Well, that was an unholy mess. It's only mid-January but I have a feeling that 'Fiona Sherlock' might be the worst 'author' I encounter in 2024. She should stick to party games, or whatever her day job is. Also, if the story isn't set in Ireland or about Irish history, maybe knock the Celtic chip off your shoulder? 'It is my job to write a murder mystery, but it is also my job as an Irish writer to avoid moral injury and tell Supper for Six with this context' - not if shoehorning Irish grievances into a bonkers country house mystery set in London serves no purpose, which is the case here.

I hated everything about this very weak Christie pastiche. The characters are one-dimensional caricatures, with ridiculous names like Agapanthus that nobody comments on, from the 'aristocrats' - what is this, Revolutionary Paris? - to poor abused commoners who suffer at their hands. The author also appears to have an axe to grind with the wealthy: 'If you had a family like mine, you'd want to run away from them too. Jeremy knew how imprisoned one could be in a circle of socialites. Where nannies raised children and parents abandoned them for jaunts about the country and bloody hunt balls.' And yet none of the cast is actually upper class, thanks to the many convoluted twists and turns of the plot, so I'm not exactly sure what point was being made. That the middle class make for deeply unsympathetic characters? Thanks, we know that.

The plot is 95% gimmick and, like bad jokes, doesn't work if the punchline needs explaining ad infinitum. A 'podcaster' interviews an amateur detective about her recollection - complete with taped conversations - of the 'Anderson Affair', when two murders occurred during a dinner party in a Mayfair townhouse in 1977. We get the podcaster's narrative in italics and the taped conversations and interviews in script form, with a lot of back and forth and 'asides', which is not at all confusing. The podcaster tries to guide the story/help the reader by telling them details to pay attention to, like Chrissy's non existent Cockney accent (Cockney = poor, of course). There are a lot of twists in the tale, but none of them make sense - nobody is who they say they are - and plotholes abound (the first victim is back at the dinner table in the next chapter). Everybody is sleeping with everybody else and everybody is secretly Irish, seems to be the gist of the book.

My main problem with the story, however, was that I just did not care about who killed who. The podcaster and detective kept drawing out the identity of the killer - literally to the death, in the case of two characters - until my eyes were rolling out of my head. They all needed to die, who cares who shoved who in the freezer or tried to fake an overdose? There's even a house fire and the sorry lot of them all survive to continue the 'mystery'.

If the author wanted to process the history of her country, she should have written about Ireland in the 1970s, because this attempt at a murder mystery is neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring. ( )