This is one of the dumb Christies. Sure, some literary snobs will say all Christies are dumb Christies, but who cares what they think? Those of us who know better understand that many Christies are clever and insightful. There are some, like Crooked House or Death on the Nile, with fascinatingly realized characters and psychological twists and turns. Others, like The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, have shocking and ingenious solutions. Still others have creative premises, like And Then There Were None or Cards on the Table or Murder in Retrospect/Five Little Pigs, or crafty murder methods, like The Pale Horse. Some even touch upon interesting philosophical ideas, like They Came to Baghdad or Curtain.
Aaaand then there’s Chimneys. Chimneys joins The Seven Dials Mystery, The Secret Adversary, and a few others in the “dumb, but fun!” category. All of these fall to pieces upon the slightest intellectual examination. Chimneys has a plot to make any intelligent person giggle. It includes some of Christie’s Deep Thoughts on Politics, whose sole value is comedic. It’s also chock-full of casual racism, classism and anti-Semitism of the classic Christie kind. Jews, for instance, aren’t evil, and may even be admirable, but they control the world with their money and have funny big noses and aren’t really British, no matter what their passports say. Virginia Revel is a fit mate for the king of a fake Eastern European country because she’s not a black woman, but is “white all through” and the daughter of a British peer.
Despite all this dumbness, and because of its idiotic plot, it’s a lot of fun. It features:
-not one, but two, sets of secret papers whose loss would be catastrophic;
-attempted blackmail of our plucky, dashing heroine using the secret papers;
-a mysterious dead body turning up with no explanation in our heroine’s house;
-an incompetent, melodramatic secret society, with its own sigil, prone to burglaries and executing traitors, but also to getting caught and never being effective;
-a gentleman thief and master criminal who just might be the same person as our hero;
-a secret heir to a Balkan throne;
-a murder on an English country estate;
-a stolen famous jewel hidden in a secret place in the manor on the English country estate;
-house party hijinks, including a varied cast of characters sneaking around in the middle of the night trying to catch each other out in misdeeds;
-faked death; and
-double blinds, red herrings, and wild coincidences galore.
This is light summer reading for those of us who enjoy stupid murders and spy-jinks. I highly recommend it to anyone who fits that description and is willing to overlook the more annoying dumb stuff listed above.
All that said, there is a kernel of real wisdom in the Virginia Revel character. Agatha Christie was not really feminist, but her attitude to women’s right to enjoy a full, sexual, flirtatious life and reject male advances at will was entirely feminist. Virginia Revel is a widow who got married to a man she didn’t love because he went around talking about how he’d kill himself if she didn’t marry him. Then, out of guilt for not loving him, she was an angelic wife to him. When he died, she wisely resolved to never do any of that again. She treasures her freedom. She flirts with men for the fun of it, and everyone enjoys themselves. But if they propose, she refuses them, and if they offer Nice Guy whines of heartbreak, she rightly scoffs. They’re probably not truly even a little heartbroken (one of them is dating another girl even as he swears his heart is broken), but so what if they are? They’ll cope, and if they don’t, they have deeper problems that make them unsuitable for her by definition. They are not “owed” her love. Her feelings are free, as free as theirs are, and don’t need to conform to what the smitten want. There is no “should” about her loving them or saying yes to them. This is true even though she flirts with and charms them, because flirtation and charm are games in their own right. They’re not some kind of mere lead-up to sex, let alone marriage, and they certainly don’t promise those things, any more than card games or dancing or tennis do. This refreshing and life-affirming attitude comes up in many Christie novels. The narrative allows Virginia to be charming, without punishing her for it by giving anyone a claim on her body or attention because of that charm. More than that: the narrative celebrates her charm, and celebrates her freedom. Not bad for a silly fun romp.
