Two Things Every Great Mystery Novel Needs
How to craft an irresistible premise
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Have you ever noticed that a lot of mystery novels are promoted as “locked room” mysteries. You know: a guy was murdered in a locked room—how did the murderer manage to get into and out of the room undetected?
Very few of these novels are actually locked room mysteries. I know this sounds counterintuitive, but just because the room is locked doesn’t mean the mystery is a locked room mystery. In order for a novel to live up to the term, the murder must occur in a room that’s completely inaccessible—all windows and doors are locked, there’s no sign of forced entry, and no one has a key or any other way of getting into and out of the room.
Of course, it’s fine if we figure out later that someone did have a secret key or there was a secret way into the room or whatever. But if, for example, a murder takes place in a locked hotel room, I’m going to assume there are very many staff keys that will open that room. Hence, the novel is not a locked room mystery.
So why do so many books get marketed this way?
Because a murder mystery needs to center on a unique detail in order to intrigue potential readers. This detail usually comes from one of two places: the murder scene or the detective. Or it can come from both! (And if a novel doesn’t have a compellingly unique detail, it gets marketed with an attention-grabbing term like “locked room,” even if that term doesn’t fit.)
Today we’ll discuss the two things every great mystery novel needs:
a unique death, and
a unique sleuth.
Let’s figure out how to create a defining detail for each.
The Unique Death
Seemingly Impossible Puzzles
The first modern detective story, Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” was the original locked room mystery.
Two women, mother and daughter, are found brutally murdered in their locked apartment on the fourth floor of a building. Neither woman was strong enough to have inflicted the savage wounds found on either body. The windows are nailed shut, the chimney is too small for any person to pass through, and the only key is in the lock, on the inside of the door. Who murdered the women?
In 1841, when the story was published, this was a fiendish riddle with a sensational answer (which I won’t give away—you can read the story here for free). One reason the story still entices readers is that the mystery seems to have no possible answer—and yet we’re promised a logical solution!
Seemingly impossible puzzles make for great murder mysteries. Our curiosity keeps the pages turning. In fact, consider that one of the most famous mystery novels of all time, And Then There Were None, is popular not because of any memorable character (the detective doesn’t even appear until the epilogue), but simply because the novel presents an irresistible puzzle: Ten people arrive on an island where they are utterly alone, and yet they’re all murdered.
If you want to try solving an especially difficult puzzle, let me recommend The Honjin Murders by Seishi Yokomizo, in which a husband and wife are found murdered on their wedding night in a locked room surrounded by untouched snow. My book club worked incredibly hard to solve this mystery only to be completely astounded by the novel’s final chapters. The book is considered one of Japan’s greatest classic murder mysteries, no doubt because the puzzle seems entirely impossible until the ingenious solution is revealed.
I have the utmost respect for anyone who can pull off a mystery that presents such a tricky puzzle. But if you’re not keen on creating something so difficult, there’s another way to give your mystery novel a unique twist…
Irony
Anthony Horowitz’s The Word Is Murder, the first book in my favorite ongoing mystery series, has a fantastic tagline: SHE PLANNED HER OWN FUNERAL. BUT DID SHE ARRANGE HER OWN MURDER?
That’s right—a woman was murdered just after she planned her own funeral! Obviously, there’s a lot more to the situation than that, but when we boil down the crime to its most ironic element, we get a great marketing hook.
The same is true for Ariel Lawhon’s The Frozen River, a mystery novel that’s currently flying off shelves. In 1798, a man is found frozen in the river shortly after having been accused of rape, and a midwife is summoned to examine the body. The premise is interesting enough without considering the condition in which the body was found, but the image of a big, strong man entombed in ice is nicely sensational in its irony.
Sometimes it’s easier to focus the irony through a tantalizing clue. In Three Bags Full by Leonie Swann, a shepherd is found dead with a spade driven through his body. By the end of the first chapter, we’re presented with an intriguing clue: a sheep’s hoof print is found on the shepherd’s chest. Did a sheep have something to do with the shepherd’s murder? Very ironic!
It’s also great to include tantalizing clues in seemingly impossible puzzle mysteries. The Honjin Murders might be popular because the novel presents a locked room mystery, but some of its popularity can likely be attributed to two dramatic clues: just before the husband and wife are murdered, eerie music plays, and at the scene of the crime, a bloody samurai sword is found thrust into the otherwise pristine snow.
These two details, music and sword, are at seeming odds. One should accompany a wedding, the other should not. The clues are interesting on their own, but the irony makes them even more intriguing.
The Unique Sleuth
A Fascinating Skill or Advantage
The other element that made “The Murders in The Rue Morgue” intriguing enough to kick off an entire modern genre is the eccentric sleuth who solves the mystery.
C. Auguste Dupin is such an astute thinker that he’s able to surmise what the narrator of the story is thinking just by observing the narrator’s actions as the two walk down the street together. He solves the murder at the heart of the story through the same ingenious method of observation and analysis.
