Mrs. Mohr Goes Missing

by Maryla Szymiczkowa, Antonia Lloyd-Jones, Moira Quirk

A bored socialite becomes a cunning amateur sleuth in this wildly entertaining, Agatha Christie¬inspired mystery of murder and mayhem set in nineteenth-century Poland¶“An ingenious marriage of comedy and crime.”—Olga Tokarczuk, Nobel laureate and author of the Man Booker International Prize winner Flights¶

  • Format: Audiobook
  • ISBN-13/ EAN: 9780358311232
  • ISBN-10: 0358311233
  • Pages: 0
  • Publication Date: 03/17/2020

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About the Book
About the Authors
Excerpts
Reviews
  • About the Book
    A bored socialite becomes a cunning amateur sleuth in this wildly entertaining, Agatha Christie¬inspired mystery of murder and mayhem set in nineteenth-century Poland¶“An ingenious marriage of comedy and crime.”—Olga Tokarczuk, Nobel laureate and author of the Man Booker International Prize winner Flights Cracow, 1893: Zofia Turbotynska—professor’s wife, socialite, and bored homemaker—has little more to do than plan a charity auction sponsored by the wealthy residents of a local nursing home and the nuns who work there. But when one of those residents is found dead, Zofia finds a calling: solving crime. Ridiculed by the police, who have declared the deaths of natural cause, she starts her own murder investigation, unbeknownst to anyone but her loyal cook Franciszka and one reluctant nun. With her husband blissfully unaware of her secret, Zofia remakes herself into one the most surprising, and maybe even effective, detectives combing the city streets. But what will it take for her to find the killer. . .before she becomes the next victim?
  • About the Author
  • Excerpts
    In which we meet the household at an apartment on St. John’s Street, learn how Vienna is taking its revenge on Cracow, what one can do with seven stallions, and how to cure many a case of cholera; we also hear about the great value of certain books, the equally great rapacity of the ladies from a certain society, and the tragic accident that befell the Hungarian envoy all because of a bottle of slivovitz. 

     

    It was Saturday, 14 October 1893. All morning a large cloud, dark gray with streaks of sapphire blue, had been hanging above number 30 St. John’s Street in Cracow—?known as “Peacock House” because of the fine sculpted bird above the main entrance?—?threatening rain. 

     

    “Come along, Franciszka,” said Zofia Turbotynska gloomily, fearing the worst?—?by which she meant having to pay twenty cents for the ride home in a cab. “The shopping won’t do itself.” 

     

    And then, ignoring the cook’s aphoristic answer (“On Saint Jerome’s, either it rains or it don’t”?—?though in fact this particular sacred figure had been commemorated a fortnight ago), she went into the hallway, did up two rows of small black buttons on her boots, pulled on her cherry-red kid leather gloves, donned a new hat bought at Marya Prauss’s fashion emporium, and examined herself in the mirror. 

     

    Zofia, née Glodt, wife of Professor Ignacy Turbotynski of the medical faculty at Cracow’s Jagiellonian University, was approaching her fortieth summer, but she noted with approval that she was really quite comely. Perhaps over the past year she had gained a minimal amount of weight, but she carried herself erect and still had an alluring figure. A healthy complexion with no pimples and very few wrinkles?—?just one was more distinct, on her forehead, between the brows, perhaps too often knitted. An oval face, the features rather stern, but softened by nicely defined eyebrows and keen eyes with dark lashes .?.?. a slightly hooked nose .?.?. and lips?—?well, the lips could have been fuller, but she consoled herself that her thin lips gave her the look of a refined Englishwoman. 

     

    She reached for an umbrella from the porcelain stand, which was bristling with her husband’s walking sticks. Briefly her fingers fluttered over the handles?—?a silver parrot’s head with topaz eyes, a rolled-up elephant’s trunk, an ivory knob (donated a couple of years ago by his grateful students), and a small, glossy skull (a souvenir of his last year at medical school)?—?and finally extracted a Chinese dragon chasing a pearl: a present, as Zofia liked to mention, from her sister, who lived in Vienna. Just one more backward glance into the mirror?—?playful enough for her to find herself pleasing, and stern enough for Franciszka not to dare counter it with a smirk?—?and they were ready for the march to Szczepanski Square. 

     

    They went the usual way: down St. John’s Street, then St. Thomas’s, with an occasional reluctant glance at that cloud, which was gathering, swelling, and seething over the Piasek district. 

    “It’s sure to be pouring in the outskirts by now,” said Franciszka, seemingly into space, though with patent reproof. But she knew that in the life of Zofia Turbotynska there were sanctities greater than the elevation of the host, including a proper Sunday luncheon, and thus an equally proper Saturday shopping expedition. 

     

    By now they had reached the end of St. Thomas’s Street, and so Franciszka, who was walking slightly behind with a basket over her arm, knew what would happen next: as soon as they came level with the Alchemist’s house, the bow on Zofia’s hat suddenly twitched and turned to the right, followed by the rest of the hat and her head. The time had come for a groan, for this was where “that crime” came into view, “that hideous shack, worthy of a station halt in a garrison town”?—?in other words the enormous bulk of the covered emergency staircase, tacked onto the City Theater a couple of years ago after the fire at the Ringtheater in Vienna. 

     

    “I realize that almost four hundred people burned to death there,” Zofia would say, “but is that a reason for Vienna to take revenge on Cracow with this monstrosity? Fortunately we’ll have our new theater in a matter of days!” 

     

    And so there was the ritual groan, and then the bow moved back into place. Now they had to move on to serious matters.

  • Reviews
    Long-listed for the European Bank for Reconstruction and Development Literature Prize 

     

    Praise for Mrs. Mohr Goes Missing

    “[An] exceptional debut and series launch... The translation showcases the novel’s deliciously ironic voice. Fans who like colorful locales and tongue-in-cheek mysteries will eagerly await Zofia's next outing.” 

    Publishers Weekly, STARRED review 

     

    “A delightful debut whodunit written with abundant wit and flair. Pray for a series to follow.” 

    Kirkus Reviews 

     

    Mrs. Mohr Goes Missing an amazing Polish mystery—fascinating for its vivid portrayal of 1893 Krakow, its witty style, and for Zofia, its irrepressible sleuth. The Daily Mail called it ingenious—we call this new author ‘marvelous!’” 

    Charles Todd, New York Times-bestselling author of the Inspector Ian Rutledge mysteries 

     

    “An ingenious marriage of comedy and crime.” —Olga Tokarczuk, Nobel laureate and author of Man Booker International Prize winner Flights 

     

    “The unravelling of the mystery is ingenious and takes us through a social setting quivering with snobberies and dos and don’ts. It’s fun and sparky and the glimpse of turn-of-the-century Polish manners and mores is beguiling.” —Daily Mail 

     

    “Charming and moreish…Conjures up the delightful books of Dorothy L Sayers . . . The perfect diversion for annoying commutes.” —Stylist 

     

    “While there is a strong whiff of Agatha Christie in this book, it is much more than a pastiche . . . The story fuses high comedy with an evocative portrayal of the period . . . Ably translated.” —Sunday Express 

     

    “Highly comical . . . An extremely absorbing novel.” —Kurzojady

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