Agahta Christie - An autobiography Part 27

I was quite sure that it was Katharine's thought, not Len's. Though I was fond of her, I was not going to have her dictate my life. When I saw Max, therefore, I said that though I did not propose to come to Baghdad, I had carefully not told Len that that was so. Max was furious. I had to calm him down.

'I'm almost inclined to insist that you come,' he said.

'That would be silly. It would mean a lot of expense, and it would be rather miserable parting from you there.'

It was then that he told me that he had been approached by Dr Campbell-Thompson and that there was a possibility that in the following year he would go and dig at Nineveh in the north of Iraq. In all probability I should be able to accompany him there. 'Nothing is settled,' he said. 'It all has to be arranged. But I am not going to be parted from you for another six months the season after this. Len will have had plenty of time to find a successor by then.'

The days pa.s.sed in Skye, my banns were duly read in church, and all the old ladies sitting round beamed on me with the kindly pleasure all old ladies take in something romantic like marriage.

Max came up to Edinburgh, and Rosalind and I, Carlo, Mary, and Peter came over from Skye. We were married in the small chapel of St Columba's Church. Our wedding was quite a triumphthere were no reporters there and no hint of the secret had leaked out. Our duplicity continued, because we parted, like the old song, at the church door. Max went back to London to finish his Ur work for another three days, while I returned the next day with Rosalind to Cresswell Place, where I was received by my faithful Bessie, who was in on the secret. Max kept away, then two days later drove up to the door of Cresswell Place in a hired Daimler. We drove off to Dover and from thence crossed the Channel to the first stopping-place of our honeymoon, Venice.

Max had planned the honeymoon entirely himself: it was going to be a surprise. I am sure n.o.body enjoyed a honeymoon better than we did. There was only one jarring spot on it, and that was that the Orient Express, even in its early stages before Venice, was once again plagued by the emergence of bed-bugs from the woodwork.

PART IX

LIFE WITH MAX

I

Our honeymoon took us to Dubrovnik, and from there to Split. Split I have never forgotten. We were wandering round the place in the evening, from our hotel, when we came round the corner into one of the squares, and there, looming up to the sky, was the figure of St Gregory of Nin, one of the finest works of the sculptor Mestrovic. It towered over everything, one of those things that stand out in your memory as a permanent landmark.

We had enormous fun with the menus there. They were written in Yugoslavian, and of course we had no idea what they meant. We used to point to some entry and then wait with some anxiety to see what would be delivered. Sometimes it was a colossal dish of chicken, on another occasion poached eggs in a highly seasoned white sauce, another time again a sort of super-goulash. All the helpings were enormous, and none of the restaurants ever wished you to pay the bill. The waiter would murmur in broken French or English or Italian: 'Not tonight, not tonight. You can come in and pay tomorrow.' I don't know what happened when people had meals for a week without paying and then went off on a boat. Certainly on the last morning when we did go to pay we had the utmost difficulty in getting our favourite restaurant to accept the money. 'Ah, you can do it later,' they said. 'But,' we explained, or tried to explain, 'we cannot do it later, because we are going off by boat at twelve o'clock.' The little waiter sighed sadly at the prospect of having to do some arithmetic. He retired to a cubicle, scratched his head, used several pencils in turn, groaned, and after about five minutes brought us what seemed a very reasonable account for the enormous amounts we had eaten. Then he wished us good luck and we departed.

The next stage of our journey was down the Dalmatian coast and along the coast of Greece to Patras. It was just a little cargo boat, Max explained. We stood on the quay waiting for its arrival, and became a little anxious. Then we suddenly saw a boat so minutesuch a c.o.c.klesh.e.l.lthat we could hardly believe it was what we were waiting for. It had an unusual name, composed entirely of consonantsSrbnhow it was p.r.o.nounced we never learnt. But this was the boat sure enough. There were four pa.s.sengers on boardourselves in one cabin and two others in a second. They left at the next port, so we then had the boat to ourselves.

