Agahta Christie - An autobiography Part 16

She got up slowly in the morning after breakfast in bed. She came down about eleven and looked hopefully for someone who might have time to read the papers to her. Since she did not come down at a fixed time this was not always possible. She was patient, she sat in her chair. For a year or two she was still able to knit, because for knitting she did not have to see well; but as her eyesight grew worse she had to knit coa.r.s.er and coa.r.s.er types of garments, and even there she would drop a st.i.tch and not know it. Sometimes one would find her weeping quietly in her armchair because she had dropped a st.i.tch several rows back and it had all to be pulled out. I used to do it for her, pick it up and knit it up for her so that she could go on from where she had left off; but that did not really heal the sorrowful hurt that she was no longer able to be useful.

She could seldom be persuaded to go out for a little walk on the terrace, or anything like that. Outside air she considered definitely harmful. She sat in the dining-room all day because she had always sat in the dining-room in her own house. She would come and join us for afternoon tea, but then she would go back again. Yet sometimes, especially if we had a party of young people in for supper, when we went up to the schoolroom afterwards, suddenly Grannie would appear, creeping slowly and with difficulty up the stairs. On these occasions she did not want, as usual, to go to an early bed: she wanted to be in in it, to hear what was going on, to share our gaiety and laughter. I suppose I wished she wouldn't come. Although she wasn't actually deaf, a good many things had to be repeated to her, and it placed a slight constraint over the company. But I am glad at least that we never discouraged her from coming up. It was sad for poor Grannie, and yet it was inevitable. The trouble with her, as with so many old people, was the loss of her independence. I think it is the sense of being a dis.p.a.ced person that makes so many elderly people indulge in the illusion that they are being poisoned or their belongings stolen. I don't think really it is a weakening of the mental facultiesit is an excitement that they need, a kind of stimulant: life would be more interesting if someone it, to hear what was going on, to share our gaiety and laughter. I suppose I wished she wouldn't come. Although she wasn't actually deaf, a good many things had to be repeated to her, and it placed a slight constraint over the company. But I am glad at least that we never discouraged her from coming up. It was sad for poor Grannie, and yet it was inevitable. The trouble with her, as with so many old people, was the loss of her independence. I think it is the sense of being a dis.p.a.ced person that makes so many elderly people indulge in the illusion that they are being poisoned or their belongings stolen. I don't think really it is a weakening of the mental facultiesit is an excitement that they need, a kind of stimulant: life would be more interesting if someone were were trying to poison you. Little by little Grannie began to indulge in these fancies. She a.s.sured my mother that the servants were 'putting things in my food'. 'They want to get rid of me!' trying to poison you. Little by little Grannie began to indulge in these fancies. She a.s.sured my mother that the servants were 'putting things in my food'. 'They want to get rid of me!'

'But Auntie dear, why should they want to get rid of you? They like you very much.'

'Ah, that's what you think, Clara. Butcome a little nearer: they are always listening at doors, that I know. know. My egg yesterdayscrambled egg it was. It tasted very peculiar My egg yesterdayscrambled egg it was. It tasted very peculiarmetallic. I know!' she nodded her head. 'Old Mrs Wyatt, you know, I know!' she nodded her head. 'Old Mrs Wyatt, you know, she she was poisoned by the butler and his wife.' was poisoned by the butler and his wife.'

'Yes dear, but that was because she had left them a lot of money. You haven't left any of the servants any money.'

'No fear,' said Grannie. 'Anyway, Clara, in future I want a boiled egg only for my breakfast. If I have a boiled egg they can't tamper with that.' So a boiled egg Grannie had.

The next thing was the sad disappearance of her jewellery. This was heralded by her sending for me. 'Agatha? Is that you? Come in, and shut the door, shut the door, dear.' dear.'

I came up to the bed. 'Yes, Grannie, what is the matter?' She was sitting on her bed crying, her handkerchief to her eyes. 'It's gone,' she said. 'It's all gone. My emeralds, my two rings, my beautiful ear-ringsall gone! Oh dear!' Oh dear!'

'Now look, Grannie, I'm sure that they haven't really gone. Let's see, where were they.'

'They were in that drawerthe top drawer on the leftwrapped up in a pair of mittens. That's where I always keep them.'

'Well, let's see, shall we?' I went across to the dressing-table, and looked through the drawer in question. There were two pairs of mittens rolled up in b.a.l.l.s, but nothing inside them. I transferred my attention to the drawer below. There was a pair of mittens in there, with a hard satisfactory feeling to them. I brought them over to the foot of the bed, and a.s.sured Grannie that here they werethe ear-rings, the emerald brooch, and her two rings.

'It was in the third drawer down instead of the second.' I explained. 'They must have put them back.'

'I don't think they could have managed that,' I said.

