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This is the first time I ever read this book - a bit of a rarity for me with Christie.
It opens with a very funny scene in which a business executive keels over after drinking a cup of tea, and the office workers are thrown into a tizzy trying to figure out how to summon medical help. No one knows who his doctor is, they think 999 is only for police matters, and doctors are not listed in the phone book under "D." It was both historically interesting, a playful poke at the "summon a doctor!" trope, and deeply relatable.
The businessman dies in the hospital of an unusual poison, and it's discovered that his pocket is full of rye. Yes, the grain. No, not the bread. No, not a breakfast cereal, as the police inspector gets very tired of explaining when he inquires about it. Everyone is either baffled or pretends to be baffled by this.
The police investigate his home, which contains his eccentric elderly mother living in the attic, his thirty-years-younger second wife, his pompous son and the son's unhappy wife, his frustrated daughter, and a number of servants including a maid, Gladys, whom Miss Marple used to know, and the omnicompetent housekeeper, Mary Dove, who provides the dish on everyone to the investigator, confessing at the end, "I'm a malicious creature." Later, the black sheep son Lance and his charming wife Pat show up.
Lance is Pat's third husband, though she's still quite young. Her first was a fighter pilot who was shot down almost immediately after they married, and her second had financial bad dealings and killed himself when he was caught.
Something that comes up here as well as in some other Christie books is the idea that some people are much more suited for war than peace, and a heroic ace may find himself adrift in peacetime. Her autobiography mentions that she knew a number of people like this - including her brother, who wasn't notably heroic but was certainly better suited for war than peace; he performed fine when there was a war, and was a disaster when there wasn't. I remembered that theme of hers when I read Manfred von Richthofen's autobiography - he seemed extraordinarily well-suited for war, but not for peace unless he could do nothing but hunt and play sports.
The murder victim turns out to be a terrible person with plenty of money and a somewhat complex will, so almost everyone has a motive. Family history seems relevant, up until the point when Miss Marple shows up and points out the significance of the pocket full of rye...
I was not expecting this book to be so tragic. POOR PAT. POOR GLADYS. The letter Miss Marple gets, providing the final nail in Lance's coffin but too late to do any good for Gladys herself, was just gutting.
I did enjoy that Mary Dove got away scot-free. A malicious creature and an unscrupulous one, but highly competent and with a delightfully sly sense of humor. I wish her well in her future criminal pursuits.
I like to think that Pat takes Miss Marple's advice and returns to Ireland and lives a happy single life with dogs and horses, but she has a disastrous taste for bad boys. Maybe she also likes bad girls? In that case, perhaps an alternate happy ending would be her running off with Mary Dove.
CHRISTIE SCALE: Some mild classism and ableism, I think? Nothing egregious enough for me to remember specifically.
It opens with a very funny scene in which a business executive keels over after drinking a cup of tea, and the office workers are thrown into a tizzy trying to figure out how to summon medical help. No one knows who his doctor is, they think 999 is only for police matters, and doctors are not listed in the phone book under "D." It was both historically interesting, a playful poke at the "summon a doctor!" trope, and deeply relatable.
The businessman dies in the hospital of an unusual poison, and it's discovered that his pocket is full of rye. Yes, the grain. No, not the bread. No, not a breakfast cereal, as the police inspector gets very tired of explaining when he inquires about it. Everyone is either baffled or pretends to be baffled by this.
The police investigate his home, which contains his eccentric elderly mother living in the attic, his thirty-years-younger second wife, his pompous son and the son's unhappy wife, his frustrated daughter, and a number of servants including a maid, Gladys, whom Miss Marple used to know, and the omnicompetent housekeeper, Mary Dove, who provides the dish on everyone to the investigator, confessing at the end, "I'm a malicious creature." Later, the black sheep son Lance and his charming wife Pat show up.
Lance is Pat's third husband, though she's still quite young. Her first was a fighter pilot who was shot down almost immediately after they married, and her second had financial bad dealings and killed himself when he was caught.
Something that comes up here as well as in some other Christie books is the idea that some people are much more suited for war than peace, and a heroic ace may find himself adrift in peacetime. Her autobiography mentions that she knew a number of people like this - including her brother, who wasn't notably heroic but was certainly better suited for war than peace; he performed fine when there was a war, and was a disaster when there wasn't. I remembered that theme of hers when I read Manfred von Richthofen's autobiography - he seemed extraordinarily well-suited for war, but not for peace unless he could do nothing but hunt and play sports.
The murder victim turns out to be a terrible person with plenty of money and a somewhat complex will, so almost everyone has a motive. Family history seems relevant, up until the point when Miss Marple shows up and points out the significance of the pocket full of rye...
I was not expecting this book to be so tragic. POOR PAT. POOR GLADYS. The letter Miss Marple gets, providing the final nail in Lance's coffin but too late to do any good for Gladys herself, was just gutting.
I did enjoy that Mary Dove got away scot-free. A malicious creature and an unscrupulous one, but highly competent and with a delightfully sly sense of humor. I wish her well in her future criminal pursuits.
