I spent some time recently in the beautiful, East Anglian capital city of Norwich. (Residents of Norwich will generally go along with the “isn’t it just a load of cabbage farms, inbred nutters with too many toes wearing dresses made out of hay, and The Sale of the Century?” nonsense. Thus protecting their beautiful city from hordes of tourists and other undesirables. It always makes me laugh. Norwich is like a cross between Brighton and York, but keep that to yourself or I’ll be in trouble). I digress! Like I was saying, I was holidaying in Norwich as a guest of my dear friend, Claire (also my second ex-wife and mother to my son, George), basking in 30°C heat, when I happened to let drop the fact that I had never actually read anything by Agatha Christie. Claire is a big fan of Torquay’s most famous daughter, but not one to waste energy professing moral outrage when there are simpler ways to deal with this kind of innocent oversight/ transgression. To which end, upon returning to Yorkshire I found an intriguing package mixed in with the usual pile of post that welcomes one home when the holiday is over; like a glacé cherry topping a cupcake made out of bills and dross. It was a book-sized package containing what, according to the quote on the cover from The Spectator was ‘Agatha Christie’s masterpiece’. Anyway, enough with the mystery... It was a pristine and pre-loved, copy of ‘And Then There Were None’. As a rule I like to take my time with books, what’s the sense in rushing?

 

Sometimes I put one down and don’t pick it up for a day or so. I’m familiar with page-turners: JK Rowling, Ian Fleming and PG Wodehouse all write books that demand to be read immediately. So what if it’s 3.00am and I have a big day tomorrow? I can’t leave Harry and pals in the Shrieking Shack all night, or James Bond in the grip of a tentacled terror on Dr No’s island, and how irresponsible it would be of me to prolong the horror of Bertie’s ill-advised moustache for a minute longer than necessary. But Dame Agatha Mary Clarissa Christie, Lady Mallowan DBE, to give her her full monicker, puts them all in the shade. I soon realised that taking more than a ten-minute break was utterly futile, and dutifully tore through it in less than 24 hours. No murderers will be named (that would be a crime in itself!), but suffice to say, I loved it. It’s a brutal tale of intrigue with a satisfying denouement. But once I’d finished it my T.B.R. pile (To Be Read, for those not up to date with modern book nerd terminology) suddenly looked a shade pedestrian.

 

Resistance has its uses (as any French person will attest), but when it comes to the mystery fiction of Dame Agatha, it truly is futile. I did a tiny bit of research and plumped for ‘The Murder of Roger Ackroyd’ as a hasty follow-up. I know that ‘And Then There Were None’ is seen as her magnum opus so I lowered my expectations. But I needn’t have! I failed, both times, to correctly identify the culprit, and was happier for it. Seriously, if I can spot the murderer, that murderer does not belong in a whodunnit of this calibre. These novels have been around for all of my life. I’ve always known about them, but never felt compelled to investigate. Now the plan is to go full Poirot on all 66 of her novels and assorted other works. ‘The Mysterious Affair at Styles’ is on order and I can’t wait. So, yes, I am late to the party; far too late to be fashionable. But I made it.

 

Thank you to Claire, and Agatha. Legends both xx