The plot of Murder on the Links hinges on the device of a faked crime turned into a real one. M. Reynaud, to escape the blackmail of a former accomplice who knows of his criminal past, plots with his wife to fake his own murder. But someone steps in at the last moment and actually murders him, taking advantage of all his careful planning to conceal their own identity. Agatha Christie recycles this device in a later story about the theft of government papers—and then has the exquisite gall to recycle the recycling, by attributing it in Cards on the Table to her alter ego Mrs. Ariadne Oliver the mystery novelist, whose reused plot is spotted by Hercule Poirot.
The identity of the person who took advantage of M. Reynaud’s plans requires Poirot to delve into Reynaud’s past, and contend with the arrogance of the French policeman Giraud, who scorns psychological methods and clues larger than a few inches. I think this is the first Poirot novel where (unlike in Poirot’s first appearance in The Mysterious Affair at Styles) Poirot speaks slightingly of minute physical examinations of the crime scene and reliance on physical evidence. He says that gathering detailed physical evidence is for the lesser investigators, who just confirm what Poirot can figure out based on psychology and the more obvious physical clues. He’s hilarious on the subject: like Hastings, I laughed “immoderately” when Poirot asked if, in a fox-hunt, Hastings would descend to the ground, “smelling with your nose and uttering loud Ow-Ows,” or whether he would leave that job to the hounds. This is also the first novel where “the little grey cells” come up repeatedly. Of course Poirot soundly defeats Giraud, and acquires a nice little prize out of the contest.
Poirot also faces opposition from his own dear Hastings. Hastings is in love with “Cinderella,” the hilariously unladylike girl he meets on a train ride home from France. (Murder on the Links was published in 1923, and WWI is still fresh in Hastings’ memory, so the train ride makes him melancholy). Cinderella turns out to be Dulcie Duveen, trying to protect her twin sister Bella, Jack’s jilted girlfriend, from being arrested for murdering Reynaud. Hastings, in his typical bumbling fashion, thinks Dulcie is Bella (they’re not identical, Hastings is just an endearing doof), and guilty of murdering Reynaud (mistaking him for his son) after being mistreated by Jack. Based on this profound misunderstanding, Hastings resolves to protect her—and comes up with an ingenious way of doing it, flummoxing even Poirot. So this is another shining example of romance being key to Christie’s plots. Who is truly in love with who drives the plot, and helps solve the murder. Which love-interest is the “siren” (as Poirot puts it), and which is the true love? Hastings claims to admire Marthe Daubreuil, and to dislike Cinderella and see her as too unladylike for him, but actually he loves Cinderella and will fight Poirot for her. Likewise, Jack thinks he’s in love with Marthe but truly loves Bella. The first-time reader will be neatly tricked if they assume that, because Marthe seems a sweet, faithful, pious village girl, she must be the true love, and Dulcie and Bella—unladylike acrobatic performers—are the “sirens.”
I think the need to solve the romance in order to solve the crime is key to why Christie wrote such satisfying mysteries. In The Mysterious Affair at Styles, Poirot says he let John Cavendish be tried for murder to reconcile him with his wife Mary, because “The happiness of one man and one woman is the most important thing in the world.” I think that gets to the heart of why the classical mystery genre is so comforting, in its way. The untimely death of one person is a catastrophe that must be investigated and solved. And, on the flip side—as Christie affirms—the hearts and the happiness of the individuals concerned are of prime importance. I think the best mysteries understand this. Elementary succeeds as a tv show, for me, because of the emphasis on quirky individuality and personal relationships, which Elementary takes farther than Christie by respecting unconventionality in personal matters. Joan and Sherlock have a platonic life partnership; Joan has a child with no romance; Sherlock has a series of interesting relationships; their cases involve many configurations of households and romances.
One thing Christie does to great effect is to use a trope but not make it clear, until the very end, whether she’s playing it straight or subverting it. She does that here, with the trope of two innocent lovers, Jack Reynaud and Bella Duveen, each “confessing” to the murder because each thinks the other is the real guilty party and wants to shield them. Here it’s played straight: Jack and Bella really are innocent, and confessing out of a genuine urge to shield each other. In at least two other Christie stories, though, the trope is a blind: the lovers actually plotted the murder together, and then make “confessions” that are designed to be seen through and exposed as an attempt to shield each other.
