She had hoped for a smile or another light remark, but instead a melancholy cast came over his features.
“Bernard-is something wrong?”
His voice was soft; almost faint-she had to work to hear it, over the clatter of dishes and table chatter.
“When was it… twenty years ago? I was working on a particularly unpleasant exhumation case…. Is this bothering you? We did just eat, after all, and I-”
“I have never been prone to squeamishness, Bernard.”
“… Well, there he was, all laid out, ready for examination. And the young C.I.D. officer on the case, standing beside me, possibly nervous at his first autopsy, fired up a cigarette! I turned to him sharply and said, ‘Young man, you mustn’t smoke. I won’t be able to smell the smells I want to smell.’ ”
“And then,” Agatha said gaily, “you bent down over the corpse and sniffed away… as if the deceased were a rose garden…. I’ve heard that story, too.”
His face was blank and yet the distress was evident. “My sense of smell… it’s almost gone.”
She sat forward. “Oh, Bernard… how simply dreadful.”
He shrugged, slightly. “And what I insist upon calling lumbago… but which we all know is severe arthritis… has settled in the low of my back, most cozily.”
Her response was a flinch of a smile, followed by: “That’s the penalty of age-but these things happen, Bernard, and must be endured. As I get older, the gift of life seems stronger, more vital….”
“Even in time of war?”
She chose her words carefully; she knew he had lost a son in the Blitz-Peter, as she had surmised at their first meeting. “In such times, in a world of broken windows and bombs and land mines, it’s natural to expect that you yourself might be killed soon… that you will hear of the death of friends… that those you love best might be lost….”
A humorless smirk twitched on one cheek. “But one must not despair, I suppose.”
She shook her head. “One carries on. Not that one does not take… precautions.”
Something like amusement glimmered in the gray eyes. “Whatever precautions might a renowned mystery writer take?”
She sat up straight and announced, “I have just completed my last two books.”
“Your last…?”
“I have written one final novel about my vile little Belgian, and have taken the utmost pleasure in killing him off, too! And I’ve just completed one last Jane Marple mystery, as well.”
He sat forward. “You don’t intend to stop writing, my dear….”
She chuckled. “No. By my ‘last’ novels, I mean I’ve produced willfully posthumous novels-copies are in bank vaults here and in New York. These are a legacy of a sort, an insurance policy if you will, for my husband and daughter.”
He sat back, smiling a relieved smile. “I must admit, the thought of you giving up writing seems unlikely to say the least.”
She leaned an elbow on the table and rested her chin in a palm. “But the question is… what sort of writing will I pursue?”
“I don’t follow. Won’t you continue with mysteries and things?”
“There is a part of me that thinks those two novels should indeed be the last to feature that tired pair of out-of-date sleuths.”
“Out of date… how so?”
“They are of another time. Poirot’s world of upper-class Manor House shenanigans and Marple’s world of country-cottage village treachery. Postcards from a more innocent era.”
Sir Bernard’s eyes narrowed. “As opposed to missives from a world of broken windows and bombs and land mines?”
“Precisely.” She heaved a world-weary sigh. “I have moved more and more into espionage novels of late, and… am I boring you?”
“Do I seem bored?”
“Not at all… but I really would not like to-”
“Please, Agatha. I am privileged to be your father confessor.”
She chuckled again. “Bernard, I wonder if in the postwar world… should this war ever end, and should we find ourselves living in a country where writers can publish something other than variations upon Mein Kampf… I wonder if my style of murder will still be in vogue?”
Now he was openly amused. “What other style of murder were you considering?”
“If you laugh at me, I’ll throw a napkin at you. I swear I will.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “I believe you. The question was serious.”
She sighed. “So is the answer…. Are you aware of this new style of supposedly ‘realistic’ crime novel that’s come out of the States?”
“No.”
“Well, suffice to say there’s a school known as the ‘hardboiled’-”
“What a wretchedly unpleasant term.”
