The Old Shrubsbury School House Museum, perhaps the most important character in my books, is a safe box for things. You go in; you live with them, even if for only a few minutes. You share in the pasts of generations of people who did things with them, touched and smelled them, lived with them.
Objects are always so much more than what they appear to be. They’re constructed of more memories than we can keep in our memory banks, and not only our own but those of our grandparents and great grandparents.
Of course, in murder mysteries they can assume an almost magical status. They can be the receptacle of a body (The Body in the Butter Churn) or the source of ghostly music in the night (). They can be evidence; they can be murder weapons.