Never have I tasted such food as we had on that boat: delicious lamb, very tender, in little cutlets, succulent vegetables, rice, sumptuous sauce, and savoury things on skewers. We chatted to the captain in broken Italian. 'You like the food?' he said. 'I am glad. I have English food I ordered. It is very English food for you.' I sincerely hoped he would never come to England, in case he discovered what English food was really like. He said that he had been offered promotion to a bigger pa.s.senger boat, but he preferred to stay on this one because he had a good cook here, and he enjoyed his peaceful life: he was not worried by pa.s.sengers. 'Being on a boat with pa.s.sengers is having trouble all the time,' he explained. 'So I prefer not to be promoted.'

We had a happy few days on that little Serbian boat. We stopped at various portsSanta Anna, Santa Maura, Santi Quaranta. We would go ash.o.r.e and the captain would explain that he would blow the funnel half an hour before he was due to depart again. So, as we wandered through olive groves or sat among the flowers, we would suddenly hear the s.h.i.+p's funnel, turn round and hurry back to the s.h.i.+p. How lovely it was, sitting in those olive groves, feeling so completely peaceful and happy together. It was a Garden of Eden, a Paradise on earth.

We arrived at last at Patras, bade cheerful farewells to the Captain, and got into a funny little train which was to take us to Olympia. It not only took us as pa.s.sengers, it took a great many more bed-bugs. This time they got up the legs of the trousers I was wearing. The following day I had to slit the cloth because my legs were so swollen.

Greece needs no description. Olympia was as lovely as I thought it would be. The next day we went on mules to Andritsenaand that, I must say, very nearly tore the fabric of our married life.

With no previous training in mule-back riding, a fourteen hours' journey resulted in such agony as is hardly to be believed! I got to a stage when I didn't know if it would be more painful to walk or to sit on the mule. When we finally arrived, I fell off the mule, so stiff that I could not walk, and I reproached Max, saying: 'You are really not fit to marry anybody if you don't know what someone feels after a journey like this!'

Actually, Max was quite stiff and in pain himself. Explanations that the journey ought not to have taken more than eight hours by his calculations were not well received. It took me seven or eight years to realise that his estimates of journeys were always to prove vastly lower than they proved to be in reality, so that one immediately added a third at least to his prognostication.

We took two days to recover at Andritsena. Then I admitted that I was not sorry to have married him after all, and that perhaps he could learn the proper way to treat a wifeby not taking her on mule rides until he had carefully calculated the distance. We proceeded on a rather more cautious mule ride of not more than five hours, to the Temple of Ba.s.sae, and that I did not find exhausting at all.

We went to Mycenae, to Epidaurus, and we stayed in what seemed the Royal Suite in a hotel at Naupliait had red velvet hangings and an enormous four-poster with gold brocaded curtains. We had breakfast on a slightly insecure but ornamented balcony, looking out towards an island in the sea, and then went down to bathe, rather doubtfully, among large quant.i.ties of jelly-fish.

Epidaurus seemed particularly beautiful to me, but it was there really that I ran up against the archaeological character for the first time. It was a heavenly day, and I climbed up to the top of the theatre and sat there, having left Max in the museum looking at an inscription. A long time pa.s.sed and he did not come to join me. Finally I got impatient, came down again, and went into the museum. Max was still lying flat on his face on the floor, pursuing his inscription with complete delight.

'Are you still reading that thing?' I asked.

'Yes, rather an unusual one,' he said. 'Look hereshall I explain it to you?'

'I don't think so,' I said firmly. 'It's lovely outsideabsolutely beautiful.'

'Yes, I'm sure it is,' said Max absently.

'Would you mind,' I said, 'if I went back outside?'

'Oh no,' said Max, slightly surprised, 'that's quite all right. I just thought you might find this inscription interesting.'

'I don't think I should find it as interesting as all that,' I said, and went back to my seat at the top of the theatre. Max rejoined me about an hour later, very happy, having deciphered one particular obscure Greek phrase which, as far as he was concerned, had made his day.