“Isn’t it? And the books themselves are rather wretchedly unpleasant, as well. One of them does write well-perhaps you’ve heard of him… Dashiell Hammett?”
“No.”
“Former Pinkerton detective. He writes nicely compact prose. But his followers are for the most part blood-and-thunder practitioners-bloody violence, blatant sex. There’s a fellow named Chandler who writes vividly, but his plots are incomprehensible rubbish… please don’t quote me.”
“You have my word.”
“But, still and all, these writers may be onto something….”
“Something unpleasant, I should say.”
“Indeed. They sense that the public… as the world around us grows ever more horrific… itself is growing numb, needing ever-increasing stimuli. Whatever I might think of their writing, they point toward the modern world. An unpleasant world.” She shuddered. “Can you imagine what the first big American crime writer, post-war, is likely to be like? What sort of unwashed brute will he be?”
Wisely, Sir Bernard left this rhetorical question unanswered. “I take it you are contemplating writing more realistically about crime and murder.”
She nodded, narrowing her eyes. “Bernard, you’ve stated it far more simply and eloquently than has the paid professional writer.”
“Thank you.”
“The question is-will you help me?”
“How?”
She leaned close and held his eyes with hers. “I want to accompany you to crime scenes. I want to see how you work, and how the police work, and achieve a firmer grasp on the reality behind the fantasy I serve up.”
He reared back. “Oh, Agatha, I don’t know that that’s a good idea.”
“It’s a splendid idea. Will you help?”
“I’m not so sure it can even be arranged.”
“Bernard, if the most renowned mystery writer on the planet joins forces with the foremost forensics detective in the universe… how could it not?”
He just sat there, stunned for a moment, then smiled and laughed. “You are truly a one of a kind, Mrs. Mallowan.”
“Thank you, Sir Bernard. Now, what is this case that’s got you studying in your little black notebook so diligently?”
The smile dissolved into a frown. “I wouldn’t advise starting there. It’s a most unpleasant matter.”
“Most murders are.”
“We may have… I must ask your discretion.”
“Certainly.”
He whispered: “We may have a modern-day Jack the Ripper on our hands.”
Agatha gasped. “Oh… that’s wonderful.”
Sir Bernard’s eyes tightened; he looked frankly horrified.
Her heart sank. “Please, please don’t think badly of me…. It’s just that this is exactly the kind of case I’m craving. Something big… a multiple murderer…. It’s just what the doctor ordered.”
His eyes were very wide. “My dear… this is not your… ‘fantasy’ world. Now, sit back and I will tell you about the crime scene I visited this morning.”
And he did. He even referred to his little black notebook, to make sure no details were omitted.
Agatha, feeling ashamed of herself, said, “I behaved wretchedly… selfish
ly. Poor woman. Her death is a tragedy, not just… research for some silly writer. Do forgive me.”
“Then you’ll give up this foolish idea?”
“Certainly not. It’s perfect. And I would say that your assumption is correct, Bernard. This fiend will strike again.”
He shook his head. “We’re not even sure the two murders are in fact the work of one assailant.”
“If it is the same man, you have to find him… and stop him. Because he isn’t finished, you know.”
A waiter stopped by to fill their coffee cups.
“I wish,” Sir Bernard said, “I could say I disagree with you…. So what would you have me do, then? Call you if our Ripper strikes again? Take you along to the scene of the crime?”
She sipped her coffee; it was bitter, but there was no cream.
“Yes,” Agatha said.
Ten minutes later, Agatha was leading James down the pavement with an obedient Sir Bernard at her side.
“You’re certain you want to do this?” the pathologist asked.
“Quite.”
“Aren’t you busy working on this play of yours-Ten Little Something-or-Others?”
“Just finishing touches, darling,” she said, the latter word an archly theatrical touch. “But you’re right, I am busy. In fact, I’m not working at the hospital this afternoon-I’ll be at the theater. The St. James? You can call me there, should anything arise.”