Agatha Christie wasn’t a feminist, but there are sometimes deep strains of feminism running through her novels regardless. And here, that’s the case. Dulcie is independent, protective of her sister, brave, and crucial (through her quick thinking and acrobatic skills) to capturing the murderer. Hastings tries to be chivalrous to her, and it makes him ridiculous. Dulcie masterfully uses his chivalrous idiocy to steal evidence she thinks will incriminate Bella. Later, when he tries to tell her to be careful while climbing a tree that he (who is not a professional acrobat) has just climbed, she laughs at him. The cleverness and courage of two women, Dulcie Duveen and Mme Reynaud, are crucial to capturing the murderer (another woman, as it happens). Meanwhile, Hastings, exemplar of English chivalry, flounders around, gallantly shielding someone who doesn’t need it, and trying to protect someone who ends up saving the day.
Christie’s obsession with heredity shows up here too. What saves her from being a eugenicist is (1) her value for individual freedom, especially in matters of love, and (2) her acknowledgment that heredity is complicated, that everyone has both “good” and “bad” traits in their family. Here, Jack Reynaud at the end is scared to marry Bella knowing that he is the son of a murderer—and Poirot reminds him that he’s also the son of his mother, a great woman, courageous and loving.
Christie was clearly trying to pack Hastings off in this book, marrying him and sending him to the Argentine, perhaps as a prelude to retiring Poirot completely, just like Arthur Conan Doyle was trying to pack Watson off in The Sign of Four. Tough luck for both authors.
V.I. Warshawski is not your usual detective, and I love her for it. She’s a fierce, righteous crusader for social justice, with a strong sense of responsibility for everyone in her social circle. It’s that circle that drags her into investigations that promise no financial reward and incur the wrath of oligarchs. Dead Land is no exception. Vic’s goddaughter Bernie Fouchard is coaching a soccer team for underprivileged girls, which leads Vic to a fateful community meeting where the girls are being recognized. That community meeting plants the seeds for Vic’s investigation of two homicides, which have their roots in a corrupt “public-private” partnership to steal Chicago’s southern lakefront for the wealthy; this converges with the story of a homeless singer whose work Bernie loves, who survived a mass shooting that killed her lover, and had a breakdown following that. The melding of these stories creates a web involving Chilean oligarchs, a University of Chicago economist, a mass shooter in Kansas, prairie restorationists, a big multinational law firm, a small Chicago community group, a corrupt city official, and some of Vic’s oldest friends, especially Murray Ryerson. It’s a layered, complex plot, involving some injustices Vic can correct, others that run so deep they can only be exposed, and striking powerfully at Vic’s emotions (about her mother, about her friends, about her own detective work and her ethics) and mine. It’s what Paretsky does best.
She also does originality in her villains. Economists from the University of Chicago just aren’t used as villains in fiction enough. This is probably because they’re too cartoonish. Fiction seems to demand some level of nuance, unlike reality, which is free to be as black and white as it wants. The Chicago Boys didn’t go in for nuance when they allied with Pinochet. Personally, I prefer realistic villains, who often lack delicious ambiguity. So I appreciate Sara Paretsky for making them a villain here. The one slightly jarring note was that Vic didn’t know about them or the U.S. government’s role in Pinochet’s regime. You would think a politically aware, left-wing Chicago native, who has shown some awareness of things like the School of the Americas, would know about it. It’s not out of character, exactly—everyone has limits on their knowledge, and this is not common knowledge even in progressive circles. It was just an odd moment.
But the main draw of Paretsky’s novels, apart from the intricate plotting, is her relationships. Here, Bernie Fouchard and Murray Ryerson take center stage. Bernie is impetuous, passionate, uncompromising, energetic, and filled with the recklessness of youth, and thus prone to drawing Vic into trouble without losing Vic’s sympathy or ours. But Murray, Vic’s old friend—their friendship predates the series—one-time lover, and frequent ally, is the real star here. Though he’s a falling star at first: he’s compromised in his role at Global, but ultimately acts as a true investigator and pays the price for it. His relationship with Vic is given due weight, and it’s immensely satisfying to see him start to pull out of the hole he’s been in since Hard Time.