'Well, you be careful, Agatha dear. Very careful. Don't leave your bag lying about. Now tiptoe over to the door, will you, and see if they are listening.'

I obeyed and a.s.sured Grannie that n.o.body was listening.

How terrible it is, I thought, to be old! It was a thing, of course, that would happen to me, but it did not seem real. Strong in one's mind is always the conviction: 'I shall not be old. shall not be old. I I shall not die.' You know you will, but at the same time you are sure you won't. Well, now I shall not die.' You know you will, but at the same time you are sure you won't. Well, now I am am old. I have not yet begun to suspect that my jewellery is stolen, or that anyone is poisoning me, but I must brace myself and know that that too will probably come in time. Perhaps by being forewarned I shall know that I am making a fool of myself before it does begin to happen. old. I have not yet begun to suspect that my jewellery is stolen, or that anyone is poisoning me, but I must brace myself and know that that too will probably come in time. Perhaps by being forewarned I shall know that I am making a fool of myself before it does begin to happen.

One day Grannie thought that she heard a cat, somewhere near the back stairs. Even if it had had been a cat, it would have been more sensible either to leave it there or to mention it to one of the maids, or to me, or to mother. But Grannie had to go and investigate herselfwith the result that she fell down the back stairs and fractured her arm. The doctor was doubtful when he set it. He hoped, he said, it would knit again all right, but at her ageover eighty...However, Grannie rose triumphantly to the occasion. She could use her arm quite well in due course, though she was not able to lift it high above her head. No doubt about it, she was a tough old lady. The stories she always told me of her extreme delicacy in youth, and the fact that the doctors despaired of her life on several occasions between the ages of fifteen and thirty-five were, I feel sure, quite untrue. They were a Victorian a.s.sertion of interesting illness. been a cat, it would have been more sensible either to leave it there or to mention it to one of the maids, or to me, or to mother. But Grannie had to go and investigate herselfwith the result that she fell down the back stairs and fractured her arm. The doctor was doubtful when he set it. He hoped, he said, it would knit again all right, but at her ageover eighty...However, Grannie rose triumphantly to the occasion. She could use her arm quite well in due course, though she was not able to lift it high above her head. No doubt about it, she was a tough old lady. The stories she always told me of her extreme delicacy in youth, and the fact that the doctors despaired of her life on several occasions between the ages of fifteen and thirty-five were, I feel sure, quite untrue. They were a Victorian a.s.sertion of interesting illness.

What with ministering to Grannie, and late hours on duty in the hospital, life was fairly full.

In the summer Archie got three days' leave, and I met him in London. It was not a very happy leave. He was on edge, nervy, and full of knowledge of the conditions of the war which must have been causing everyone anxiety. The big casualties were beginning to come in, though it had not yet dawned upon us in England that, far from being over by Christmas, the war would in all probability last for four years. Indeed, when the demand came out for conscriptionLord Derby's three years or for the durationit seemed ridiculous to contemplate as much as three years.

Archie never mentioned the war or his part in it: his one idea in those days was to forget such things. We had as pleasant meals as we could procurethe rationing system was much fairer in the first war than in the second. Then, whether you dined in a restaurant or at home, you had to produce your meat coupons etc. if you wanted a meat meal. In the second war the position was much more unethical: if you cared, and had the money, you could eat a meat meal every day of the week by going to a restaurant, where no coupons were required at all.

Our three days pa.s.sed in an uneasy flash. We both longed to make plans for the future, but both felt it was better not. The one bright spot for me was that shortly after that leave Archie was no longer flying. His sinus condition not permitting such work, he was instead put in charge of a depot. He was always an excellent organiser and administrator. He had been mentioned several times in despatches, and was finally awarded the C.M.G., as well as the D.S.O. But the one award he was always most proud of was the first issued: being mentioned in despatches by General French, right at the beginning. That, he said, was really worth something. He was also awarded a Russian decorationthe order of St. Stanislauswhich was so beautiful that I would have liked to have worn it myself as a decoration at parties.

Later that year I had flu badly, and after it congestion of the lungs which rendered me unable to go back to the hospital for three weeks or a month. When I did go back a new department had been openedthe dispensaryand it was suggested that I might work there. It was to be my home from home for the next two years.

The new department was in the charge of Mrs Ellis, wife of Dr Ellis, who had dispensed for her husband for many years, and my friend Eileen Morris. I was to a.s.sist them, and study for my Apothecary's Hall examination, which would enable me to dispense for a medical officer or a chemist. It sounded interesting, and the hours were much betterthe dispensary closed down at six o'clock and I would be on duty alternate mornings and afternoonsso it would combine better with my home duties as well.

