Christmas is coming, and what could be more festive than a good murder? For the type of reader who treasures the season of good will for the chance to curl up on the sofa with a whodunnit, Murder at Mistletoe Manor will be irresistible, its cover adorned with the lights of an inviting manor house shining out like a beacon into a dark winter's night while a sprig of holly drips blood on to the cheerful gold-edged font spelling out the title. If you had to be snowed in anywhere over Christmas, this shabbily chic Georgian country hotel would be the place to pick - if it weren't for the pesky murders, of course.
It's just a few days before Christmas, and journalist Nick Caldwell is heading home from an assignment to be reunited with his wife and three-month-old daughter. To his dismay, he's caught in the worst blizzard in decades, which makes the road impassable. Nick seeks refuge in a hotel on the Yorkshire Moors named Mistletoe Manor with a handful of guests, the manager/factotum Donal and the elusive chef, Colt.
Inside, there's no mobile phone reception, no landline and no working wi-fi. Outside, the snow is piling up in drifts that make even walking to the end of the drive out of the question. They are absolutely cut off from the outside world.
Murder at Mistletoe Manor by F.L. Everett (Image: Penguin)
Stuck there alongside Nick are: a self-made Northern couple; a rich American with "the handsome, dissolute features and sculpted hair of a news anchor gone to seed" and his Botoxed upper-middle-class English wife; a somewhat aristocratic old lady who has been spending her Christmases at the hotel for years; a PR consultant with "the wistful prettiness of a seventies perfume advert"; and a widowed GP and his young daughter. There's also a last-minute addition, a New Agey yoga teacher who, like Nick, has stumbled in seeking refuge from the elements after getting stranded. An outspoken vegan, Tarot reader and conspiracy theorist, she inevitably sets some teeth on edge.
Nick's main concern is getting back home to spend Christmas with his family, but when one of the guests is murdered in a uniquely festive way, being stabbed in the neck by the star from the top of the hotel's tree, he steps into the role of resident sleuth until they can make contact with the police.
It's not that you can't go wrong with a classic Agatha Christie-style premise like this. Plenty do. But Everett does it justice, seeking not to subvert, deconstruct or innovate, but simply honour the form and provide a rattling good read. The setting is cosy, the story adheres reassuringly to the rules, there's no swearing (at least none that I noticed), no sex and no gory details beyond what's strictly necessary.
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Which isn't to say that it's twee. Nick's preconceptions allow him to fumble his questioning of Colt, the gay Black chef, so badly that he alienates him completely, with potentially serious consequences. And it's interesting to see how Everett depicts a very British paranoia setting in, the guests doing their best to maintain a civilised "keep calm and carry on" veneer while suspicions fester and accusations fly.
The protectiveness the group feels towards its most vulnerable members, seven-year-old Emily and 79-year-old Matilda, also plays a part in getting the wary group to bond, at least to a degree. There's even enough camaraderie to suggest the beginnings of a romance.
Easy to get wrapped up in, it makes ideal comfort reading to sink into while keeping the cold, or unwanted relatives, at bay.