They’re Gonna Make a TV Movie Out of Me*

In well-written crime fiction, readers develop very clear mental pictures of what the characters are like. That can include their physical appearance, mannerisms, speech patterns and lots more. And that’s what can make it very difficult to bring a sleuth to television or films. Crime fiction fans want their favourite sleuths brought faithfully to the screen; after all, that’s often why they see films or television series featuring those sleuths. At the same time, film and television are different media from the printed word. For instance, if a “bankable” star portrays a sleuth, film-makers and television producers often find that more people tune in or go to see the film. And some things translate to the visual better than others. So bringing a sleuth to the screen is not easy. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen, though; as we all know, there’ve been lots of films and television shows based on crime fiction novels. They’re not all very high-quality, but it’s really interesting to see how film and television producers and directors conceive of some popular sleuths.

For instance, Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes has been portrayed by many different actors as diverse as Basil Rathbone and Benedict Cumberbatch. Conan Doyle describes Holmes as

 

“… rather over six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and piercing, save during those intervals of torpor to which I have alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and squareness which mark the man of determination.”

 

Although Holmes has a distinctive appearance, it’s really his manner and habits that make him unique. Feel free to differ with me if you do, but Jeremy Brett was especially skilled at bringing that character to life.

Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot has an even more distinctive appearance, as we read in The Mysterious Affair at Styles. Here’s how Captain Arthur Hastings describes his friend:

 

“He was hardly more than five feet, four inches, but carried himself with great dignity. His head was exactly the shape of an egg and he always perched it a little on one side. His moustache was very stiff and military. The neatness of his attire was almost incredible.”

 

In other stories we learn that Poirot has “suspiciously black hair” despite being no longer young. Because of Poirot’s distinctive appearance, it would be hard to imagine him, for instance, as a tall man with blond hair and no moustache, so there are some limits as to the kind of actor who could faithfully portray him. And yet, several actors, including Peter Ustinov and Albert Finney, have portrayed him. For me (so feel free to disagree if you do), David Suchet is Poirot. I even forgive the differences (most of the time ) between Christie’s novels and the filmed stories if Suchet is in the lead role.

Christie’s Miss Marple is described in slightly less specific detail, and lots of different actors have portrayed her. For example, Geraldine McEwan, Angela Lansbury and Margaret Rutherford have taken that role. Who do you “see” as Miss Marple? For me, it’s Joan Hickson. But that’s just my view…

For many people (including, so it is said), Colin Dexter himself, John Thaw was Inspector Morse. The two became much more closely associated than actors and their roles often are. In fact, Dexter’s The Jewel That Was Ours actually started life as a televised episode of the Morse Series, The Wolvercote Tongue.  The final Morse novel, The Remorseful Day, was brought to television just a couple of years before Thaw’s own tragic death from cancer. It’s said that Dexter has determined that no other actor will reprise the Morse role. I can see why.

Sara Paretsky’s Chicago private investigator V.I. Warshawski is a fit, athletic character with wavy brunette hair. Not much is made of her physical appearance, but she’s a tough yet feminine sleuth. It’s hard to get that balance on film, but in Jeff Kanew’s 1991 film V.I. Warshawski, Kathleen Turner took the role. If you’re a Warshawski fan who saw the film, what do you think of her performance? Did you believe her in the role? I must confess I wouldn’t have thought of that casting, and it was hard for me to “buy” Turner as Warshawski, much as I respect Kathleen Turner as an actress. But perhaps that’s just me…

There’ve been at least two major portrayals of Henning Mankell’s Kurt Wallander. In the Swedish series, Krister Henriksson took the title role. In the British series, Wallander was played by Kenneth Branagh. What do you think of these actors in that role? What about Noomi Rapace and Rooney Mara in the role of Stieg Larsson’s Lisbeth Salander? For me (again, just my opinion, so nothing’s to say I’m right), Noomi Rapace does a highly effective job at making me believe her as Lisbeth Salander. So does Krister Henriksson as Wallander. Oh, and I’ve really enjoyed Jill Scott as Alexander McCall Smith’s Mma. Precious Ramotswe.

