Agatha Christie Mysteries

 Sad Cypress (Hercule Poirot mystery 1933)

It seems such a clear case against the accused, the court is only going through the motions of a hearing. Twenty-something Elinor Carlisle is accused of murdering golden-haired, angelic Mary Gerrard. Apparently she did it in the guise of hospitality with a plate of poisoned fish paste sandwiches. Elinor was known to have been bitterly jealous of Mary. Not only was Mary supposedly 'sucking up' to Elinor's invalid Aunt Laura with the intent to steal Elinor's inheritance, but she attracted the love of Roddy Welman, Elinor's own adored fiancē. 

Mary comes across as so beautiful and well-liked, it seems impossible that anyone else could have either a motive for murder or access to that plate of sandwiches. That is, until Hercule Poirot gets involved in the case. 

This is one of those mysteries that goes back years before either Elinor or Mary were born. But on the surface, poor Elinor appears outside windows like a vulture, overhearing Mary's vulnerable moments. 

Poirot, being his usual smug self, brags how everyone he interviews helps him out by telling lies, some well-intended. And the lies people tell are sometimes more revealing to him than the truth. I like how the little Belgian detective is described as 'Londonified' after one trip to the big city. 

Some of my favourite lines include Dr. Peter Lord, Elinor's admirer, telling Poirot, 'She has the bad taste to prefer a long-nosed, supercilious ass with a face like a melancholy horse,' and Poirot solemnly acknowledging who he means. 

Poirot can get philosophical at times. 

Roddy: Why should these things happen to one? It's not as though one wished them to happen! It is contrary to all - to all one's ordered expectations of life.

Poirot: Ah, but life is like that. It does not permit you to arrange and order it as you will. It will not permit you to escape emotion, to live by the intellect and by reason. You cannot say, "I will feel so much, and no more." Life, Mr. Welman, whatever else it is, is not reasonable.

Roddy: So it seems.

I'm glad the rat who did it didn't escape justice. But how terrible that such an audacious murder happened at all, to someone innocent of all the undercurrents, with her whole life ahead of her. 

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The Moving Finger (Miss Marple mystery 1942)

A young man named Jerry Burton is ordered by his doctor to recuperate in the country after a light plane crash. His sister Joanna is going with him and they've rented a cottage called Little Furze in an idyllic village named Lymstock. Little do Jerry and Joanna realise the town is being plagued by an anonymous letter writer with some axe to grind. Before long they receive their own vicious epistle, with loads of venom but no substance. 

The letters are merely a nuisance to most, and initially a joke to the Burtons. But when a poor local woman commits suicide after reading what's arrived in the post, everyone decides 'Poison Pen' has gone too far. It's become a matter for the police. 

Technically, this is a Jane Marple mystery, although our spinster sleuth is more of a bit player, only present in the last 40 pages. What she does is awesome just the same. She even trumps Inspector Graves, the expert in anonymous letter cases called in from London. Miss Marple's modest rationale for her brilliance is, 'One sees a good deal of human nature in a village.' 

This novel is quite a psychological study. The letter writer comes across as one disgruntled, cheesed off individual who wants to lash out at the whole human race, for whatever reason. They've been called, 'dangerous as a rattle-snake, a cobra and a black mamba rolled into one.' Then there's the first victim's frame of mind to consider. Did she find the letter's content struck too close to home? The vicar's wife suggests, 'If suicide is your idea of escape from trouble, then it doesn't very much matter what the trouble is.' 

My other observations deviate from the mystery to the time period. Jerry and Joanna's elderly landlord, Miss Emily Barton, decides to take her tenants' heavy smoking in her stride, because 'everyone does it.' She says, 'I'm afraid I haven't moved with the times... The only thing is there are no ashtrays in the house.' Joanna cheerfully offers to bring lots of their own, and promises, 'We won't put cigarette ends down on your nice furniture. Even I can't stand that.' 

Oh, poor Miss Emily, the smoking would be a deal-breaker for me. Imagine the atmosphere in her home once their lease expires.

Then there's the interesting introduction of Jerry's favourite work of art, 'Old Man enjoying the pleasures of idleness.' He fetches it to show the doctor's sister, Aimee Griffith, who breezes around urging others to be industrious. Jerry points out that we owe lots of famous inventions to idleness. Our boy turns out to be a great spokesman for the limitations of the Protestant Work Ethic at its extreme. 

Oh, and romance is rife, even in a poky town with lots of unpleasant crime. By the end, both Jerry and Joanna have found the loves of their lives. I read this one in just a few sittings. Couldn't help it. There are so many possible suspects, each with interesting back-stories that just might push them over the edge.  

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