Dancing at D'Avencourt

I’ll admit, I went into *Dancing at D’Avencourt* skeptical. Historical mysteries can often feel like costume dramas with a corpse tossed in for plot. But Lloyd’s novel is something rarer: a mystery that’s *about* the past, not just set in it. The inciting incident—a disputed painting with a bloody provenance—isn’t just a MacGuffin; it’s a lens to examine how history gets rewritten by the powerful. The first hour moves deliberately, almost languidly, as Redgrave’s narration establishes the rhythm of a house where every clock tick feels like a countdown. Her reading is masterful in its restraint—she lets the silences between lines carry as much weight as the words, especially in the scenes where the protagonist, Claire, deciphers coded marginalia in a medieval missal. You can *hear* the pages turning. That said, the middle act sags slightly under the weight of its own lore. Lloyd’s research is impressive, but there’s a 20-minute stretch where the art history lectures threaten to dwarf the mystery. And while Redgrave’s upper-crust accents are pitch-perfect, her male voices occasionally blur together—a missed opportunity in a story where deception hinges on who’s speaking. Still, the finale is worth the patience: a confrontation in a snowbound orangery that’s equal parts Agatha Christie and *The Name of the Rose*, with a twist that hinges on a detail so obscure you’ll kick yourself for not spotting it earlier. The audio production shines here, with a distant church bell tolling at the climax—a touch that feels earned, not gimmicky. If you’re a fan of cerebral mysteries where the solution requires piecing together fragments of the past, this is a gem. Just pour yourself a glass of wine and lean in.