It’s very likely that Tom Cruise will take the role of Lee Child’s Jack Reacher in an upcoming film. Do you see him in that role? What about Katherine Heigl as Stephanie Plum in the upcoming filmed version of Stephanie Evanovich’s One For the Money?

The thing about well-written sleuths is that we almost feel that they’re real people – or could be. That means that we notice it when an actor doesn’t portray those characters faithfully. We also get drawn into the film or television production when an actor does “become” that sleuth. What about you? Which actors have done the best jobs of “becoming” your favourite sleuths? Which of your favourite sleuths would you like to see on film? Who’d play their roles? If you’re a writer, who would you want to play your sleuth(s)?
 
 

 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Bruce Springsteen’s TV Movie.

No Stop Signs, Speed Limit, Nobody’s Gonna Slow Me Down*

Recently I had an interesting comment exchange with Bill Selnes at Mysteries and More From Saskatchewan (an excellent blog that I highly recommend) about pacing and timing in crime fiction. It’s got me to thinking about how the pace of crime fiction novels has changed as time has gone by. In general, are today’s crime novels faster-paced with more twists and action than novels of earlier years? On the surface of it, you might think the answer is “yes;” we can all think of novels where the action moves quickly and sometimes unexpectedly. And timing and pacing is often a part of what publishers use to sell books. How many books have you seen advertised where the blurb includes words and phrases such as “pulse-pounding,” “action-packed,” or “twists and turns?” I’ve seen a lot of them.

That said, though, there are plenty of crime novels from the earlier days of the genre that also have lots of action and quick pacing and timing. And there are plenty of novels and series today that are both well-regarded and popular where the pacing isn’t fast. So there’s likely more to this question of pacing, timing and the drama in novels than it seems on the surface. And that’s what makes the question an interesting one . One possibility is that sub-genre and author style also have a lot to do with it.

For instance, the hard-boiled sub-genre made famous by authors such as Mickey Spillane and Dashiell Hammett tends to have a lot of action and drama. Novels such as Hammett’s The Thin Man and Spillane’s My Gun is Quick include a number of fight scenes, chases and so on. The events in the stories happen quickly and unexpectedly, too. That fast pacing is part of what makes the hardboiled sub-genre popular with its fans. Today’s hardboiled series also feature quick pacing and timing and plenty of action. For instance, Sara Paretsky’s V.I. Warshawski doesn’t have many dull moments. Neither does Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Millhone. James Ellroy’s novels also feature plenty of action and quick pacing and timing. Hardboiled novels have always had lots of octane, so to speak, and that doesn’t seem to have changed over time.

The detective novel made famous by writers such as Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh, Dorothy Sayers and John Dickson Carr tends to have less fast-paced action. The focus in this genre is more on the mystery itself. There is violence (after all, they are murder mysteries) in these novels, and sometimes there are “high-octane” moments, but in general, they’re more focused on the mystery – the puzzle at hand – than they are on fast-moving events. Of course, at least in Christie’s case, that’s not true for each novel she wrote. The Big Four, The Man in the Brown Suit, and N or M? are all examples of Christie novels where there’s plenty of action, narrow escapes and so on. So this question of pacing and timing isn’t entirely a matter of sub-genre (I’ll get back to that in a minute). But, to use a proverbially very broad paintbrush, this kind of detective story tends not to focus as much on pace and action. That’s true today, too. For instance, P.D. James’ Adam Dalgliesh series certainly includes plenty of “action” scenes. But the focus is on the mystery. That’s also the case with Peter Robinson’s Alan Banks series and Henning Mankell’s Kurt Wallander series. Yes, there are fast-paced moments and twists and turns in the plots. But the emphasis isn’t on those moments as much as it is on the cases these sleuths are working.