Delphi was the highlight, though. It struck me as so unbelievably beautiful that we went round trying to select a site where we might build a little house one day. We marked out three, I remember. It was a nice dream: I don't know that we believed in it ourselves even at the time. When I went there a year or two ago and saw the great buses travelling up and down, and the cafes, the souvenirs, and the tourists, how glad I was that we had not not built our house there. built our house there.

We were always choosing sites for houses. This was mainly owing to me, houses having always been my pa.s.sionthere was indeed a moment in my life, not long before the outbreak of the second war, when I was the proud owner of eight houses. I had become addicted to finding broken-down, slummy houses in London and making structural alterations, decorating and furnis.h.i.+ng them. When the second war came and I had to pay war damage insurance on all these houses, it was not so funny. However, in the end they all showed a good profit when I sold them. It had been an enjoyable hobby while it lastedand I am always interested to walk past one of 'my' houses, to see how they are being kept up, and to guess the sort of person who is living in them now.

On the last day day we walked down from Delphi to the sea at Itea below. A Greek came with us to show us the way, and Max talked to him. Max has a very inquiring mind, and always has to ask a lot of questions of any native who is with him. On this occasion he was asking our guide the names of various flowers. Our charming Greek was only too anxious to oblige. Max would point out a flower and he would say the name, then Max would carefully write it down in his notebook. After he had written down about twenty-five specimens he noticed that there was a certain amount of repet.i.tion. He repeated the Greek name which was now being given him for a blue flower with spiky thorns on it, and recognised it as the same name as had been used for one of the first flowers, a large yellow marigold. It then dawned upon us that, in his anxiety to please, the Greek was merely telling us the names of as many flowers as he we walked down from Delphi to the sea at Itea below. A Greek came with us to show us the way, and Max talked to him. Max has a very inquiring mind, and always has to ask a lot of questions of any native who is with him. On this occasion he was asking our guide the names of various flowers. Our charming Greek was only too anxious to oblige. Max would point out a flower and he would say the name, then Max would carefully write it down in his notebook. After he had written down about twenty-five specimens he noticed that there was a certain amount of repet.i.tion. He repeated the Greek name which was now being given him for a blue flower with spiky thorns on it, and recognised it as the same name as had been used for one of the first flowers, a large yellow marigold. It then dawned upon us that, in his anxiety to please, the Greek was merely telling us the names of as many flowers as he knew. knew. As he did not know many he was beginning to repeat them for each new flower. With some disgust Max realised that his careful list of wild flowers was completely useless. As he did not know many he was beginning to repeat them for each new flower. With some disgust Max realised that his careful list of wild flowers was completely useless.

We ended up at Athens, and there, with separation only four or five days ahead of us, disaster struck the happy inhabitants of Eden. I went down with what I took at first to be one of the ordinary tummy complaints that often strike one in the Middle East, known as Gyppy Tummy, Baghdad Tummy, Teheran Tummy, and so on. This I took to be Athens Tummybut it proved to be worse than that.

I got up after a few days, but when driving out on an excursion I felt so ill that I had to be driven straight back again. I found I had quite a high fever, and in the end, after many protests on my part, and when all other remedies had failed, we got hold of a doctor. Only a Greek doctor was obtainable. He spoke French, and I soon learnt that, though my French was socially adequate, I did not know any medical terms.

The doctor attributed my downfall to the heads of red mullet, in which, according to him, there lurked great danger, especially for strangers who were not used to dissecting this fish in the proper way. He told me a gruesome tale about a cabinet minister who suffered from this to the point almost of death and only made a last moment recovery. I certainly felt ill enough to die at any any minute! I went on having a temperature of 105 and being unable to keep anything down. However, my doctor succeeded in the end. Suddenly I lay there feeling human once more. The thought of eating was horrible, and I did not feel I ever wanted to move againbut I was on the mend and knew it. I a.s.sured Max that he would be able to get off the following day. minute! I went on having a temperature of 105 and being unable to keep anything down. However, my doctor succeeded in the end. Suddenly I lay there feeling human once more. The thought of eating was horrible, and I did not feel I ever wanted to move againbut I was on the mend and knew it. I a.s.sured Max that he would be able to get off the following day.

