Writing my mystery novel – behind the scenes.
There is a particular sort of mischief that comes with beginning a new murder mystery. It starts quietly, innocently, even, with a single idea that taps gently on my mind’s door. And then, before I quite realise what has happened, it has let itself in, made a cup of tea, and rearranged the furniture.
For those wonderful friends who have read Legacy of the Lie, you may (or may not) be interested to know that I have been working on the next Agatha and George mystery since early February. At this stage, the title remains delightfully elusive. Titles, I’ve found, tend to arrive fashionably late, as though they’ve been waiting backstage for just the right moment to make an entrance.
What I can say is this: the murder at the heart of this story is… slow.
Not slow in the sense of dull, heaven forbid, but slow in the most deliciously unsettling way. The sort of slow that lingers. That allows tension to build so quietly you almost don’t notice it until it’s sitting beside you, smiling politely, and refusing to leave. There is something undeniably compelling about a drawn-out mystery. It gives characters time to reveal themselves, often in ways they never intended. And as any good reader knows, it’s rarely the obvious moments that matter most; it’s the small ones, the overlooked ones, the ones that slip by unnoticed until suddenly they don’t.
The seed of this particular plot came, rather wonderfully, from my surrogate son, Geoffrey, who presented me with an idea so intriguing I couldn’t possibly ignore it. It was unusual (which, for me, is practically a requirement), and just twisted enough to spark that familiar creative itch. From there, the story began to unfurl, slowly at first, then with increasing insistence.
And so, once again, I find myself wandering the familiar lanes of Thornfield Haven. Although this time, Agatha and George do venture further afield.
It is quite extraordinary how real that place has become to me. I can picture the light shifting across the village green, hear the distant murmur of conversation from the tea room, and feel the crispness in the air as Agatha and George set off in search of answers. Thornfield Haven is never far from my imagination; in truth, it’s probably closer than some actual places I’ve visited. There are moments when I sit down to write, and it feels less like creativity from my imagination and more like a transcription, as though I’m simply recording events that are already unfolding somewhere just out of sight.
Of course, this does come with a small practical issue.
Time, it seems, has a habit of disappearing.
I will sit down with the very best of intentions, just an hour, perhaps two, and then glance up to discover that the afternoon has quietly slipped into evening. The tea has gone cold, the to-do list remains untouched, and I’ve been entirely absorbed in the gentle chaos of motives, secrets, and suspiciously timed conversations. I’ve taken to setting an alarm now, not as a strict enforcer, but as a polite reminder that the real world still expects the occasional appearance.
Whether I always listen to it… is another matter.
What continues to delight me most about writing about these two sleuths is the companionship of it. Agatha, with her keen observations and quietly formidable mind, and George, steady and thoughtful, make for the most excellent company. They have a way of guiding the story just as much as I do, occasionally more so, if I’m being honest. There are moments when a scene takes an unexpected turn, and I find myself thinking, “Well, I hadn’t planned that,” only to realise it makes perfect sense for them.
No spoilers, of course, I value my safety far too much to risk the wrath of a curious reader, but I will say that this particular novel is shaping into something rather special. It’s a puzzle with layers, a mystery that asks for patience, and a story that lingers just a little longer than expected.
Which, really, is exactly how I like them.
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