Sub-genre does play a role in how much action there is in a novel, and how much pacing and timing there is. But it’s not the only factor. Author style matters as well. I don’t have a whole lot of research to support this but my guess is that author style plays a bigger role in a novel’s “octane level” than it used to play, simply because there is so much more variety and diversity in crime fiction than there was. Authors have more flexibility, so their individual ways of expressing themselves come through more obviously.

For example, Alexander McCall Smith’s Isabel Dalhousie series and his Precious Ramotswe series are both thoughtful, “quiet” series. There are certainly mysteries and in Mma. Ramotswe’s world, there are cases that need to be solved. Events happen, people interact and so on. But both series move along at a quiet pace. And that’s just the way some readers like their crime fiction.

Some authors such as Ruth Rendell/Barbara Vine and Margaret Yorke include action in their stories but it’s often more of what you’d call psychological action. In other words, the pace isn’t frantic in terms of one event happening after another. Rather, the “octane” comes from the buildup of psychological suspense.

Other authors such as Lee Child and Leigh Russell write thrillers. Their novels have a lot of action in them. The pace is quick and that pacing and timing add a great deal to the suspense of the stories. Here too, the pacing seems to be affected by the sub-genre (thrillers do tend to move at a faster pace and have more dramatic events) and author style.

With all of this, though, it’s worth pointing out that times have changed. Today’s crime fiction addresses sometimes very ugly issues in a way that wasn’t always done in the past. Today’s sleuths are more diverse than ever and live and work in more different kinds of contexts than ever. And today’s crime fiction fans are savvier than ever. They don’t want “cookie-cutter” plots (so there have to be well-written twists). They don’t want novels that aren’t engaging (so there has to be some action. Something has to happen). In that way, there is more room for drama, action, plot twists and so on than there was. And in that sense, crime fiction probably does include more novels with fast pacing and lots of plot twists than it did. It’s a larger genre with more diversity.

But modern crime fiction also includes plenty of novels and series where the pace is slower and where the focus is more on the mystery or the characters than it is on pacing and timing. And there are plenty of crime novels from bygone years that move at a fast pace and where there is all sorts of action and drama. That’s where there’s an argument that author style and sub-genre play important roles, too. In the end, crime fiction is affected by several factors, and that’s what makes it such an interesting genre. That goes as much for its pacing and timing as it does for any other aspect of the genre.

What are your thoughts on this question? Do you think today’s crime fiction novels are faster-paced and more “high-octane” than novels of earlier times? If you think other factors are involved, what do you think they are? If you’re a writer, how do you use pacing and timing in your work? Do you feel compelled to move things along really quickly and include lots of action?

 

 

 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from AC/DC’s Highway to Hell.

>You Better Let Somebody Love You Before It’s Too Late*

>One of the enduring sleuth types in crime fiction is the “lone wolf,” who has little, if any, personal life and no permanent relationships. Of course, there are plenty of sleuths who have marriages and families; just ask Donna Leon’s Guido Brunetti or Ruth Rendell’s Reg Wexford. But the “lone wolf” sleuth is an interesting phenomenon. In many ways a sleuth with no real personal ties makes sense. Solving crimes is time-consuming, emotionally and physically draining, and sometimes, downright dangerous. So it’s not easy to be a sleuth’s “better half.” That’s especially true for sleuths who are really passionate about their work. On the other hand, the “lone wolf” sleuth can turn into a clichéd character if the character isn’t well-drawn.

Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes is an interesting example of a “lone wolf” sleuth. On one hand, he doesn’t investigate cases alone; he partners with Watson and the two have an enduring friendship. On the other, Holmes never marries. He becomes smitten with Irene Adler in A Scandal in Bohemia, but he doesn’t date or seem particularly interested in an intimate relationship. Holmes says that he’s afraid marriage might get in the way of his deductive capabilities, and didn’t want any emotion to get in the way of his thinking process. That’s what Holmes says; here, just for fun, is another take on why Holmes didn’t marry. I can’t take credit for this, but it was too funny not to pass along. Holmes fans should appreciate it…

Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot never marries, either. While he, too, has an enduring friendship with Hastings, he also doesn’t really have what you’d call a home life. He doesn’t seem to have any objection to marriage; in fact, he assists in more than one “matchmaking.” And in The Murder on the Links, he even plays Cupid for Hastings. Yet, he never “takes the plunge” himself. Practically the only time we see Poirot really show signs of attraction to a woman is when he meets the Countess Vera Rossakoff, a flamboyant and very accomplished jewel thief. In fact, as the years go by, she remains his ideal of what a woman should be. Perhaps he never marries because, after she disappears from his life, no other woman measures up…

Several of the classic “hardboiled” detectives are what you might call “lone wolves.” For example, Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe is unmarried. He meets and falls in love with socialite Linda Loring in The Long Goodbye, and she even asks him to marry her, but, at least in the novels, he doesn’t (although there is evidence in later short stories that he ends up married to Loring). Marlowe is dedicated to his job, and passionate about righting wrongs. In fact, he seems to care more about his work than he does about meeting someone, which may be the reason he doesn’t have a family. It could also be that he just doesn’t want to be tied down, or that he’s cynical about women. That makes sense, too, when you think about the number of times he’s lied to and betrayed.

Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer is also a “lone wolf.” He has no real interest in marriage and certainly not in domesticity. In fact, many people have said that Hammer is misogynistic. He certainly has plenty of affairs, but no lasting intimate relationship. The only woman Hammer seems to truly respect is his secretary, Velda. Velda is, in her way, as tough as her boss is, and just as interested in their cases. That doesn’t stop Hammer from getting superficially involved with dozens of women, though, and he doesn’t really have what you’d call a home life. Throughout the series, though, it becomes obvious that Velda’s in love with her boss, and inl 1966’s The Black Alley, Hammer and Velda make it “official” and get engaged.

More modern “lone wolves” have arguably become a little more complicated as characters. One reason for that is quite possibly that today’s crime fiction fans are more sophisticated and want more “real” characters. So, one of the interesting changes in “lone wolves” has been that very often, they’re now their own worst enemies. We see that very clearly in Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch. Bosch has frequent relationships, but they don’t last. At one point, he’s married to Eleanor Wish, former FBI agent, and then professional poker player. Wish leaves Harry, though, although he still loves her. Later, she’s killed. Bosch has several personal demons, among them a very painful childhood, the murder of his mother, and service in Viet Nam. He also has anger and authority issues. His devotion to his job, and to solving cases, along with those personal issues, arguably makes it hard for him to have a real long-term relationship.

Very similar in many ways is Ian Rankin’s John Rebus. Rebus is also passionately dedicated to his job. He’s a heavy drinker with a gruff exterior, and not exactly warm and friendly. So it’s no surprise that he’s also somewhat of a loner. He’s been married, but he and his wife were divorced years ago. Since then, he’s had girlfriends, but not a permanent, lasting relationship. In fact, in The Black Book, Rebus himself mentions that his job has always been more important to him than any person.

Jo Nesbø’s Harry Hole is another example of a “lone wolf” who’s very much his own worst enemy. Hole is an alcoholic who’s also extremely dedicated to his job. He’s also what’s often called a “loose cannon.” He’s a brilliant detective, but he’s not good at “playing by the rules” or using orthodox methods of catching criminals. Harry also has difficulty in his personal life. He loves his girlfriend, Rake Faulke, but their relationship is complicated by his drinking and his obsession with solving his cases. In some ways, Harry Hole is very self-destructive.

Colin Dexter’s Inspector Morse, also a “lone wolf” (and, I admit, a personal favorite of mine) is also obsessed with his work. He certainly finds women attractive, and he’s had several affairs, but no permanent relationships. He’s a bachelor who’s rather set in his ways, and who seldom lets people see his “softer side.” He’s got little patience and can be quite prickly. In The Riddle of the Third Mile, we learn that he was once very much in love, and in fact, that love affair was the reason that he never finished at Oxford. Since that time, Morse hasn’t let his attraction to women get in the way his doing his job. In a sense, that makes him a very successful detective. After all, some of the women he falls for are suspects in his cases (e.g. The Daughters of Cain; The Jewel That Was Ours). On the other hand, he doesn’t have what most people would call a personal life.