'It's awful. How can I leave you, dear?'

Our trouble was that Max had been entrusted with the responsibility of reaching Ur in time to build on various additions to the burnt-brick expedition house so as to be ready for the Woolleys and the other members of the expedition when they arrived in a fortnight's time. He was to build a new dining-room and a new bathroom for Katharine.

'They will understand, I'm sure,' said Max. But he said it doubtfully, and I knew quite well that they wouldn't. I got terrifically worked up, and pointed out that they would lay dereliction of duty on Max's part on me. me. It became a point of honour with us both that Max should be there on time. I a.s.sured him that now I should be quite all right. I would lie there, quietly recovering for another week perhaps, and then go straight home by the Orient Express. It became a point of honour with us both that Max should be there on time. I a.s.sured him that now I should be quite all right. I would lie there, quietly recovering for another week perhaps, and then go straight home by the Orient Express.

Poor Max was torn to bits. He, too, was invested with a terrific English sense of duty. It had been put to him firmly by Leonard Woolley: 'I trust trust you, Max. You may be enjoying yourself and all that, but it is really you, Max. You may be enjoying yourself and all that, but it is really serious serious that you should give me your word that you will be there on the right day and take charge.' that you should give me your word that you will be there on the right day and take charge.'

'You know what Len will say,' I pointed out.

'But you're really ill.'

'I know I'm ill, but they they won't believe it. They'll think that I'm just keeping you away, and I can't have that. And if you go on arguing, my temperature will go up again and I really won't believe it. They'll think that I'm just keeping you away, and I can't have that. And if you go on arguing, my temperature will go up again and I really shall shall be very ill indeed.' be very ill indeed.'

So, in the end, both of us feeling heroic, Max departed on the path of duty.

The one person who did not agree with any of this was the Greek doctor, who threw his hands up to Heaven and burst into torrents of indignant French. 'Ah, yes, they are all alike, the English. I have known many of them, oh, so many of themthey are all the same. They have a devotion to their work, to their duty. What is work, what is duty, compared with human beings? human beings? A wife is a human being, is she not? A wife is ill, and she is a human being, and that is what matters. That is A wife is a human being, is she not? A wife is ill, and she is a human being, and that is what matters. That is all all that mattersa human being in distress!' that mattersa human being in distress!'

'You don't understand,' I said. 'This is really important. He gave his word he would be there. He has a heavy responsibility.'

'Ah, what is responsibility? What is work, what is duty? Duty? It is nothing, duty, to affection. But Englishmen are like that. Ah, what coldness, what froideur. froideur. What horror to be married to an Englishman! I would not wish that on any womanno indeed, I would not!' What horror to be married to an Englishman! I would not wish that on any womanno indeed, I would not!'

I was much too limp to argue more, but I a.s.sured him that I should get on all right.

'You will have to be very careful,' he warned me. 'But it is no good saying things like that. This cabinet minister of whom I tell youdo you know how long it was before he returned to duty? A whole month.'

I was not impressed. I told him that English stomachs were not like that. English stomachs, I a.s.sured him, recovered very quickly. The doctor threw up his hands once again, vociferated more French, and departed, more or less was.h.i.+ng his hands of me. If I felt like it, he said, I could at any time have a small plate of plain boiled macaroni. I didn't want anything. Least of all did I want plain boiled macaroni. I lay like a log in my green wall-papered bedroom, feeling sick as a cat, painful round the waist and stomach, and so weak that I hated to move an arm. I sent for plain boiled macaroni. I ate about three winding strings of it, and then put it aside. It seemed to me impossible that I should ever fancy eating again.

I thought of Max. He would have arrived at Beirut by now. The following day he would be starting by Nairn convoy across the desert. Poor Max, he would be worried about me.

Fortunately I was no longer worried about myself. In fact I felt stirring in me a determination to do something or get somewhere. I ate more plain boiled macaroni; progressed to having a little grated cheese on it; and walked three times round the room each morning to get back some strength into my legs. I told the doctor I was much better when he arrived.

'That is good. Yes, you are better, I see.'

