Guest Blog - Stalking the English Village by Maria Hudgins

Stalking the little English Village

I’ve been thinking about this for a long time: Why can’t cozy mysteries set in today’s America evoke the same charm we find in those of the Golden Age? I’m talking about the murder in a little English village where everybody knows everybody else. Where the village idiot is as much a part of the community as the doctor but is never referred to as challenged, special, or any other modern euphemism. Where curtains shift when a car drives past. American mysteries seem to be either urban with lots of blood and action, or suburban with everyone on the block the same age, upper-middle class, and flashing impossibly white teeth.

Our failure is certainly not for lack of trying. A quick scan of the mystery section at Barnes and Noble reveals dozens of new cozy titles every month. But (okay, here’s where someone throws a heavy object at me) many of them are silly. Some insult the reader’s intelligence. Some feature towns where the smartest residents are either feline or canine.

Essential features of the cozy plot include an isolated or limited group of suspects, a victim that everyone knew but no one will miss very much, and a murder committed under baffling circumstances. Usually we have an amateur sleuth but not always. Usually the body is discovered near the beginning of the story and the solution is revealed near the end. Usually the clues needed to solve the mystery are right there, in black and white, but still somehow concealed.

Readers of cozies are intelligent people who love a mental challenge. The only thing they like more than figuring out “whodunit” before the author tells them is NOT figuring it out and slapping themselves on the forehead with “Oh, no! How did I miss it?”

For this reason, plotting a mystery is hard. So hard I have to squeeze my eyes tight shut, groan, hands on head—basically the same process as childbirth—and twist my clues, red herrings, and sub-plots around until something makes sense.

Back to my original question: Whatever happened to the little English village? Do they still exist? On a recent trip to the English Cotswolds, I rented a car (big mistake) and drove around looking for that quiet, charming place where a good murder or two would upset the local applecart and bring out the nosy Parkers. They do still exist! They are as pretty as ever, but they’re not the same. The photo is one I took on my ramble through the countryside west of Oxford. What’s different? Under the thatched roofs they now have computers and TVs and microwaves. The man and the woman of the house are both wage-earners, employed in jobs that didn’t exist twenty years ago. Their children have tattoos and wear T-shirts with strange messages. A Beamer sits in the driveway.

On the other hand, I did find one sign that told me the quaint little village hasn’t changed all that much. A chalkboard menu outside a tiny tearoom announced the arrival of Samantha’s four boys and two girls. I suspect Samantha is neither human, cow, nor horse, but is a valued member of the community anyway. Samantha and offspring were all doing well.

Maybe I’m looking at this the wrong way. Maybe I should quit looking for the modern equivalent of the little English village and content myself, as I have been doing, with settings that isolate a small group of suspects. So far I’ve used a Scottish castle, a tour bus, and a cruise ship. The story I’m working on now takes place in a Swiss chateau high in the Alps.

What do you think? Where can I go to find a great setting for a mystery?

Many thanks to Pamela and Terri for inviting me in today. Please check out my website, www.mariahudgins.com.