Lee Child’s Jack Reacher is also very much his own person, with no permanent ties. He’s had girlfriends, most notably Jodie Garber, who “officially” becomes Reacher’s girlfriend in Tripwire. However, Reacher is a drifter who never stays anywhere for very long. In fact, Lee Child was once asked if Jodie was going to be “regular” and whether the right woman was going to come along. Child’s response was,

“I’d get killed if Reacher ever settled down. I tease the readers with the possibility.”

The “lone wolf” sleuth with few ties and not much of a home life can be clichéd if the character isn’t interesting. Yet, some of the more compelling protagonists in crime fiction fall into this category. What do you think? Do you enjoy these sleuths? Or do you prefer sleuths like Caroline Graham’s Inspector Barnaby or Liza Marklund’s Annika Bengtzon, who have domestic ties?

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from the Eagles’ Desperado.

>…But I didn’t do it!!

>In real life and in crime fiction, when there’s a murder, there’s often a major suspect. Sometimes, that suspect is even arrested. Even when the suspect isn’t arrested, it’s often after that person becomes, “a person of interest” in a case that the sleuth is called in to clear the suspect’s name. It may be easy or it may be more difficult, but many well-written crime fiction plots center around a person who’s suspected of a crime, and the sleuth’s attempt to clear that person of suspicion.

That sort of plot can be especially suspenseful if it’s the sleuth him or herself who’s suspected of the crime. That’s the case in Simon Brett’s What Bloody Man is That? In that novel, down-and-out-actor Charles Paris tries to begin his comeback by joining a provincial repertory company in their production of Macbeth. Also in the cast is Warnock Belvedere, an obnoxious actor who, in one way or another, has managed to make enemies of nearly everyone in the cast, including Paris. One night after rehearsal, Paris drinks too much, falls asleep and gets locked in the theater. He wakes up the next morning to find that Belevedere’s been poisoned, and he’s a major suspect. He had a motive to kill Bevedere and his drinking hasn’t made him popular. Now, Paris has to sift through everyone else’s alibis and find out who really killed Belvedere in order to keep himself out of prison.

Lee Child’s drifter, Jack Reacher, faces a similar situation in The Killing Floor. Reacher has decided to visit tiny Margrave, Georgia, to find out more about Blind Blake, a blues musician who was supposed to have died in Margrave. Almost no sooner does Reacher arrive in town when he finds himself under arrest for a murder he didn’t commit. Now Reacher has to look into the town’s history and some very dark secrets that some of the townspeople are keeping in order to clear his name. With help from a local police officer, Officer Roscoe, Reacher finds that some very powerful local people have conspired to hide several secrets – including murder.

Sisters Libby and Bertie Simmons have to clear their names in Isis Crawford’s A Catered Christmas. The story starts off innocently enough when the Simmons sisters, who own and run A Little Taste of Heaven, a catering and bake shop, get the opportunity to compete in a televised cooking show, The Hortense Calabash Cooking Show. They realize there’s going to be stiff competition, but things turn deadly when one of the show’s ovens blows up, killing the show’s host, Hortense Calabash. Hortense Calabash was heartily disliked, and all the competitors – including the Simmons sisters – had reason to kill her. So, in order to clear their names, the sisters investigate to find out who the real murderer is.