I can't say I enjoyed dispensing as much as nursing. I think I had a real vocation for nursing, and would have been happy as a hospital nurse. Dispensing was interesting for a time, but became monotonousI should never have cared to do it as a permanent job. On the other hand, it was fun being with my friends. I had great affection and an enormous respect for Mrs Ellis. She was one of the quietest and calmest women I had ever known, with a gentle, rather sleepy voice and a most unexpected sense of humour which popped out at different moments. She was also a very good teacher, since she understood one's difficultiesand the fact that she herself, as she confessed, usually did her sums by long division made one feel on comfortable terms with her. Eileen was my instructress in chemistry, and was frankly a great deal too clever for me to begin with. She started not from the practical side but from the theory To be introduced suddenly to the Periodic Table, Atomic Weight, and the ramifications of coal-tar derivatives was apt to result in bewilderment. However, I found my feet, mastered the simpler facts, and after we had blown up our Cona coffee machine in the process of practising Marsh's test for a.r.s.enic our progress was well on the way.

We were amateurish, but perhaps being so made us more careful and conscientious. The work was uneven in quality, of course. Every time we had a fresh convoy of patients in, we worked furiously hard. Medicines, ointments, jars and jars of lotions to be filled, replenished and turned out every day. After working in a hospital with several doctors, one realises how medicine, like everything else in this world, is very much a matter of fashion: that, and the personal idiosyncrasy of every medical pract.i.tioner.

'What is there to do this morning?'

'Oh, five of Dr Whittick's, and four of Dr James's, and two of Dr Vyner's specials.'

The ignorant layman, or laywoman, as I suppose I ought to call myself, believes that the doctor studies your case individually, considers what drugs would be best for it, and writes a prescription to that effect. I soon found that the tonic prescribed by Dr Whittick, and the tonic prescribed by Dr James and the tonic prescribed by Dr Vyner were all quite different, and particular, not to the patient, but to the doctor. When one comes to think of it, it is quite reasonable, though it does not perhaps make a patient feel quite as important as he did before. The chemists and dispensers take rather a lofty view where doctors are concerned: they have their opinions also. One might think that Dr James's is a good prescription and Dr Whittick's below contemptbut, they have to make them up just the same. Only when it comes to ointments do doctors really become experimental. That is mainly because skin afflictions are enigmas to the medical profession and to everyone else. A calamine type of application cures Mrs D. in a sensational manner; Mrs C., however, coming along with the same complaint, does not respond to calamine at allit only produces additional irritationbut a coal tar preparation, which only aggravated the trouble with Mrs D. has unexpected success with Mrs C.; so the doctor has to keep on trying until he finds the appropriate preparation. In London, skin patients also have their favourite hospitals. 'Tried the Middles.e.x? I did, and the stuff they gave me did no good at all. Now here, at U.C.H., I'm nearly cured already.' A friend then chimes in: 'Well, I'm beginning to think there is something in the Middles.e.x. My sister was treated here and it did her no good, so she went to the Middles.e.x and she was as right as rain after two days.'

I still have a grudge against one particular skin specialist, a persistent and optimistic experimenter, belonging to the school of 'try anything once', who conceived the idea of a concoction of cod liver oil to be smeared all over a baby just a few months old. The mother and the other members of the household must have found poor baby's proximity very hard to bear. It did no good whatsoever and was discontinued after the first ten days. The making of it also rendered me a pariah in the home, for you cannot deal with large quant.i.ties of cod liver oil without returning home smelling to high heaven of noisome fish.

I was a pariah on several occasions in 1916more than once as the result of the fashion for Bip's Paste, which was applied to all wounds treated. It consisted of bis.m.u.th and iodoform worked into a paste with liquid paraffin. The smell of the iodoform was with me in the dispensary, on the tram, in the home, at the dinner table, and in my bed. It has a pervasive character which oozed up from your finger tips, wrists, arms, and over your elbows, and of course was quite impossible to wash off as far as the smell went. To save my family's feelings I used to have a meal tray in the pantry. Towards the end of the war, Bip's Paste went out of favourit was replaced by other more innocuous preparations, and finally was succeeded by enormous demijohns of hypochlorous lotion. This, arising from ordinary chloride of lime with soda and other ingredients, caused a penetrating smell of chlorine to pervade all your clothes. Many of the disinfectants of sinks, etc., nowadays have this kind of basis. The mere sniff of them is enough to sicken me. I furiously attacked a very obstinate manservant we had at one time: 'What have you been putting down the sink in the pantry? It smells horrible!'

He produced a bottle proudly. 'First cla.s.s disinfectant, Madam,' he said.

'This isn't a hospital,' I cried. 'You'll be hanging up a carbolic sheet next. Just rinse the sink out with good hot water, and a little soda occasionally if you must. Throw that filthy chloride of lime preparation away!'

I gave him a lecture on the nature of disinfectants and the fact that anything which is harmful to a germ is usually equally harmful to human tissue; so that spotless cleanliness and not disinfection was the thing to aim at. 'Germs are tough,' I pointed out to him. 'Weak disinfectants won't discourage any good st.u.r.dy germ. Germs will flourish in a solution of one in sixty carbolic.' He was not convinced, and continued to use his nauseous mixture whenever he was sure I was safely out of the house.

