I was down in the basement stacks—the section where we keep the local history records and the spiders—trying to look busy while ignoring a stack of returns. Seemed like the appropriate setting for a book about 1920s poisonings.
Here’s the thing about historical mysteries: the narrator can make or break the time travel. Jodie Harris understands the assignment. She gives Saffron Everleigh this crisp, clipped enunciation that screams "1920s London academic fighting for respect." It works. You believe she’s smart enough to identify a deadly nightshade by smell alone. It’s polished—almost too polished at times, like a BBC radio drama that’s afraid to get its hands dirty.
The issue creeps in with the men. Dr. Michael Lee is supposed to be this insufferably charming foil to Saffron, but Harris sometimes pitches him so softly he sounds like Saffron’s slightly stern aunt. It pulls you out of the illusion during the dialogue-heavy scenes. There’s a moment where they’re investigating a country estate, and the tension is supposed to be high, but the vocal distinction blurs enough that I had to rewind to figure out who was speaking.
But the premise? The hook is the flowers. Using Victorian floriography as a murder weapon is my specific brand of nerdiness. It’s clever. It’s not scary—don’t come here expecting the dread I usually look for—but it’s intellectually satisfying. Senator's Wife: A Novel scratches a similar itch—more cerebral than visceral, with relationships that complicate the central mystery. Harris doesn't rush the botanical science, which I appreciate, though if you just want the killer caught, you might get impatient with the amount of time spent on the Saffron-Lee relationship dynamic.
By the end, I’d finished shelving the biographies and was actually looking up flower meanings on my phone. Harris keeps the pacing comfortable enough that 11 hours doesn't feel like a slog, even if the stakes feel more "Masterpiece Theatre" than "True Detective." Ideally, listen to this while gardening. Or while aggressively pruning something.