That’s also the reason that Agatha Raison investigates the murder of Geraldine Jankers in M.C. Beaton’s Love, Lies and Liquor. Agatha’s been persuaded to spend a holiday with her ex-husband, at Snoth-on-Sea, a resort town he knew as a child. The town, and the Palace Hotel, where he’s booked rooms for them, have become seedy shadows of their former selves over the years, and Agatha is eager to leave. James persuades her to stay for a day or so until he can make other arrangements for a holiday. That’s just long enough for Agatha to become a suspect in a murder. One night at dinner, she gets into an argument with Geraldien Jankers and James gets into a fight with Geraldine’s son. Later, Geraldine is found strangled on the beach – with Agatha’s scarf. Agatha is soon arrested for murder and it’s not until she’s able to prove that she couldn’t have committed the crime that the police free her to leave Snoth. By then, though, she’s intrigued, and wants to solve the crime. Besides, she may not be an official suspect, but the police don’t trust her and don’t like her very much, and Agatha wants to prove conclusively that she isn’t guilty of any complicity in the crime. So she and her team of detectives investigate the murder to find the real killer.

Sometimes, we get absorbed in a “clearing the name” mystery because the suspect is such a likable person that we don’t want her or him to be guilty. We cheer the sleuth on as he or she investigates. That’s the case in Agatha Christie’s Five Little Pigs (AKA Murder in Retrospect), in which Hercule Poirot investigates the murder of famous painter Amyas Crale. Crale’s wife, Caroline, was tried and convicted for his murder, and died in prison. Fifteen years after her death, their daughter, Carla Lemarchant, asks Poirot to investigate the murder and clear her mother’s name, even though she’s dead. To do so, Poirot gets the perspective of each of the five people who were on the scene the day of the murder. Each of them has a different perspective on Caroline, and it’s through their stories that Poirot finds out who really killed Amyas Crale. Caroline Crale herself isn’t a purely likable character, although we sympathize with her. However, her daughter, Carla, is. We want Carla to be right. We want her mother cleared of murder, because that’s what Carla wants. It’s in part that sympathy that keeps the reader’s interest.

We also very much like the character of Harriet Vane, who’s arrested and tried for murder in Dorothy Sayers’ Strong Poison. She’s suspected of having killed her lover, Philip Boyes, and goes on trial for her life. Lord Peter Wimsey attends the trial and finds her so sympathetic that he actually falls in love with her. He determines to clear her name and sets out to find out who the real killer is, so that he can prove her innocent. As Lord Peter and his friend, Amanda Climpson, investigate the murder, they find that more than one person had a motive to kill Philp Boyes.

There’s also an interesting level of suspense created when the sleuth has to clear an unpleasant person’s name. Hercule Poirot does that in Agatha Christie’s Mrs. McGinty’s Dead. In that novel, Superintendent Spence asks Poirot to investigate the murder of a village charwoman whom everyone thinks was killed by her lodger, James Bentley. Poirot is singularly unimpressed with Bentley, who’s unprepossessing, to say the least. He’s made almost no friends, and Poirot himself is sorely tempted to let the case go once he meets Bentley. Bentley himself doesn’t even seem to want Poirot’s help. Yet, Poirot doesn’t want to see an innocent man convicted of murder, even an unlikable man. So he visits the village of Broadhinney and investigates the murder. In the end, he’s able to clear Bentley’s name.

In Coyote Waits,Tony Hillerman’s Jim Chee, faces a similar challenge in the case of the murder of his friend, Delbert Nez. Nez is on a routine investigation for vandalism when he’s murdered. When Chee arrives at the scene, he finds Ashie Pinto, a local alcoholic with a bad reputation and a worse temper, with the murder weapon. Right away, Chee assumes that Pinto is Nez’ killer, and arrests him. Janet Pete, a Washington-based lawyer with the Bureau of Indian Affairs, is sent to defend Pinto, and she runs up against Chee’s strong prejudice against his unpleasant suspect. When Pete refuses to make a deal with the prosecutors to avoid a trial, Chee realizes that Pinto might be “railroaded” in a system that doesn’t offer much to poor, alcoholic, unfriendly defendants. So Chee begins to investigate more deeply. What he finds is that Nez’ death is connected to a larger case involving a a hidden fortune and a valuable historical discovery.

