S01E09: Help! There's a spoiler in chapter one. 🙃
All about inverted mysteries a.k.a. reverse whodunits.
What is the biggest reason you enjoy detective fiction? For most fans, it’s the fun of spotting clues, pitting our wits against the detective’s, and the thrill of the final reveal—the unmasking of the murderer. It’s why murder mysteries are also called whodunnits, because who did it is the biggest mystery of all.
Well, not in inverted mysteries.
This is a sub-genre of mystery fiction in which the murderer is revealed to the reader right on page one. Okay, maybe chapter one… well, definitely in the early chapters. Where’s the fun in that, you might ask. That’s what we explore in this, the ninth episode1 of About Murder, She Wrote.
Reverse Whodunits: What are they?
There are many examples of books, dating back to the 17th century, in which we see someone planning or committing a murder early in the story and which forms the trigger or crux of the plot. For example, Shakespeare’s Macbeth (1606) in which King Duncan is murdered in Act I or Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment (1866) in which the poverty-stricken Raskolnikov plots the murder of an old pawnbroker.
However, these are tales of crime, psychology or human drama rather than detection.
The credit for the first inverted mystery novel written in the form of detective fiction goes to R. Austin Freeman. In his 1924 essay The Art of the Detective Story, Freeman breaks down the structure of traditional whodunits this way.
… a detective novel is, in effect, an argument conducted under the guise of fiction. But it is a peculiar form of argument. The problem having been stated, the data for its solution are presented inconspicuously and in a sequence purposely dislocated so as to conceal their connexion; and the reader's task is to collect the data, to rearrange them in their correct logical sequence and ascertain their relations, when the solution of the problem should at once become obvious. The construction thus tends to fall into four stages: (1) statement of the problem; (2) production of the data for its solution ("clues"); (3) the discovery, i.e., completion of the inquiry by the investigator and declaration by him of the solution; (4) proof of the solution by an exposition of the evidence.
He then goes on to describe how he played around with this conventional structure as an experiment and wrote “an inverted detective story in two parts.”
The first part was a minute and detailed description of a crime, setting forth the antecedents, motives, and all attendant circumstances. The reader had seen the crime committed, knew all about the criminal, and was in possession of all the facts. It would have seemed that there was nothing left to tell. But I calculated that the reader would be so occupied with the crime that he would overlook the evidence. And so it turned out. The second part, which described the investigation of the crime, had to most readers the effect of new matter.
The story he is referring to is The Case of Oscar Brodski (1912), a wonderfully written short whose first part introduces us to the murderer and the circumstances leading up to the crime. This unfolds at breakneck speed and even when you know what is about to happen, you find yourself sitting on the edge of your seat, as if in a movie theatre. The emotionally charged tone of this section deflects our attention from the clues to the murderer’s psyche.
Freeman firmly believed that readers of detective fiction were seekers of intellectual satisfaction. According to him, it was the author’s “duty” to clearly demonstrate how the solution is reached and prove that the conclusion logically follows from the facts presented and that no other explanation would make sense. “If it is satisfactorily done, this is to the critical reader usually the most interesting part of the book,” he wrote.
Part two of this story, where Dr. Thorndyke (Freeman’s medico-legal expert investigator) steps in, embodies this belief. The good doctor examines the body minutely, sharing his observations and conclusions with his sidekick…er, friend Dr. Jervis. The pace slows down and emotions give way to logic. We revisit the crime in reverse, seeing everything through an investigator’s eyes and spotting details that the murderer missed or didn’t know. There’s no chase, no big reveal. In fact, we don’t even meet the murderer again!
Another example from this period is Antidote to Venom (1938) by Freeman Wills Crofts. In this story, a Birmingham zoo director juggling debt and marital discord decides to commit murder as a way out of his troubles. More than half the book forms the prelude to the crime and follows the protagonist as he gets more and more desperate. The murder goes off as planned—but he hits unexpected road blocks afterwards. And then, Inspector French steps in with his suspicions. The fun in this book is not the who of the crime but the “fiendishly complicated” how. We follow the trail of bread crumbs along with Inspector French and piece together the ingenious, if elaborate, solution.
