The Attenbury Emeralds (Lord Peter Wimsey/Harriet Vane Series)by Jill Paton Walsh
In 1936, Dorothy L. Sayers abandoned the last Lord Peter Wimsey detective story. Sixty years later, a brown paper parcel containing a copy of the manuscript was discovered in her agent's safe in London, and award-winning novelist Jill Paton Walsh was commissioned to complete it. The result of the pairing of Dorothy L. Sayers with Walsh was the international
In 1936, Dorothy L. Sayers abandoned the last Lord Peter Wimsey detective story. Sixty years later, a brown paper parcel containing a copy of the manuscript was discovered in her agent's safe in London, and award-winning novelist Jill Paton Walsh was commissioned to complete it. The result of the pairing of Dorothy L. Sayers with Walsh was the international bestseller Thrones, Dominations.
Now, following A Presumption of Death, set during World War II, comes a new Sayers-inspired mystery featuring Lord Peter Wimsey, revisiting his very first case. . . . It was 1921 when Lord Peter Wimsey first encountered the Attenbury Emeralds. The recovery of the gems in Lord Attenbury's dazzling heirloom collection made headlinesand launched a shell-shocked young aristocrat on his career as a detective.
Thirty years later, a happily married Lord Peter has just shared the secrets of that mystery with his wife, the detective novelist Harriet Vane. Suddenly, the new Lord Attenburygrandson of Lord Peter's first clientseeks his help to prove who owns the emeralds. As Harriet and Peter contemplate the changes that the war has wrought on English societyand Peter, who always cherished the liberties of a younger son, faces the unwanted prospect of ending up the Duke of Denver after allJill Paton Walsh brings us a masterful new chapter in the annals of one of the greatest detectives of all time.
“Walsh's writing meets the standards of excellence set by Sayers, using the mystery novel as a means to demonstrate that traits of endurance, honestly, and loyalty are always appealing. Wit matched with intelligence marks the soul not only of a good sleuth, but also of the very best mysteries. Watched over by the ghost of Dorothy L. Sayers, The Attenbury Emeralds has soul.” The Huffington Post
“Author Walsh does a seamless job of carrying on original author Dorothy L. Sayers' sparkling mix of prose and people (and this from a critic who usually hates this sort of thing).” The Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Walsh successfully recreates the tone and personalities of the originals and plausibly depicts the main characters later in life. Fans of literate period mysteries will clamor for more.” Publishers Weekly
“Walsh (A Presumption of Death,2003, etc.) delicately balances the mainstays of Sayers’ fictiondrawing rooms, servants, a coolly elegant sleuthwith more contemporary touches. Readers will find a nod to cerebral charm, with a touch of modern egalitarianism.” Kirkus Reviews
“We must admit -- heretical as it may be -- that we quite prefer the continuations to the originals.” Denver Post
“Hundreds of Sherlock Holmes stories have been written by authors other than Conan Doyle. Ian Fleming and Raymond Chandler are others whose deaths did not prevent their fictional creations from continuing to live. Occasionally, such pastiches and homages succeed, but not too often. It's not simply a question of imitating a style of writing. Just as important are a sense of time and place, the language (and slang) of the period, and its social backdrop. And, of course, a hero acceptable to lovers of the original. Jill Paton Walsh, assuming the mantle of Dorothy L. Sayers, convinces on all counts....Sayers would not have recognised that [THE ATTENBURY EMERALDS] wasn't her own work.” The London Times
“Luckily, Wimsey has Jill Paton Walsh to continue his life, cunningly framing his first case as a remembrance that serves as an origin and an encapsulation….A pitch-perfect Golden Age mystery; not a pastiche but a gem of a period puzzle that belongs on the shelf beside the Wimsey originals.” The Financial Times (UK)
“If you're a Dorothy L Sayers fan who has been obliged to feed your habit by reading and re-reading the books featuring her aristocratic sleuth Lord Peter Wimsey help is at hand....Fans will be pleased that it is an absolute treat: civilised, intelligent and spellbinding…. Channelling the authority Sayers employed right up to her final book, Walsh shows that she has the full measure of the imperishable Lord Peter and the hyper-intelligent Harriet Vane.” The Express (UK)
Walsh returns with a mystery based on characters created by British crime writer Dorothy L. Sayers (1893–1957).
