There has been a murder, and a dashing, young (or an unconventionally attractive, middle-aged) detective is hot on the case. This is how some of the most entertaining whodunits start. What’s the appeal of such murder mysteries to all ages? Is it the chase? The hunt? The unnecessarily stark absence of clues? Perhaps a more niche form of a whodunit, a locked-room mystery, can also be given serious consideration. Either way, whodunits are a supreme form of entertainment.

The meaning of the word is self-evident — unlike the identity of the murderers, ha — and a classic whodunit could be described as a plot-driven narrative about the investigation of a murder or series of murders by a vaguely eccentric detective. You may have heard of her: dame Agatha Christie, one of my favorite authors ever, who was perhaps the most prolific whodunit author of her time. Maybe even now, her books are better than most mystery novels.

A typical whodunit will involve at least one murder and at least one butler, and maybe a sidekick, if you’re feeling Sherlock-y. The investigation takes off at full speed; clues are found, red herrings are found, an innocent bystander is suspected randomly and the reader is kept in suspense for as long as needed. And then, the author hits you with the old bait and switch, and suddenly, the person you suspected the least: boom, climax.

In my professional opinion as a whodunit aficionado, there has been a steady change in the whole aesthetic of whodunits since the days of Agatha Christie. For one, the detectives were simple and complex, simultaneously. Monsieur Hercule Poirot, the short Belgian detective who’s the equivalent of the famous smart kid in police circles, a short man with a huge head and a penchant for cigars and drama, is an excellent example.

Now, in most mystery novels, you have broken and traumatized detectives who have flashbacks of a night spent at the bars crying over a missed clue. Sure, that is a vibe relatable to more than a few of us. But I like Poirot more.

I feel like the attention has shifted from the clues themselves to a more in-depth look at the psychologies of the people involved. Broadchurch, an amazing British drama with David Tennant playing DI Alec Hardy. Alec Hardy is a troubled man, a walking billboard for mental health awareness and Alcoholics Anonymous. This is the aesthetic of this particular show, and it holds up beautifully. In contrast, Poirot is chill, so to speak. In “Knives Out”, a new murder mystery film, the detective is played by Daniel Craig. Also a chill guy, he works towards one thing only: solving the case.

Classic murder mysteries are free of the moral murkiness that newer mysteries have. Take any Poirot novel: a bad thing happens, the good guy comes in, saves the day, it’s all good again, here’s a cigar. Take a newer mystery: a bad thing happens, the good guy comes in, is he or she really good? Why are they smoking so much? Is the bad thing really bad? Or was it a morally disruptive act made by a person estranged from their own identity? Are you, the reader/viewer, even real? Et cetera, et cetera.

I, for one, would love to read a classic rendition of a whodunit with a well-mannered and well-dressed detective; a detective with cool vices and a talent for making peculiar gestures in public. Perhaps I’ll write one. Maybe two. Or, perchance, three. The suspense is real.