The TV adaptation of Moonflower Murders features a copy of the Lion comic, but the original novel is more like 1970s children’s colossus Whizzer and Chips, which contained two comics in one – Chips stapled inside Whizzer. Readers of the novel find that they break off to enjoy Atticus Pünd takes the case before returning to the main narrative. Anthony Horowitz, who wrote both novel and adaptation has had a blast and Moonflower – in both formats – is one of his finest works.

The premise of the Atticus Pünd series is that Susan Ryeland is a book editor. One of her writers, Alan Conway, created a series of cosy whodunits set in the early 1950s. (Conway dies in the first book of the series, Magpie Murders, but pops up here anyway). Conway was a nasty piece of work who disrespected both the cosy crime format and his creation (Pünd’s name is an anagram), but clues left in his books allow Ryeland to solve mysteries. She’s a reluctant sleuth, and relies on Pünd’s counsel to get the job done. On your TV screen, Pünd just appears, but although this would have been extraordinarily easy to do on the page, Horowitz has chosen to channel Conway by presenting a novella that we’re meant to believe is a best-selling representative of the genre. 

The thing about Horowitz is that he is increasingly finding ways in which to critique the format from within. We’ve covered the Hawthorne series, in which Horowitz-as-narrator plays the part of Watson to Hawthorne’s Holmes, giving us enough of an insight for it all to feel like autofiction.

The idea behind Moonflower Murders is that there’s been a disappearance from a plush hotel in Woodbridge, Suffolk. Ryeland, by now a hotelier on a Greek island, is asked by the plushies to come help find their daughter-in-law, because said DIL had read Atticus Pünd takes the case and had come to the conclusion that the wrong man had gone down for a murder some years before – and then gone missing. Ryeland has to work out where Conway has scattered the clues.

As is sometimes the case with Horowitz, the puzzle is less interesting than what he does with it, though the mystery is strong enough to fill six episodes of television. In the book, we’re aware of Horowitz’s playfulness. The fake reviews are the kind of generic waffle that this site tries to avoid, the comments about publishing have a knowing air. To what extent does Horowitz share Conway’s disdain for the form? Presenting what is meant to be a best-selling example of the genre in what is in fact a best-selling example of something near the genre could have backfired: it doesn’t but it raises questions.

Some of these questions are raised directly by Horowitz himself. Two in particular are audacious. The denouement, in which the detective gathers together the potential suspects, is just something we accept in this genre. I’ve read dozens. Oddly, the one in Atticus Pünd takes the case is the first that I question. One of the characters has a secret, the telling of which seems to meet no real purpose: nothing is gained by the other suspects knowing this titbit about them. Later, Susan Ryeland relates arguing with Conway on the denouement and on the treatment of this character.

Second, there is an historical anomaly. I know that Horowitz has had issues before with geeks who have spotted errors in Foyle’s War: I know that he will have put this in deliberately but don’t know what he is trying to say. Again, twenty pages later I have my answer.

Watching writers play with the genre means that we’re always slightly one step removed from immersing ourselves in the plot, and that’s just how it should be. Incidentally, I’m currently reading Jonathan Coe who is doing the same thing in The Proof of my Innocence.

I’ll recommend this in both its book and TV formats. As usual, the book adds more, so watch it before reading. When book 3 in the series comes out next year, I’ll be watching to see what Horowitz does next.