They were clipping along, the terrier setting a quick pace, despite the crowded pavement (which ran past an all-but-deserted street).
Sir Bernard asked, “Doesn’t the play open soon?”
“Yes. Friday. I’ve offered you tickets, several times. I could use the company-first nights are such agony for me.”
“Perhaps we should wait until after Friday, for you to accompany me to any crime scene….”
She smiled innocently at him. “Do you think the Ripper will wait?”
He frowned. “Agatha, I have grave misgivings.”
“Is that a pun?”
“How often do you have an opening night, my dear?”
“Bernard,” she said with mild exasperation. “Every time you perform an autopsy, it’s opening night.”
And after that, apparently, Sir Bernard Spilsbury could think of nothing else to say on the subject.
THREE
TEN LITTLE ACTRESSES
The St. James Theatre, on King Street, was its usual majestic self, though the building next door, Willis Sale Rooms, was in a sorry state. This noted home of public dinners, meetings and cotillions had been severely damaged in the 1940 air raids; the sumptuous site, with its spacious supper room with gallery and ballroom, still tempted after-hours looters. The St. James was nonetheless structurally sound, despite its shambles of a next-door neighbor; and the pub on the other side of the theater, the Golden Lion, remained healthy, even if Christie’s Auction House, across the way, was vacant due to bombing, as well. That the theater district resembled a war zone… in fact, was a war zone… did not deter the production of another Christie work.
Right now the St. James bore a massive angled marquee adorned with both the author’s name and that of the new play-a controversial title, it would seem… much to Agatha Christie Mallowan’s chagrined annoyance.
After all, what on earth could be more innocent than a nursery rhyme? She enjoyed the irony of using a children’s chant in an adult tale of murder-some time ago she’d done a short story called “Sing a Song of Sixpence,” and was even now noodling with a plot for a Poirot to be called Five Little Pigs. That anyone might take offense at a play named after an old English counting rhyme-in which ten little boys, one by one, disappear-seemed utterly absurd to Agatha.
She had been forced to change the title to Ten Little Indians for publication of the source novel and production of the play in the United States, where the final word of her own title was considered offensive to the Negro race-so much so, that the movie the Americans were planning was to be christened with the last line of the rhyme-in-question: And Then There Were None. Apparently, dating all the way back to their Civil War, in America the term “nigger” referred exclusively, and in a derogatory fashion, to Negroes (whereas in England, of course, it might refer to any member of any darker-skinned race).
Surprisingly, according to her producer, there had even been complaints here at home. These related to the large influx of American Negro soldiers, who suffered prejudicial treatment from their own fellow soldiers, the white ones, that is.
Londoners like Agatha found this confusing and disturbing, and minor scandals had erupted all over town as restaurants catering to the well-moneyed American soldiers refused service not only to Negro soldiers but coloured Britons as well. Shockingly, Learie Constantine, the renowned West Indian cricketeer, had been turned away from the Imperial Hotel because American guests had threatened to cancel their reservations.
These Americans were strange ducks-fighting a war against Hitler and his Master Race and his concentration-camp hatred of the Jews, and yet displaying a deep-seated hateful bigotry both primitive and tasteless.
Of course, some considered Agatha herself tasteless, in her insistence that her nursery-rhyme title remain; her view: the rhyme was innocent and so was her use of it, free of the hatefulness the Americans read into mere words. She meant no offense and would not be responsible if offense was taken.
Still, Agatha had capitulated about her title where the American market was concerned; but this was England, and her title would stand (besides, the American “Indian” title seemed to refer to a stateside counting rhyme of banal simplicity… one little, two little, three little Indians… ugh!).
But these were strange times, indeed. That a play should be mounted in Blitz-torn London would have been unthinkable, just two years ago. At first there had been a ban on entertainment; soon, for purposes of morale, the ban was lifted. Younger actors could even seek dispensation from military service, providing they were not out of work for more than two weeks at a time. Few took advantage of this, however-such stars as Lawrence Olivier and Ralph Richardson had answered the call, and set a fine example.
