Agatha Christie

by Janet Morgan

  The book done, Agatha amused herself with books and gardens, opera and theatre, delicious food and travel. She and Max went to Barbados for the sun and in London she went often to the theatre, seeing everything from The Cherry Orchard to Mourning Becomes Electra and The Elder Statesman, in a stall well to the front, as she was growing deafer. Her base for such expeditions was Chelsea, where she kept 48 Swan Court, having joyfully regained possession of Cresswell Place but almost immediately let it again.

  After Christmas (Cork delicately thanked her for a plate ‘a little broken in the post’), Max and Agatha returned to Iraq. The revolution had taken place the previous July; it was to figure in her next mystery, Cat Among the Pigeons, dedicated to Stella and Larry Kirwan. A Poirot story, with much about disguise and the deceptiveness of appearances, it is set in a girls’ school, loosely based on Caledonia and, to a lesser extent, Benenden. Part of the plot was left over from some of Agatha’s early thoughts for They Came to Baghdad: ‘Idea,’ she had noted then, ‘Jewels concealed in plaster cast round arm.… Could whole thing be jewel robbery, or smuggling?’ Or, Agatha surmised, for she kept in touch (there is mention of ‘the sputnik’ in Ordeal by Innocence), ‘microfilms?’

  While Agatha was away, Saunders rehearsed her latest play, No Fields of Amaranth, in which a student, in love with a middle-aged refugee professor, kills his crippled wife. Her title was taken from a line from Walter Savage Landor: ‘There are no fields of amaranth this side of the grave.’ It appeared, however, that it already belonged to another work written for amateur theatre groups, so the play opened at the Strand on May 22nd as Verdict. It got a pasting. Agatha believed the change of title had led the audience to expect a thriller or a play about detection, whereas this was a more complex drama. ‘Critics,’ she told Billy Collins and his wife Pierre, ‘are definitely anti-murder without mystery. One still hopes, as many people did seem to be enjoying it.’ Cork, who did not think it a good play, hoped Agatha’s name would carry it but after a month, and a bad press that wounded her, it was taken off. Peter Saunders immediately encouraged her to complete another, The Unexpected Guest, which she delivered in July. She had put down some notes for this and now, having finished Cat Among the Pigeons, she took her sketch and developed it (on the back of three laundry lists, one made out by Max, and a sonnet for Rosalind’s birthday). The key idea was ‘FOG’ and a voice repeating the words ‘you can do it, Jan, you can do it,’ either from ‘a record or a dictaphone or spoken by a parrot’. There was also complicated play with the theme that the clever might in fact be unbalanced and the apparently half-witted astute. Agatha allowed something of her brother to creep into her portrayal of the murdered man, who, like Monty, had taken a pot-shot at a woman coming up through the garden to the house. Peter Saunders put on The Unexpected Guest in Bristol and Agatha wrote cheerfully to Cork: ‘You kept your fingers crossed to good purpose. As you will have heard by now, the play went well and I had quite a job being “modest in the dress circle”.’ It came to London on August 12th. More happily received than Verdict, it ran, to everyone’s relief, for eighteen months. ‘All right,’ Agatha said of the notices. ‘The Mixture as before and Verdict atoned for.…’

  The Mousetrap, meanwhile, celebrated its next triumph, for on April 13th, 1958, it became the ‘longest-running production of any kind in the history of the British theatre’, to the delight of Peter Saunders, who grasped the opportunity to give the play a huge public relations boost. A thousand guests were invited to a party at the Savoy Hotel, which set aside its restaurant for the occasion. There were two rooms for the press, including cinema newsreel and television cameramen. ‘See you at “Hell at the Savoy” on Sunday,’ Agatha wrote shudderingly to Cork the week before, but she loyally stood with Peter Saunders and received the guests. It is an indication of how dreadful an ordeal this was for Agatha that, arriving early as instructed, she nearly allowed herself to be turned away by an over-zealous porter. That story, too, got into the papers.