The former Harriet Vane, reading the obituary of Lord Attenbury, asks her husband, Lord Peter Wimsey, about his first case, finding the lost Attenbury emeralds. With help from his man Bunter, Wimsey recounts the tale of the missing gems, part of a set once owned by the Maharaja of Sinorabad, which disappeared back in the '20s at the engagement party of Attenbury's daughter. Oddly enough, during the dark days of World War II, the treasure goes missing again, and it is up to Lord Peter, relying on Bunter as his sounding board, to find it once more. His task will endanger several others, including a Persian scholar, and stymie an insurance payout until the emeralds can be rightly identified. The final disposition of the emeralds occurs while the Wimseys grapple with a fire and a death that force them to reconsider longstanding family roles.
Walsh (A Presumption of Death,2003, etc.) delicately balances the mainstays of Sayers' fiction—drawing rooms, servants, a coolly elegant sleuth—with more contemporary touches. Readers will find a nod to cerebral charm, with a touch of modern egalitarianism.
Read an Excerpt
‘Peter?’ said Lady Peter Wimsey to her lord. ‘What were the Attenbury emeralds?’
Lord Peter Wimsey lowered The Times, and contemplated his wife across the breakfast table.
‘Socking great jewels,’ he said. ‘Enormous hereditary baubles of incommensurable value. Not to everyone’s liking. Why do you ask?’
‘Your name is mentioned in connection with them, in this piece I’m reading about Lord Attenbury.’
‘Old chap died last week. That was my first case.’
‘I didn’t know you read obituaries, Peter. You must be getting old.’
‘Not at all. I am merely lining us up for the best that is yet to be. But in fact it is our Bunter who actually peruses the newsprint for the dear departed. He brings me the pages on anyone he thinks I should know about. Not knowing who is dead leaves one mortally out of touch.’
‘You are sixty, Peter. What is so terrible about that? By the way, I thought your first case was the Attenbury diamonds.’
‘The emeralds came before the diamonds. Attenbury had a positive treasury of nice jewels. The emeralds were very fine – Mughal or something. When they went miss
ing there was uproar.’
‘When was this?’
‘Before the flood: 1921.’
‘Talking of floods, it’s pouring outside,’ said Harriet, looking at the rainwashed panes of the breakfast-room windows. ‘I shan’t be walking to the London Library unless it leaves off. Tell me about these socking great baubles.’
‘Haven’t I told you about them already, in all the long years of talk we have had together?’
‘I don’t believe so. Have you time to tell me now?’
‘I talk far too much already. You shouldn’t encourage me, Harriet.’
‘Shouldn’t I? I thought encouragement was part of the help and comfort that the one ought to have of the other.’
‘Does help and comfort extend to collusion in each other’s vices?’
‘You needn’t tell me if you don’t want to,’ said Harriet to this, regarding it as a deliberate red herring.
‘Oh, naturally I want to. Rather fun, recounting one’s triumphs to an admiring audience. It’s a very long story, but I shall fortify myself with the thought that you asked for it.’
‘I did. But I didn’t contract to be admiring. That depends on the tale.’
‘I have been warned. It’s undoubtedly a problem with being married to a detective story writer that one runs the gauntlet of literary criticism when giving an account of oneself. And the most germane question is: is Bunter busy? Because I think explaining all this to you might entail considerable assistance from him.’
‘When is Bunter not busy? This morning he intends, I believe, to devote himself to dusting books.’
Lord Peter folded his copy of The Times, and laid it on the table. ‘A man may dust books while listening, or while talking. We shall join him in the library.’
‘Bunter, where do I start on all this?’ Peter asked, once the project was explained, he and Harriet were settled in deep armchairs either side of the fire, and Bunter was on the library steps, at a remove both horizontally and vertically, but within comfortable earshot.
‘You might need to explain, my lord, that the occasion in question was your first foray into polite society after the war.’
‘Oh, quite, Bunter. Not fair at all to expect you to describe my pitiful state to Harriet. Well, Harriet, you see . . .’
To Harriet’s amazement, Peter’s voice shifted register, and a sombre expression clouded his face.
‘Peter, if this distresses you, don’t. Skip the hard bit.’