In my own Dying to See You, when Craig Peterson, an up-and-coming professor of criminal justice is murdered, one of his research partners, Jered Carr, is suspected of the murder. There’s good reason, too. As it turns out, Peterson’s been having an affair with Carr’s wife. Carr, though, insists that he’s not guilty and asks the third member of the research team, former police officer-turned-professor Joel Williams, to find the real killer and clear Carr’s name.

Mystery novels that feature suspects whose names need to be cleared can have an interesting layer of suspense, especially if the suspect is the sleuth. Even if it isn’t, we get involved. We cheer for the sympathetic victim-of-circumstances. Or we get involved because we find the suspect unpleasant; that, in itself, can be compelling. Do you like plots where someone’s name needs to be cleared? Or do you prefer plots where there is no clear suspect?

>Stranger in Town

> Most people don’t want to believe that a friend, relative or acquaintance is a murderer. We’d far rather blame a nameless stranger. That could be one reason why the “suspicious stranger” is so common a theme in crime fiction. We see “the stranger” in three very common roles. One of them is as the suspect; the other characters don’t know much about the stranger, so it’s easy to be convinced that the stranger is a murderer. Another role is as the victim. When the victim is a “stranger in town,” this can add to the suspense as the sleuth tries to figure out where the stranger came from, who he or she is, and how he or she came to be murdered. Some crime fiction also casts the sleuth into the role of the “mysterious stranger.” When the sleuth is a stranger, she or he can take an “outsider’s” perspective on the other characters, and that can provide an added layer of interest.

We see this kind of suspicion of a stranger in Agatha Christie’s Mrs. McGinty’s Dead, in which Hercule Poirot investigates the murder of a charwoman in the small village of Broadhinney. No-one wants to believe that any of the “nice” people of Broadhinney could be responsible for a murder, so everyone is quite ready to believe that she was killed by her lodger, James Bentley, an “outsider” whom nobody likes very much. A few of the characters also say that the murder’s been committed by a wandering tramp. What Poirot finds, though, is that the murder was committed by someone much “closer to home” than anyone wants to believe.

A stranger is also blamed for murder in Rita Mae Brown’s Rest in Pieces. In that novel, handsome model Blair Bainbridge has just moved to the small town of Crozet, Virginia. Shortly after he arrives, pieces of a body begin to turn up in various parts of town. Everyone’s happy to blame Blair for the murder; after all, nobody knows him very well and besides, the body didn’t turn up until after he arrived. His next-door-neighbor, Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen, Brown’s sleuth, doesn’t believe Bainbridge is necessarily guilty, even after another body turns up on his property, so she starts looking for answers. As it turns out, the murderer is someone who’s no stranger at all to Crozet.

In W. J. Burley’s Wycliffe and Death in a Salubrious Place, there’s also a clear example of a stranger being blamed for a killing. Young Sylvie is found at the bottom of a quarry with her head bashed in. At first, it looks as though it might have been an accident, but soon it’s clear that she was murdered. No-one in her Scilly Isles village wants to believe that one of the locals could have murdered Sylvie, so everyone blames Vince Peters, a recently-arrived teen pop idol. Inspector Wycliffe, who’s called in to investigate the death, is not so sure, so he begins to look into Sylvie’s background. What he finds is that she’s not as innocent as she seemed, and more than one person might have wanted her dead.

Sometimes, of course, a stranger becomes the victim. When that happens, the sleuth has to try to find out as much as possible about the victim. That’s what happens in Agatha Christie’s The Clocks. Colin Lamb, who works for British Intelligence, is visiting the village of Crowdean, on the trail of a spy ringleader. As he’s walking along Wlibraham Crescent, looking for a particular address, a young woman comes rushing out of one of the houses, screaming that there’s a dead man in the house. The dead man turns out to be a stranger with no identification. Lamb takes this unusual case to his father’s friend, Hercule Poirot, and challenges Poirot to solve it. With Poirot’s help, Lamb and Detective Dick Hardcastle find that the stranger had an unusual connection to Wilbraham Crescent, and that connection led to his death.