  Agatha was grateful to Peter; indeed, she asked Cork to try to find her two of the original printed texts of The Mousetrap, to have specially bound for him and Anthony (who never received his). She believed, however, that the play’s popularity continued because it was clever and well-constructed, which it was. Nonetheless, it was clear even to Agatha that The Mousetrap was becoming a theatrical monument. The longer it ran, the longer the run would be sustained if, that is, Saunders continued to act as a super-ingenious barker. It was therefore evident that Agatha, increasingly averse to self-promotion, would be obliged to participate in one set of high jinks after another, as it celebrated successive anniversaries. She swallowed all this – going to Peter’s parties; donating the Mousetrap Cup for the handicap steeplechase at Exeter races, which she always attended; being photographed with each new cast – by treating it as a family joke, in which her relations also joined, bestowing on her, and eventually Mathew, who owned the rights to The Mousetrap, ornamental mice of one sort or another, china mouse cheese-covers and so forth, even a diamond ring with a tiny mouse climbing over the wearer’s finger. This attitude was shared by British critics; as tourists from every country in the world flocked to The Mousetrap, their seats booked by travel agencies months in advance, or as productions were exported to Tokyo and beyond, so Agatha’s countrymen treated the whole enterprise with tolerant hilarity mixed with pride, keeping their dignity by being gently disparaging about something so energetically marketed. But it would be unfair to imply that Agatha was not proud of The Mousetrap. Amazed and amused by its success, she thought it an excellent piece of craftsmanship and cared about the message it conveyed. To the end of her life she carried in her ever-present handbag a tiny silver mouse sent by an admirer and, without being aware of it, in moments of particular anxiety she would stroke it gently.

  There was no new book for Collins in 1959 and they were obliged to assemble for 1960 the collection of long stories they had first discussed some years before. The volume was called The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding; it contained six stories, five featuring Poirot and one Miss Marple, a collection which had hitherto not appeared in Britain and of which all but one title had been published in book form only in America. It seemed at one point as if even this might not be published. A printing strike, lasting six and a half weeks, took place in the summer of 1959, and when the strike was over, there were further difficulties, since Agatha refused to allow Three Blind Mice to be included in the volume: ‘It will spoil somebody’s pleasure in the play and masses of people haven’t seen it yet!!’ She suggested, rather, that she enlarge some of the stories, so that The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding was eventually put together in the spring of 1960, after she had returned from her winter travels.

  For the conclusion of the annual expedition to Nimrud did not end Max’s and Agatha’s journeys. Max, who had been made a C.B.E. in the New Year’s Honours List, now launched another project that was dear to him, the establishment of British schools and institutes of archaeology in other countries in the East. Early in 1960 he and Agatha set off to India, Pakistan and Persia, going first to Ceylon for a short holiday with Rosalind, Anthony and Mathew. ‘Delicious bathing. Nice quantity of ruins for Max and some lovely mountain scenery,’ Agatha wrote to Cork. She did not, however, manage to retain her anonymity: ‘Two rude photographers attempting to photograph me bathing were (I think) foiled by Rosalind and Mathew rushing between me on either side. I hope successfully, as it was a particularly ungainly attitude I was in at that moment. (Practically a close-up of a big behind.)’ The Colombo Times described Agatha as a ‘warmhearted woman unspoilt by fame’, but, ‘thank goodness’, she reported to Cork, ‘girlishly care-free’ from Bombay, ‘fame hasn’t caught up with me here.’ Max was amazed that Agatha survived the trip: ‘We travelled about 3000 miles right up to the Khyber Pass,’ he told the Kirwans, looking at digs and museums and taking part in festive parties, ‘even more stuffed with ideas than with food’. ‘Apparently,’ he went on, ‘Agatha is
very widely read in Pakistan for at the most obscure places we had fans jumping on the train and hammering at the cabin doors to get a signature. Everyone incredibly friendly but any possible chance of privacy on our travels seems to have vanished.’ In late February they flew from Katmandu to Persia, where Agatha was besieged again; at the Park Hotel in Tehran seven photographers congregated in the passage outside her bedroom door.