I also like how Paretsky has been expanding her setting beyond Chicago in recent books. Here, she takes Vic out to Kansas for a large portion of the investigation. She is helped by some of the local people, and at the same time treated with suspicion by many of them. And she has to deal with the unfamiliar local law enforcement—and the people pulling their strings. It’s a great addition of a new story factor, moving the plot along and giving texture to the world. I enjoy Vic in her element in Chicago, but it adds something to see her out of it.
A great Paretsky. I’d rank it very high on the list. I preferred it to the other recent offerings (Shell Game, Fallout, Brushback, Critical Mass) even though I enjoyed all of those, too.
The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie
This is the first of the Hercule Poirot novels. It’s where Hastings first re-encounters Poirot in Britain. We never actually see their first meeting in Belgium in any of Christie’s books.
Styles was written in 1916, in the thick of WWI, and published shortly after in 1920 (in the US) and 1921 (in the UK). The story itself is set in WWI. The war forms the foundation of the plot, providing the reason why these characters are in this place at this time. The story’s not about the war, but the war allows for the story, and haunts the characters. There is so much quiet trauma in this book. Hercule Poirot is in the village of Styles St. Mary because he is a refugee, fleeing Belgium because of the war. Mrs. Inglethorpe, the grande dame of the village, has given him and other refugees aid. He’s a retired police detective, which is extremely weird to think about. Poirot is such an eccentric little bundle of quirks that it’s hard to imagine him working as part of an institution. He has also already had a distinguished career before his adventures in Britain even start.
As for Arthur Hastings (is there a more lolariously British name?), he is 30 years old, and has been invalided home from the Front, only to find a murder right there in the idyllic countryside. He’s at Styles Court because his friend John Cavendish lives there, with his stepmother Mrs. Inglethorpe (who is very rich and recently remarried to a much-younger man) and brother Lawrence. Hastings doesn’t know what he’s going to do with himself after the war, but his secret dream job is being a detective. He fancies himself very good at it. He thinks he’s progressed further than Poirot with Poirot’s own methods. Arthur Hastings gets compared to Dr. Watson, which is unjust; Watson is much smarter and more cognizant of his own limits, but Hastings is still endearing.
The Detective Work: Poirot in Styles uses methods that are less quintessentially Poirot than in later books. In the very next book, Murder on the Links, Poirot is militantly in favor of conducting his investigation based almost entirely on the psychology of the individuals concerned. Physical evidence-gathering is for people like Giraud, the detective Poirot mocks in Murder on the Links. It’s all very well, but the Hercule Poirots, the real great ones, just sit back, contemplate and reflect on the psychology, let the Girauds and Japps bring in the results of the physical investigation, contemplate the physical evidence in light of the psychology, and then come to the correct conclusion. It’s beneath Poirot to go around examining cigarette ash or fingerprints, and the real truth won’t be found there in any case.
But in Styles, Poirot personally conducts a close physical investigation, and relies heavily on the results of that investigation, in the manner of Giraud, or Sherlock Holmes. Here’s Poirot’s preliminary investigation of the murder scene in Styles (emphases added by me):
Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute inspection of the room. He darted from one object to the other with the agility of a grasshopper...
...A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the lock, on the writing-table, engaged his attention for some time. He took out the key from the lock, and passed it to me to inspect. I saw nothing peculiar, however. It was an ordinary key of the Yale type, with a bit of twisted wire through the handle.
Next, he examined the framework of the door we had broken in, assuring himself that the bolt had really been shot. Then he went to the door opposite leading into Cynthia’s room. That door was also bolted, as I had stated. However, he went to the length of unbolting it, and opening and shutting it several times; this he did with the utmost precaution against making any noise. Suddenly something in the bolt itself seemed to rivet his attention. He examined it carefully, and then, nimbly whipping out a pair of small forceps from his case, he drew out some minute particle which he carefully sealed up in a tiny envelope.
