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Postwar murder stories are more varied than the “Golden Age” stuff, when it’s always about inheritance (or foreigners).
The fancy dress party is, however, a recurring trope in whodunnits. (Indeed, mistaken identity and disguise is a dramatic device as old as time, from Esau and Isaac on.)
Oxford residents seem to have an attraction to jumping off church towers, and admittedly they have a wide choice, but, for heavens’ sake, there are easier and less vindictive methods of arranging that inevitable rendezvous with your Maker.
I am very fond of Max, the pathologist who has a kyphoscoliosis, who quite properly refuses to be bullied by Morse, or anyone else, into making dogmatic statements that are unwarranted. He’s more than a match for Morse, who would be likely to skive off post-mortems he ought to attend.
It’s always easy to locate these novels in time by the cars - Metro, Maestro, Mini - names recalling the local Cowley industry, before Thatcher destroyed British manufacturing.
I can’t understand Morse’s enthusiasm for blended whisky (“cooking whisky”), Bell’s is acceptable in Black Bun; he thinks Glenfiddich is great stuff - he needs to get out more!
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