Peter recovered himself and continued. ‘You know, of course, that I had a sort of nervous collapse after the war. I went home to Bredon Hall, and cowered in my bedroom and wouldn’t come out. Mother was distraught. Then Bunter showed up, and got me out of it. He drew the curtains, and carried in breakfast, and found the flat in Piccadilly, and got me down there to set me up as a man about town. Everything tickety-boo. I’m sure Mother will have told you all that long since, even if I haven’t. Only as you know all too well, it wasn’t entirely over. I have had relapses. Back then I couldn’t relapse exactly, because I hadn’t really recovered. I felt like a lot of broken glass in a parcel. Must’ve been hellish for Bunter.’
‘I seem to remember your mother telling me some story about Bunter overcome with emotion because you had sent away the damned eggs and demanded sausages. Rather incredible, really, but I always believe a dowager duchess.’
‘Expound, Bunter,’ said Peter.
‘The difficulty about breakfasts, my lady, was that it entailed giving orders. And his lordship in a nervous state associated giving orders with the immediate death of those who obeyed them. The real responsibility for the orders belonged to the generals who made the battle plans, and in the ranks we all knew that very well. But just the same it fell to the young men who were our immediate captains to give us the orders to our faces. And it was they who saw the consequences in blood and guts. All too often they shared the fate of their men. We didn’t blame them. But his lordship was among those who blamed themselves.’
‘That really must have made him difficult to work for,’ said Harriet.
‘It was a challenge, certainly, my lady,’ admitted Bunter, blowing gently on the top of the book in his hand to dislodge a miniature cloud of dust.
‘But by the time I knew him he had got over it,’ continued Harriet. ‘I don’t remember seeing him having any difficulty in giving you orders in recent years.’
Bunter replaced the book in the run, turned round and sat down atop the library steps. ‘But back in 1921 his lordship was very shaky, my lady. We had established a gentle routine for life in town – morning rides in Rotten Row, a few concerts, haunting the book auctions, that sort of thing. And at any moment when boredom or anxiety threatened we went suddenly abroad. Travel is very soothing to a nervous temperament. But his lordship had not resumed the sort of life in society that a man of his rank was expected to lead. He couldn’t stand even the rumble of the trains on the Underground Railway, because it evoked the sound of artillery, so we felt it would be better not to attend any shooting parties. I had been hoping for some time that a suitable house-party would occur, at which we could, so to speak, try the temperature of the water.’
‘What an extraordinary metaphor, Bunter!’ said Lord Peter. ‘The temperature of the water at a house-party is always lukewarm, by the time it has been carried upstairs by a hard-pressed servant and left outside the bedroom door in an enamel jug.’
‘Begging your pardon, my lord, but I always saw to your hot water myself, and I do not recall any complaints about it at the time.’
‘Heavens, Bunter, indeed not! I must be remembering occasions before you entered my service. That vanished world my brother and all seniors talk so fondly about. When wealth and empire were in unchallenged glory, and to save which my generation were sent to die wholesale in the mud of Flanders. I wasn’t the only one,’ he added, ‘to find the peace hard to get used to.’
‘That’s an odd way of putting it, Peter,’ said Harriet, contemplating her husband with a thoughtful expression. ‘I can see that horrible flashbacks to the trenches might have undermined you. Might have haunted you. But the peace itself?’
‘The peace meant coming home,’ Peter said, ‘finding oneself mixing with those who had stayed at home all along. Listening to old gentlemen at the club, who had waved the flag as eagerly as anyone when their own prosperity was in danger, complaining once the danger was past about ex-servicemen who according to them thought far too much of themselves and what they had done. Reading in the press about unemployment and poverty facing returning soldiers, and employers grumbling about being asked to have a mere 5 per cent of their workforce recruited from ex-servicemen.’
Harriet said, ‘I remember a visit to London when there was a man on crutches selling matches in the street. My mother gave me a penny, and said,“Run across and give this to the soldier, Harry, but don’t take his matches.” I shook my head when he offered me the matches, and he smiled. My mother said when I went back to her side, “They’re not allowed to beg, but they are allowed to sell things.” I remember that very clearly, but I’m afraid most of it passed me by.’
‘You were just a girl, after all,’ said Lord Peter, smiling at his wife, ‘and a swot, I imagine. What were you doing in 1921?’
‘Head down over my books preparing for Oxford entrance exams,’ said Harriet. ‘I think, you know, that it’s just as well I didn’t meet you then, Peter.’
‘You’d have been a breath of fresh air compared to the girls I did meet. And you never know, you might have liked me. Wasn’t it my frivolity that put you off for years? I hadn’t yet got into the way of frivolity so much then.’
