I have a propensity to be a bit fussy (some might say snobby) about books. But for all my tuttings at bad writing and groaning at sloppy, cliched plots, Agatha Christie – who is many things but Charles Dickens she ain’t – remains my most-read author. I’ve devoured her novels since I was on the fringes of adolescence having outgrown (and out-read my local library’s supply of) Sweet Valley High and I continue to turn to her now, especially when I’m in need of a literary comfort blanket.
For despite dealing in the murky world of murder, there’s something wonderfully comforting about Agatha Christie’s novels. She was a soothing companion when I was bedridden with chicken pox/measles/mumps in childhood and, more recently, got me through a couple of weeks of concussion when my bruised brain could deal with little else.
She remains the perfect reading palette cleanser, the ideal antidote to a tired mind. When I’m all-read out I turn to the easy prose and perfectly-plotted writings of Ms Christie to jolt me back into my habit.I can’t remember my first Christie, but I was hooked from the beginning and it didn’t take me long to exhaust the local library’s stock of her novels too. Not that I have ever been averse to reading Christie novels once or even twice – I can rarely remember “whodunnit”, which I’m not sure says more about Christie or me. Miss Marple, not your average teen idol, was always my favourite Christie hero, but I lapped up most of her other Marple-free novels except, perversely, Herclue Poiret (the fussy Belgium detective who featured in almost half of her novels) who I deemed ‘boring’ for reasons my adult self can’t remember. David Suchet – and the impeccable art deco staging of the TV dramas – has since converted me.
I’m not a natural fan of crime writing. I am, even within the relatively safe pages of a novel, a sensitive soul. A detailed description of a sagged cuticle is enough to have be squirming. I snivel at the slightest injustice and physically flinch at any violence. Christie’s books are littered with victims of poisoning, fatal blows on the head from fireplace ornaments and grisly stabbings, but the sang-froid of her writing and stiff-upper lip-ness of her characters create a reassuring barrier between the reader and the emotive reality of these horrible crime. It also helps that there are very few likable people in a Christie novel. I’m rarely sad to see any of them bopped on the head or poisoned by a fruit cake.I have dabbled in the bloody waters of other crime writers. I flirted with Ruth Rendell and her Inspector Wexford for a bit; endured an Ian Rankin because I felt like I should and I have hazy recollections of picking up a P.D. James, but I never felt that compelling pull into the story with them as I did with Agatha Christie. I am, I confess, yet to try M.C Beaton’s Agatha Raison books which I can’t decide I’ll love or find unbearably twee.
When forced to dissect my love for Christie (or rather her books, she doesn’t seem like much of a giggle) I find that there are as many reasons not to like her novels. The prose is efficient but unlovely; the characters, neigh, the ambiance of the books is cold and brisk. We’re dealing with murder, but not emotions – there are few, if any, histrionics in Christie’s novels. In one of her novels, I can’t remember which, the mother of a murdered boy says, and I paraphrase, “Well, he was a very naughty little boy, so I suppose he had it coming”. The plot often offers more than it delivers. The build up is so brilliant and compelling that when the murderer is revealed it often manages to be both mundane and overly complicated. She is twee and old-fashioned (which, at its worse, translate as racist and sexist – I’m frequently taken aback by how much Christie appears to dislike women).
But I don’t read Christie for exquisite prose or her take of feminism. Nor am I have much interested in the murder sides of things. I read her books for her swift, brilliant plotting, the cosy yet toxic world of a time (thankfully in my opinion) long gone and her tangled web of deceit and lies that allows me to play detective from the top deck of the bus or my bed. I love the puzzle of the crime even if I rarely guess right – for a while I thought I’d hit on the perfect formula, assuming that it was the least likely character who was the chief suspect, but more often than not Christie was one step ahead of me.
There continues to be a huge appetite for Agatha Christie books and their small screen adaptations. Waterstones and Hatchards have whole bookcases devoted to her novels including new editions with fancy retro covers. There’s a new (and final) series of Poiret with David Suchet reprising his career-defining role as the moustach-ioed Belgium detective that’s set to air later this year (or possibly the beginning of next). And ITV3 would have to sell a lot more ads for cruises if it wasn’t for the back-catalogue of television adaptations. While over in Dartmouth it’s estimated that 100,000 visitors walk through the doors of Christie’s former home Greenway every year since it opened in 2009 (I was amongst the thousands in 2010). So it looks like the Queen of Crime will continue to rule for quite some time.
by Suzanne Elliott