I’m not a rabid mystery fan, but I confess — I’ve got a soft spot for the English murder mystery. You know, the kind that takes place all within a quiet village, or a big manor house. I have a morbid appreciation for how completely civilized everyone can act after a horrible murder. This is probably because I’m also a huge weenie; too often now-a-days, mysteries edge too close into thriller territory for my taste, asking not only who the murderer is, but why, exactly, he ate the victims eyeballs. It makes you really appreciate a little old lady who can calmly discuss the possibility that someone set the victim up to be murdered, and then politely inquire whether she might have some cheese and biscuits.