But not all inverted mysteries follow this pattern.
Will he get away with it?
Francis Iles was one of the pseudonyms used by ace mystery writer Anthony Berkeley Cox and it is under this pen name that he published Malice Aforethought (1931), a novel that has an immortal first line.
“It was not until several weeks after he had decided to murder his wife that Doctor Bickleigh took any active steps in the matter.”
This blackly comic novel features the mild Dr. Bickleigh, who is unhappily married to a woman who despises him and reminds him constantly that she married beneath her station. He finds solace in falling for one woman after another, until a series of incidents influences him to take matters into his own hands and devise “the perfect murder”.
But how is he going to do it? That’s one of the interesting aspects of the book. The other is Dr. Bickleigh himself—he is not a nice person but you can’t help being fascinated by the complexities of his personality and maybe even feel a little sorry for him. Equally interesting are the women in his life and the villagers who seem to know more (and less) than Dr. Bickleigh thinks. Will he get away with murder? You’ll have to wait till the twist in the final courtroom scene to find out.
Fun fact: Malice Aforethought was named by American novelist and Nobel Prize winner Sinclair Lewis as one of his four essential mystery stories that are “authentic literature, shrewd and competent writing with that power of suggesting more than is said, of awakening the emotions and the imagination.”
More examples of the suspenseful “Will (s)he get away with it?” style of storytelling can be found in Christianna Brand’s short stories—I highly recommend the mega collection Buffet for Unwelcome Guests.
Murder is no laughing matter…or is it?
An interesting pattern I’ve observed in inverted mysteries is that a surprising number of them take the path of black comedy. And no one has done them better than Brtish novelist Richard Hull. I find it amusing that this clever writer worked a day job as an accountant, a profession scoffed at as boring by many detective novelists.
Hull wrote a number of mysteries that rate 10/10 for enjoyability. In all his inverted mysteries, we meet protagonists who are furious with someone else for real or imagined reasons. They try progressively more drastic and/or immoral methods to get one up on the object of their loathing. Eventually, it results in murder—but does the protagonist get away with it?
Hull’s narrators are often unreliable and not all of his victims are sympathetic characters. So you will find yourself siding first with the would-be murderer, then with the victim, and back again, until the final page! Two of my favourites:
The Murder of My Aunt (1934) - Edward is miserable living a privileged life with his scented cigarettes, dirty novels and adored lap dog So-So—but completely dependent financially on his nature-loving, socialist-sounding aunt who despises him in equal measure. He decides to do away with her—but she proves to be a surprisingly worthy opponent.
Murder isn’t Easy (1936) - The setting here is the proverbial workplace from hell; an ad agency with three partners, each of whom hates the other two and believes he is God's gift to the world. But which of them has murder in his heart?
Two more hilarious inverted mysteries I recommend are Leo Bruce’s Case for Sergeant Beef (retired clockmaker decides to commit a random murder, just for the heck of it) from 1951 and Micheal Innes’ The New Sonia Woodward (husband tries to cover up the natural death of his wife for fear of being suspected of murder ) from 1960.
A Game of Cat & Mouse
Another popular format of inverted mystery novels is the “howcatchems”, where the story focuses on how the criminal tries to stay a step or two ahead of the detective or, alternatively, how the detective puts together evidence to nab the criminal. A tediously large number of serial killer mysteries follow this format. Some of them try to examine the inner workings of a psychopath’s mind—perhaps they fall into the whydunnit category?—while others just feel like sadistic voyeurism. You can tell I am not a fan.
The pioneer of the howcatchem format on television is the hit American TV show Columbo (1971-78) featuring LAPD detective Frank Columbo. The criminals are mostly intelligent and upper-class or high-society and underestimate the competence of Inspector Columbo—to their detriment. Many later-season episodes of Monk (2002-09) also follow this reverse whodunit format, with the cold open showing the murder being carried out.
