Regular viewers of BBC's long-running 'Midsomer Murders' drama series might be forgiven for thinking it's all just a bit of harmless fun. A mild-mannered fiction to while away the dark, winter evenings.
With a body count to date of some 423 lost souls how could it be anything else? And yet, behind the twitching lace-curtains of rural Middle-England, similar scenes of carnage lie waiting to be found should you care to look close enough.
The ladies are taking over and your intrepid reporter is hot on their trail.
The first victim has taken refuge for a few precious moments in his man-cave. Lovingly, he files a strip of metal ready for his next job. Engrossed in his work he fails to notice her draw near.
It could have been any of his tools, the electric drill, the axe or the heavy-duty spanner, but her chosen weapon is the rubber mallet.
She lifts it high, squints her eyes to focus on the target area and...
We now join what, at first sight, appears to be a perfectly innocent cake-baking session.
Her recipe-book, baking-tins and ingredients are laid out neatly on the breakfast bar. Behind it sits an admiring gentleman, wine-glass in hand. He smiles beatifically in contemplation of the coming joys of lemon drizzle.
But wait, what's in that brown medicine bottle? Surely not!!
Surreptitiously, she turns her back and pours the contents of the bottle into the glass mixing bowl. Look at that fleeting but deadly smile which plays across her face as the dreadful deed is done.
The poisoner's next victim is about to be claimed.
Let's raise a toast to the ladies of our life!
Behind the closed curtains a warming fire is lit and stoked and two blood-red glasses are full. Now all that remains is for the poker to land. It doesn't take long. A solitary well-aimed blow to the back of the head.
She takes a sip from her glass as he lies prone on the floor beneath her foot.
'Cheers, darling!'
We pass just a little further down the ill-lit lane and enter yet another house. Sock-footed we stand in the shadows and watch for the noose to tighten.
She chooses a length of brightly coloured material from the vibrant selection laid out on the table before her. Silently, she moves to the back of his chair, loops the material over his head, twists the knot and pulls tight.
Try as he might he cannot break free and his head slumps to his chest.
History repeats itself in the last house of the village. We enter the room, head bowed, through the 15th century black-studded door. It's here the ghost is rumoured to roam.
Yet another occupant lies slumped across the polished dining-table. He's surrounded by candles and despatched by a candle-stick.
And so we leave the twinkling lights and twitching curtains of a Middle-England hamlet by the caustic and fittingly-named Cemetery Lane.
Tomorrow is another day...