‘Is that true, Bunter?’ asked Harriet, affecting doubt.
‘His lordship never perpetrates falsehoods, my lady,’ said Bunter, straight-faced.
He descended the library steps, moved them one bay along, and gave his attention to the next column of books.
‘Bunter, do get down from that thing, and face forward somewhere. Come and sit down and tell Harriet properly about those lost years.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Bunter stiffly, doing as he was asked.
‘Well, come along then, your most excellent opinion, if you please.’
When Bunter hesitated, Harriet said gently, ‘How did you find the peace, Bunter?’
‘It was very easy for me, my lady. I had escaped serious injury. I had a job for the asking, and it was a well-paid position with all found. Many of those I had served with, especially the seriously injured, came home to a cold welcome, and were soon forgotten. People turned away from mention of the war as from talk of a plague. His lordship’s sort of people threw themselves into pleasure-seeking and fun. My sort had longer memories.’
‘The awful fact was,’ Peter put in, ‘that all that suffering and death had produced a world that was just the same as before. It wasn’t any safer; it wasn’t any fairer; there were no greater liberties or chances of happiness for civilised mankind.’
‘Working men were beginning to toy with Bolshevism,’ said Bunter. ‘And it was hard to blame them.’
‘The very same people,’ Peter added, ‘who were refusing to employ a one-armed soldier, or who were trying to drive down miners’ wages, were horrified at a rise of Bolshevism, mostly because of the massacre of the Romanovs. Well, because the Russian royals were disappeared, supposed dead.’
‘I remember Richard King in the Tatler,’ said Bunter, ‘opining that the mass of men will gladly sacrifice themselves for the realisation of a better world, but would never again be willing to sacrifice themselves merely to preserve the old one.’
At which both his employers objected at once.
Peter: ‘Even you, Bunter, cannot expect me to believe that you have remembered that verbatim for something like thirty years!’
Harriet: ‘In the Tatler, Bunter? Surely not!’
Bunter met both sallies with aplomb. ‘It happens, my lord, my lady, that I began to keep a commonplace book at that time. I was so struck by those words of Richard King that I cut out his article, and pasted it on to the first page of the book. My eye lights on it again every time I open it to make a new insertion.’
‘Worsted again,’ said Peter. ‘I should have realised long ago that it is useless to argue with you.’
Bunter acknowledged this apology with a brief nod of the head.
‘Uneasy times,’ said Peter. ‘There was a coal strike that spring – quickly over, but with hindsight it was rumbling towards the General Strike. And what Bunter calls my sort of people were carrying on like the Edwardians become hysterical. Dancing, dressing up, getting presented at court, throwing huge parties, racing, gambling, prancing off to the French Riviera or Chamonix, chasing foxes, shooting grouse . . . I was supposed to be a good sport, and join in. It seemed meaningless to me. I found my station in life was dust and ashes in my mouth. I might have been all right with a decently useful job.’
‘Couldn’t you just have gone and got one?’ asked Harriet.
‘Of course I could. I was just too callow to think of it. I think I went for months with no better purpose in life than trying not to disappoint Bunter. If he made breakfast, I ought to eat breakfast. If he thought I needed a new suit, I ought to order one, and so forth. If he kept showing me catalogues of book sales, I ought to collect books.’
‘If I may say so, my lord,’ said Bunter, ‘I believe the book-collecting was entirely your idea. I have been your lordship’s apprentice in anything to do with books.’
Harriet looked from one of them to the other. They were both struggling to conceal emotion. Whatever had she stirred up? Should she have guessed that the emeralds would open old wounds in this way?
‘You see, Harriet,’ said Peter, ‘that if my life was a stream of meaningless trivia, I was affronting Bunter. He was far too good a fellow to be a servant to a witless fool. I could just about manage to do what Bunter appeared to expect I might do, but I knew, really, that I was frittering both of us.’
‘I shouldn’t think Bunter saw it that way,’ said Harriet. ‘I imagine he saw you as a decently useful job. I hope we aren’t making you uncomfortable, Bunter,’ she added.
‘Not unusually so, my lady,’ said Bunter gravely.
His remark brought a brief blush to Harriet’s face. All three of them laughed.
‘So as Bunter was saying,’ Peter continued, ‘he and my mother between them – that’s right, isn’t it, Bunter? – were on the lookout for a suitable occasion, a kind of coming-out for me, when I might show my face in public again, and try to behave normally. And they chose the Abcock engagement party. A party to present Lady Charlotte Abcock’s fiancé to Lord Attenbury’s circle.’
