Age Level: 8 and up | Grade Level: 3 and up | Series: An Enola Holmes Mystery
As Enola searches for the missing Lady Blanchefleur del Campo, she discovers that her brother Sherlock is just as diligently searching for Enola herself?and this time he really needs to catch her! He is in possession of a most peculiar package, a message from their long-lost mother that only Enola can decipher. Sherlock, along with their brother Mycroft, must follow Enola into the reeking tunnels of London?s dark underbelly as they solve a triple mystery: What has happened to their mother? And to Lady Blanchefleur? And what does either have to do with Mycroft, who holds Enola?s future in his everso- proper hands?
No one, not even Sherlock, is left unchanged or unsurprised in this brilliant conclusion to the Enola Holmes mystery series.
*Starred Review* The series that features Enola Holmes, the (much) younger sister of Sherlock, continues to be flat-out among the best mysteries being written for young people today. Not only are the mysteries sharp attention holders but the conclusions are well thought out, with i’s dotted and t’s crossed in true Holmesian fashion. But now it appears readers will have to say adieu to Enola in what looks to be the final book. Here Enola, about to turn 15, takes on two mysteries. She must discover the whereabouts of a lovely duchess who disappeared down the Baker Street Subway station. But, more importantly, Enola receives a curious message from her mother, who deserted her a year ago. Now Enola learns her fate. Springer has always neatly inserted social messages into this series. They come to the forefront once again, set against evocative details of Victorian London. Solid adventure meshes with the personal longings of a girl estranged from her brothers and longing for her mum. Flap copy says this is the last book, but Sherlock ends it by telling his sister, “I cannot wait to see what on Earth you will do next.” Us too. Grades 6-9. --Ilene Cooper
"Conform, go crazy, or become an artist." I have a rubber stamp declaring those words, and they pretty much delineate my life. Conforming was the thing to do when I was raised, in the fifties. Even my mother, who spent her days painting animal portraits at an easel in the corner of the kitchen, tried to conform via housecleaning, bridge parties, and a new outfit every spring. My father, who was born into a British-mannered Protestant family in southern Ireland, emigrated to America as a young man and idolized the "melting pot" because at last he fit in. Once in a rare while he recited "The Ballad of Reading Gaol" or told a tale of a leprechaun, but most of the time he was an earnest naturalized American who expected exemplary behavior of his children. My mother was a charming Pollyanna who would not entertain negative sentiments in herself or anyone around her. As their only girl and the baby of the family, I was coddled, yet hardly ever got a chance to be other than excruciatingly good.
My "conform" phase lasted right into adulthood. When I was thirteen, my parents bought a small motel near Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and I spent most of my teen years helping them make beds and clean rooms. I did not date until I went to college -- Gettysburg College, all of seven miles from home. it was the height of the sixties, and I grew my hair long, but eschewed pot, protests, and "happenings." Instead, I married a preacher's son who was himself conforming by studying for the ministry. Within a few years I was Rev. Springer's wife, complete with offspringers, living in a country parsonage in southern York County, PA.
Here beginneth the "go crazy" phase.
Because I had never been allowed any negative emotions, I began to hear "voices" in my head. First they whispered "divorce" (not permissible), and later they hissed "suicide". They scared me silly. I couldn't sleep; images of knives and torture floated in front of my eyes even during the daytime; something roared like an animal inside my ears; my wrists hurt; I saw blood seeping out of the walls; panic jolted me like a cattle goad out of nowhere. Is it necessary to add that I was clinically depressed? The doctor gave me Valium and sent me to a shrink. The shrink took me off the Valium and told me I had a problem with anger. (No duh.) The next doctor zombied me on the numbing antidepressants which were available at that time. The next shrink said I had an adjustment problem. And so on, for several years, during which I somehow managed to stay alive, take care of my kids, handle the vagaries of my husband, sew clothing and grow vegetables to get by financially, cook, can preserves, show up at church, do mounds of laundry and publish "The White Hart" and "The Silver Sun"--yet not one of the doctors of shrinks ever suggested that I might be a strong person, let alone a writer. All of them were intent on "helping" poor little me "adjust" to being a housewife, mother, and pastor's wife.
Eventually I became resigned to the fact (as I perceived it) that I was an evil, sinful person with horrible things going on inside my head, and I stopped trying to fix me. I stopped going to doctors or therapists. Somehow I found courage--or desperation--to stop trying to conform or adjust or live a role.
"I am going to start taking an hour or two first thing in the morning to do my writing," I said to my husband.
"Fine," he said. He had reached the point where he would agree with whatever to humor the neurotic wife; to him it was just another of my brain farts. But to me it was the most important sentence I ever spoke. With that statement I stopped being a housewife who sometimes stole time to write, and I started being a writer.
Conform, go crazy--or become an artist.
By becoming a writer--by becoming who I truly was--I became well.
