Category: Random

Writing the Murder Mystery I’ve Always Wanted To

Writing the Murder Mystery I’ve Always Wanted To

I’ve always loved a good murder.

the effect of smiles

I’ve always loved a good murder.
Not in the police-tape, fingerprints, and grim detectives sense, but in the delicious puzzle-box tradition of Christie, Sayers, and their ilk. Ever since I picked up my first Agatha Christie as a teenager, I was hooked. Give me a cup of tea, a rainy afternoon, and the prospect of genteel poisonings in a sleepy English village, and I’m happier than Miss Marple in a hat shop.

Over the years, I’ve devoured Golden Age mysteries the way others devour chocolate éclairs, sometimes in one guilty sitting. And while I’ve written a few non-fiction books, there’s always been a quiet voice at the back of my mind saying: One day, you must write your own murder mystery.

Well, I’ve finally listened to that voice. This isn’t about chasing bestseller lists. It’s about finally scratching an itch that’s been with me for decades, the joy of weaving mystery for its own sake.

So why a murder mystery?

There’s something irresistible about them.
The structure is neat, almost mathematical, and yet it brims with human messiness, secrets, betrayals, jealousies, and lies whispered behind lace curtains. I love how the genre allows you to explore the darkest corners of the human heart, all while sipping tea and never spilling a drop on the Afghan rug.

Period dramas, especially those set around the world wars, have always been my favourites. There’s atmosphere in abundance: ration books, stiff upper lips, battered suitcases, the lingering shadows of conflict, and the promise of a new world pushing against the old. Setting a murder mystery in that period is exactly what I’ve always wanted to do.

The Heirloom’s Secret (well, that’s the title for now)

So here it is: my very first foray into murder and mayhem on the page. The Heirloom’s Secret, and it’s everything I’ve ever wanted to write rolled into one mystery, memory, and more than a few skeletons in cupboards that really ought to have stayed shut.

The story is set in the spring of 1953, a time when England was still recovering from the war but looking forward with excitement to the coronation of the young Queen Elizabeth. Perfect, I thought, for a village brimming with gossip, suspicion, and just a hint of scandal.

And into this fictional village, Thornfield Haven, steps my heroine.

Meet Agatha Carroway

Agatha Carroway (Aggie to her friends, though heaven help anyone who uses the nickname without permission) is not your average sleuth. She’s not a bright-eyed ingénue stumbling across corpses while taking her corgi for a walk. She’s not a retired colonel with a monocle and a moustache waxed to a lethal point.

Agatha is a retired midwife in her early seventies. She’s sharp, witty, and carries the calm authority of someone who has seen life, from its beginnings to its endings and everything in between. She has no patience for nonsense, though a great deal of compassion for the frailties of human nature. Her hands may be stiff with age, but her mind is as nimble as ever, and when something doesn’t add up, she’s the one who notices.

I wanted a protagonist who wasn’t in the first flush of youth. Agatha has lived a full life, loved and lost, and now finds herself pulled into the dark tangle of secrets that threaten to engulf her village. She’s not nosy, exactly… though the villagers might disagree. As the story unfolds, we learn more about this woman and some of her unique talents.

Her Partner in Crime-Solving

Every sleuth worth their salt needs a foil, someone to challenge, assist, and occasionally roll their eyes when the detective insists on poking into places best left alone.

For Agatha, that someone is Inspector George Hargrove of the local constabulary. A man of steady temperament and dry humour, Hargrove is perhaps the only one who sees Agatha’s sharp mind as an asset rather than a nuisance.

Together they form an unlikely partnership: the seasoned policeman and the sharp-eyed pensioner, allies united by mutual respect (and perhaps a little exasperation on his part). Their friendship gives the story warmth and wit as they set out to solve the mystery. Well, that’s the intention. Agatha blithely pushes past boundaries in pursuit of the truth, even dragging him into shady scenarios.

A Village with Secrets

Thornfield Haven may look postcard-perfect, with its stone cottages, churchyard yews, and lace-curtained windows. But as anyone who has read a Christie will tell you, appearances are never to be trusted. Beneath the surface lies a tangle of long-buried secrets, resentments, and scandals, some reaching back decades.

When the first murder occurs, it feels shocking enough. But Thornfield Haven isn’t done yet. More than one body will fall before the truth finally comes to light, and Agatha will find herself not just uncovering a crime, but tearing open the very fabric of her community’s history.

And yes, there’s an heirloom at the heart of it all. A relic of the past, delicate yet potent, that binds the secrets together like a thread in an embroidery. To say more would be to spoil the fun, and I wouldn’t dream of robbing you of that.

Writing The Heirloom’s Secret has been a dream decades in the making. It’s not just a story about murder, but about memory, identity, and the weight of the past on the present. It’s about women’s voices in times when they were often dismissed, and about the way seemingly small choices ripple through generations.

Agatha’s age, her perspective, and her wit are all dear to me. In a world that too often sidelines older women, I wanted to put one firmly centre stage and let her shine. She may have traded her midwife’s satchel for a sensible handbag, but she’s no less formidable for it.

Of course, I have loosely based my heroes on people I know, both past and present, and set it all in a period coloured by my own childhood memories.

