From the word go this novel demonstrates the continuing exchange of cultural trivia between the USA and the avant-garde of its 51st state. At the same time that Parnell pays tribute to Dame Agatha , to Poirot and Miss Marple, he amuses us with charming Americanisms; "dining" throughout the day, "to lay" used as an transient verb - and the ubiquitous "z" which is fast ousting "s" in the Old Country, although not yet to the extent of a Cosy becoming a cozy. That scraping sound is Fowler turning in his grave.

Confirming its title the story follows an ancient tradition: the closed community, here in a New hampshire Bed-and-Breakfast, a murder, the usual suspects; rather less common: a protagonist afflicted with logorrhoea, and a cop likewise infected. Their exchanges go on forever.

Cozy is a long book, relentlessly funny, essentially laconic. The protagonist: a PI and wannabe libertine, is ruled by his dominatrix wife Alice, who buys recipes illicitly from the B-andB's chef: recipes "to die for" - all of them, which, one trusts, is not just a play on words. In Americanese Alice is a pain.

The plot. After the murder of a drop-dead gorgeous girl (sic) the suspects are interrogated at length until the tedium is relieved by the second murder when it starts all over again. The characters are, if not ordinary, then hackneyed, as are the witnesses: a careless child, a rambunctious dog, a cat ("malevolent marmalade") which, predictably, pin-points the killer to provide the climax.

The car is fed straight from the fridge - bad. A recipe for roast chicken sitpulates a free range fowl - good. The impression is of an author who, similar to the curate's egg, is correct in parts. He would benefit by bringing his English studies up to date. Too many jokes result in farce, not force.

In a murder novel suspense is neccessau, and the sinister element can be present without eschewing humour. Keating comes to mind. Inspector Ghote - plausibly self-effacing - can be very funny, and yet nothing is more sinister than his terrifying moonlight wander along the burning ghats of Benares in Doing Wrong. Keating gets the mixture right.