‘Abcock is the Attenbury family surname, my lady,’ said Bunter helpfully.
‘Thank you, Bunter,’ said Harriet. She thought wryly that she would find all that easier to remember and understand if she had ever been able to take it entirely seriously.
‘It seemed just the right sort of occasion,’ said Bunter, ‘with only one drawback. It wasn’t very large, but on the other hand large enough to seem like being in society. The Earl of Attenbury’s family were long-established friends of the Wimsey family. The event was not in the shooting season. His lordship had been at school with Lord Abcock – Roland, the Attenburys’ eldest son – and had known the eldest daughter as a girl. Fennybrook Hall, the Attenburys’ seat in Suffolk, was not a taxing journey from London, as I supposed. I thought we would go by train, my lady. I had not anticipated that his lordship would insist on driving us, a circumstance that certainly made the journey memorable.’
‘That I can well imagine,’ said Harriet sympathetically. ‘What was the drawback?’
‘Oh, just that brother Gerald, and my dear sister-inlaw Helen were among the guests,’ said Peter.
‘1921,’ said Harriet thoughtfully. ‘Surely Helen was not yet the full-blown Helen of more recent years?’
‘Much the same, if a little less strident,’ said Peter.
‘In the event, my lady, another drawback emerged when we had already accepted the invitation, and it was too late to withdraw,’ said Bunter. ‘The family decided to get their jewels out of the bank for the occasion, and the press became aware of it. There was a great deal of most unwelcome publicity about it, and it seemed likely that the party would be besieged.’
‘I have never been able to see the point of jewels so valuable that they have to be kept in the bank,’ said Harriet.
‘The thing about such possessions is that their owners don’t really regard them as personal property,’ said Peter. ‘They are part of the patrimony of the eldest sons. They go with the title, like the estates and family seat. Unlike the estates and the family seat, however, they can be entailed to go down the line of daughters. They are a family responsibility. Nobody wants to be the one during whose tenure they were lost, stolen or strayed.’
‘The Attenbury emeralds were, or rather are, in the strict sense heirlooms, my lady,’ said Bunter.
‘Yes,’ said Harriet doubtfully, ‘but it must greatly limit the enjoyment they can give.’
‘You married me wearing Delagardie earrings,’ said Peter mildly.
‘That was to please your mother,’ Harriet said. ‘She had been so kind to me; and she thought they would look good with that golden dress.’
‘She was right,’ said Peter, smiling.
‘My mind was on other things that day,’ said Harriet, ‘but I wouldn’t normally like to wear something that wasn’t really mine, but only on loan from history. It would be like going to the ball in a hired gown.’ Not for the first time she felt thankful that Peter was the younger son. She glanced at the blazing ruby in her engagement ring. That was completely hers.
‘On the other hand,’ said Peter, smiling – he must have seen that glance – ‘it lends occasions some éclat when everyone puts on their glory only now and then.’
‘Many families solve the difficulty by having paste replicas made for less august occasions,’ said Bunter.
‘And the Attenburys had done exactly that,’ said Peter, ‘which added to the complexity. But, Bunter, we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Time we took the King of Heart’s advice: begin at the beginning, go on till you get to the end and then stop. That last is the most difficult, isn’t it, Harriet?’
‘Rough hewing our ends being easier than divinely shaping them, you mean? We seem to me to be having difficulty beginning at all,’ she said.
Copyright © 2011 by Jill Paton Walsh
Meet the Author
Jill Paton Walsh is the author of books for adults, young adults and children. Her novel Knowledge of Angels was short-listed for the Booker Prize. Her crime novels and mystery novels include A Presumption of Death, The Wyndham Case and A Piece of Justice, which was shortlisted for the Crime Writers' Association Gold Dagger Award. With Dorothy L. Sayers, she was co-author of Thrones, Dominations. Her novels for children and young adults include The Green Book and A Parcel of Patterns. She lives in Cambridge, England.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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I love these characters and Ms. Walsh does a credible job of expanding the Wimsey universe. The story is absorbing and she hints at the atmosphere of an England after the war. But...she is not quite Dorothy Sayers. The depth of character that Sayers brings to both Harriet and Peter isn't quite there. Ms. Walsh prefers her characters vocalize all of their feelings where Ms. Sayers would expound on them. Yes, it would slow the books down (Has any one ready Gaudy Night lately) but it gave you a true understanding of how the character thought and felt. There were a few passages [describing how Bunter and Peter went to a dinner party as equals, the description of Gerald and his wife at the Attenbury party, the Dowager Dutchess), where I think Ms. Sayers would have written more. Plus the use of a large font is a bit of cheat because it makes the book much longer than it needs to me. But for pure entertainment that is fun to read, I'd rate it five stars.
