ISBN-10 : 9780525954330
- ISBN-13 : 978-0525954330
- Item Weight : 1.78 pounds
- Dimensions : 6.5 x 1.81 x 9.56 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #1,129,115 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #8,028 in Traditional Detective Mysteries (Books)
- #8,315 in Private Investigator Mysteries (Books)
- #15,833 in Police Procedurals (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
Elizabeth George was born Susan Elizabeth George in Warren, Ohio.
She is a graduate of University of California in Riverside. She also attended California State University at Fullerton, where she was awarded a master's degree in Counseling/Psychology and an honorary doctorate of humane letters
Professionally, she started out as a teacher. She was employed at Mater Dei High School in Santa Ana initially, but there she gave in to her bent for organized labor and was summarily fired along with ten other teachers for union activity. She moved on to El Toro High School in El Toro, California (now called Lake Forest, California), where she remained for the rest of her career as high school English teacher. While employed there, she was selected Orange County Teacher of the Year, a tribute in part to the work she'd done with remedial students for nearly a decade. She left education after thirteen and a half years when she sold her first novel, A Great Deliverance, to her longtime publisher Bantam Books.
She has won the Anthony Award, the Agatha Award, and France's Le Grand Prix de Literature Policiere for her novel A Great Deliverance, for which she was also nominated for the Edgar and the Macavity Awards. She has also been awarded Germany's MIMI for her novel Well-Schooled in Murder.
Most of her novels have been filmed by for television by the BBC and have been broadcast in the US on PBS's MYSTERY. Visit her website at www.elizabethgeorgeonline.com
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That being said, the last book surprised me in my aversion to both its plot and characters, especially Barbara Havers.
I circled this new title like wolves sneaking up on a circle of covered wagons. When I took a deep breath and rushed in, I was very pleasantly surprised and relieved. I liked this title very much and enjoyed reading it. I had trouble putting it down. The twist at the end surprised me - I did not completely see it coming. The characters, throughout, were maddening in their nastiness and weakness, but meeting them and reacting to them - I was in good hands with Ms. George. Her descriptions mingled with background information and empathy took the blunt edge off my dislike.
Thomas Lynley (I feel) seems to be weakening as a personality. His detective skills are still spot on, yet his people skills seem to need work. I thought his scenes with Isabelle Ardery didn’t quite ring true. I am glad Ardery stuck ‘to her guns’ and refused (many times) to tear up Havers’ transfer papers. The whiney Deborah St. James did not appear in the story and Simon was consulted once and showed his brilliant forensic expertise.
The main characters in the mystery were puzzling, some of them. India, especially. I keep returning to the word weakness when describing the characters.
Which brings me to Barbara Havers. She didn’t appear until far into the book and I thought she was written in a bit better light (bit being the key word). I only had to imagine watching her eat a few times and saw that she showed some restraint in her treatment of others. I could live with this Barbara and even overlook some of her faults.
The real star of this book (I think) is Ardery’s secretary/assistant, Dorothea Harriman. She could be one of the strongest personalities in the cast. And, the long-suffering, patient ‘Winnie’ Nkata.
I’m afraid to say it out loud, but I see a glimmer, a small, teeny, tiny bit of openness in Barbara, a ray of hope that she can pull herself together and fulfill her potential. I would love to see that happen.
Now, for the critical elements. Many reviewers lamented the emphasis on characters central to the crime rather than the serial characters (Lynley, Havers, Simon, and Deborah). In my opinion, that is not a weakness. These characters have lost something, and I don't think after 20 books that they have anything new to say. Lynley is a ridiculous character, obsessed as usual with his latest crush who maddeningly won't allow him to own her. He even goes so far as to whine about his forlorn love life to one of the principals of his investigation. A senior police officer inserting his personal life into a conversation with a suspect/victim is preposterous, and I can't imagine why George thought that was a good idea.
Then there's Havers, who I always thought was the best character in the series. Her insane behavior in the last book is considerably toned down, thank goodness, but she remains a walking cliché of over-used slang, heavy smoking, horrendous eating habits, and pointlessly rude bullying of any and all suspects. The attempt by a secretary to take her in hand and "make her over" is insulting and outrageous.
The absence of Simon and Deborah can only be called a blessing. Simon is fine, but his character is pretty much played out. Deborah is a whiny, entitled sociopath who I hope we have seen the last of, and she is not even mentioned in this book. Isabel Ardery, on the other hand, makes her obnoxious presence felt more often than needed. She is a shrill shell of a character who should not be in charge of people, and it's almost impossible she could have risen to her level with such an unprofessional demeanor. It is equally puzzling how Lynley can so smoothly commit one act of insubordination after another and remain the golden boy, while Havers is forever on the edge of being banished for her missteps. The soap opera atmosphere of New Scotland Yard stretches credence.
The use of slang remains staggeringly high in this book, as in all the others. I can't help but picture George writing a manuscript in normal English, and then going back over it with a list of Jolly-Old-Englandisms to liberally sprinkle on every page. Clocked, for my sins, bits and bobs, clobber, meant to, reckoned, the why of it, having a chin wag...Just try to read a single page without encountering one of these. Bob's your uncle made only one appearance, which is a relief considering it must have been in the last book 1000 times. Maybe this is a consequence of having read so many of her books that her mannerisms have become obvious to me. And if it were just one character using the same language all the time, it might seem real. But every character does this, and since I know many English people and not one of them speak this way, it tends to grate on my nerves.
The story line itself is quite strong, and the characters generally believable and well developed, although mental illness must be taken into account to allow for the extremes of their behavior. The tirades of Caroline are a bit tiresome, but there's a point to that, so I don't quibble. I quibble a little bit about Will and his "Wording". Wording? Really? In a circle of characters swarming with doctors and psychiatrists, that quaint label is the best they can do? Does the guy have Tourette's Syndrome or what? It's hard to believe an actual, clinical name can't be given to what ails him. Otherwise, I found the plot engaging and intriguing, and I did care what became of the characters. I correctly guessed the outcome, but I don't object to that if I manage to solve a mystery based on clues fairly provided. There were a fair number of red herrings, as there should be in a murder mystery. The only bit that seemed tacked on for no reason whatsoever was the backstory of Rory, which came far too late in the book and seemed gratuitous. If it had existed earlier on, and was explored between Rory and Clare as a mark of their close friendship, it would have worked. As an outpouring to Lynley, it seemed only a vehicle to prove to readers that he is human. A stronger editor would have cut the scene entirely.
Having said all that, I can still recommend Banquet of Consequences. The pages turn themselves, and if you don't mind some of the annoyances that go with them, you'll enjoy this book. I took note of the problems as I went, but I can't say they detracted from my pleasure in reading a good mystery. I would really like to see Elizabeth George write a stand-alone mystery in her own native dialect, with fresh new characters and without romance, which she does poorly. Maybe at some point, that will be a reality. That would be a book worth waiting for.