As part of my preparation for my examination at Apothecaries Hall, it was arranged that I should have a little outside instruction from a proper commercial chemist. One of the princ.i.p.al pharmacists in Torquay was gracious enough to say that I could come in on certain Sundays and that he would give me instruction. I arrived meek and frightened, anxious to learn.

A chemist's shop, the first time that you go behind the scenes, is a revelation. Being amateurs in our hospital work, we measured every bottle of medicine with the utmost accuracy. When the doctor prescribed twenty grains of bis.m.u.th carbonate to a dose, exactly twenty grains the patient got. Since we were amateurs, I think this was a good thing, but I imagine that any chemist who has done his five years, and got his minor pharmaceutical degree, knows his stuff in the same way as a good cook knows hers. He tosses in portions from the various stock bottles with the utmost confidence, without bothering to measure or weigh at all. He measures his poisons or dangerous drugs carefully, of course, but the harmless stuff goes in in the approximate dollops. Colouring and flavouring are added in much the same way. This sometimes results in the patients coming back and complaining that their medicine is a different colour from last time. 'It is a deep pink I have as a rule, not this pale pink,' or 'This doesn't taste right; it is the peppermint mixture I havea nice peppermint mixture, not nasty, sweet, sickly stuff.' Then chloroform water has clearly been added instead of peppermint water.

The majority of patients in the out-patient department at University College Hospital, where I worked in 1948, were particular as to the exact colour and taste of their preparations. I remember an old Irish woman who leant into the dispensary window, pressed half-a-crown into my palm, and murmured: 'Make it double strong, dearie, will you? Plenty of peppermint, double strong.' I returned her the half-a-crown, saying priggishly that we didn't accept that sort of thing, and added that she had to have the medicine exactly as the doctor had ordered it. I did, however, give her an extra dollop of peppermint water, since it could not possibly do her any harm and she enjoyed it so much.

Naturally, when one is a novice at this kind of job, one has a nervous horror of making mistakes. The addition of poison to a medicine is always checked by one of the other dispensers, but there can still be frightening moments. I remember one of mine. I had been making up ointments that afternoon, and for one of them I had placed a little pure carbolic in a convenient ointment pot lid, then carefully, with a dropper, added it to the ointment that I was mixing on the slab. Once it was duly bottled, labelled, and put out on a slab, I went on with my other work. It was about three in the morning, I think, that I woke up in bed and said to myself, 'What did I do with that ointment pot lid: the one I put the carbolic in?' 'What did I do with that ointment pot lid: the one I put the carbolic in?' The more I thought the less I was able to remember having taken it and washed it. Had I perhaps clapped it on some other ointment I had made, not noticing that it had anything in it? Again, the more I thought, the more I was sure that that was what I had done. I had put it out on the ward shelf with the others to be collected on the following morning by the ward-boy in his basket, and one ointment for one patient would have a layering of strong carbolic in the top. Worried to death, I could bear it no longer. I got out of bed, dressed, walked down to the hospital, went infortunately I did not have to go through the ward, since the staircase to the dispensary was outside itwent up, surveyed the ointments I had prepared, opened the lids, and sniffed cautiously. To this day I don't know whether I imagined it or not, but in one of them I seemed to detect a faint odour of carbolic which there should not have been. I took out the top layer of the ointment, and so made sure that all was well. Then I crept out again and walked home and back to bed. The more I thought the less I was able to remember having taken it and washed it. Had I perhaps clapped it on some other ointment I had made, not noticing that it had anything in it? Again, the more I thought, the more I was sure that that was what I had done. I had put it out on the ward shelf with the others to be collected on the following morning by the ward-boy in his basket, and one ointment for one patient would have a layering of strong carbolic in the top. Worried to death, I could bear it no longer. I got out of bed, dressed, walked down to the hospital, went infortunately I did not have to go through the ward, since the staircase to the dispensary was outside itwent up, surveyed the ointments I had prepared, opened the lids, and sniffed cautiously. To this day I don't know whether I imagined it or not, but in one of them I seemed to detect a faint odour of carbolic which there should not have been. I took out the top layer of the ointment, and so made sure that all was well. Then I crept out again and walked home and back to bed.

