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The murder mystery is one of the longest surviving genres of all time. At a time, it was even my absolute favourite (I no longer know) genre. However, lately I've felt disillusioned with modern attempts to be the next Christie and this novel is another example of why.

This book thinks it's clever, a book within a book following Susan Ryeland- an editor of Cloverleaf Books and the blandest character I have ever read about- and the main character of the book within the book called Atticus Pund. Magpie Murders is actually about Pund's final case and the last book in the series. A murder has happened in Saxby-on-Avon a sleepy English village straight out of a Christie novel and set in the 50s. It was easily my favourite part of the book. The only part I enjoyed.

The story starts with Ryeland reading the manuscript for Magpie Murders by Alan Conway, which begins with a funeral. Local busybody and shit-stirrer Mary Blakiston was found dead at the bottom of the stairs of the house where she worked, Pye Hall. She died within the house but it was locked from the inside. The doctor and gardener had to break into the house to get to her. Mary Blakiston was a poor man's Alison DiLaurentis. She knew a little too much about everyone and was fond of rubbing her illicit knowledge in her victims' faces. Perhaps that was why she was killed. Was she killed? Just when Pund is about to reveal what happened to her, going as far as namedropping the person who could be responsible, the novel within is abruptly cut short.

Now, I have nothing against cliff-hangers. I actually appreciate it when the author has a legitimate reason to withhold information from the reader. But sometimes, it's just a waste of time, energy, money, space, paper and ink. Horowitz owes a big debt to the universe for all the bullshit he had me slog through just to get to the resolution of the real Magpie Murders.

See there is a reason why that information was cut short. Ryeland didn't have the full manuscript and alas, she can't have the rest of them because the author has died of apparent suicide. Ryeland then finds herself in a murder mystery of her own that any sleuth worth their salt would scoff at. The thing I love about mysteries, besides wondering how the crime was committed, is the colourful cast of characters and the setting. One of my favourite mysteries of all time, Stranger on the Shore , is set in a Long Island estate with a wealthy family with its requisite cast of eccentrics. It rewards me with people to hate, people to love, people to root for and people to wish they drop dead. In Ryeland's part of the story, there was no such thing. If anything I just couldn't wait for the story to end.

Being in Ryeland's head is so damn BOOOORING. And my god is she just such an inspiration for ambivalence. Her life is the equivalent of bleurgh. At one point she has to choose becoming CEO of her publishing house after the presiding leader suggests he may retire and wants to hand over the reigns to her. However, her Greek lover has asked her to go with him to Greece where he wants to run a hotel Greekly. Seriously, the author won't ever let you forget Andreas is Greek. Ryeland somehow sees this as such a Problem.

Quite unexpectedly, and without really wanting it, I had come to a crossroads - or more accurately, a T-junction - in my life. I could take over as CEO of Cloverleaf Books. There were writers I wanted to work with... As I'd told Andreas the night before, I could develop the business the way I wanted. Or there was Crete. The choices were so different, the two directions so contrary, that considering the two of them side by side almost made me want to laugh... Why do these things have to happen at the same time?

Ryeland is also rather the poor narrator. She's even aware of it, and that makes her inclusion in this novel at all even more egregious All of this makes me a poor choice of narrator/investigator. The red herrings in this book feel like a complete waste of time. They even come with a letter written about Conway by his sister which had a few nice lines, He used language as a place for us to hide. But sudden moments of writerly genius weren't enough to compensate for the hand-holding, amatuer hour narration and pure slog that was the second half of this book.

I didn't enjoy the conclusion of Ryeland's mystery and I wondered why it was even necessary. Her bits also had two more books within books with one being Conway satirizing or canonizing a Serious Writer™️ where he referred to a baby as an unlovely ball of poisonous mauve (ew) and another where a wannabe author and waiter was showing Ryeland his novel. I have no idea whether Horowitz wanted to show off his ability to write different voices in which case cool, bro.

This book leaves me with mixed feelings. I loved the Christie call-back of the Atticus Pund story but Ryeland's part of the story can go fuck itself. The cover of my copy has a blurb from the Daily Mail (of all fucking newspapers) calling it the finest crime novel of the year with a stunning twist. It certainly left me stunned as to what was stunning.