Magpie Murders

“When he thought about her and looked at what he had just written, a single word came to mind. Busybody. It wasn’t fair and it certainly wasn’t something he would ever have spoken out loud, but he had to admit there was some truth to it.”

Although Robin Osborne tries to make his sermon pious and impartial, he can’t help but feel dislike for the woman who has just died—Mary Blakiston. This passage highlights the hypocrisy between words and feelings, especially when it comes to the recent deaths.

“‘That’s the thing about funerals. They’re completely hypocritical. Everyone says how wonderful the deceased was, how kind, how generous when, deep down, they know it’s not true.’” 

Henrietta Osborne expresses her distaste for the hypocrisy of funerals, explaining that most people say things they know they aren’t true. Even when they’re not outright lying, people refuse to be honest with one another and express their true feelings about the deceased.

“That was when the thought had first wormed its way into her head. It had remained there ever since. It was there now. She had tried to ignore it. She had prayed for it to go away. But in the end she’d had to accept that she was contemplating a sin much more terrible than covetousness and, worse, she had taken the first step toward putting it into action. It was madness.” 

This passage describes Clarissa Pye’s impious thoughts that creep into her mind without her bidding. Although the reader first assumes that she might be referring to murdering her brother, it later becomes clear that Clarissa may in fact be referring to the sin of suicide.

“Life without Magnus would be considerably simpler and a great deal more enjoyable. It was just a shame that lightening didn’t have the habit of striking twice.” 

In this passage, Frances Pye idly considers the possibility of her husband’s death. Although she is supposed to be devoted to and dependent on her husband, in reality she finds herself trapped in a loveless marriage that would leave her penniless if she were to end it of her own accord. Instead, she fantasizes about what would happen if her husband were to die.

“She wanted to ask him whose blood it was. She wanted to know how it had gotten there. But she didn’t dare. She couldn’t accuse him. Such a thing was impossible.”

Henrietta Osborne is worried about her husband’s unexplained actions and afraid that he may have committed murder. Despite this, however, she remains faithful to him and can’t bear to accuse him of a crime of which he may not be guilty. In contrast to some of the other wives depicted in novel, she is steadfastly loyal.

“Gemma Whitehead had come to Saxby-on-Avon because she thought it would be safe.” 

Although Gemma and her husband moved to the village to put his checkered past behind them, she finds that it has finally caught up with them despite their best efforts. While they have tried to make a new life for themselves, they are unable to hide from their past actions. Even the sleepy village of Saxby-on-Avon cannot provide a true safe haven.

“‘I have spoken to you before of the nature of human wickedness, my friend. How it is the small lies and evasions which nobody sees or detects but which can come together and smother you like the fumes in a house fire.’” 

Atticus describes to James the ways in which small, everyday evils can fester and take root. This can be applied to small, everyday evils that culminate into terrible things like concentration camps and wars, or it can simply refer to the little things that slowly eat people alive. In both cases, even seemingly meaningless little evils have the potential to have serious effects.

“There would be no funeral. He had seen too much of death in his lifetime to want to adorn it with ritual, to dignify it as anything more than it was… a passage.”

Atticus doesn’t want a funeral, having seen enough of death. He is not religious, and isn’t sure what happens after death, but he would rather it be a simple, quiet affair that marks the passage from one realm of existence to the next.

“Fraser knew that he was not so much searching for clues as sensing the atmosphere—he had often heard him talk about the memory of a crime, the supernatural echoes left behind by sadness and violent death.” 

In addition to looking for clues and asking sharp questions, much of Atticus’s detective work also has to do with exploring the environment and sensing the atmosphere of a place. Although Atticus is not religious, he believes that by paying attention, he can pick up subtle cues and hints about what might have happened at a particular location.

“Murder changed everything. It broke the gentle rhythm of life. It turned neighbor against neighbor. Suddenly nobody was to be trusted and doors which were usually left open at night were locked.”

The murders deeply affected the community, prompting suspicion and distrust. The passage illustrates the ways in which a single act of evil or malice can have lasting effects, turning people against one another and poisoning a community against itself.

“Could it really be true that one of the villagers, living in Georgian house perhaps, going to church and playing for the local cricket team, mowing their lawn on Sunday mornings and selling home-made marmalade at the village fete, was a homicidal maniac?”

Chubb wonders whether it really could be possible that a murderer could be living among them. This passage highlights the contrast between the sleepy English countryside and the violent act of murder. Though it might seem implausible, killers can come from anywhere. No place is entirely innocent or devoid of evil.

“One can think of the truth as eine Vertiefung—a sort of deep valley which may not be visible from a distance but which will come upon you quite suddenly. There are many ways to arrive there. A line of questioning that turns out to be irrelevant still has the power to bring you nearer your goal. There are no wasted journeys in the detection of a crime.”