On the chest of drawers there was a tray with a spirit lamp and a small saucepan on it. A small quantity of a dark fluid remained in the saucepan, and an empty cup and saucer that had been drunk out of stood near it...Poirot delicately dipped his finger into liquid, and tasted it gingerly.
For comparison, here’s Sherlock Holmes’s inspection of the murder scene at Number 3, Lauriston Gardens in his first story, A Study in Scarlet:
As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifying glass from his pocket. With these two implements he trotted noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with his occupation that he appeared to have forgotten our presence, for he chattered away to himself under his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire of exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of encouragement and of hope. As I watched him I was irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded well-trained foxhound as it dashes backwards and forwards through the covert, whining in its eagerness, until it comes across the lost scent. For twenty minutes or more he continued his researches, measuring with the most exact care the distance between marks which were entirely invisible to me, and occasionally applying his tape to the walls in an equally incomprehensible manner. In one place he gathered up very carefully a little pile of grey dust from the floor, and packed it away in an envelope. Finally, he examined with his glass the word upon the wall, going over every letter of it with the most minute exactness. This done, he appeared to be satisfied, for he replaced his tape and his glass in his pocket.
Obviously, these aren’t exactly the same! I’m not accusing Christie of plagiarizing Arthur Conan Doyle by any means. But there are elements in common: the animal comparisons, the whipping instruments out, the taking away tiny bits of evidence in an envelope. Christie, in Styles, is drawing Poirot in roughly the same tradition as Holmes, whereas later on she will have Poirot reject and mock the entire “foxhound” school of detecting. In Styles, Poirot also deduces the murder method by using scientific knowledge about bromides in the medicine precipitating the strychnine. This is another atypical detection method for Poirot. I think these atypicalities in Styles are largely due to Christie still figuring out the character in her first book. There is also a plausible in-universe explanation, however: in Styles, Poirot is just a refugee, not an established and famous private detective. The “foxhound” detectives won’t bring him their evidence. He has to get it himself.
At the same time, you can still see the importance of psychology in Poirot’s methods, even here. The murderer is the husband. It’s always the husband, and all the more so when it’s the much-younger husband of an older, extremely rich wife. On top of this, Poirot solves the case through his key psychological insight that Alfred Inglethorpe wants to be arrested, and his romantic insight as to who exactly Mrs. Raikes is having an affair with. Once he figures out that (1) Inglethorpe is trying to get arrested and tried before there’s sufficient evidence against him, thus obtaining protection against double jeopardy; (2) it is John Cavendish, and not Alfred Inglethorpe, who is carrying on with Mrs. Raikes, Poirot knows what’s going on and can solve the case. The famous “little grey cells” get their first mention in Styles: it’s only in passing, and only once, not the mantra they will become later on, but they do show up.
The Detectives: Poirot keeps Hastings in the dark in this story, not by lying to him, but by allowing Hastings to rush to whatever absurd conclusion his mind finds appealing without correcting him. Hastings and Poirot don’t have a partnership, or even a mentor-protegé relationship. They are, and will remain, a perpetual quirky genius/amazed straight-man couple.
Poirot’s match-making, romantic tendencies also make their first appearance here. This isn’t a distraction from the mystery at all. Correctly figuring out who is romantically entangled with who, and who has feelings for who, is crucial to solving the mystery, like I said above about the Alfred Inglethorpe/Mrs. Raikes red herring and the John Cavendish/Mrs. Raikes dalliance. On top of that, realizing that Lawrence Cavendish was trying to shield Cynthia Murdoch, because he was in love with her and there was a ton of evidence against her, was important to figuring out Lawrence’s own behavior and his own innocence of the crime. But Poirot’s shipper tendencies don’t limit themselves to what’s relevant to solving the mystery. He actually allows John Cavendish to be tried for murdering Mrs. Inglethorpe (a hanging offense!), purely to spark a reconciliation between John and his wife Mary, who would otherwise be too proud to admit that they truly love each other after all. Good thing this is a Christie novel and no one suffers any trauma from being tried for their lives--at least no trauma that can’t be cured by the love of a good woman.
