64 pages • 2 hours read
Anthony HorowitzA modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality Study Guides with detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, and more.
Content Warning: This section of the guide discusses sexual abuse, ableism, and violent murders.
“I’d come to Greece after the catastrophe that was Magpie Murders. It was the last book I’d worked on and it had led to the death of the author, the collapse of my publishing company and the end of my career…in that order. There had been nine Atticus Pünd novels, all of them bestsellers, and I had thought there would be many more. But that was all over now. Instead, I found myself starting a new life, and frankly too much of it was hard work.”
At the beginning of the novel, Susan’s first-person narration provides exposition, summarizing the key events of Magpie Murders, the prequel to Moonflower Murders. Her description of Magpie Murders as “a catastrophe” introduces the theme of The Power of Storytelling, emphasizing the devastating real-world impact of Alan Conway’s fiction.
“It was when you stood here, in front of the house, that you appreciated its magnificence: the main door with its arched portico, the Gothic towers and crenellations, the coats of arms, and the stone chimneys that must have been connected to a multitude of fireplaces. The windows were double height with plaster heads of long-forgotten lords and ladies poking out of the corners. A number of stone birds perched high up on the very edge of the roof, with an eagle at each corner, and above the front door, there was a rather fine owl, with its wings outstretched.”
Susan’s description of Branlow Hall evokes the Golden Age detective fiction trope of the country house murder mystery. Architectural details, such as the crenellations and coats of arms, emphasize the building’s grandeur and impressive history. Meanwhile, the hotel’s Gothic towers and sculptures of birds of prey create an ominously eerie atmosphere. The “fine owl” above the door establishes the novel’s nocturnal symbolism while foreshadowing Susan’s near-death encounter with it later in the novel.
“If it had been Atticus Pünd coming into Branlow Hall, he’d have solved the crime by now. Perhaps the position of room twelve or the dog basket might have given him a clue. What about the figeen? That was straight out of Agatha Christie, wasn’t it? But I wasn’t a detective. I wasn’t even an editor anymore. I knew nothing.”
Here, the narrative’s tone is playfully metatextual as amateur detective Susan attempts to imagine how fictional detective Atticus Pünd would approach the investigation. Horowitz draws attention to the fact that, while Susan presents herself as a “real-world” person, she and Atticus Pünd are fictional characters in separate yet connected murder mysteries. Susan’s observation that the hotel’s features are “straight out of Agatha Christie” highlights the novel as both a homage to Golden Age detective fiction and a critical commentary on its familiar tropes.
“Alan hid things in the text: not just anagrams, but acrostics, acronyms, words within words. He did it partly to amuse himself but often to indulge the more unpleasant side of his nature.”
Alan Conway’s habit of inserting wordplay into his mysteries foreshadows later revelations of the clues embedded in Atticus Pünd Takes the Case, especially that he conceals the name of Frank Parris’s real murderer, Aiden MacNeil, in an anagram: Conway names a murderer in his novel Madeline Cain, which is an anagram of Aiden MacNeil. Conway’s approach to writing his novels highlights how detective novels present the brutal act of murder as an intellectual puzzle to be solved.
“Yes. That would have amused Alan, to take this unattractive woman and turn her into the opposite of herself.”
This quote shows how Alan Conway employed the power of storytelling as a hurtful or even dangerous tool. He satirized Lisa Treherne’s unattractiveness by transforming her into the beautiful fictional actress Melissa James in his novel. Conway’s perverse distortion of reality demonstrates his malicious nature and irresponsible wielding of authorial control.
“I would fall madly in love with Edward Rochester, but in my version of the story I would save him from the flames.”
Susan’s fantasies as a girl reflect her love of literature and the immersive power of storytelling. Meanwhile, her imaginative adjustment of the plot of Jane Eyre illustrates her strong sense of agency. While sharing Jane Eyre’s passion for Edward Rochester, she casts herself in the traditionally masculine role of courageous hero in her revised version of Charlotte Brontë’s novel.
“They don’t steal, exactly. They absorb. It’s such a strange profession, really, living in a sort of twilight between the world they belong to and the world they create.”
Here, Susan responds to Aiden MacNeil’s suggestion that writers are thieves who steal their content from real life. Through her reply, Horowitz comments on his own role as an author. The figurative allusion to living “in a sort of twilight” suggests that writers exist in an uneasy liminal space between the world and their fictional creations, never fully inhabiting either. This reflection underscores how the metatextual narrative of Moonflower Murders frequently blurs the lines between fiction and reality.
“Whodunnits, written by the likes of Alan Conway have absolutely no bearing on real life and if the people who read them think otherwise, more fool them. There are no private detectives; not unless you want to spy on your teenage son or find out who your husband is screwing. And murders don’t usually take place in thatched cottages or stately homes—or seaside villages, for that matter.”