Of course, it’s now common for fictional detectives to be startlingly observant and brilliantly logical, but Dupin was the first sleuth to solve a fictional murder in this way. It’s a lot of fun to hear him explain how the smallest clue, like a spot of rust, unravels the tangled truth about what happened in the Rue Morgue.
Nowadays, because this particular skill is so common in fictional detectives, readers tend to need some other unique trait to draw them to a sleuth and his story. Usually, this trait is skill that gives the sleuth a unique advantage to solve the murder.
Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple is a seemingly sweet old lady—no one suspects her to be shrewd enough to solve a murder, which means suspects are seldom on their guard around her. She also has a deep understanding of human nature, a skill shared by sleuths like Father Brown, who seems to see into the inner workings of the human heart and understand each suspect’s possible motives.
Supernatural skills are a lot of fun too. In The Fox Wife by Yangsze Choo, Bao is a detective with an uncanny ability to know when someone is lying. This skill would obviously be helpful in any murder mystery, but it’s essential to Bao’s investigation, since he’ll encounter shapeshifting foxes who can secretly take human form.
Stuart Turton’s The 7 1/2 Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle also centers on a sleuth with a supernatural advantage: he wakes every morning in the body of a different suspect, living the same day over and over until he can solve the murder that happens at midnight. He gets to see the crime from several perspectives, which helps him put together clues in a way no other fictional sleuth can.
Connection to the Crime
Not all sleuths are inherently gifted. For some sleuths, it’s the connection to the crime that provides intrigue and advantage. The murder of the shepherd in Three Bags Full is investigated by none other than his own flock of sheep, who know him better than anyone. They can also spy on suspects, who never imagine that the sheep are smart enough to sniff out a murderer.
In The Frozen River, the midwife who’s called to examine the body found in ice has been keeping an extensive diary of every “birth and death, crime and debacle” in her community. Which means she’s sitting on a wealth of insight and possible clues to who murdered the frozen victim.
In The Thursday Murder Club by Richard Osman, the group of sleuths not only know a lot about their own retirement community, where one of the murders takes place, but they understand the mindset of their fellow retirees, an insight that proves crucial to finding the murderer.
Endearing Vulnerability
While it’s often a sleuth’s advantages that draw us into a novel, it’s usually his vulnerability that gives the story staying power. Christie’s Poirot is brilliant, but his adherence to “order and method” make him famously fussy. And this flaw is what makes him so fun!
In the same way, we root for the midwife at the center of The Frozen River not only because she’s intelligent and meticulous but because we know she’s a woman up against powerful men who have the power to overrule women in this 1789 setting. Her courage in the face of this disadvantage makes her admirable.
The sheep-sleuths in Three Bags Full are often hopelessly clueless about how the human world operates. Their skittishness and stupidity make them lovable, even while these same traits keep us in suspense as to whether our sleuths will be up for the task for solving the mystery.
In The Word Is Murder, the narrator is paired with a brilliant detective who’s nevertheless rude, secretive, and dogged by scandal. We sympathize with the narrator’s frustration even while we root for him to find a way to get along with police detective Hawthorne so that they can solve the case. We’re also endeared to Hawthorne not only through his unmatched skill but also because it’s hinted he had a difficult childhood and now lives a lonely life.
As someone who loves to read and write thrillers, I especially enjoy that the sleuth in The 7 1/2 Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle is shadowed by a sinister figure known as The Footman, who knows our sleuth is looping through time and wants to kill him before he can stop the murder that will take place at midnight. Not only does the Footman add excitement to the plot, but he makes me root for the sleuth to come out on top.
Focusing On One Or Both
In truth, you don’t actually need a unique death and a unique sleuth to craft a great mystery novel. I’ve already admitted the detective plays very little role in Christie’s And Then There Were None. And there’s nothing especially ironic or puzzling about the way Evelyn Hardcastle dies in Turton’s time-loop mystery. The former novel presents irresistibly interesting deaths, and the latter gives its sleuth an utterly fascinating advantage. One elevated element is enough for each of these novels.
In the same way, I can’t say that the sleuth at the center of one of my favorite novels, Three Times Lucky by Sheila Turnage, has a special skill or that the victim’s death is inherently ironic or puzzling. Instead, it’s the novel’s voice that reels me in, and the vulnerability of its main character, Mo LoBeau, who hopes one day to be reunited with the mother whom she was separated from as a baby.
If you’re hoping to sharpen your own mystery novel, you might think about focusing on making the victim’s death more unique or making your sleuth more magnetic. Or you might go ahead and do both. Either way, just remember to follow the Seven Rules for Satisfying Mysteries, and I’ll be happy!
Your Turn
If you’re hoping to make your mystery novel more compelling by creating a unique death or sleuth, try asking yourself these questions:
How might I use the setting of the story to create a more sensational crime scene?
Which clue can I introduce early in the story that suggests an intriguing irony?
What makes my sleuth different from sleuths in other murder mysteries I’ve read? How can I exaggerate this trait in a way that gives my sleuth greater skill and greater vulnerability?
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