Poirot’s not the only romantic here, though. Hastings’s overly romantic sensibility, and loneliness (he’s staying with John Cavendish because he has no family or other close friends), leads him to propose to Cynthia Murdoch out of the blue. She correctly laughs at him and tells him to be careful, next time someone might accept him. The whole thing is funny, but with a background of sadness. The difference between Poirot and Hastings is that Poirot is a sort of cupid, arranging others’ romances, while Hastings is fundamentally a participant and not a background string-puller. He wants a romance for himself, and Poirot suggests their next mystery might provide him with one. Mon ami Hastings displays a total lack of deductive ability and a sentimental outlook. He’s a quintessential British stereotype, but the flattering kind, the way the British (at the height of their empire, too) wanted to see their average man: not the brightest (too much cleverness is foreign, not quite manly, hence why the detective here is a Belgian), but the most honorable and decent.
The Characters: Christie gets flack for her characterization that I think is undeserved. She frequently perpetrates the most flat, stereotypical characters ever, but also frequently manages to sketch depths and complications of character in just a few simple words. Styles features several examples of the latter. There’s Mrs. Inglethorpe, a rich woman who is generous but tries to dominate people through use of her charity, who is smart and yet foolish enough to marry a younger man out for her money. There’s her son John, who seems like a beef-witted country squire, but is (as Poirot points out) sensitive enough to seek out a separate life when it seems his wife isn’t going to fall in love with him. Above all, there’s Mary Cavendish: proud, reserved, married her husband without love, but then fell in love with him after, only to see him pull away and have an affair because he doesn’t think she loves him, and then pulls away in her own turn, working as a Land Girl during the war, madly jealous of her husband, drugging people so she can snoop to find out about his affairs, and finally, passionately defending him when he’s on trial for his life.
Japp makes his first appearance in this novel as well, but does not mess anything up, nor does he make much of an impression.
The Tropes: There are many standard Christie tropes that make their first appearance here. There’s Mrs. Inglethorpe, the moneybags matriarch who is controlling and nurturing in the same breath, whose adult children are taken care of by her but also trapped in stifling dependence on her. This is echoed in Gordon Cloade in Taken at the Flood/There is a Tide, Aristide Leonides in Crooked House, and probably others that aren’t coming to my mind as well. There’s the gold-digger, much-younger spouse of the moneybags, Alfred Inglethorpe, the murderer. Some other examples of this trope are a red herring or a frame-up victim instead of the true murderer. Look at Rosaleen Cloade in Taken at the Flood, or Brenda Leonides in Crooked House, or Nofret in Death Comes as the End.
There is also the married couple who believed (perhaps correctly) that at least one of them had entered the marriage without loving the other, but then find--in the shadow of a murder investigation--that they’ve both fallen truly and mutually in love with each other and will walk through fire for each other. John and Mary Cavendish here are echoed by Jeremy and Frances Cloade in Taken at the Flood, and Stephen and Sandra Farraday in Sparkling Cyanide/Remembered Death. Christie likes this one a lot, and so do I. It’s very heartwarming.
There’s Dr. Bauerstein, the suspicious foreigner (usually Germanic or Eastern European) who is there for the sole purpose of looking sketchy and being innocent (at least, of the murder) and confusing the reader. This character may be Up To Something, but he’s never the real villain, never the actual murderer. JK Rowling echoes this in Goblet of Fire with Igor Karkaroff.
Then there is the loyal servant, who is none too bright (Dorcas), and the “obvious dislike = love” trope, with Cynthia and Lawrence: Cynthia claims Lawrence dislikes her, and she doesn’t care that he does, when he acts like that because he loves her, and she does care very much. Dislike = love is also there with Evelyn Howard and Alfred Inglethorpe: their pretended animosity hides a passionate romantic attachment.