The Attenbury Emeralds offers both backstory and benediction to the Lord Peter corpus. If also interested in the audio version, Edward Petherbridge does a magnificent job bringing the characters to life.
Not since the death of William Buckley have I had to utilize a dictionary with the frequency of this very well written book. Aside from the vocabulary the writing style brings to life post-WWII England still hanging on to its recent Victorian heritage. A marvelous time piece and an excellent mystery rides along in the historical setting. The read is a bit slower because of the particulars of language usage. But it is an enjoyable ride you really do not wish to end.
In 1951, Harriet Vane and her husband Lord Peter Wimsey leisurely eat breakfast while reading the newspaper. Harriet peruses Lord Attenbury Arthur Abcock's obituary, which mentions the Attenbury emeralds. Peter knows first-hand about the infamous emeralds that was the motive of his first detective investigation. He and his manservant Mervyn Bunter tell Harriet what happened in 1921 when the Attenbury emeralds vanished and Lord Peter solving the case. As they complete their tale of exotic thievery, Lord Attenbury's grandson Edward arrives. He asks Lord Peter to help solve a new problem involving the family emeralds. Peter accompanied by Harriet and of course Bunter, investigates as thefts and murder abound. Jill Paton Walsh's latest Wimsey-Vane (see A Presumption of Death) captures the essences of Dorothy L. Sayer's great detective while bringing her own spin to the story line; in other words this is not Sayer's light, but instead a homage to the great writer in Ms. Walsh's style. The story line captures two historical post world war eras in Great Britain that enables the audience to compare how society adjusted to peace in their times. Fast-paced, readers will enjoy the doting father of teens on an investigation accompanied by his wife and his manservant. Harriet Klausner
Having now read all of the Lord Peter Wimsey titles, I feel that J.P. Walsh has not failed the late Dorothy L. Sayers in writing a novel *based upon* Sayers' characters. It takes from Peter's past and brings them (the Wimsey Cohort) to post war (WWII) England in a most unusual way. It was a great read!
I found this to be a good contribution to the series. I enjoyed the explanation that gave insight into Lord Peter's early times following the Great War. And the continuation into the post WWII times. The continued development of Lord Peter and Lady Peter Wimsey, Bunter and the rest of the those who make up the people we all know I am pleased to read. I hope that Jill Paton Walsh will be able to continue to allow us to visit with them all.
It's been far too long since Ms Walsh wrote a Peter Wimsey & Harriet Vane book. I'm glad she's back & hope she writes many more. She's picked up Dorothy Sayers' ball extremely well.
Great read!! I recommend. Jill P. Walsh has done a terrific job following up with the Wimsey series.
I am now around the same age as Peter is the the Attenbury Emeralds, I've been reading Sayers since my teens and Walsh her first Wimsey. (And I have cats named Lord Peter, Harriet and Mr. Bunter!) I give this one five stars for what it is: A updated, faster paced Wimsey. If I were comparing it to Sayers herself, I would probably give it one less star. The reason was expressed by an earlier reviewer, that it lacks some of the detail and meanderings of Sayers. And yes, I have just re-read Busman's Honeymoon. One of the interesting and, I think, difficult things about writing this sequal which is set in 1950 or 1951, is the need to incorporate the societal changes into a pre-war framework we Wimsey/Sayers fans love. I spent my teen years wishing I had a Bunter. The Second World War is still fresh in everyone's mind and it has changed the world much more than WWI which Wimsey and Bunter also experineced. It is hard to change the framework in which one has lived life for so many years. Walsh tries to do this by having the story of the 1921 adventure begin the book. I do wish that Walsh had written more about the Bunters and how they felt about what was happending as I think that would add to our understanding of the changes taking place. Finally, I would like to see one more book about Peter and Harriet as their Graces. I know that Peter will recover financially - maybe with the assistance of Peter Bunter?