DSI Locke’s critique of murder mysteries establishes a further layer of metatextuality as Horowitz’s fictional creation scorns the very genre he inhabits. Through Locke’s character, the novel highlights its own unrealistic use of tropes in both the main narrative and the fictional novel Atticus Pünd Takes the Case.
“You turn murder into a game and you ask people to join in.”
DSI Locke draws attention to the troubling ethics of murder mysteries. His argument reflects the perspective of the genre’s detractors, who suggest detective fiction trivializes violent crime. Casting the reader in the role of armchair detective, murder mysteries sanitize murder by presenting it as an intriguing puzzle.
“I did my best to make it sound less like an adventure with me as the plucky heroine on the trail of a killer […]. Cecily Treherne, a mother with a young child, could have been murdered while she was out walking her dog. There was no doubt that Frank Parris had been beaten to death eight years before. It was all too easy to trivialise these two events, to make them sound merely entertaining.”
Susan acknowledges the challenges of navigating between her role as a literary sleuth and the investigator of two “real-world” crimes. As the boundaries blur between real-life events and the contents of Alan Conway’s novel, she must remind herself that the victims, Frank Parris and Cecily Treherne, are not fictional characters. On a metatextual level, the passage is also an example of dramatic irony, as readers know that Frank, Cecily, and even Susan are also fictional characters created for the purpose of entertainment.
“Craig represented a metropolitan lifestyle, parties, bestselling books…everything, in fact, that I had left behind.”
Susan’s character faces a crucial choice when she is reunited with crime author Craig Andrews. Craig embodies a sophisticated urban lifestyle and the world of books, which are elements that Susan’s life with Andreas lacks. While she is tempted to pursue a romantic relationship with Craig, Susan ultimately recognizes that she craves professional challenges rather than a new partner. This realization illustrates the personal growth she undergoes during her investigation.
“I was about to read one murder mystery while sitting inside another.”
Horowitz again draws attention to his own fictional devices as Susan prepares to read Atticus Pünd Takes the Case. Susan’s self-aware observation highlights the Chinese box structure of Moonflower Murders, which embeds an entire fictional novel within the frame narrative.
“It was extraordinary how much damage Alan Conway had managed to do in his career. Magpie Murders had almost killed me. Had this prequel killed Cecily Treherne?”
Here, Susan reflects on the lethal consequences of Alan Conway’s fiction, emphasizing the power of storytelling. The narrative demonstrates that Conway effectively kills Cecily Treherne from beyond the grave as his fictional clues create a domino effect, leading to her murder by Frank Parris’s real killer. The deadly impact of Conway’s work raises questions about the ethical responsibilities of authorial control.
“She was the sort of person who always got what she wanted.”
The portrayal of Hollywood actor Melissa James illustrates The Harmful Impacts of the Abuse of Power. Fame and beauty give Melissa a sense of entitlement, and she is shown to misuse them, mistreating those who love and admire her. However, her murder suggests that people who always take what they want from others often face the consequences of their actions.
“There was no police station in Tawleigh-on-the-Water but nor was there any need for one as, apart from a few teenagers getting drunk and causing mischief on the beach there had been no trouble in the village for as long as anyone could remember.”
In Atticus Pünd Takes the Case, the setting of Tawleigh-on-the-Water plays on the conventions of Golden Age detective fiction from the 1920s and 1930s. The passage’s emphasis on the peaceful nature of the village prompts readers to anticipate the disruption of this rural idyll by murder. The description echoes earlier references to Woodbridge (the site of two murders) as a village where nothing ever happens.
“It was more than a means of transport. It was a calling card.”
Algernon Marsh’s feelings about his Peugeot underline how the novel uses the motif of cars to illustrate character traits and values. His perception of his French right-hand drive as his “calling card” illustrates his vanity. Algernon’s choice of a distinctive car that makes an impression on others reflects his reliance on superficial appearances.
“The rain had finally cleared and their first view of the village could have been taken from one of the picture postcards on sale inside the chandlery. They drove past a brightly painted lighthouse at the far end of a harbour, a line of fishing boats, the Red Lion pub, then a long crescent of sand and shingle. It was true that there were no children and no sandcastles, no donkeys or ice cream, but they could be easily imagined. A carpet of brilliant red lay shimmering on the water and the waves broke with a soft, gentle rhythm as the moon took its place in the sky and the darkness gathered.”
Atticus Pünd’s first view of Tawleigh-on-the-Water highlights the seaside village’s cheery veneer while hinting at the moral corruption that lies beneath. The description conjures images associated with holidays and wholesome family fun in sandcastles, donkeys, and ice cream. The use of the adjectives “soft,” “gentle,” and “shimmering” creates a calming atmosphere, echoing the rhythm of the waves. However, the concluding four words of this passage, “and the darkness gathered,” strike a dissonant, ominous tone undermining the atmosphere formerly created. The paragraph illustrates the novel’s use of nocturnal imagery to convey the darker aspects of human nature.