It was so simple. Although it did take years, of course; it takes a long time for good things to grow. Trees. Books. Me. Odd thing about books; they not only nourish growth but show it happening. In "The Black Beast, The Golden Swan" and many other of my early novels, you can see me dealing with the yang/yin nature of good and evil, struggling to accept my own shadow. In "Chains of Gold" and "The Hex Witch of Seldom" I start writing as a woman, no longer identifying only with male main characters. In a number of children's books I come to terms with my own childhood. And in "Apocalypse"--whoa, what a fierce, dark fantasy novel, the first thing I wrote after my income from writing enabled my husband to leave the ministry. I hadn't thought of myself as repressed when I was a pastor's wife, but obviously something broke loose when I shed that role. "Larque on the Wing"--whoa again, another breakthrough book that spiraled straight out of my muddled middle-aged psyche and took me places I'd never dreamed were in me.
It's been a long time since those days when I thought I was an evil person. I know better now, and I love and trust me even to the extent of writing "Fair Peril"--a more perilous novel than I knew at the time, interfacing all too closely with my life. Written two years before the fact, it foresees my husband's infidelity and my divorce. The most painful irony I've ever faced is that once I gained my selfhood, I lost my lifelong partner. He had supported me through episodes that would have sent most men screaming and running, but once I became well and strong, he transferred his loyalty to a skinny, neurotic waif all to similar to the young woman I once was. After supporting him through twenty-seven years of stinky socks, automotive yearnings, miscellaneous foibles, and the career change that put him where she could cry on his shoulder, I found this a bit hard to take. But I wouldn't go back to being Ms. Pitiful. Not for anything.
Now married to a rather remarkable second husband, after living 46 years in Pennsylvania I moved in 2007 to the Florida panhandle, where I spent a year living in a small apartment above the aforementioned husband's hangar in an exceedingly rural (swamps, egrets, snakes and alligators) airport. Now we have a real house about a mile from the airport on higher ground featuring tremendously tall longleaf pine trees with rattlesnakes and scorpions underneath them. Life is an adventure and I mean that sincerely.
This review is from: The Case of the Gypsy Goodbye: An Enola Holmes Mystery (Hardcover)
I am a huge fan of this series. Even though it is a children's book, it is intelligently written, and can easily be enjoyed by adults. The characters are marvelous. Holmes is spot on. He is exactly the character created by Arthur Conan Doyle. While he retains all of his arrogance, pomposity, and lack of emotional availability, we also see cracks in his cold veneer when it comes to his upstart younger sister, someone whom he never intended or expected to like, let alone love. The book flap informs the reader that this is the final installment in this series, a fact I find horribly depressing.
In this installment, a true affection and respect has grown between Enola (Holmes' much younger sister) and Sherlock. In addition, they are each starting to trust the other. Now the only difficulty is bringing Mycroft around to their way of thinking. Sherlock and Enola also, once again, end up working on the same case - the disappearance of a wealthy, titled lady. This case actually ends up bringing all three Holmes siblings together to locate the missing woman. By the time the case is over, an understanding between the three has developed. The only mystery left for them to solve is a mysterious communication from their mother.
The ending is satisfying, except that I want more. That sounds contradictory, but I do sincerely hope that Ms. Springer reconsiders and writes more Holmes family tales.
Help other customers find the most helpful reviews
This review is from: The Case of the Gypsy Goodbye: An Enola Holmes Mystery (Hardcover)
First, to the rumor: I have heard that this is the last Enola Holmes book and it makes my heart sad. I love these books! I love the setting, the characters, the plots, the whole she-bang! The end of the book kind of solidified this rumor for me, but there is always hope that there will be more!
When Dr. Ragostin is enlisted to find the Duque Luis Orlande del Campo's missing wife, she again comes perilously close to being discovered by her brother Sherlock. There are things about the Duquessa's disappearance that don't quite make a whole lot of sense, so Enola sets out to investigate.
That's just one of the mysteries in this story; the other involves what happened to Enola's mother, Lady Eudoria Vernet Holmes. A mysterious letter arrives at her childhood home, and it's up to Sherlock to find his little sister to deliver the letter to her. The letter is mysterious in many ways, the main one being the drawings on the outside of the envelope.
Eventually, Enola will have to decide if she is going to continue living her life on the lamb (so to speak) or if she will be able to trust both Sherlock and Mycroft with knowledge of where she lives. She may be able to have a relationship with them yet, but one never knows with the Holmes' clan!
Notes on the Cover:
Enola in her blue dress with black cape and Toby is a great image for this cover. (Toby appears in the Sherlock mystery, The Sign of the Four I believe). I just love these covers too!
Help other customers find the most helpful reviews
This review is from: The Case of the Gypsy Goodbye: An Enola Holmes Mystery (Hardcover)
Its a great book. It was very thrilling. One of the best Enola Holmes books yet. If you like Sherlock Holmes youll love his sister Enola. It was in great condition. I could barely tell it was used. The pages weren't ripped or anything like that. It was over all great!!!! :P
Help other customers find the most helpful reviews
