For me, Lament for Leto's rather infamous reputation had preceded my reading of the book. I had heard from very respectable sources that this sequel-of-sorts to 1937's Come Away, Death was convoluted and disappointing. Mitchell essayist William A.S. Sarjeant wrote that even a second reading of Lament for Leto failed to make clear exactly which character was responsible for each of the story's many actions, and fellow Mitchell-phile Nicholas Fuller rated this as one of his least favorite Mrs. Bradley tales, observing that the few characters carried over from the 1937 book had been given different, contrasting personalities in Leto. To address these criticisms, I offer my own (subjective) observations: I did not find Leto's plot tangled beyond comprehension, and with its straightforward, linear structure, it was actually less confusing than some other titles I've encountered. As for the central mysteries of who murdered whom and why, the logic is clear, the motive apparent, and, if anything, the solution is rather anticlimactic. True, we find in Leto that the characters chose far different paths than we were led to believe they were destined for at the end of Come Away, Death, but the story stands on its own in a decent way, and Leto's journey (for me) is notably better than those found in some truly irritating books, like Adders on the Heath or Uncoffin'd Clay.

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So it's better than expected, but still firmly weighted among those pleasant but forgettable middle-band Gladys Mitchell titles. It doesn't help that Lament for Leto invokes a far superior earlier book and thus begs comparison. Fans who have not yet read Come Away, Death should be warned that Leto reveals both murderer and motive of that earlier tale, and that Leto's Greek travels are only enhanced by familiarity with the 1937 expedition. Whereas the dust, heat and ruined sites contribute to Come Away, Death's deliciously foreign, decidedly uncomfortable (and even hostile) atmosphere, Lament for Leto's Greek islands and waters stay within the far less thrilling lines of commercial travelogue. Death gave one a sense of isolated danger (are we really touring deserted Greece with a crazed murderer?), but Leto doesn't venture far beyond the cruise ship and the staffed hotel.

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There's another detail here that bothers me: no fewer than three of the travelers possess the skill to create a sort of literal ventriloquism; they can throw their voices to the extent that the sound seems to emanate from a person or object several feet away. Ultimately, this gimmick isn't integral to the mystery's solution, but all the same, it's rather a silly device for a mystery novel, ranking up there in dubious merit with the ponies'-tails-as-secret-messages gambit essayed in Adders on the Heath. Miss Mitchell usually stretches believability to the breaking point (it's one reason why I return to her tales again and again), but occasionally one hears an audible snap, and no talk of ventriloquism can convince me otherwise about its source.