Only at the height of the bombings did the theaters close, and the cinemas never did. And by the end of last year, twenty-four West End theaters were again flourishing. True, the fare tended to be light-revues, revivals, and comedies like the American imports The Man Who Came to Dinner and Arsenic and Old Lace, and Noel Coward’s wonderful Blithe Spirit.
She hoped a murder thriller-one with darkly comic overtones-could find audiences willing to suspend their disbelief in these dark times.
And the moment did seem right for Agatha to get back in the theatrical swing. She adored the theater-going to it, and writing for it; she treasured the respect the playwright was given, and loved being around the larger-than-life characters who flocked to the bright lights of the West End.
Theater was a bug she had caught back in the early twenties, when her sister Madge’s play, The Claimant, was produced in London, and Agatha had attended rehearsals with Madge, thoroughly enjoying this glimpse at the theatrical life. As her work at the hospital allowed, Agatha had attended rehearsals of this new play-she would not admit it to a living soul, but hearing her words spoken aloud, seeing her story brought to life, thrilled her in a way that quite outdistanced the printed page.
And she much preferred adapting her own work to the stage, rather than leaving it to someone else. The compromises that had been required to bring The Murder of Roger Ackroyd to the stage (as Alibi in 1928) troubled her even now-namely, the spinster village gossip who had been youthened into a love interest… for the elderly Poirot, no less!
And yet, for one who had loved attending plays since childhood-to this day she would seek out the scores of musicals she’d seen, to play the tunes on the piano-seeing her “baby” on the boards, even in bastardized form, had been thrilling. The next time, she had written the play herself, so when, about a year ago, Reginald Simpson-who had produced Al
ibi-inquired into theatrical rights to her nursery-rhyme novel, Agatha had straightened her spine and said, “If anyone is to dramatize it, I’ll have a shot at it first.”
The play had turned out remarkably well, particularly considering the difficulties of the original ending. In the novel, ten people from various walks of life-all guilty of (and unpunished for) a murder-are invited under false pretenses to an island mansion… where one by one, a vengeful murderer among them strikes them down.
She had come up with a new ending that she feared was a cheat, but which everyone assured her was ingenious; and in rehearsal the finale did seem to play very well indeed.
Of course, there was another reason Agatha had turned to writing a new play-a frankly monetary one. Because of wartime restrictions on paper, her publisher was printing only a limited number of copies of her new novels, and she was being encouraged to restrict her literary output somewhat, as well.
This came at a particularly bad moment, because her American royalties were being held up, due to the war, while at the same time, the British government was insisting she pay taxes on those as yet unreceived American funds. Her attorneys were fighting for her-over what seemed clearly, even absurdly a taxation injustice-but at present the threat remained: her income was diminishing while her tax responsibilities soared.
Jumping back into the theatrical soup was a pleasant enough way to generate some earnings. During the Blitz period-at least when the bombs weren’t dropping-the theater was a respite of escape for many Londoners like Agatha, whose letters to her husband, overseas in the Middle East, were filled with reports of new plays, even down to comparing her own opinions with extracts from critics.
And now the first night of her controversially titled new play was only a few days away. At the moment she was seated in the stalls of the St. James Theatre, rather near the front, with the director-Irene Helier-on one side of her, and Irene’s husband, Bertram Morris, the producer, on the other.
A spiral notebook (containing the script and various other materials) open and in her lap, Irene was a strikingly beautiful woman of forty, with dark blue eyes and a pale perfect complexion, formerly an actress herself, whose minimal makeup, short dark hair, and mannish tan blouse and darker brown pants provided a military demeanor clearly designed to keep her femininity at bay while she took command of this little theatrical army.
The London Blitz Murders d-5 Page 4