My mom could never understand why I reread books, especially mysteries. "You know who did it!" she'd exclaim. "How can you read it again?" Because with my favorite books, the ones I reread sometimes three or five or eleven times, the real pleasure for me lies less in the story than in the telling of it. This may be truer of Robert Barnard than of any writer I know, and certainly I've reread Corpse in a Gilded Cage so often I could probably recite entire passages. It's just such delicious, pomposity-puncturing fun. Think of it: A mildly larcenous Cockney family inherits a vast country estate, with all the titles and tithes that go with it. My best advice: Don't try to read this satirical book on the quiet: If you're anything like me, your giggles and snorts will give the game away.