Magpie Murders

I just don't think you should start with a flashback.

Why not?

Well, first of all it's disconcerting.

Time moves forward.

From 1944 to 1953. That's what I've written.

Yes, but the bulk of your book takes place in 1953,

and I think

that's where your readers will feel most comfortable.

How do you know anything about my readers?

Alan!

I'm the one who sold 200,000 books.

Yes, and I'm the one who's helped you.

All I'm saying is,

we already know that Atticus Pund

was in a Nazi prison camp in 1944

because you told us so in the first two books.

He understands evil because he experienced it.

Yes, and I completely get that,

but showing him cold and hungry and miserable...

It... It... It doesn't add anything.

And all that horror, it's not why people buy your books.

And why do people buy my books, Susan?

Because they want to know who did it!

Well, yes, that's exactly my point.

Seven months of my time, 90,000 words,

just to find out it was the butler?

Alan, there's nothing shameful about it.

Your books are brilliant entertainment.

And anything serious, anything meaningful,

anything that actually relates to the human condition,

all that is irrelevant?

Your book is about a waitress who gets murdered

after receiving a bunch of roses.

I don't see how a chapter in Auschwitz helps!

Well, then maybe you shouldn't be editing it!

He was our most successful writer by a mile.

But he was the only one I didn't get on with.

We are of course devastated by his death.

But you have his new book.

Yes. We're working on it now.

Well, as long as we have the book and the backlist,

there's no issue as far as our deal is concerned.

What's more pressing for us

is that we're yet to have a decision from you, Susan.

- I understand. - I'm not sure you do.

The press are already circling.

It's important we make a confident statement

with no suggestion of internal conflict.

There is no conflict.

What if I don't want to be CEO?

We'd be disappointed.

But I could stay on in my role as senior editor.

We'd have to recruit a Chief Executive from outside.

I'd imagine it's something you'd have to discuss with him...

or her.

Right.

We'd like to make an announcement imminently,

and we have every confidence in you, Susan.

But we do need to have a decision from you soon.

Mm. Sure, sure.

"As long as we have the book and the backlist."

Yes... I heard.

So, did you find anything in Suffolk?

No, I told you. It had all been taken.

Notebooks, early drafts, photocopies... the lot.

Taken by...

Well, I presume whoever killed him.

What?

They killed him to steal his novel?

I know. It doesn't make much sense.

That house of his, Abbey Grange -

when was the last time you saw it?

Oh, I haven't been in Suffolk for five or six months.

He changed the name, did you know that?

It used to be called, uh... Ridgeway Hall when he bought it.

Huh.

The Adventure of the Abbey Grange.

A Sherlock Holmes story.

Sir Eustace Brackenhall killed during a burglary.

Except... it was a fake burglary.

It's funny, really.

Alan was never much of a Conan Doyle fan.

- He preferred Agatha Christie. - He stole from her.

He borrowed.

Yeah, like Robin Hood "borrowed" from the rich.

I'm gonna find that missing chapter, you know.

I'm gonna work out who killed him.

Are you really sure he was killed, Susan?

After all, you must admit it does seem a tad unlikely.

A murder writer... murdered.

Tell me about the dinner you had with him

when he gave you the manuscript.

Mm, Thursday night. You were in Frankfurt.

- Yeah. What happened? - Well, we went to La Maison.

You know, it's that restaurant club

where you pay £1,000 membership fee

for the privilege of paying to eat there.

It was his choice, not mine.

And he gave you the manuscript in the restaurant?

That's why I paid. It was a celebration.

Or it should have been.

Down the hatch! Here's to you.

- Thingy... - Right you are, sir.

Well, you look tremendous if I may say so.

Two glasses of champagne

and then a bottle of Gevrey-Chambertin.

That was my mistake.

He didn't like Gevrey-Chambertin?

Oh, God no, he loved it.

- Two hundred quid a bottle. - Woah, sorry.

So, what was the mistake?

I let him get drunk. You think you had it bad,

but he could be just as nasty with me.

I remember... ah!

We talked about the title of the book.

At that stage it was all I knew.

I have to say, I liked it from the moment we announced it.

"The Magpie Murders". Very strong! You know, I...

I think I can see that on the bestseller list.

"Magpie Murders".

Mm, no, I'm sorry?

Not "The Magpie Murders"! "Magpie Murders".

That's the bloody title!

There's absolutely no need to take umbrage.

There's no 'the'. I know that.

"Magpie Murders" it is.

Well, you know how volatile he could be after a drink or two.

Things could've turned quite nasty,

except that just then something rather strange happened.

It's not something you'd expect to see

in a restaurant like that.

It sounded like a bomb had gone off.

Idiot.

Anyway, I managed to change the subject.

And from then on, things went very much OK,

and then Alan went home in a taxi to his London flat.

And the next day, Friday, he wrote you a letter...

...apologising for his behaviour,

and on Saturday he went back on the train to Suffolk.

So as far as Alan was concerned,

he'd given you a complete manuscript.

He certainly didn't say otherwise.

I'm going to have to go back to Suffolk.

Well! Uh, you can come up with me, if you like.

When we go up for the funeral.

Bastard.

Didn't even invite me to that.

Excuse me.

Uh, who's being buried here?

Sir Magnus Pye. Tomorrow, I think.

And, uh, I suppose Mary Blakiston is buried here, too?

That's her over there.

- Did you know her? - Everyone knew her.

And she knew everyone.

A right busybody she was.

Just a body now.

Hmm.

Death, the great leveller. Eh, Pund?

Yes. That is most certainly true.

He was the lord of the manor, the land owner, the developer.

She was just the housekeeper.

You do have to wonder about the connection between them.

That connection, I think, is straightforward.

It is the connection between their deaths

that is of interest to me.

Ugh! I hate graveyards.

Glad to be getting out of here.

Not everyone has that choice.

- How can I help you? - You are Robert Blakiston?

- Why do you want to know? - My name is Atticus Pund.

Oh, Pund? The famous detective?

I thought you said you weren't interested in Saxby-on-Avon.

That was before the murder of Sir Magnus Pye.

I suppose you think I did that, too, ey?

Mr Pund! What are you doing here?

He's here about the murder of Sir Magnus.

Have you invited him in?

I'm working.

Harry can look after the pumps.

"Come in, Mr Pund.

"Harry returned to the pumps,

"while Robert led Pund into the flat he occupied

"above the garage."

Sorry, I didn't hear you come in.

No, don't apologise! You should carry on reading.

Maybe you can tell me who did it.

I guessed the last one.

- "Atticus Pund Abroad"? - It was the nun.

Yes!

With a candlestick in the cloisters. Huh!

Any thoughts so far?

Well, I'm only on page 50,

but right now I'd say...

Joy Sanderling is my number one suspect.

Oh. Any reason?

She's the least likely.

Isn't that how it always works?

Mm.

I don't see why we should talk to you.

We came to you for help, and you ignored us.