Book #53 for 2015
The translation did feel a bit clunky, but I doubt all of this book’s many flaws can be attributed to this. For one thing, our sleuth is an obnoxious ass who is a disgrace at solving mysteries. Then the mystery was actually “solved” almost entirely through an oddly timed confessional letter. Honestly, the book’s only redeeming feature is the authors’ attention to historical detail.
These authors should write just plain old historical fiction and give up on Victor and criminal plots. Frankly, as a lifelong mystery buff, I am a little insulted that they apparently thought, Hey, we should write a fiction book about 19th-century Paris. What’s some simple formula we can shove a plot into? I know, let’s write a murder mystery. That’s super-easy! They clearly have no respect for the genre.