'In fact,' I said, 'I shall be able to go home the day after tomorrow.' do not talk such folly. I tell you, the cabinet minister'

I was getting very tired of the cabinet minister. I summoned the hotel clerk and made him book me a seat on the Orient Express in three days' time. I did not break my intention to the doctor until the night before I left. Then his hands went up again. He accused me of ingrat.i.tude, of foolhardiness, and warned that I would probably be taken off the train en route en route and die on a railway platform. I knew quite well it was not as bad as that. English stomachs, I said again, recover quickly. and die on a railway platform. I knew quite well it was not as bad as that. English stomachs, I said again, recover quickly.

In due course, I left. My tottering footsteps were supported by the hotel porter into the train. I collapsed in my bunk, and more or less remained there. Occasionally I got them to bring me some hot soup from the dining-car, but as it was usually greasy I did not fancy it. All this abstention would have been good for my figure a few years later, but at that time I was still slender, and at the end of my journey home I looked like a ma.s.s of bones. It was wonderful to get back and to flop into my own bed. All the same, it took me nearly a month to recover my old health and spirits.

Max had reached Ur safely, though with tremendous trepidation about me, dispatching various telegrams en route, en route, and waiting for the telegrams from me to arrive, which they never did. He put such energy into the work that he did far more than the Woolleys had expected. and waiting for the telegrams from me to arrive, which they never did. He put such energy into the work that he did far more than the Woolleys had expected.

'I'11 show them,' he said. He built Katharine's bathroom entirely to his own specifications, as small and cramped as possible, and added such other embellishments to it and the dining-room as he thought fit.

'But we didn't mean you to do all this,' Katharine exclaimed, when they arrived.

'I thought I had better get on with it as I was here,' said Max grimly. He explained that he had left me at death's door in Athens.

'You should have stayed with her,' said Katharine.

'I think probably I should,' said Max. 'But you both impressed on me how important this work was.'

Katharine took it out of Len by telling him that the bathroom was not at all to her liking and would have to be taken down and rebuiltand this was done, at considerable inconvenience. Later, however, she congratulated Max on the superior design of the living-room, and said what a difference it had made to her.

At my present age I have learnt pretty well how to deal with temperamental people of all kindsactors, producers, architects, musicians, and natural prima donnas prima donnas such as Katharine Woolley. Max's mother was what I should call a such as Katharine Woolley. Max's mother was what I should call a prima donna prima donna in her own right. My own mother came near to being one: she could work herself into terrific states, but had invariably forgotten all about them by the next day. 'But you seemed so desperate!' I would say to her. 'Desperate?' said my mother, highly surprised. 'Was I? Did I sound like that?' in her own right. My own mother came near to being one: she could work herself into terrific states, but had invariably forgotten all about them by the next day. 'But you seemed so desperate!' I would say to her. 'Desperate?' said my mother, highly surprised. 'Was I? Did I sound like that?'

Several of our acting friends can throw a temperament as well as anyone. When Charles Laughton was playing Hercule Poirot in Alibi, Alibi, and sipping ice-cream sodas with me during a break in rehearsal, he explained his method. 'It's a good thing to pretend to have a temperament, even if you haven't. I find it very helpful. People will say, "Don't let's do anything to annoy and sipping ice-cream sodas with me during a break in rehearsal, he explained his method. 'It's a good thing to pretend to have a temperament, even if you haven't. I find it very helpful. People will say, "Don't let's do anything to annoy him. You him. You know how he throws temperaments."' know how he throws temperaments."'

'It's tiring sometimes,' he added, 'especially if you don't happen to want to. But it pays. It pays every time.'