On the whole it is not usually the novices who make mistakes in chemists' shops. They are nervous, and always asking advice. The worst cases of poisoning through mistakes arise with the reliable chemists who have worked for many years. They are so familiar with what they are doing, so able to do it without really thinking any more, that the time does come when one day, preoccupied perhaps with some trouble of their own, they make a slip. This happened in the cases of the grandchild of a friend of mine. The child was ill and the doctor came and wrote a prescription which was taken to the chemist to be made up. In due course the dose was administered. That afternoon the grandmother did not like the look of the child; she said to the nannie, 'I wonder whether there is anything wrong with that medicine?' After a second dose, she was still more worried. 'I think there is something wrong,' she said. She sent for the doctor; he took a look at the child, examined the medicineand took immediate action. Children tolerate opium and its preparations very badly. The chemist had blundered; had put in quite a serious overdose. He was terribly upset, poor man; he had worked for this particular firm for fourteen years and was one of their most careful and trusted dispensers. It shows what can happen to anybody.

During the course of my pharmaceutical instruction on Sunday afternoons, I was faced with a problem. It was inc.u.mbent upon the entrants to the examination to deal with both the ordinary system and the metric system of measurements. My pharmacist gave me practice in making up preparations to the metric formula. Neither doctors nor chemists like the metrical system in operation. One of our doctors at the hospital never learned what 'containing 0.1' really meant, and would say, 'Now let me see, is this solution one in a hundred or one in a thousand?' The great danger of the metric system is that if you go wrong you go ten times wrong.

On this particular afternoon I was having instruction in the making of suppositories, things which were not much used in the hospital, but which I was supposed to know how to make for the exam. They are tricky things, mainly owing to the melting point of the cocoa b.u.t.ter, which is their base. If you get it too hot it won't set; if you don't get it hot enough it comes out of the moulds the wrong shape. In this case Mr P. the pharmacist was giving me a personal demonstration, and showed me the exact procedure with the cocoa b.u.t.ter, then added one metrically calculated drug. He showed me how to turn the suppositories out at the right moment, then told me how to put them into a box and label them professionally as so-and-so one in a hundred. one in a hundred. He went away then to attend to other duties, but I was worried, because I was convinced that what had gone into those suppositories was 10% and made a dose of He went away then to attend to other duties, but I was worried, because I was convinced that what had gone into those suppositories was 10% and made a dose of one in ten one in ten in each, not one in a hundred. I went over his calculations and they in each, not one in a hundred. I went over his calculations and they were were wrong. In using the metric system he had got his dot in the wrong place. But what was the young student to do? I was the merest novice, he was the best-known pharmacist in the town. I couldn't say to him: 'Mr P., wrong. In using the metric system he had got his dot in the wrong place. But what was the young student to do? I was the merest novice, he was the best-known pharmacist in the town. I couldn't say to him: 'Mr P., you have made a mistake.' you have made a mistake.' Mr P. the pharmacist was the sort of person who does Mr P. the pharmacist was the sort of person who does not not make a mistake, especially in front of a student. At this moment, re-pa.s.sing me, he said, 'You can put those into stock; we do need them sometimes.' Worse and worse. I couldn't let those suppositories go into stock. It was quite a dangerous drug that was being used. You can stand far more of a dangerous drug if it is being given through the r.e.c.t.u.m, but all the same...I didn't like it, and what was I to do about it? Even if I suggested the dose was wrong, would he believe me? I was quite sure of the answer to that: he would say, 'It's quite all right. Do you think I don't know what I'm doing in matters of this kind?' make a mistake, especially in front of a student. At this moment, re-pa.s.sing me, he said, 'You can put those into stock; we do need them sometimes.' Worse and worse. I couldn't let those suppositories go into stock. It was quite a dangerous drug that was being used. You can stand far more of a dangerous drug if it is being given through the r.e.c.t.u.m, but all the same...I didn't like it, and what was I to do about it? Even if I suggested the dose was wrong, would he believe me? I was quite sure of the answer to that: he would say, 'It's quite all right. Do you think I don't know what I'm doing in matters of this kind?'

There was only one thing for it. Before the suppositories cooled, I tripped, lost my footing, upset the board on which they were reposing, and trod on them trod on them firmly. firmly.

'Mr P.,' I said, 'I'm terribly sorry; I've knocked over those suppositories and stepped on them.'

'Dear, dear, dear,' he said vexedly. 'This one seems all right.' He picked up one which had escaped the weight of my beetle-crushers. 'It's dirty,' I said firmly, and without more ado tipped them all into the waste-bin. 'I'm very sorry,' I repeated.

'That's all right, little girl,' he said. 'Don't worry too much,' and patted me tenderly on the shoulders. He was too much given to that kind of thingpats on the shoulders, nudges, occasionally a faint attempt to stroke my cheek. I had to put up with it because I was being instructed, but I was as stand-offish as possible, and usually managed to engage the other dispenser in conversation so that I could not be alone with him.

He was a strange man, Mr P. One day, seeking perhaps to impress me, he took from his pocket a dark-coloured lump and showed it to me, saying, 'Know what this is?'

'No,' I said.

'It's curare,' he said. 'Know about curare?'

I said I had read about it.

