The Liar in the Library

I’ll admit, I was skeptical about an author narrating their own work—too often it feels like vanity publishing. But Simon Brett’s performance in *The Liar in the Library* is a masterclass in less-is-more. His voice is warm but wry, the kind of tone that makes even throwaway lines about village politics feel like insider jokes. The real triumph, though, is how he handles the dialogue. Burton St Clair’s pompous monologues drip with just enough smugness to make his demise satisfying, while Jude’s dry asides (our de facto sleuth) land with perfect comic timing. That said, the production isn’t flawless: Brett’s pacing occasionally stumbles during expository passages, as if he’s momentarily lost in his own prose, and the audio levels dip slightly in a few library scenes—nothing ruinous, but noticeable if you’re listening on noise-canceling headphones. The story itself is a treat for anyone who’s ever rolled their eyes at an author’s self-aggrandizing anecdotes. The murder weapon? Not a candlestick, but *literary ego*. The suspects are a rogue’s gallery of the bookish and bitter: a biographer whose manuscript was stolen, a publisher’s wife with a grudge, even a librarian whose quiet demeanor hides a steel trap mind. Brett’s plot twists aren’t shocking, but they’re *clever*, relying on character psychology over red herrings. My only real critique is the ending—it wraps up a touch too neatly, with a confession that feels more like a mercy to the listener than a natural culmination. Still, the journey there is so sharp and entertaining that I’d happily listen to Brett read a grocery list. If you’re craving a mystery with bite (and a narrator who sounds like your favorite slightly mischievous uncle), this is your book.