I maintain that, somewhere, out there, there exists a copy of a half-finished manuscript by Agatha Christie. In this manuscript, Miss Marple has been invited by the daughter of an old friend to a house party in a small English country town.
Very shortly after arriving, Miss Marple wanders into the library to discover a dead body lying on the floor - stabbed and strangled! She replies in a way entirely natural and expected under the given circumstances:
"Oh, crap! Not another one!"
If I was one of those "amateur detective" characters that keep stumbling across murderers and dead bodies in book after book, I'd start getting a complex. I wouldn't accept invitations to parties, after a while.
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