'Interesting stuff,' he said. 'Very interesting. Taken by the mouth, it does you no harm at all. Enter the bloodstream, it paralyses and kills you. It's what they use for arrow poison. Do you know why I carry it in my pocket?'

'No,' I said, 'I haven't the slightest idea.' It seemed to me an extremely foolish thing to do, but I didn't add that.

'Well, you know,' he said thoughtfully, 'it makes me feel powerful.'

I looked at him then. He was a rather funny-looking little man, very roundabout and robin redbreast looking, with a nice pink face. There was a general air of childish satisfaction about him.

Shortly afterwards I finished my instructional course, but I often wondered about Mr P. afterwards. He struck me, in spite of his cherubic appearance, as possible rather a dangerous man. His memory remained with me so long that it was still there waiting when I first conceived the idea of writing my book The Pale Horse The Pale Horseand that must have been, I suppose, nearly fifty years later.

III

It was while I was working in the dispensary that I first conceived the idea of writing a detective story. The idea had remained in my mind since Madge's earlier challengeand my present work seemed to offer a favourable opportunity. Unlike nursing, where there always was something to do, dispensing consisted of slack or busy periods. Sometimes I would be on duty alone in the afternoon with hardly anything to do but sit about. Having seen that the stock bottles were full and attended to, one was at liberty to do anything one pleased except leave the dispensary.

I began considering what kind of a detective story I could write. Since I was surrounded by poisons, perhaps it was natural that death by poisoning should be the method I selected. I settled on one fact which seemed to me to have possibilities. I toyed with the idea, liked it, and finally accepted it. Then I went on to the dramatis personae. Who should be poisoned? Who would poison him or her? When? Where? How? Why? And all the rest of it. It would have to be very much of an intime intime murder, owing to the particular way it was done; it would have to be all in the family, so to speak. There would naturally have to be a detective. At that date I was well steeped in the Sherlock Holmes tradition. So I considered detectives. Not like Sherlock Holmes, of course: I must invent one of my own, and he would also have a friend as a kind of b.u.t.t or stoogethat would not be too difficult. I returned to thoughts of my other characters. Who was to be murdered? A husband could murder his wifethat seemed to be the most usual kind of murder. I could, of course, have a very murder, owing to the particular way it was done; it would have to be all in the family, so to speak. There would naturally have to be a detective. At that date I was well steeped in the Sherlock Holmes tradition. So I considered detectives. Not like Sherlock Holmes, of course: I must invent one of my own, and he would also have a friend as a kind of b.u.t.t or stoogethat would not be too difficult. I returned to thoughts of my other characters. Who was to be murdered? A husband could murder his wifethat seemed to be the most usual kind of murder. I could, of course, have a very unusual unusual kind of murder for a very kind of murder for a very unusual unusual motive, but that did not appeal to me artistically. The whole point of a motive, but that did not appeal to me artistically. The whole point of a good good detective story was that it must be somebody obvious but at the same time, for some reason, you would then find that it was detective story was that it must be somebody obvious but at the same time, for some reason, you would then find that it was not not obvious, that he could not possibly have done it. Though really, of course, he obvious, that he could not possibly have done it. Though really, of course, he had had done it. At that point I got confused, and went away and made up a couple of bottles of extra hypochlorous lotion so that I should be fairly free of work the next day. done it. At that point I got confused, and went away and made up a couple of bottles of extra hypochlorous lotion so that I should be fairly free of work the next day.

I went on playing with my idea for some time. Bits of it began to grow. I saw the murderer now. He would have to be rather sinister-looking. He would have a black beardthat appeared to me at that time very sinister. There were some acquaintances who had recently come to live near usthe husband had a black beard, and he had a wife who was older than himself and who was very rich. Yes, I thought, that might do as a basis. I considered it at some length. It might do, but it was not entirely satisfactory. The man in question would, I was sure, never murder anybody. I took my mind away from them and decided once and for all that it is no good thinking about real peopleyou must create your characters for yourself. Someone you see in a tram or a train or a restaurant is a possible starting point, because you can make up something for yourself about them.

Sure enough, next day, when I was sitting in a tram, I saw just what I wanted: a man with a black beard, sitting next to an elderly lady who was chattering like a magpie. a man with a black beard, sitting next to an elderly lady who was chattering like a magpie. I didn't think I'd have I didn't think I'd have her, her, but I thought but I thought he he would do admirably. Sitting a little way beyond them was a large, hearty woman, talking loudly about spring bulbs. I liked the look of her too. Perhaps I could incorporate her? I took them all three off the tram with me to work uponand walked up Barton Road muttering to myself just as in the days of the Kittens. would do admirably. Sitting a little way beyond them was a large, hearty woman, talking loudly about spring bulbs. I liked the look of her too. Perhaps I could incorporate her? I took them all three off the tram with me to work uponand walked up Barton Road muttering to myself just as in the days of the Kittens.

