This Poison Will Remain

Description

Commissaire Adamsberg investigates the death of three men linked by their childhood at an orphanage in Nimes, all killed by the venom of the recluse spider, in the new novel by the #1 bestselling French crime writer

“A wildly imaginative series.”—The New York Times

“Adamsberg is a terrific creation and his team of misfits a joy to watch in action.”—Peter Robinson, New York Times bestselling author of the Inspector Banks series

A murder in Paris brings Commissaire Adamsberg out of the Icelandic mists of his previous investigation and unexpectedly into the region of Nîmes, where three old men have died of spider bites. The recluse has a sneaky attack, but is that enough to explain the deaths of these men, all killed by the same venom?

At the National Museum of Natural History, Adamsberg meets a pensioner who tells him that two of the three octogenarians have known each other since childhood, when they lived in a local orphanage called The Mercy. There, they had belonged to a small group of violent young boys known as the “band of recluses.” Adamsberg faces two obstacles: the third man killed by the same venom was not part of the “band of recluses”, and the amount of spider venom necessary to kill doesn’t add up.

Yet after the Nîmes deaths, more members of the old band succumb to recluse bites, leading the commissaire to uncover the tragedy hidden behind the walls of the orphanage.Praise for This Poison Will Remain

“Brilliantly twisty… Vargas deserves a wide American readership.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred)

“I so enjoyed This Poison Will Remain, real vintage Vargas: playful, thought-provoking, a total delight. And beautifully translated. Adamsberg is one of my favorite detectives.”
—Ann Cleeves, author of the Shetland mysteries

Praise for Fred Vargas and her Commissaire Adamsberg Mysteries 

“Wry humor and offbeat plots blend with a subtly dangerous charm to make Fred Vargas the queen of French crime writers.”
—Martin Walker, author of the Bruno, Chief of Police Series

“Vargas writes with the startling imagery and absurdist wit of a latter-day Anouilh, about fey characters who live in a wonderful bohemian world that never was but should have been.”
—The New York Times Book Review 

“Fred Vargas’ books are murder mysteries, yes — cunning, corkscrew murder mysteries — but so much else besides: delicate comedies, engrossing tours of French geography and history, fascinating excursions into folklore and myth.”
—A. J. Finn, #1 New York Times bestselling author
 
“Vargas’ characters are like something out of a fairy tale – eternal opposites, ever-renewing archetypes despite their fresh adventures each time. That’s why each novel’s opening feels new.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer 
 
“Anyone who enjoys kooky characters and intricate detail will happily follow Vargas along.”
—Entertainment Weekly

“Readers should settle in to be unsettled. Delight is found not so much in the details of plot as in the oddities of character. The crime, the suspects, and the commissaire are all pleasantly off-kilter and equally baffling. A definite pick for Francophile mystery buffs who also enjoy Georges Simenon’s Maigret series.”
—Library Journal
 
“Adamsberg, always an intuitive sleuth rather than a rational one, is the perfect hero for a series where reality is always a moving target.”—Booklist 

“Vargas remains the gold standard in modern crime fiction.”—KirkusFred Vargas was born in Paris in 1957. A historian and archaeologist by profession, she is now a bestselling novelist. Vargas was the winner of the inaugural British Crime Writers’ Association Duncan Lawrie International Dagger for her novel The Three Evangelists. Her books have sold over 10 million copies worldwide and have been translated into 45 languages.I

Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg, sitting on a rock at the quayside, watched the Grimsey fishermen return with their daily catch, as they moored their boats and hauled up their nets. Here, on this tiny island off the coast of Iceland, people called him simply ‘Berg’. An onshore breeze, temperature 11 degrees, hazy sunshine, and the reek of discarded fish entrails. He had forgotten that, not so long ago, he was a commissaire, the police chief in charge of the twenty- seven officers of the Paris Serious Crimes Squad, based in the 13th arrondissement.
His mobile phone had fallen into some sheep dung, and the ewe had trodden it firmly in with its hoof, no malice intended. That was a novel way to lose your mobile, and Adamsberg had appreciated it as such.
Gunnlaugur, the landlord of the little inn, was just arriving down at the harbour, preparing to choose the best fish for the evening meal.
Adamsberg waved to him with a smile. But Gunnlaugur did not look his usual jovial self. He was heading straight for Adamsberg, ignoring the fish market just getting under way. Frowning under his blond eyebrows, he held out a piece of paper.
‘Fyrir þig,’ he said – with a gesture. For you.
‘Ég?’ Me?
Adamsberg, who was normally incapable of memorising the most basic rudiments of any foreign language, had inexplicably amassed a stock of about seventy words of Icelandic, in just seventeen days.
People spoke to him as simply as possible, with a lot of sign language.
From Paris, the message must be from Paris. And they wanted him back, that must be it. He felt combined sadness and anger and shook his head, refusing to look, turning towards the sea. Gunnlaugur insisted, unfolding the paper and thrusting it into his fingers.
Woman run over. Husband or lover. Not straightforward. Your presence required. Details follow.
Adamsberg looked down, opened his hand and let the paper blow away in the wind. Paris? How could it be from Paris? Where was Paris, anyway?
‘Dau∂ur ma∂ur?’ Gunnlaugur asked. Someone’s died?
‘Já.’ Yes.
‘Ertu a∂ fara, Berg? Ertu a∂ fara?’ So you’re leaving us, Berg? You’re leaving?
Adamsberg drew himself up wearily and looked towards the pale sun.
‘Nei.’ No.
‘Jú, Berg,’ Gunnlaugur sighed. Yes you are, Berg.
‘Já,’ Adamsberg admitted.
Gunnlaugur shook his shoulder, pulling him along.
‘Drekka bor∂a,’ he said. You must eat, drink.
‘Ja.’ OK.
The shock, as his plane’s wheels touched down on the tarmac at Roissy-Charles de Gaulle airport, triggered a sudden migraine such as he had not had for years, and at the same time he felt as if he were being battered all over. Back to base, all that aggression, Paris, city of stone. Unless it was the number of glasses downed the night before, at his farewell party at the inn in Iceland. The glasses had been very small. But numerous. And it was his last night. And it had been brennivín.
He gave a furtive glance out of the window. Not to get out. Not to have to go anywhere.
But he was there already. Your presence required.US