A well-known film example from the last decade is the much-remade Drishyam, where the audience knows the killer’s identity and motive early on. But the movie is still thrilling because we are invested in seeing how Georgekutty/Vijay Salgaonkar/Suyambulingam manages to hoodwink the police at every step.
I want to close this essay by making one final recommendation—Monsieur Verdoux (1947). This is a criminally underrated (ahem) Charlie Chaplin classic in the inverted format, combining elements of serial killer mysteries with social commentary, insights into human psychology and black humour. In a complete departure from his loveable-tramp character, Chaplin is nearly unrecognisable as the suave, conniving Henri Verdoux. In my view, it is his career-best performance. Do watch it!
Book of the Week
The year is 1562 A.D. Twenty-year-old Akbar is readying himself to emerge from behind the veil and stake his claim to the Mughal throne. But the figure of his regent, Bairam Khan, looms large in his path. After an exchange of blows and wits, Bairam Khan is subdued. Akbar forgives him and forces upon him a pilgrimage to Mecca. On the eve of his departure, Bairam Khan is found murdered in his chamber—and Akbar must discover what happened to him with the aid of Mahesh Das, his intelligent new friend.
The Crows of Agra, A Birbal Mystery - by Sharath Komarraju
Sharath Komarraju is a prolific Indian author with a number of fiction and non-fiction works to his credit. A lifelong fan of detective fiction, he has written other murder mysteries before this one. But The Crows of Agra, which combines historical fiction and detection, is my favourite. Sharath paints a striking and realistic picture of everyday life in the Mughal era with a steady, methodical mystery at its centre.
What I found most intriguing was how he has written Akbar’s character—a non-prepossessing person who starts out being confused and indecisive, but eventually proves himself to be quite sharp with all the makings of a king. Mahesh Das (Birbal’s birth name) is also portrayed differently from the usual—not as a quick-witted wisecracking courtier but as a man who has much to protect and will do whatever it takes to protect it. Get the book here.
Rating: 🩸🩸🩸🩸💧
Trivia of the Week
Two Scotsmen were in a train and one asks, “What’s that package up there on the baggage rack?” The other replies, “Oh, that’s a McGuffin.” The first one asks, "What's a McGuffin?" "Well," the other man says, "it's an apparatus for trapping lions in the Scottish Highlands." The first man says, "But there are no lions in the Scottish Highlands," and the other one answers, "Well then, that's no McGuffin!"
This is how Alfred Hitchcock, the legendary maker of suspense thrillers, described a McGuffin—which was a plot device he popularised through his works. The word was coined by Angus MacPhail, his frequent collaborator—but the device has been in use since the dawn of storytelling.
Essentially, a McGuffin is an object, idea or phrase that kicks off the story and sends the main characters on an adventure. As the story unfolds, the McGuffin can lose importance and become merely incidental—alternately, it could become a key part of the puzzle. Hitchcock believed that a McGuffin should have no significance in itself (in the lion story above, the McGuffin is sheer nonsense) and could even be forgotten by the audience. On the other hand, filmmaker George Lucas argued that the readers/audience should care about the McGuffin and for that, it needed to be important to the story.
McGuffins are interesting because they often crop up in books and movies that feature adventure, mystery or suspense. Here are some examples: the beauty of Helen of Troy in Homer’s Iliad, the titular letter in Edgar Allan Poe’s The Purloined Letter, the Sorcerer’s Stone in the first Harry Potter book, the tesseract in Captain America: The First Avenger, the last words of a dying man in the eponymous Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?, the killer’s challenge sent to Hercule Poirot in The ABC Murders and so on.
What McGuffins have you spotted in your reading/shows?
I should probably call this an issue but I like the idea of naming my newsletters the way TV shows are named—with series and episode numbers. So, episode it is.
I have seen Monsieur Verdoux, and was pleasantly surprised when I did!