This is a fascinating book. The elevator pitch - "Did you hear about the heist of 299 bird skins from the Natural History Museum by a concert flautist who wanted to make Victorian fishing flies?" - Well, it was enough to get me through the door. And I am very glad it did! Johnson has pieced together an impressive history of the case, incorporating a brief account of how the bird skins were collected and their history at the museum, followed by an introduction to the modern hobby of Victorian fly tying and the community's greatest shame: Edwin Rist. There follows an account of the heist and the circumstances by which Rist was caught, his trial, and the afterlife of the case, including the author's own attempts to recover more of the lost bird skins. It really is a gripping story, and Johnson tells it compellingly - There really is very little I can add! If the concept appeals, you'll most likely enjoy it, if it doesn't... There's still a very good chance you'll be on board by the midpoint. Johnson tells the story in such a way that it feels important, even as at some points it feels like he is trying to convince himself that the legwork he's put in has been worth it.

I do have two gripes about Johnson's retelling, however. The first is that his speculation about Rist's diagnosis with Asperger's syndrome feels clumsily handled. It is clear that Johnson is not an expert in psychology, nor should he be expected to be, but by the same token, this feels like an unnecessary and ultimately fruitless road for him to have gone down.

The other issue is to do with his treatment of genius. Johnson at various points in the account contrasts the "good", scientific use of bird skins with the "bad", commercial trade in them, with people who make Victorian flies somewhere in the middle. This is fair and, happily, in line with the law, but Johnson is oddly uncritical of the place of Alfred Russel Wallace in colonial history, presenting his expeditions to collect bird skins and live birds as entirely scientific, and noble because scientific, endeavours, even representing clearly racist notes written by Wallace seeing the birds as his manifest destiny as a White European. For an otherwise-thoughtful writer, this felt like a surprising level of buying in to the ideologies of colonialism, even as I recognise that this is not his focus or background.

Otherwise, a really excellent book!