II

My literary activities at this period seem curiously vague in my memory. I don't think, even then, that I considered myself a bona fide bona fide author. I wrote thingsyesbooks and stories. They were published, and I was beginning to accustom myself to the fact that I could count upon them as a definite source of income. But never, when I was filling in a form and came to the line asking for Occupation, would it have occurred to me to fill it in with anything but the time-honoured 'Married woman'. I was a married woman, that was my status, and author. I wrote thingsyesbooks and stories. They were published, and I was beginning to accustom myself to the fact that I could count upon them as a definite source of income. But never, when I was filling in a form and came to the line asking for Occupation, would it have occurred to me to fill it in with anything but the time-honoured 'Married woman'. I was a married woman, that was my status, and that that was my occupation. As a sideline, I wrote books. I never approached my writing by dubbing it with the grand name of 'career'. I would have thought it ridiculous. was my occupation. As a sideline, I wrote books. I never approached my writing by dubbing it with the grand name of 'career'. I would have thought it ridiculous.

My mother-in-law could not understand this. 'You write so well, Agatha dear, and because you write so well, surely you ought to write somethingwellmore serious?' serious?' Something 'worth while' was what she meant. I found it difficult to explain to her, and indeed did not really try, that my writing was for entertainment. Something 'worth while' was what she meant. I found it difficult to explain to her, and indeed did not really try, that my writing was for entertainment.

I wanted to be a good detective story writer, yes, and indeed by this time I was conceited enough to think that I was was a good detective story writer. Some of my books satisfied and pleased me. They never pleased me entirely, of course, because I don't suppose that is what one ever achieves. Nothing turns out quite in the way you thought it would when you are sketching out notes for the first chapter, or walking about muttering to yourself and seeing a story unroll. a good detective story writer. Some of my books satisfied and pleased me. They never pleased me entirely, of course, because I don't suppose that is what one ever achieves. Nothing turns out quite in the way you thought it would when you are sketching out notes for the first chapter, or walking about muttering to yourself and seeing a story unroll.

My dear mother-in-law would, I think, have liked me to write a biography of some world-famous figure. I cannot think of anything I should be worse at doing. Anyway, I remained sufficiently modest to say occasionally, without thinking, 'Yes, but then of course I am not really an author.' This was usually corrected by Rosalind, who would say: 'But you are are an author, mother. You are quite definitely an author by this time.' an author, mother. You are quite definitely an author by this time.'

Poor Max had one serious penalty laid on him by marriage. He had, as far as I could find out, never read a novel. Katharine Woolley had forced The Murder of Roger Ackroyd The Murder of Roger Ackroyd upon him, but he had got out of reading it. Somebody had discussed the denouement in front of him, and after that, he said, 'What on earth is the good of reading a book when you know the end of it?' Now, however, as my husband, he started manfully on the task. upon him, but he had got out of reading it. Somebody had discussed the denouement in front of him, and after that, he said, 'What on earth is the good of reading a book when you know the end of it?' Now, however, as my husband, he started manfully on the task.

By that time I had written ten books at least, and he started slowly to catch up with them. Since a really erudite book on archaeology or on cla.s.sical subjects was Max's idea of light reading, it was funny to see what heavy weather he made of reading light fiction. However, he stuck to it, and I am proud to say appeared to enjoy his self-imposed task in the end.

The funny thing is that I have little memory of the books I wrote just after my marriage. I suppose I was enjoying myself so much in ordinary living that writing was a task which I performed in spells and bursts. I never had a definite place which was my my room or where I retired specially to write. This has caused much trouble for me in the ensuing years, since whenever I had to receive an interviewer their first wish would always be to take a photograph of me at my work. 'Show me where you write your books.' room or where I retired specially to write. This has caused much trouble for me in the ensuing years, since whenever I had to receive an interviewer their first wish would always be to take a photograph of me at my work. 'Show me where you write your books.'

'Oh, anywhere.'

'But surely you have a place where you always work?'

But I hadn't. All I needed was a steady table and a typewriter. I had begun now to write straight on to the typewriter, though I still used to do the beginning chapters and occasionally others in long-hand and then type them out. A marble-topped bedroom washstand table made a good place to write; the dining-room table between meals was also suitable.

My family usually noticed a time of approaching activity by saying, 'Look, Missus is broody again.' Carlo and Mary always called me Missus, supposedly in Peter the dog's language, and Rosalind, too, more often called me Missus than Mummy or Mother. Anyway, they all recognised the signs when I was broody, looked at me hopefully, and urged me to shut myself up in a room somewhere and get busy.