Very soon I had a sketchy picture of some of my people. There was the hearty womanI even knew her name: Evelyn. She could be a poor relation or a lady gardener or a companionperhaps a lady housekeeper? Anyway, I was going to have her. Then there was the man with the black beard whom I still felt I didn't know much about, except for his beard, which wasn't really enoughor was was it enough? Yes, perhaps it was; because you would be seeing this man from the it enough? Yes, perhaps it was; because you would be seeing this man from the outside outsideso you could only see what he liked to shownot as he really was: that ought to be a clue in itself. The elderly wife would be murdered more for her money than her character, so she didn't matter very much. I now began adding more characters rapidly. A son? A daughter? Possibly a nephew? You had to have a good many suspects. The family was coming along nicely.

I left it to develop, and turned my attention to the detective. Who could I have as a detective? I reviewed such detectives as I had met and admired in books. There was Sherlock Holmes, the one and onlyI should never be able to emulate him. him. There was a.r.s.ene Lupinwas he a criminal or a detective? Anyway, not my kind. There was the young journalist Rouletabille in There was a.r.s.ene Lupinwas he a criminal or a detective? Anyway, not my kind. There was the young journalist Rouletabille in The Mystery of the Yellow Room The Mystery of the Yellow Roomthat was the sort sort of person whom I would like to invent: someone who hadn't been used before. Who could I have? A schoolboy? Rather difficult. A scientist? What did I know of scientists? Then I remembered our Belgian refugees. We had quite a colony of Belgian refugees living in the parish of Tor. Everyone had been bursting with loving kindness and sympathy when they arrived. People had stocked houses with furniture for them to live in, had done everything they could to make them comfortable. There had been the usual reaction later, when the refugees had not seemed to be sufficiently grateful for what had been done for them, and complained of this and that. The fact that the poor things were bewildered and in a strange country was not sufficiently appreciated. A good many of them were suspicious peasants, and the last thing they wanted was to be asked out to tea or have people drop in upon them; they wanted to be left alone, to be able to keep to themselves; they wanted to save money, to dig their garden and to manure it in their own particular and intimate way. of person whom I would like to invent: someone who hadn't been used before. Who could I have? A schoolboy? Rather difficult. A scientist? What did I know of scientists? Then I remembered our Belgian refugees. We had quite a colony of Belgian refugees living in the parish of Tor. Everyone had been bursting with loving kindness and sympathy when they arrived. People had stocked houses with furniture for them to live in, had done everything they could to make them comfortable. There had been the usual reaction later, when the refugees had not seemed to be sufficiently grateful for what had been done for them, and complained of this and that. The fact that the poor things were bewildered and in a strange country was not sufficiently appreciated. A good many of them were suspicious peasants, and the last thing they wanted was to be asked out to tea or have people drop in upon them; they wanted to be left alone, to be able to keep to themselves; they wanted to save money, to dig their garden and to manure it in their own particular and intimate way.

Why not make my detective a Belgian? I thought. There were all types of refugees. How about a refugee police officer? A retired police officer. Not too young a one. What a mistake I made there. The result is that my fictional detective must really be well over a hundred by now.

Anyway, I settled on a Belgian detective. I allowed him slowly to grow into his part. He should have been an inspector, so that he would have a certain knowledge of crime. He would be meticulous, very tidy, I thought to myself, as I cleared away a good many untidy odds and ends in my own bedroom. A tidy little man. I could see him as a tidy little man, always arranging things, liking things in pairs, liking things square instead of round. And he should be very brainyhe should have little grey cells of the mindthat was a good phrase: I must remember thatyes, he would have little grey cells. He would have rather a grand nameone of those names that Sherlock Holmes and his family had. Who was it his brother had been? Mycroft Holmes.

How about calling my little man Hercules? He would be a small manHercules: a good name. His last name was more difficult. I don't know why I settled on the name Poirot, whether it just came into my head or whether I saw it in some newspaper or written on somethinganyway it came. It went well not with Hercules but HerculeHercule Poirot. That was all rightsettled, thank goodness.

Now I must get names for the othersbut that was less important. Alfred Inglethorpethat might do: it would go well with the black beard. I added some more characters. A husband and wifeattractiveestranged from each other. Now for all the ramificationsthe false clues. Like all young writers, I was trying to put far too much plot into one book. I had too many false cluesso many things to unravel that it might make the whole thing not only more difficult to solve, but more difficult to read.

In leisure moments, bits of my detective story rattled about in my head. I had the beginning all settled, and the end arranged, but there were difficult gaps in between. I had Hercule Poirot involved in a natural and plausible way. But there had to be more reasons why other people were involved. It was still all in a tangle.