The Author and the Setting: Christie wrote this in a war. That same war pervades the setting, affecting the lives and livelihoods of Poirot, Hastings, Mary Cavendish, and the entire economy of Styles. Waste paper is never thrown out, which is important to solving the mystery: it helps Poirot realize Mrs. Inglethorpe had to light a fire to destroy the will she made in favor of her husband, which explains why she had a fire in her room in the heat of July. There’s a ton of Christie’s own prejudices on display here, too: the dumb servants (classism), and the racism (Jewish blood is a sign of intelligence! It’s fine to put on black-face and to refer to black people as the n-word!).
The Murder Method: Chemistry. Bromides in the medicine, precipitating strychnine. Secret chemistry. But there’s more to it than the physical murder. The coverup requires the deliberate incurring of suspicion by Alfred Inglethorpe, all the better to decisively dispel it--and the secret cahoots of him and Miss Howard, pretending to hate each other while working together to get Mrs. Inglethorpe’s money. It’s a very clever method!
The Law: The legal system plays an important part in this story: the prohibition against double jeopardy; the marital privilege so that Mary Cavendish can’t be called to testify against her husband; the attempts to cast suspicion on Lawrence by John’s attorneys.
Poirot Explains it All: There’s a classic explanation scene, with everyone gathered in the drawing-room at the end. Before getting to the actual point, Poirot has to explain all of his reasoning, and you know what, I get it. If I had been through everything in this novel, I’d want a full accounting of everyone’s odd behavior, not just the actual murderer’s. He explains that: (1) it was Mary Cavendish who was in Mrs. Inglethorpe’s room and in Cynthia’s room; (2) Mrs. Inglethorpe who had destroyed her own will, which is why she had a fire in her room in July; (3) when she twice referred to “scandal between husband and wife” on the day of her death, the first reference was to her son’s affair with Mrs. Raikes, but the second was to her own husband’s wrongdoings, evidenced in a letter to Miss Howard; (4) Mary Cavendish drugged Cynthia and Mrs. Inglethorpe so she could snoop around for a piece of paper she thought would prove John was having an affair; and finally (5) there was no need for the murderer to be in Mrs. Inglethorpe’s room that night, since the bromides in the medicine that precipitated the strychnine had already been introduced by the murderer, Alfred, who kindly and considerately wrote about the scheme in a letter to his co-conspirator Evelyn, which is now in Poirot’s hands. After which, of course, Alfred blurts out his own guilt, instead of keeping his mouth safely shut.
But then there’s a follow-up scene, where he explains even more to Hastings, about how he knew something was up when he realized Alfred wanted to be arrested, where he hid the incriminating letter, how Poirot stopped him from getting it back (by enlisting the household), Miss Howard’s role (especially in impersonating Alfred Inglethorpe), the logistics of the bromide crime, and how the murderers undid themselves by trying to incriminate John Cavendish. And finally, his own shippy thoughts, his Lawrence/Cynthia insights, and his plot to bring John and Mary together. The Hastings-explanation, after the general explanation, is meant to tie up loose ends, explain Poirot’s more personal motives, and address Hastings’s own feelings, including his romantic melancholy.
It’s a solid Christie. Not one of my favorites, but definitely enjoyable.
A storm is coming, Papa. I can call for the priest now, if you wish, but later it might be too dangerous—did you just say no? It’s hard to make out what you say now. Your voice is weak, your words are slurred, it’s as if you’re drunk and sick at the same time. But you’re not drunk, I know. I’ve watched everything you ate and drank for the last day and a half.
No, you said. You don’t want the priest. I’m surprised. You were always such a stickler for the church! And yet you don’t want its blessings in your final moments?
These are your final moments, Papa. You must know it. It does no good to pretend.
Now, now, don’t get upset. I’ll put this crucifix on the wall here, right across from your pillow, so you may see it. And this icon of Our Blessed Lady, I will put it on this table.
Or do you want the priest after all? You never did get along with Father Jean, for all you were such a stickler for the church. You thought he was a rabble-rouser. Yes, he supported all the new laws and reforms you don’t like. You liked Father Henri much better. He understood things. He had respect. So you said. But you want Father Jean now?
