Even with at least one spectacularly wry observation on every page; even with abstruse theological asides that are both plucky and pithy – The idea that an afterlife had been invented to reassure people who couldn't face the finality of death was no more plausible than the idea that the finality of death had been invented to reassure people who couldn't face the nightmare of endless experience. – yes, even including the transcendentally arch nastiness of a chattering coven of acidulously articulate, sublimely spiteful relatives cannot quite redeem the doldrums of St. Aubyn's final novel in his quintet. There's too much of the same blasted bloodied patrimony to be recovered again, surrendered again, then extinguished as a flailing echo for this book to have the feel of anything more than a brilliant coda to the novels which have come before.

Even so I couldn't stop reading it, richly enjoying it, howling with hateful laughter even when subjected to sharp shocks of self-recognition (and never in good way). I kept going right to the barely bitter end. And it was only as I was reading At Last that I realized I'd missed the first two novellas. Years ago I started with Some Hope, which turns out the be the midpoint. Fortunately there's a freshly-published omnibus, which I promptly ordered so I can jump into the terrible, ruthless, child-sacrificing story from its very first assault. Bad, bad Daddy.