Many friends have said to me, 'I never know when you write your books, because I've never seen you writing, or even seen you go away to write.' I must behave rather as dogs do when they retire with a bone: they depart for an odd half hour. They return self-consciously with mud on their noses. I do much the same. I felt slightly embarra.s.sed if I was going to write. Once I could get away, however, shut the door and get people not to interrupt me, then I was able to go full speed ahead, completely lost in what I was doing.

Actually my output seems to have been rather good in the years 1929 to 1932: besides full-length books I had published two collections of short stories. One consisted of Mr Quin stories. These are my favourite. I wrote one, not very often, at intervals perhaps of three or four months, sometimes longer still. Magazines appeared to like them, and I liked them myself, but I refused all offers to do a series for any periodical. I didn't want to do a series of Mr Quin: I only wanted to do one when I felt like it. He was a kind of carry-over for me from my early poems in the Harlequin and Columbine series.

Mr Quin was a figure who just entered into a storya catalyst, no morehis mere presence affected human beings. There would be some little fact, some apparently irrelevant phrase, to point him out for what he was: a man shown in a harlequin-coloured light that fell on him through a gla.s.s window; a sudden appearance or disappearance. Always he stood for the same things: he was a friend of lovers, and connected with death. Little Mr Satterthwaite, who was, as you might say, Mr Quin's emissary, also became a favourite character of mine.

I had also published a book of short stories called Partners in Crime. Partners in Crime.

Each story here was written in the manner of some particular detective of the time. Some of them by now I cannot even recognise. I remember Thornley Colton, the blind detectiveAustin Freeman, of course; Freeman Wills Croft with his wonderful timetables; and inevitably Sherlock Holmes. It is interesting in a way to see who of the twelve detective story writers that I chose are still well knownsome are household names, others have more or less perished in oblivion. They all seemed to me at the time to write well and entertainingly in their different fas.h.i.+ons. Partners in Crime Partners in Crime featured in it my two young sleuths, Tommy and Tuppence, who had been the princ.i.p.al characters in my second book, featured in it my two young sleuths, Tommy and Tuppence, who had been the princ.i.p.al characters in my second book, The Secret Adversary. The Secret Adversary. It was fun to get back to them for a change. It was fun to get back to them for a change. Murder at the Vicarage Murder at the Vicarage was published in 1930, but I cannot remember where, when or how I wrote it, why I came to write it, or even what suggested to me that I should select a new characterMiss Marpleto act as the sleuth in the story. Certainly at the time I had no intention of continuing her for the rest of my life. I did not know that she was to become a rival to Hercule Poirot. was published in 1930, but I cannot remember where, when or how I wrote it, why I came to write it, or even what suggested to me that I should select a new characterMiss Marpleto act as the sleuth in the story. Certainly at the time I had no intention of continuing her for the rest of my life. I did not know that she was to become a rival to Hercule Poirot.

People never stop writing to me nowadays to suggest that Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot should meetbut why why should they? I am sure they would not enjoy it at all. Hercule Poirot, the complete egoist, would not like being taught his business by an elderly spinster lady. He was a professional sleuth, he would not be at home at all in Miss Marple's world. No, they are both should they? I am sure they would not enjoy it at all. Hercule Poirot, the complete egoist, would not like being taught his business by an elderly spinster lady. He was a professional sleuth, he would not be at home at all in Miss Marple's world. No, they are both stars, stars, and they are stars in their own right. I shall not let them meet unless I feel a sudden and unexpected urge to do so. and they are stars in their own right. I shall not let them meet unless I feel a sudden and unexpected urge to do so.

I think it is possible that Miss Marple arose from the pleasure I had taken in portraying Dr Sheppard's sister in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. She had been my favourite character in the bookan acidulated spinster, full of curiosity, knowing everything, hearing everything: the complete detective service in the home. When the book was adapted as a play, one of the things that saddened me most was Caroline's removal. Instead, the doctor was provided with another sistera much younger onea pretty girl who could supply Poirot with romantic interest. She had been my favourite character in the bookan acidulated spinster, full of curiosity, knowing everything, hearing everything: the complete detective service in the home. When the book was adapted as a play, one of the things that saddened me most was Caroline's removal. Instead, the doctor was provided with another sistera much younger onea pretty girl who could supply Poirot with romantic interest.