I like to think that Pat takes Miss Marple's advice and returns to Ireland and lives a happy single life with dogs and horses, but she has a disastrous taste for bad boys. Maybe she also likes bad girls? In that case, perhaps an alternate happy ending would be her running off with Mary Dove.
CHRISTIE SCALE: Some mild classism and ableism, I think? Nothing egregious enough for me to remember specifically.
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I've never read this, but I think (based entirely on the title) it must have been the one I was "watching" (that is, in the room while my dad was watching) one time when I was at home—because in a commercial break and with almost no context he said "Wait, where was the queen?" and I somehow automatically said ". . . in the parlor, eating bread and honey," and thus was he able to predict how the rich man's wife was going to be murdered. Am I completely making this up? (Wait, is there a whole other book called Along Came a Blackbird?)
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I really liked Inspector Neele! He seemed quite sharp and had rather a sense of humor.
I kinda ended up shipping Mary Dove and Lucy Eyelesbarrow, who doesn't even appear in this book, but as a pair, especially if they went into business together, they would be UNSTOPPABLE. I seem to remember Lucy was reasonably moral, so maybe they could have, like, a villainous crush sort of relationship.
But also. Poor EVERY WOMAN IN THIS BOOK, except for I guess Mary Dove. And the old lady, who was clearly having the time of her life.
ETA: What's the next one?? :)
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I kinda ended up shipping Mary Dove and Lucy Eyelesbarrow, who doesn't even appear in this book, but as a pair, especially if they went into business together, they would be UNSTOPPABLE. I seem to remember Lucy was reasonably moral, so maybe they could have, like, a villainous crush sort of relationship.
YES! Brilliant idea.
Next up is 4.50 from Paddington aka What Mrs. McGillicuddy Saw! aka The One With Lucy Eyelesbarrow! That will be a treat.
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This book was first published in Sweden in 1954, I think, and while there might have been a translation of English nursery rhymes, those rhymes were not part of the Swedish nursery rhymes and Swedish people didn't have that immediate connection. I think Lennart Hellsing did a popular translation but that must have been decades later.
The translation "Sjung en sång om sex pence, en ficka full med råg" is literal in order not to interfere with the plot and the meter is fairly well preserved, but clearly some of the impact, whimsy and wordplay did not translate well. Other murder mysteries of the same period (Maria Lang) that used Swedish nursery rhymes and poetry hit completely different for a Swedish first language speaker.
I feel very bad for Pat and Adele, but Gladys's fate made me furious. I think there are other books where Miss Marple is the only one to really care about or connect with the young women in domestic service.
I have thought about Lucy Eyelesbarrow and Mary Dove going into business together. You ask for domestic help. You get one of them. You have no idea if it is Lucy or Mary. Only the consequences will tell...
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I love this idea.
Thanks for the notes on Swedish rhymes, that's fascinating!
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OMG that's awesome! I want this fic!
(I'm reminded of the mouseover text to this xkcd -- you can do this one in 30 times and still have 97% positive feedback ;) )
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Only four Mary Dove fics on AO3 and no fics with Lucy Eyelesbarrow. That really has to change!
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Please note the content warnings of Christie levels of sexism and classism, as well as non-explicit homicidal and suicidal thoughts.
--
Not Waving But Drowning
It is an impulse, but you know yourself much too well to pretend this moment of weakness has not been coming since you first met your wife. The capital can not be touched, only willed away, and you're a risk taker, always have been.
A number of solicitor visits through the years have not paid off. This is easier. Her name instead of yours and the deed is done. The Argentinian silver mines will put everything to rights.
Weeks later, you put the filled out insurance form in the outgoing mail at your office. The assistant looks at you for a moment, no more, before stamping it properly. She may or may not be aware that your wife is at the seaside, for the usual reasons. She certainly knows nothing about Argentinian silver mines.
--
Coming home that night, you find a new house keeper already installed. She makes syllabub, mushroom soup and curry for dinner and you can feel her eyes on you as she serves it. Cool, assessing.
As if she knows what you have been thinking lately. That desperate times require desperate measures. But how could she possibly understand? She is just a house keeper.
--
In the morning, the boys have left. Their closets and shelves are empty, their beds turned down.
"The boys have returned to school, sir," the house keeper informs you at breakfast and you nod, pretending that you know the specifics of their school terms or today's date. They exclaimed over the house keeper's treacle tart yesterday evening, until you told them to be quiet.
You reach for the butter and the knife feels wrong in your hand. Too light, too flimsy. You assume that the house keeper is polishing the silver your wife brought to the marriage. What else can you assume?
--
Over the next few weeks, the house begins to change. All the silver is put away, presumably with some of the older paintings and the oak furniture. You start spending more time at your club, idly smoking and drinking to pass the time. You think about balconies, untraceable poisons and strong swimmers taken by the undertow. How your wife always was the stronger swimmer of the two of you.
Coming home one late evening, you hear laughter from the kitchen and soft voices. It had not occurred to you that the house keeper would invite a friend to the house and now that she has, you cannot bring yourself to forbid it. With some astonishment, you recognise the feeling curling in your belly; it is fear.
When they speak again, you cannot make out the words, but you are of course familiar with the tone. Once, your wife spoke to you such. Once, you deserved it. You turn away and walk upstairs.