  She returned in time for the first night of Go Back for Murder, her dramatisation of Five Little Pigs, which opened at the Duchess Theatre in London on March 23rd. It was panned by ‘the most malicious press we have ever had, not even excepting Verdict’, Cork told Rosalind, who reported that Agatha had been very upset, ‘although I know she didn’t think some of the actors good enough’. The Mousetrap went on regardless. ‘What is Peter’s amusing idea for the 3000th?’ Agatha asked Cork warily. ‘A performance in a plushy aeroplane to Edinburgh?’

  The end of the decade was marked by more than the completion of Max’s work at Nimrud. In the autumn of 1959 Harold Ober had a heart attack and died in New York. He was seventy-eight. For thirty years he had looked after Agatha’s affairs in America; he and Cork between them had been twin pillars supporting their demanding but rewarding client, and the record of their discussions, conducted by letter, cable and memorandum – only rarely in meetings or on the telephone – shows the trust and understanding that had developed between them. The correspondence between Cork and Ober and Cork and Agatha is, in fact, a remarkable archive, illuminating an aspect of an author’s life to which attention is rarely drawn – the role of the literary agent as representative, ally and intermediary. Over the years Ober, tutored by Cork, had developed an instinct for what Agatha would or would not accept. It was fortunate that Dorothy Olding had worked closely with Ober during his last years and that she and Cork were good friends, for though Ober’s death was a blow, Agatha’s affairs remained in strong and familiar hands.

  Her mood was happy and serene. In 1954 she had taken out the ‘Confessions’ and made a new entry. Her favourite occupation she described as ‘sitting in the sun doing nothing’; her ‘pet aversion’, she said, was ‘crowds, noise, parties, too much conversation’. At the top of the page she put: ‘Tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner,’ and in that spirit she wrote to Archie, after years of silence, when Nancy died in the summer of 1958, saying that she understood how hard it must be after so much happiness. Archie had now retired, after a successful career as a director of various investment trusts and other companies in the City. He and Nancy had settled in the country, with their son, also called Archie but known as Beau, and they had continued to see a good deal of Sam and Madge James. Indeed, when Sam James suddenly died in his forties, they had been a great comfort to Madge, whose financial affairs Archie had diligently sorted out. Now Madge kept an eye on Archie. He continued to see Rosalind occasionally and in 1962 he heard from Mathew, who wrote from Eton asking if they might meet, for he had never known his grandfather. They arranged to see each other in London but, shortly before the day they had chosen, Archie collapsed. Madge James, who was with him, sent for an ambulance and visited him in hospital, thoughtfully smuggling in a bottle of his favourite whisky to ease his pain. He died, without seeing Mathew, in December.

  Agatha was full of gratitude for her own calm, full life. In the mid-1950s, she decided to make what she called her ‘thanksgiving’ by offering a window to the church at Churston, the parish in which Greenway came. Cork approached the Diocesan authorities at Exeter and with their permission she arranged that a stained glass east window should be installed, to replace one she had always thought dull and uninspiring. There was to be no indication that Agatha was the donor but she did insist that her window would not depict the Crucifixion, as is customary in an east window, but ‘the goodness of God’. She emphasised to the designer, Mr James Paterson, the Principal of Bideford School of Art, that she wished it to be ‘a happy window … for a simple country church with a rural population’, and that she thought it should inspire the sort of innocent delight people must have derived from medieval Mystery Plays. Mr Paterson’s suggestions pleased her but she was anxious that the central figure should not have ‘too old and sad a face’. She liked his suggestion of portraying the Wise Men but had reservations about the other ideas: ‘I have never been attracted either by the doctrine or by pictures of the Annunciation, as to me the angel arriving with a lily is a kind of ecclesiastical symbol which looks silly. If you have a strong feeling for the angel,’ she wrote to Mr Paterson, ‘could he not appear to the shepherds instead?’ In the spring of 1957 a five-light and tracery east window was installed. By then Mr Paterson had discovered that Mrs Mallowan was also Agatha Christie, but only because his wife had heard it on the wireless.