I had no idea when the idea was first suggested what terrible suffering you go through with plays, owing to the alterations made in them. I had already written a detective play of my own, I can't remember exactly when. It was not approved of by Hughes Ma.s.sie; in fact they suggested it would be better to forget it entirely, so I didn't press on with it. I had called it Black Coffee. Black Coffee. It was a conventional spy thriller, and although full of cliches, it was not, I think, at all bad. Then, in due course, it came into its own. A friend of mine from Sunningdale days, Mr Burman, who was connected with the Royalty Theatre, suggested to me that it might perhaps be produced. It was a conventional spy thriller, and although full of cliches, it was not, I think, at all bad. Then, in due course, it came into its own. A friend of mine from Sunningdale days, Mr Burman, who was connected with the Royalty Theatre, suggested to me that it might perhaps be produced.

It always seems strange to me that whoever plays Poirot is always an outsize man. Charles Laughton had plenty of avoirdupois, and Francis Sullivan was broad, thick, and about 6'2' tall. He played Poirot in Black Coffee. Black Coffee. I think the first production was at the Everyman in Hampstead, and the part of Lucia was played by Joyce Bland, whom I always thought a very good actress. I think the first production was at the Everyman in Hampstead, and the part of Lucia was played by Joyce Bland, whom I always thought a very good actress.

Black Coffee ran for a mere four or five months when it finally came to the West End, but it was revived twenty-odd years later, with minor alterations and it did quite well in repertory. ran for a mere four or five months when it finally came to the West End, but it was revived twenty-odd years later, with minor alterations and it did quite well in repertory.

Thriller plays are usually much alike in plotall that alters is the Enemy. There is an international gang a la la Moriartyprovided first by the Germans, the 'Huns' of the first war; then the Communists, who in turn were succeeded by the Fascists. We have the Russians, we have the Chinese, we go back to the international gang again, and the Master Criminal wanting world supremacy is always with us. Moriartyprovided first by the Germans, the 'Huns' of the first war; then the Communists, who in turn were succeeded by the Fascists. We have the Russians, we have the Chinese, we go back to the international gang again, and the Master Criminal wanting world supremacy is always with us.

Alibi, the first play to be produced from one of my books the first play to be produced from one of my booksThe Murder of Roger Ackroydwas adapted by Michael Morton. He was a practised hand at adapting plays. I much disliked his first suggestion, which was to take about twenty years off Poirot's age, call him Beau Poirot and have lots of girls in love with him. I was by this time so stuck with Poirot that I realised I was going to have him with me for life. I strongly objected to having his personality completely changed. In the end, with Gerald Du Maurier, who was producing, backing me up, we settled on removing that excellent character Caroline, the doctor's sister, and replacing her with a young and attractive girl. As I have said, I resented the removal of Caroline a good deal: I liked the part she played in village life: and I liked the idea of village life reflected through the life of the doctor and his masterful sister. adapted by Michael Morton. He was a practised hand at adapting plays. I much disliked his first suggestion, which was to take about twenty years off Poirot's age, call him Beau Poirot and have lots of girls in love with him. I was by this time so stuck with Poirot that I realised I was going to have him with me for life. I strongly objected to having his personality completely changed. In the end, with Gerald Du Maurier, who was producing, backing me up, we settled on removing that excellent character Caroline, the doctor's sister, and replacing her with a young and attractive girl. As I have said, I resented the removal of Caroline a good deal: I liked the part she played in village life: and I liked the idea of village life reflected through the life of the doctor and his masterful sister.

I think at that moment, in St. Mary Mead, though I did not yet know it, Miss Marple was born, and with her Miss Hartnell, Miss Wetherby, and Colonel and Mrs Bantrythey were all there lined up below the border-line of consciousness, ready to come to life and step out on to the stage.