Murder of Roger Ackroyd

I can't believe I've gotten this far! Four books in!

Okay, so this is so far the best of the books I've read, and no doubt it is in part because Hastings is taking a break from Hercule Poirot's confusing methods of solving mysteries. Instead, we get a mild-mannered country doctor telling the tale. This was also the only time I've called the murderer early on in the book (is it because Dr. Sheppard is a better narrator? Mmmmmaaayyyyybbeee).

The characters are still total cliches, but act less cliched than in previous books. We've got a tart-tongued gossip, Dr. Sheppard's sister. We've also got a strange undercurrent of English upperclass interbreeding, in that the nephew and ward? Stepsomething? of the murdered man are expected to announce their engagement any day as the book opens. These are way more interesting than a "girl with nervous eyes" to my mind.

At any rate, the good doctor describes his last night seeing his great friend, Roger Ackroyd, as the book kicks off. Roger's wife has killed herself, and revealed in a letter who it is that has been blackmailing her over an old secret she's been carrying, but Roger, darn it, just won't finish the letter in front of the doctor. In fact, he puts the letter in his desk before he even sees the name. The next morning, he is found dead, stabbed with a piece of unnecessarily dagger-like cutlery from the silver chest.

Who killed him? Could it be his prodigal nephew who could use a few quid? His efficient and handsome secretary who has debts to pay off? His sister, who is generally intolerable? Her gorgeous daughter, who hates her dependency on her uncle? One of the creepy, secretive servants who haunt the house?

Or someone else entirely?

But I want to get across that this was so far the most readable, the most enjoyable and most subtle of the books of Agatha's I've read so far. Hercule Poirot's frenchisms are kept to a minimum (sort of), and while Agatha uses characteristically broad strokes to create her characters, she's wielding her paint brush a little more carefully than in past books. It was almost a pleasure! And it reminded me of the good time I had reading her books at my grandmommy's house on summer vacations.

In memory of my grandmommy Ruth, I just leaned back in my chair, put my arms on the arm rests, clasped my hands and rocked a little using my feet on the ottoman. That's just how she rolled. I think she and I shared the attitude that, while we were reading, we'd develop theories about whodunnit, but ultimately, the story was going where it was going to go and we just enjoyed the ride. And with "Ackroyd," I was able to do that instead of get caught up in the clunkerishness of Christie.

This, I have to say, was the first mystery where all the clues ultimately made sense at the end, at least for me. And it was nice having a non-Hastings narrator, even if he (spoiler alert!) dies at the end.

Up next: The Big Four.

short bits

So a while back Slate ran a story about how Agatha Christie used multiple (and I mean a lot) notebooks through which she scattered notes about various plots and characters and wrote multiple variations of each mystery (so there might be different endings). The article acts totally shocked that she might not have known who the murderer is when she started writing each book. I think it's an intricate writer who can set out multiple possibilities and, as they are weaving their plots, pick the ending they believe fits best.

However, we are talking about novels here. Apparently Christie had such a bounty of ideas that even before she wrote novel #3 she published a book of short stories, "Poirot Investigates." Many of these stories don't involve murder and, let's face it, jewel thievery is just not as compelling as cold blooded murder. So I'll give her credit for dumping them into a book of short stories. And I would imagine she used a method of just scratching out her stories based on her ideas that she couldn't stretch out into a novel, with characters who don't stretch out much, either.

And there's the key, right there. The things that make Christie's books problematic are all in each of the stories -- the thin characters, the elaborate set-up, this actual quote: " 'Well isn't that most queer,' I ejaculated" -- without the things that redeem her novels in such great measure -- the twisted psychology and the meditation on place.

I have to admit that I couldn't finish "Poirot Investigates." Too much Hastings (which book #4, "The Murder of Roger Ackroyd" keeps in London while Poirot heads to the country. A kindly elderly doctor plays the Hastings role, and it is his sister, who is very into the town gossip, who provides any sense of depth of place that the narrator, well, lacks. But more on that later), too much surface flash.

I feel a little dejected in not finishing it, but it was putting me to sleep. I am really hoping I will get a break with some Miss Marple. I remember her as being awesome. I hope Christie comes up with her relatively soon in my journey.