--
Some interminable number of days later, you find her in the sitting room. Christine. Who is not at the seaside. Who looks not at all like the good mother and wife you have become so used to seeing over the years but like the girl you married, only older. Sharp, incisive, unexpectedly and undeservedly kind.
You consider greeting her. Asking about her journey. A remark on the weather would not go amiss. Instead you go to your knees in front of her. You put your head in her lap and sob like a child.
"Richard, what do you think is happening?" she says with enough amusement in her voice that you know she knows everything.
The old lady in the other chair coughs faintly.
"He has been weak, but not wicked, my dear," she says. "Just like the son of our bank manager in St Mary Mead. So fortunate in his wife, though. Once he left everything in her capable hands, there was no more need for fanciful ideas."
"I know." Christine's hands are warm in my hair. "What a silly, silly man."
And what she doesn't say is that you are her silly, silly man and what you don't say is that you never could think of a way that the insurance company would not suspect and leave her and the boys destitute; also that life without her is no life at all.
The old lady twinkles at you and you think that to someone like her, you must seem very obvious.
--
The next morning you wake up early. The house keeper is in the kitchen, wiping down the benches, her back to you.
You look at the gas stove and feel nothing, the same way as you walked past the office without thinking about cleaning your father's Army pistol. There won't be any regrettable accidents, now. James and Arthur can come home.
"Thank you, Miss Eyelesbarrow," you tell her. "I expect your time with us will be coming to an end soon."
Years later, you still don't understand her reply, only that it is a warning to be heeded.
"Only have a care, sir," she tells you. "My name here was very nearly Mary Dove."
FIN
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"The Mirror Crack'd from Side to Side" is, unfortunately, a book I won't re-read, but I like to think of Miss Marple's happy ending in it.
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I might have to reread the book, I've only seen a TV version lately.
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The book is very good. I feel like a TV version would probably lose some of the impact.
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One of the things I either like or dislike (depending on my mood) with Agatha Christie's wealth of side characters that get involved in murder mysteries and then dropped when the book ends is that there are so many stories left to explore. I wouldn't actually bet there's one fixit fic needed for every book but that's mostly because that's a gigantic project I don't want to think about taking on XD
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I have actually written what I would argue is not so much a fixit fic as just a fic making the subtext into text, but that was for my favourite TV version of Nemesis, which introduced a (to me, at least) very obvious slash pairing. So it doesn't actually count as Christie fixit fic.
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I also liked Inspector Neele. He was a calm, insightful, respectful, and good-humored companion for Miss Marple, and they had some very nice scenes together.
Pat/Mary Dove needs to happen. There are some very good Christie femslash ships!
One of the things I tend to appreciate about Christie is that the more baroque murder elements are almost always camouflage for relatively prosaic motives--there are plenty of books that would have played "the killer is fulfilling a nursery rhyme!" completely straight, and I like that kind of thing only in very, VERY small doses. This is vastly more human.
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I really appreciate Christie's generosity with femslash ships - not to mention her canonical lesbians! Her autobiography makes it clear that yes, she knows all about lesbians, and when she puts in two women who live together, especially if they have dogs and horses, what you think is absolutely what's intended.
I also like her steadfast lack of "You kill people because you're a homicidal maniac, son." Actual homicidal maniacs are sometimes referenced in passing, but I can't think offhand of any books where they're the murderer.
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(A Murder is Announced is one of my favourites but I always have to skip a bit at the end because there's only so much tragedy I can take.)
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Haha, yes! Looking at you, Ellery Queen! (I went through an Ellery Queen phase in adolescence and really enjoyed it, but... I keep going back to Christie.)
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I look forward to your thoughts on Lucy Eylesbarrow!
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I love Lucy. She's not just one of my favorite Christie characters, she's one of my favorite characters, period.
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I think many post war novelists considered how a peacetime bad boy became a war hero and then how war heroes found it hard to settle afterwards. WEJ does (Noble Lord and Black Mask amongst others) and Neville Shute has a few books looking at the aftermath of the war and how men make, or fail to make, a new normality. It might be more noticeable in Agatha Christie because she writes crime books and all of her characters are a little exaggerated for plot purposes and perhaps less nuanced.
I think Pat should raise dogs and horses by herself as I think she'd be attracted to bad girls as well as bad boys.
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I just read Manfred von Richthofen's autobiography and I cannot imagine him having to work for a living in peacetime.
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Have you read any Nevil Shute? Same vintage as Christie, higher on the racism scale in language, but I think not in attitude? Chequer-Board contains a sub-plot in which a number of white American GIs come to a small Cornish town in the Second World War following the arrival of an African American regiment, and find that their attitudes are not accepted by the locals, which does not mean that the locals are not racist.
Anyway, I thought of this line while looking at an extract from So Disdained, which features two ex-WW1 pilots, one of whom has had a disastrous career afterwards, one of whom says "They tell me I'm reactionary. I might be, but they should give a man a better dinner before they tell him so."
Ditto Epitaph for a Wren in which most of the 'young' people are trying to recover from WW2, which in some ways made them, and in some ways blighted them.