Atticus’s method of solving crimes embraces all paths, even when they are circuitous or seem like dead ends. In his way of thinking, all paths are fruitful because they bring him nearer a goal—even if they ultimately prove to be misguided. The smallest details can have the power to shed new light and bring a detective closer to the truth.

“‘I had only to make the connections and it all became very clear. Sometimes, you know, it is not the physical clues that lead to the solution of the crime.’” 

Atticus’s process of deduction relies more on the connections between people, places, and motivations than it does on physical clues. Human nature and actions, even when they don’t leave physical evidence, can often be deduced by exploring relationships and histories.

“I never guess the ending and I can’t wait for the moment when the detective gathers all the suspects in the room and, like a magician conjuring silk scarves out of the air, makes the whole thing make sense.”

Susan Ryeland has always been a fan of mystery novels, particularly the way they provide the reader with a satisfying conclusion at their ending. While murder mysteries can, in many ways, mirror real life, they depart from reality when they are able to sum everything up neatly at the end of a novel, providing order and closure in an otherwise disordered world.

“Emotions which are quickly lost in the noise and chaos of the city fester around the village square, driving people to psychosis and violence.” 

Unlike cities, small towns have the unique ability to breed resentment, hatred, and even outbreaks of violence due to their size and secluded nature. In this passage, Susan argues that there is a reason that many murder mysteries are set in small towns, as they provide a unique environment in which unstable emotions and old grudges often play out.

“Why is it that we have such a need for murder mystery and what is it that attracts us—the crime or the solution? Do we have some primal need of bloodshed because our own lives are so safe, so comfortable?” 

Susan reflects on the appeal of murder mysteries. On the one hand, murder mysteries can be appealing because of their neat and satisfying endings. On the other hand, they can also be attractive because of their lurid details and bloody crimes. Susan posits that because humans live safe and comfortable lives, they are often more engaged in bloody fictional stories.

“‘Alan was a fighter all his life. Sometimes this could make him seem difficult and aggressive but I don’t think he was either of those things. He simply knew what he wanted and he never allowed anything to get in his way.’”

Alan’s sister Claire insists that Alan was a determined man who pursued his own desires at all costs. Because of this, Claire isn’t convinced that he killed himself, and believes that someone may have murdered him.

“‘Do you know why people kill each other? They do it because they’re out of their heads. There are only three motives. Sex, anger, and money.’” 

The police detective that Susan meets is unimpressed by her amateur detective work. He insists that real life is much different from mystery novels, and that murderers don’t go around leaving elaborate clues. The reasons for murder are usually simple and uninteresting.

“‘He knew what those books were—and he knew when he was putting them together. They’re badly written trash!’”

Andreas insists that Alan’s novels were never any good, and that Alan himself knew this. Alan felt by his fame, and consistently churned out mediocre novels rather than pursue his true passion.

“You must know the feeling when it’s raining outside and the heating’s on and you lose yourself, utterly, in a book. You read and you read and you feel the pages slipping through your fingers until suddenly there are fewer in your right hand than there are in your left and you want to slow down but you still hurtle on to a conclusion that you can hardly bear to discover. That is the particular power the whodunit which has, I think, a special place within the general panoply of literary fiction because, of all the characters, the detective enjoys a particular, indeed a unique relationship with the reader.”

Susan describes the delightful experience of losing oneself in a good book. From her point of view, mystery novels are uniquely able to induce this feeling because of the way that they draw the reader into an imagined world and engage them in a unique relationship with the main character.

“But we stand shoulder to shoulder with the detective. From the very start, we have the same aim—and it’s actually a really simple one.” 

Susan argues that unlike other fictional characters, detectives are distinctively relatable because they share many similarities with the reader of a mystery novel. Both parties attempt to solve the mystery of the novel, and both eagerly pursue the truth above all else.

“What was it like, for them? A slow process, like constructing a jigsaw? Or did it come in a rush, one last turn in a toy kaleidoscope when all the colors and shapes tumbled and twisted into each other, forming a recognizable image? That was what had happened to me. The truth had been there. But it had taken a final nudge for me to see it, all of it.”

In this passage, Susan describes the moment of insight when she realizes who the killer is. She wonders whether other famous detectives throughout time have felt this way and explains that it took a final push for everything to finally fall into place for her. 

“‘We need our literary heroes. Life is dark and complicated but they shine out. They’re the beacons that we follow.’” 

In attempting to justify his murder of Alan Conway, Charles Clover argues that Alan was going to discredit a literary figure, and that doing so would be a disservice to his readers. He claims that since Alan was going to die anyway, he had to act to preserve Atticus and other characters from Alan’s spite.