“Alan never cheated the reader. I think that was part of his success.”
Susan’s observation about Alan Conway’s detective novels alludes to the conventions of the genre and readers’ expectations. Conway conformed to the “fair play” rule of Golden Age mysteries, which dictates that authors must provide all the necessary clues for readers to solve the crime alongside the detective. Horowitz adheres to this rule in Moonflower Murders, as well.
“I could have been more critical of Eric Chandler with his club foot and schoolboy perversion, but I had gone ahead and published. And I hadn’t complained when the book became a bestseller.”
Horowitz explores the responsibilities of fiction as Susan confronts her role in publishing Atticus Pünd Takes the Case. While she suggested edits to Alan Conway’s offensive portrayal of a disabled character as a sexual voyeur, she did not insist on them and profited from the book’s publication. Susan only appreciates the real-world damage of such depictions when she meets Derek Endicott, the person on whom Eric Chandler is based.
“I would have seen it earlier if I hadn’t been so obsessed with a crowd of people who had absolutely nothing to do with me. Oh yes, I’d picked up on the dead bush, the typos in her email to me, Jack’s smoking, his motorbike, but I hadn’t allowed them to make any emotional connection. I’d treated them like clues in a secondary crime story, something to be solved rather than taken to heart.”
Susan berates herself for failing to spot the signs that her sister’s perfect domestic life is falling apart. She realizes that while she noticed “clues,” such as uncharacteristic typos in Katie’s emails, she viewed them as a subplot in her larger investigation, failing to engage emotionally with their meaning. Susan’s epiphany illustrates the blurring of the lines between fiction and reality and the protagonist’s challenges navigating these two worlds.
“It was funny how HMP Wayland managed to be modern and old-fashioned at the same time. Maybe it’s the whole idea of locking people up that has had its day: fine for the Victorians but somehow too simplistic and, for that matter, too expensive, given all the technology and the resources of the twenty-first century.”
The theme of The Limits of the Criminal Justice System is highlighted in Susan’s reflections on the prison where Stefan Codrescu is serving his sentence. She continues the novel’s critique that criminal punishments are outdated and ineffective. Susan points out that despite the outward modernity of HMP Wayland, it remains “old-fashioned” as the prison continues to use physical confinement as a response to criminal behavior.
“I had taken on the case when from the very start I should have realised that I was actually dealing with a massive injustice. Eight years in prison! While I had been tootling between Woodbridge and London, asking questions, making notes, he had been stuck in here. I had been fighting for a man’s life.”
Susan’s visit to Stefan Codrescu in prison prompts her to confront her emotional detachment while investigating the case. She realizes she has approached Frank Parris’s murder as an intriguing puzzle, forgetting that a real person is suffering the consequences of wrongful conviction. Susan’s self-critique underlines the novel’s metafictional qualities, as readers are reminded that Stefan is a fictional character within a novel designed as a cerebral conundrum.
“I know scenes like this work well on television. I’ve seen David Suchet as Poirot, John Nettles as Barnaby, Angela Lansbury as Jessica Fletcher, and between them they must have done it a hundred times, closing in on one suspect after another until finally they reveal the real culprit. But that was exactly my point. I was worried that even in what was intended to be a homage to the Golden Age of detective fiction, the climax was a little overdone.”
Toward the novel’s conclusion, Horowitz intensifies the metatextual nature of the narrative. Susan recalls critiquing Alan Conway’s description of his detective gathering the suspects to reveal the murderer as a hackneyed device of the genre. At the same time, she reproduces this scenario in real life. By evoking popular detective TV series such as Murder, She Wrote and Midsomer Murders, the passage examines the delicate balance between the pleasure readers take in familiar fictional tropes and the point where they become overly clichéd.
“I thought of him as a mentor. This was strange, firstly because he was a fictitious character but mainly because I couldn’t stand the man who created him.”
Susan’s description of Atticus Pünd as a “mentor” highlights the fictional detective’s strong influence on her investigative techniques. Her reflection on her contradictory feelings about Alan Conway and his fictional detective underlines the often-startling division between an author’s identity and the work they create, as the art takes on a life of its own. Alan Conway illustrates the phenomenon of unpleasant human beings who create endearing and compassionate characters.
“Atticus Pünd is so wholesome. There’s almost no sex in any of the books. Nobody even swears.”
As Susan ponders the reasons Alan Conway did not openly expose Aiden MacNeil as a murderer, Moonflower Murders continues to explore the differences between artists and their work. Susan realizes that Conway felt unable to come forward with the truth as he would have to admit to employing male sex workers—an element of his life that conflicts with the “wholesome” tone of his novels. Through Susan’s realization, Horowitz examines readers’ expectations that an author’s work reflects their personality and values.
By Anthony Horowitz