Most murderers fall back on the obvious methods: guns, poison, the occasional dagger. Most murderers suffer from a deficit of imagination. So keen are they to dispose of their victims quickly, efficiently and with the minimum risk of revealing their own foul hand, they do not stop to consider the creative potential of a well-orchestrated homicide.

When I found out that I’d got the job at I Spy I sent the wife down town to pick me up some suitable gear: a battered trenchcoat, a fedora, a false beard and a hangdog look.

Frances was most dreadfully popular. She always had been. Even as a young child the other children had vied for her affection. They’d offered her the best of their packed lunches, first slice of whatever cake was on the go and always allowed her the much-coveted front seat of the school bus; the only seat which -on account of its proximity to the driver- was not covered in lumps of previously chewed gum.

I had, by this stage, amassed a tremendous fortune. I was also advanced in age, well passed the three score and ten allotted to me by the Psalmist. I had no heir, no lover, nor even an obvious relative with whom to entrust my vast fortune. The matter of what should be done with my estate was weighing heavily upon me.

It has yet to be called an epidemic. Only two thousand cases have been identified, though the Press claim the problem to be far more widespread and criminally under-reported.

Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays I do for old Mrs Weatherby who lives in the big house next to the station. The poor dear’s all by herself now and can’t manage even the most basic cleaning. Tuesdays and Thursdays I work as a mannequin at Lucie’s.

Lest you begin to think there’s only one party with any sway in this godforsaken hole of a village, let me take the opportunity to remind you about the Nephew Amusing Party.

Good afternoon friends. Welcome to Chimneys. I dare say you’ve all had a chance to freshen up and avail yourselves of a cocktail on the lawn. First off, can I thank you for agreeing to this clandestine get together?

The new vicar was well-established in St Mary Mead. He’d conducted several funerals (all elderly), and a spate of christenings, (all of the infant variety), and was limbering up for the summer wedding season which would be particularly busy this year.

The first time your wife died you were terribly sad. You cried and got on like a child. You drunk yourself blind with the chaps from college. You swore you’d never touch another woman. Your wife was the only girl for you.

Oh won’t you come to our Friendly Girls’ Evenings. The regular crew are ever so nice.

 It had long been Mr Fish’s dream to attend an English country house party of the sort which last for a single weekend. He’d read of them in the works of PG Wodehouse and other novels of a certain ilk and had developed a rather fixed notion of what such parties should involve.

This was not Anne’s first stint as a secretary. After school she’d trained as a typist and worked in a junior capacity at the local library, firing out letters about overdrawn books and unpaid fines. It was simple work and not at all taxing.

The acrobat was born with wrists of steel. Her mother had not envisioned this though later, with hindsight she will recall the afternoon her lover -the acrobat’s father- lay beside her on the living room couch, affixing fridge magnets to the dome of her belly.