Mrs. Mohr Goes Missing

by Maryla Szymiczkowa

Overview

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?

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780358150954
Publisher:	HarperCollins
Publication date:	01/17/2024
Series:	The Zofia Turbotynska Mysteries , #1
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	370
Sales rank:	177,508
File size:	1 MB

About the Author

MARYLA SZYMICZKOWA is a pseudonym for partners Jacek Dehnel and Piotr Tarczyński. Dehnel is the award-winning author of numerous books, including the novels Lala and Saturn and the poetry collection Aperture. Tarczyński is a translator and historian. They live in Warsaw, and the Zofia Turbotyńska Mysteries are their first shared project.

ANTONIA LLOYD-JONES is a prize-winning translator of Polish literature. She has translated works by many of Poland’s leading contemporary novelists, including Nobel laureate Olga Tokarczuk, as well as authors of reportage, crime fiction, poetry, screenplays, essays, and children's books. She is a mentor for the WCN Emerging Translator Mentorship Programme, and from 2015-17 was co-chair of the Translators Association.

Read an Excerpt

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 Turbotyńska 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 Turbotyński 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 Szczepański 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 Turbotyńska 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.

Editorial Reviews

★ 01/27/2020

Set in 1893 Cracow, this exceptional debut and series launch from Polish author Szymiczkowa (the pen name of writing duo Jacek Dehnel and Piotr Tarczynski) introduces Zofia Turbotynska, a 38-year-old professor’s wife, who finds household management, novel reading, and the search for social prestige insufficient outlets for her prodigious energy. At a nursing home run by nuns that she visits to promote a charitable cause, she becomes involved in the search for a missing resident, Antonina Mohr, a judge’s widow. Zofia questions the home’s staff and residents, hiding her unofficial investigation from both the mother superior and her husband. After Mohr’s suspiciously pink-hued corpse is found in an attic, Zofia pressures the resident doctor until an autopsy reveals cyanide poisoning. The strangling of one of the home’s impoverished residents complicates the puzzle. The preface offers helpful context on place and period, while 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. (Mar.)

Publishers Weekly

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 —

From the Publisher

2019-12-23
An affluent 19th-century wife and aspiring sleuth perseveres in the face of police skepticism to probe a series of suspicious deaths in Cracow.

A provocative prologue introduces an anonymous killer sneaking away after examining a frail corpse. The year is 1893, and restless Zofia Turbotyńska struggles, because of her provincial roots, to be accepted in Cracow high society. Keeping an efficient household for her husband, esteemed medical professor Ignacy Turbotyński doesn't satisfy her. So she undertakes various projects to occupy her time and prove her worth. When her cook, Franciszka, asks for time off to visit her grandmother at Helcel House, Zofia decides to solicit the residents for donations to a charity raffle she's organizing for the benefit of scrofulous children. The benevolent nuns who run the house are receptive. On her initial visit, Zofia notices a bit of a stir over Mrs. Mohr, a resident who's gone missing. Her reading of Poe surely has an effect on her, for when she visits Helcel House again, Zofia takes the initiative to question the staff about the still-missing resident. Strangely invigorated, she undertakes a search of the premises and discovers Mrs. Mohr's body hidden under a blanket in the attic. The consensus is a fatal fall while wandering. Zofia is not so sure. When another Helcel resident is found murdered, Zofia alone links the two deaths and doggedly proceeds to investigate. In a nod to Victorian convention, Szymiczkowa (the pseudonym of partners Jacek Dehnel and Piotr Tarczyński) begins each chapter with a wry summary of what's to come.

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

Kirkus Reviews