A Promise of Twists and Turns

Now, a good mystery must be more than setting and character. It must puzzle. I’ve really tried to lay false trails, scatter red herrings, and turn the kaleidoscope just when you think you’ve got the picture clear. I can promise you that nothing in Thornfield Haven is quite as it first appears. Suspects abound, motives multiply, and the truth, when it finally arrives, may surprise you. And even if you do guess the villain (or villains), I’m trusting the motive may stay hidden until the end.

But that’s as far as I’ll go. To tell you more would be to hand you the solution, and what fun is that?

This is just the beginning. The Heirloom’s Secret is the first of what I hope will be a series of mysteries featuring Agatha Carroway and Inspector Hargrove. They’ve become so real to me that I can’t quite imagine leaving them behind after just one adventure. There are more secrets to be uncovered, more scandals lurking in village lanes, and, inevitably, more bodies waiting to be discovered.

If you, like me, have always longed for a fresh slice of Christie-style crime, set against the backdrop of a world in transition, then I hope you’ll enjoy stepping into Thornfield Haven. Pull up a chair, pour yourself a cup of tea, and prepare to be intrigued.

After all, as Agatha herself might say, life’s too short not to poke your nose into things that don’t concern you, especially if there’s a murderer about.

I do need to point out that I’m still in the editing phase, so there may be some time before I get around to publishing it (if that’s what I decide to do). You see, this is definitely a ‘hobby’ type project, and one that may not be author material, but the process is certainly fun!

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A Love Letter to Going Out On Your Own

A Love Letter to Going Out On Your Own

Why You Should Absolutely Take Yourself Out

the effect of smiles

Alright, by now you’ve probably cottoned on to the fact that I live solo. Not just the kind of solo where the cat’s your flatmate and the plants get names (don’t have a cat but the plants get names), but the kind where I regularly venture out into the world—on my own. And that’s exactly what I felt like chatting about with you today: the fine art of doing things alone.

Let me ask you—have you ever dined out, just you, your plate, and the ambient murmur of a bustling restaurant? If you have, then go you! Give yourself a mental high five. And if you haven’t, well, maybe it’s time to give it a whirl.

This wee reflection was sparked by something that happened just yesterday. I was parked up at one of my favourite local cafés, laptop open, latte in hand—because frankly, their coffee is leagues better than what I whip up at home. Plus, I love that background hum of clinking cups, espresso steam, and low conversation. It’s like a cosy blanket of community and helps me create whatever it is I’m creating.

But then I saw her.

She caught my eye—a woman, possibly around my age, maybe a touch older. But I’d say she was definitely in her seventies. What struck me wasn’t what she was doing, but what she wasn’t doing. She didn’t have a phone. No laptop. No newspaper or book. Just her coffee and the sunshine. She was entirely present, sitting there, soaking in the atmosphere like a cat on a windowsill.

She was people-watching, smiling now and then, simply being. No distractions. No props. Just grace and groundedness (is that a word?) in a world that often feels like it’s spinning off its hinges.

And you know what? I’ve done that too. And sometimes I wonder—has someone glanced my way and thought: She looks happy. She looks like she belongs. She looks like she’s the boss of that corner table.

Because here’s the thing: you’ve got to own it. Whatever it is—your coffee, your meal, your moment. Claim it. The first time you go out on your own, yes, it feels a little wobbly. Maybe a touch awkward. But the second time’s easier. And by the third? You’ll be sauntering in like the café was built just for you.

And let me tell you, other women will see you. Not with pity or curiosity, but with admiration. Quiet envy, even. They’ll clock your confidence, your sense of ease, your refusal to wait for someone else to validate your right to be there. Even if, on the inside, you’re a bit shaky.

going out on your own

It doesn’t matter. You’re doing it. You’re living. You’re showing up in the world as your brilliant, unaccompanied self.

Because truthfully? This world’s a bit bonkers, and no one’s really paying all that much attention. So take the seat by the window. Order the dessert. Bring a book or bring nothing. Just be there.

Own the moment. You absolutely can.

 

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Losing Your Last Parent

Losing Your Last Parent

When both parents are gone, a deep change unfolds, and the inescapable reality of life’s fragility becomes clear.

the effect of smiles

I have a friend whose father is very old — over 100 — and he has now been given only a few days to live. My friend, understandably, is very distraught, and it brought back strong memories of when my own father passed away. My mother had died around 20 years earlier, but when my father died, the effect it had on me was something I hadn’t expected.

It doesn’t really matter, I don’t think, how old you are, or how old your parent is — unless, of course, they or you are very young. But I’m speaking more about when they are seniors, nearing the natural end of their lives.

If there’s been a close relationship between you and your parents, there’s a certain vulnerability that arises when the second parent dies. Suddenly, you no longer have that invisible buffer. While you still have living parents, you feel a little invincible; death doesn’t weigh heavily on your mind — unless you’re ill, of course. Under normal circumstances, it’s as if there’s an unseen shield between you and the afterlife.

