The ideal murder mystery is set in one of those small English villages with a ridiculous name, like Chipping Cleghorn, which is dominated by the large manor house on the hill that has been in the same family for generations, possibly since the Conquest, and in which lives the old patriarch of the family, who may or may not be titled, and who may or may not be an invalid and who may or not have just changed his will; his very-much-younger-than-he is second wife; the spineless, stodgy older son, who is taking over the family business or title or property, and his ambitious wife; the ne’er-do-well younger son who has just returned home after a number of years in Canada or South Africa or the Argentine, and the woman he brings with him to whom he may or may not be married and about whom nothing is known; the ingénue, a pretty young great-niece or ward of the patriarch who, by the end of the story, will have fallen in love with the local young doctor; plus the butler, the housekeeper, the housemaids, the cook, the gardener and the chauffeur. Somebody bumps off the old man, and you have to figure out whodunit.
And if it’s written by Agatha Christie, that’s best of all.
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