  In September 1960 Agatha was seventy, and still industrious. To a South American journalist who wanted to portray her as an example to encourage Brazilian women to do something more than spend the day on trivialities, she replied ruefully to Cork, ‘Brazilian women are jolly lucky.’ But with the passage of time she had become more philosophical. When Christianna Brand, a friend from the Detection Club, warned her that Ritchie-Calder intended to mark Agatha’s anniversary with a New Statesman piece on her disappearance in 1926, she took the news calmly: ‘I dare say you have heard of this already,’ she told Cork, ‘and you may worry about its coming to my ears, but after all it’s only what crops up from time to time every few years, and what does it matter after all this time? One of the advantages of being seventy is that you really don’t care any longer what anyone says about you. It’s a thing that can’t be helped – just slightly annoying – and the less notice we take of it the better, don’t you agree?’ She ignored the issue and concentrated on enjoying her birthday, with Rheingold at Covent Garden, plans to see the Passion Play at Oberammergau, a little holiday with Max in Ireland: ‘The Moules Marinière and the Dublin Bay Prawns, hot and cold, simply super!!’ On the day itself she dined in state at Greenway, in her special birthday chair, garlanded with flowers. ‘Hardly felt my age!!’ she declared. ‘Rich hot lobster for dinner.’

  23

  ‘… an onlooker and an observer’

  As Agatha’s fame grew, so did her correspondence from admirers. Some asked for advice; others sent plots. She declined to read unsolicited manuscripts (the successful author’s bane) and refused well-meant suggestions by saying that she preferred to do her plotting herself.

  Agatha was never short of ideas. A train of thought might be prompted by an object, a place, a quotation, some overheard remark or unexpected sight. A paperknife with a curious handle featured in Murder on the Links (she always kept it, dangerously rusty); ‘The Bloodstained Pavement’ owed something to her seeing Madge’s face covered in blood that turned out to be cochineal from nougat at Dartmouth Regatta, and to the gory exudations of the carob tree. ‘Why didn’t they ask Evans?’ was a phrase as thought-provoking as ‘She will have to make up her mind between them some time.’ Mrs Dane Calthrop, the vicar’s wife in The Moving Finger, resembled an imaginative and eccentric friend of the Mallowans, Lady Burnett. Ruth Draper’s impressionistic impersonations provided a theme for Lord Edgware Dies; a visit to a laboratory produced ‘Isotope idea: Carbon 14’, never, alas, developed. ‘Borodene Mansions’ in Third Girl had something of Swan Court, where a woman had in fact cast herself from an upper window; ‘Market Basing’ had features of Wallingford. The Secret of Chimneys was partly the product of Agatha’s musing on Serbian politics. As she told Cork, half a century later, ‘No need to tell the butler that Queen Draga was my murderess!!’

  She always described herself as being unobservant, but for people’s habits and bearing Agatha had a noticing ear and eye. Katharine Woolley did not escape her scrutiny; the portraits of Nurse Leatheran in Murder in Mesopotamia and of Mrs Oliver in later books show that Agatha also looked coolly at herself. Nor was her family immune: ‘I turned out an old Gladstone bag,’ she told a correspondent, ‘and found my Grandmother�
�s moth-eaten sealskin coat, a purse with two aged but intact five pound notes, six needle books classified ‘for the servants next Christmas’… you see where I get data for Miss Marple’s life.…’ This is not to say that any of Agatha’s characters were drawn exactly from life. Her companions on the stranded train were no more than the starting point for Murder on the Orient Express, fellow-voyagers on the Nile steamer no more than a stimulus for Appointment with Death. It was behaviour and attitudes to which Agatha was attuned; in declaring herself unobservant, she meant that she took in general impressions. Her skill was in discerning ‘types’: there was, for instance, the middle-aged diplomat, ‘with an idiosyncratic sense of humour, a taste for the bizarre and an intellectual independence’ that had prevented him, like some of Max and Agatha’s own friends, from reaching the top of his profession; he became Sir Stafford Nye in Passenger to Frankfurt. The megalomaniac, sadistic mother appeared in that novel, too, as she had done in Appointment with Death. Agatha’s fellow guests at the Grand Hôtel des Roses in 1931 were others whom she classified in her notebook: ‘the kind of woman who never moves from Mayfair … and has complicated diseases; an ass of a woman but with a real genius for clothes and how to put them on; a family – or, rather, a collection … Italian man … two girls, one dark … with foreign accent … lovely legs.…’