Well, it’s too late. The storm has started. Your last confession was at church yesterday morning. Your time in purgatory will be short.
What’s that you’re saying? Marie? She’s not here, Papa. It’s just me. Just Jeanne. Marie will not come. Even if I could call her, even if she could get here in time—she wouldn’t come.
You must know that. Or have you confused yourself about that, too? You must remember what you did to her. You’re an unnatural father. To me, and to her especially. You can’t be lying to yourself about that, not now, not when your soul is about to meet the good God.
She will not come, but you can’t wrong her as much as you’d have liked. The National Assembly has passed a law, Papa. A law that applies to all of France. These are revolutionary times.
Oh, I know you don’t like the Assembly. You don’t hold with any of these new ideas. You get very angry about them. Don’t get angry now. It’s no way to spend your final moments.
André? You think I’ve been listening to André? No, no. I haven’t seen him in months. He’s gone off to Paris, don’t you remember? It was the last thing you fought about. He loved the new ideas too much to stay out of things. If I were a man I’d have done the same.
He and I never got along, honestly. It was always Marie and me together, and Léon with you, and André off by himself after our mother died. But I know he’d love the new law as I do. We all will, except Léon. And you.
You’re clutching your stomach, I see. Those mushrooms weren’t good for you. I did warn you.
André’s been fuming for years about the injustice of the law letting the eldest son take everything after the father’s death. A father can give as little as he pleases to his younger sons, or his daughters—and why? Are we any less your blood? Why should we be left destitute at your whim? Why should you be allowed to sell us like chattel, using the prospect of poverty as a whip?
I shouldn’t yell. Not now.
I don’t have to yell, not anymore. We’re past yelling.
Now, now, don’t excite yourself.
Under the new law, we will all get equal shares, because you’ve made no will saying otherwise. Marie will inherit something of all this, after how much she slaved for you. In all sorts of ways. Of course I know, did you think I was ignorant? And I too will inherit, and so will André, and Léon will get no more than we will. Léon will have to lump it. Him and your spirit, in hell.
Yes, in hell. I suppose I was untruthful earlier. Your time in purgatory can’t be short, no matter how lately you’ve confessed. I know you can’t have confessed everything. I know your sins. Purgatory isn’t enough for them. You will go to hell. And I’ll have the farm.
Lie back down. You won’t make a new will now. You can’t do it. M. Lecomte is away on business in any case. You can’t move. No lawyer will come here through this storm.
The law will write your will. The people will write your will. It’s not just fathers and priests and kings anymore. The rest of us will have our say, and our share of what we make and build.
What? Papa, I’m surprised at you. You can’t be making wild accusations. You’ll make yourself sicker, and it’s a sin to bear false witness. Don’t talk like that. I only made you the dinner you asked for.
Sssh, sshh. Back to your bed, now. That’s right, that’s a good old man. Lie down. Let’s say a prayer together. Let’s say the Hail Mary. I will start. Come now.
You feel calmer now, I’m sure. That’s right, just lie still.
I put nothing in your dinner you didn’t ask for. You asked for mushrooms, you even picked the mushrooms yourself. You know you’re being silly.
Sshhh, now.
You picked them yourself, even though the doctor warned you about it. You thought he knew nothing. He’s full of new-fangled ideas himself, you never liked that. You picked them yourself and told me to make something with them, and I did—all of them. I’m a dutiful daughter. I always have been. No one can accuse me of anything different.
Your breathing is slower, now.
No, no one can accuse me. If you tell me something and I obey, how is that my fault? What else is a good daughter to do? Murder is a mortal sin. But I haven’t murdered. Giving your father what he asks for isn’t murder, it’s piety.
Your breath has slowed even further—is it there any more? No, it’s not. I’ve waited for this moment for so long. Your breath is gone, and I speak only to myself. And to the good God, who knows what I’ve suffered. There are no more fathers and priests and kings, just me and the farm. Your breath is gone, and mine can be free.