When both parents have gone, you abruptly become part of the dying generation. That buffer is gone. There is nothing left between you and whatever lies beyond. It’s quite mind-bending. Intellectually, of course, we all know we’ll die one day, but while that buffer exists, our minds tend to block out the reality of it. When it’s gone, the inevitability of death truly hits home.

Religion, logic — none of that comes into it. It’s simply a sensation, a profound feeling that arises. I can’t speak for those who lose their parents young, but certainly, for those of us who are older when our parents pass, it seems to be a common experience. Everyone I’ve spoken to has said the same thing: it suddenly becomes very real. Death isn’t an abstract idea anymore — it’s an unavoidable certainty.

Losing your last parent

As the saying goes, the only things set in stone are death and taxes — and taxes, if you’re clever enough, you might manage to sidestep. But death? Death is certain. It’s simply part of life, and there it is.

 

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Opportunity Missed

Opportunity Missed

The One That Got Away

the effect of smiles

The other day, I was chatting with a friend whose granddaughter and yes, my granddaughters are getting older too—was in a full-blown career crisis. Fresh out of school, she had no clue what to do next. Gap year? Uni? Become a TikTok sensation? Who knows! It got me reminiscing about my own post-school turmoil and the roads I could have taken.

Looking back, there were moments when the universe cracked open a door, but I was too oblivious to step through it. I had grand plans—art school, acting, something creative. My parents, forward-thinking yet oddly old-fashioned, had other ideas. Instead of embracing my theatrical dreams, they steered me towards Business College—a misleading name for what was essentially a 12-month intense course in typing and shorthand. Riveting!

Unsurprisingly, office work didn’t light my fire. So, in a bold move, I applied for a job as a radio DJ. Yes, really. Me, spinning records and chatting to the masses. Did I have experience? Nope. But enthusiasm? Buckets of it.

I had answered an ad in the local paper. Now they actually didn’t even respond to my letter (in those days, you wrote a letter in response to an advert in the paper). So, armed with youthful audacity, I rang the station and asked why they hadn’t responded. They had wanted a guy, so I called them out for discrimination. If they wanted a bloke, they should’ve said so! Back then, a business advertising for staff could say they wanted male, female, old, young, etc. However, to their credit, they invited me in for a trial.

It was a disaster.

I stumbled through the DJ test with all the finesse of a cat on roller skates. However, instead of a total rejection, they said, “You’d be brilliant at reading the news!” And what did I do? I scoffed. Newsreading? How dull! I wanted to be part of the action, not reciting headlines like a robotic parrot.

So, I walked away. Now, with the benefit of hindsight (and a few more decades under my belt), I realise that was a mistake. That tiny opportunity could have led to a creative career—journalism, television, writing, the lot. But I was so fixated on what I thought I wanted that I ignored what could have been.

Life throws us open doors. Sometimes we step through, sometimes we don’t even notice. And sometimes, years later, we think… What if?

A Missed Opportunity

Take the chance. Walk through the door. Or at the very least, give it a decent nudge before it swings shut forever.

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The Power of Persistence

The Power of Persistence

The Surfer’s Lesson: Persistence Pays Off

the effect of smiles

I just got back from the beach, and wow, it was absolutely stunning down there! The salty breeze, the sound of the waves rolling in—it was one of those perfect moments that made you stop and soak it all in. Right now I’m housesitting at a beach house, so out on the balcony with my morning coffee, still feeling that fresh ocean air, I decided that I wanted to share something I saw today that really stuck with me.

While I was at the beach, I found myself watching a surfer—this guy was clearly determined. He kept paddling out, trying to catch a wave, but time and time again, he couldn’t seem to keep hold of any wave he caught. I’m guessing he was a beginner, as he should have been able to get some decent rides, but what stood out to me was his persistence. He didn’t get discouraged. He just kept going, paddling back out, trying again. And then—finally—he caught one! He rode that wave all the way in, and you could just tell it was a moment of triumph.

Watching him reminded me of my own surfing days. Fun fact: I used to surf all the time when I was younger! I must have been around 11 years old when I first started, maybe even younger. My sister had a surfboard—one of those classic, oversized longboards—and I would lug that thing across the sand, determined to get out on the water.

Back then, we didn’t have fancy ankle straps like surfers do today. If you wiped out and lost your board, well, you were in for a long swim! Sometimes, if you were lucky, another surfer would grab it and bring it back to you—one of those little acts of kindness that always meant a lot.

But the thing that really hit me today, watching that surfer, is how much persistence matters. Whether it’s surfing, golf, painting, music—anything really—the key is to just keep at it. You might wipe out a dozen times, but if you keep paddling back out, eventually, you’ll catch your wave. And when you do, it’ll be worth every single struggle that came before.

The Power of Persistence

 

That guy on the beach today? He had a great ride. And it was a reminder to me (and maybe to you, too) to keep pushing forward, no matter what.

 

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I’m On Bluesky

I’m On Bluesky

About Me

fee o'shea

Thanks for dropping by. My name is Fee O’Shea. I’m a mother and grandma, an author, and a Comedy Improver.
This blog is for my thoughts, my rants, raves, reviews and things that have grabbed my attention. From politics to social media to beauty, health and the environment. Fee’s World is written to bring you a smile or get you thinking. Enjoy.

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