Alan Bradley’s The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie also features a stranger who becomes a victim. In that novel, Flavia de Luce, who’s a rather unusual sleuth (she’s an 11-year-old girl who’s passionate about chemistry) gets involved in a murder in the peaceful village of Bishop’s Lacey. Late one night, Flavia overhears an argument between her father and a red-headed stranger who appears at her house, Buckshaw. The next morning, she finds the body of the stranger in the family’s cucumber patch. Flavia’s father, Colonel de Luce, is accused of the murder, and Flavia soon finds out that he and the stranger have a tragic past history. Still, she’s convinced that her father is innocent of the stranger’s death and sets out to prove it.

In both of these novels, we find out that there’s a connection between the stranger and the locals; that’s also true in Louise Penny’s The Brutal Telling, which takes place in and near the rural Québec village of Three Pines. The bludgeoned body of a mysterious man known only as The Hermit is found in the bistro owned by Olivier Brulé and his partner, Gabri Dubeau. No-one in the village admits to knowing the hermit, and the evidence shows that the man wasn’t killed in the bistro. Still, Inspector Armand Gamache and his team soon find out that there’s more to this murder than a random killing, and that the dead man was, indeed, connected to the village.

It can also make for an interesting storyline when the sleuth is a “stranger in town.” That kind of plotline allows the sleuth to take a more objective view of the suspects and the other locals. It also allows for an interesting level of suspense. For example, in Ellery Queen’s Calamity Town, Queen makes his first visit to the small New England town of Wrightsville, where he’s planning a quiet rest. Before long, though, he’s caught up in the family drama of the locally-powerful Wrights, with whom he’s staying. The youngest Wright daughter, Nora, has married Jim Haight, who’s returned to Wrightsville after mysteriously disappearing three years earlier. No-one in the family likes Jim very much, and neither does anyone in town. When Jim’s sister Rosemary is poisoned at a New Year’s Eve party, everyone’s only too happy to blame Jim for the crime. Queen, however, isn’t so sure. When he starts to ask questions and get involved in the case, he’s regarded with deep suspicion. Not only is he defending the town’s choice for scapegoat, but also, he’s a stranger, too. At one point, there’s even talk that Queen himself might have committed the crime…

Lee Child’s sleuth, Jack Reacher, is almost always a stranger to the towns he visits. He’s a drifter who rarely stays anywhere for very long. In most of the novels in which Reacher appears, he’s hitching a ride or has ended up in a particular place by chance. That means he’s got an “outsider’s” perspective on the crimes he investigates. That in itself can get him in trouble. For instance, in Killing Floor, Reacher stops in the small town of Margrave, Georgia, to follow a whim; he wants to find out more about Blind Blake, a blues musician who supposedly died there. Before he knows it, Reacher has been arrested and jailed for murder. With help from Officer Roscoe, a local detective who helps to prove his innocence, Reacher works to find out who the real killer is. Along the way, he uncovers dark secrets and a dangerous conspiracy.

Agatha Christie’s Crooked House is also an interesting example of a sleuth who’s also a stranger. This novel is focused on the Leonides family and its patriarch, Aristide Leonides. He and his much-younger wife, Brenda, live with their extended family in the family home, Three Gables. Leonides’ granddaughter, Sophie, falls in love with Charles Hayward in Cairo during World War II, but the two agree not to make their engagement official until the war is over. When Sophie returns to Three Gables after the war, she finds that her grandfather has been poisoned with his own eyedrops. She’s now unwilling to marry Charles until the murder is solved, so Charles determines to find out who killed Aristide Leonides. He becomes a house guest at the Leonides home, and soon finds that almost everyone in the family had a motive for murder. While Charles Hayward himself isn’t a suspect in the killing, it’s very interesting to see how the family reacts to this “outsider.”

What’s your view? Do you enjoy the suspense of the “stranger in town” motif? If you do, which are your favorite “stranger in town” novels?