Your Guide to Not Getting Murdered in a Quaint English Village

by Maureen Johnson

Technically you’re supposed to be dead before you end up here, but villagers aren’t strict about this.

You, however, are not a local. The moment you enter the pub, you will be observed from every corner. Your habits, demeanor, and manner of dress will be studied. You are an insect that has flown into the spider’s web.

The village hall is a factory where petty grudges are made, and there is no grudge like a petty, hobby-related grudge.

If anyone offers to show you their vat, say you need to get something from your car, start the engine, and run them over. The constable understands

you absolutely insist on attending the reenactment, do not attend the reenactment. Do not let your vigilance end there, though. The reenactment is often a misdirect. Another victim will die doing something normal in another part of the village while everyone else is playing murder in a field. So don’t not go to the reenactment, either.

There are a lot of these. They may seem safe because the death has already happened, but there is often a “since we’ve already dug a hole” spirit about these events. Locals have learned to economize.

You must go to the bell tower. You have no choice. You must kill the vicar. Sometimes, the murderer is you.

The aristocracy have three passions: inbreeding, collecting stolen artifacts, and engaging in recreational violence.

Always assume someone is roaming the grounds with a shotgun looking for long-lost cousin Hugo who just showed up and got top billing in the will.

Of course, no one is invited to the manor out of generosity or actual friendship—you are there to be a victim or falsely accused of murder.

Much importance is placed on seating arrangements, because it’s crucial to maintain the “deck chairs on the Titanic” mood.

Come in, poors. Look around! You simply must see the east wing.

Wisely, you avoid the family’s poisoning hour. However, you unwisely opt to follow someone to an unfamiliar location. You fall through a hole in the floor, landing in a pit in the basement, which is filled with the still-soft bodies of other guests. At least you won’t decompose alone.

You remain in bed, smug, reading your book, congratulating yourself on avoiding the danger. Until the snakes come.

From there, you peer out through the eyeholes and watch as Marianne kills Roger with a dagger and shoves his body up the chimney. Aunt Clara looks at you reassuringly and smiles. You have an ally. She will help you escape. She is…covered in snakes. They have fallen through the walls. Oh god, no, not the snakes, not the snakes. Oh well.