It made me absent-minded at home. My mother was continually asking why I didn't answer questions or didn't answer them properly. I knitted Grannie's pattern wrong more than once; I forgot to do a lot of the things that I was supposed to do; and I sent several letters to the wrong addresses. However, the time came when I felt I could at last begin to write. I told mother what I was going to do. Mother had the usual complete faith that her daughters could do anything.

'Oh?' she said. 'A detective story? That will be a nice change for you, won't it? You'd better start.'

It wasn't easy to s.n.a.t.c.h much time, but I managed. I had the old typewriter stillthe one that had belonged to Madgeand I battered away on that, after I had written a first draft in longhand. I typed out each chapter as I finished it. My handwriting was better in those days and my longhand was readable. I was excited by my new effort. Up to a point I enjoyed it. But I got very tired, and I also got cross. Writing has that effect, I find. Also, as I began to be enmeshed in the middle part of the book, the complications got the better of me instead of my being the master of them. It was then that my mother made a good suggestion.

'How far have you got?' she asked.

'Oh, I think about halfway through.'

'Well, I think if you really want to finish it you'll have to do so when you take your holidays.'

'Well, I did mean to go on with it then.'

'Yes, but I think you should go away from home for your holiday, and write with nothing to disturb you.'

I thought about it. A fortnight quite undisturbed. It would would be rather wonderful. be rather wonderful.

'Where would you like to go?' asked my mother. 'Dartmoor?' 'Yes,' I said, entranced. 'Dartmoorthat is exactly it.'

So to Dartmoor I went. I booked myself a room in the Moorland Hotel at Hay Tor. It was a large, dreary hotel with plenty of rooms. There were few people staying there. I don't think I spoke to any of themit would have taken my mind away from what I was doing. I used to write laboriously all morning till my hand ached. Then I would have lunch, reading a book. Afterwards I would go out for a good walk on the moor, perhaps for a couple of hours. I think I learnt to love the moor in those days. I loved the tors and the heather and all the wild part of it away from the roads. Everybody who went thereand of course there were not many in wartimewould be cl.u.s.tering round Hay Tor itself, but I left Hay Tor severely alone and struck out on my own across country. As I walked I muttered to myself, enacting the chapter that I was next going to write; speaking as John to Mary, and as Mary to John; as Evelyn to her employer, and so on. I became quite excited by this. I would come home, have dinner, fall into bed and sleep for about twelve hours. Then I would get up and write pa.s.sionately again all morning.

I finished the last half of the book, or as near as not, during my fortnight's holiday. Of course that was not the end. I then had to rewrite a great part of itmostly the over-complicated middle. But in the end it was finished and I was reasonably satisfied with it. That is to say it was roughly as I had intended it to be. It could be much better, I saw that, but I didn't see just how I I could make it better, so I had to leave it as it was. I re-wrote some very stilted chapters between Mary and her husband John who were estranged for some foolish reason, but whom I was determined to force together again at the end so as to make a kind of love interest. I myself always found the love interest a terrible bore in detective stories. Love, I felt, belonged to romantic stories. To force a love motif into what should be a scientific process went much against the grain. However, at that period detective stories always had to have a love interestso there it was. I did my best with John and Mary, but they were poor creatures. Then I got it properly typed by somebody, and having finally decided I could do no more to it, I sent it off to a publisherHodder and Stoughtonwho returned it. It was a plain refusal, with no frills on it. I was not surprisedI hadn't expected successbut I bundled it off to another publisher. could make it better, so I had to leave it as it was. I re-wrote some very stilted chapters between Mary and her husband John who were estranged for some foolish reason, but whom I was determined to force together again at the end so as to make a kind of love interest. I myself always found the love interest a terrible bore in detective stories. Love, I felt, belonged to romantic stories. To force a love motif into what should be a scientific process went much against the grain. However, at that period detective stories always had to have a love interestso there it was. I did my best with John and Mary, but they were poor creatures. Then I got it properly typed by somebody, and having finally decided I could do no more to it, I sent it off to a publisherHodder and Stoughtonwho returned it. It was a plain refusal, with no frills on it. I was not surprisedI hadn't expected successbut I bundled it off to another publisher.

IV

Archie came home for his second leave. It must have been nearly two years, since I had seen him last. This time we had a happy leave together. We had a whole week, and we went to the New Forest. It was autumn, with lovely colourings in the leaves. Archie was less nervy this time, and we were both less fearful for the future. We walked together through the woods and had a kind of companionship that we had not known before. He confided to me that there was one place he had always wanted to goto follow a signpost that said 'To No Man's Land'. So we took the path to No Man's Land, and we walked along it, then came to an orchard, with lots of apples. There was a woman there and we asked her if we could buy some apples from her.

'You don't need to buy from me, my dears,' she said. 'You're welcome to the apples. Your man is in the Air Force, I seeso was a son of mine who was killed. Yes, you go and help yourselves to all the apples you can eat and all you can take away with you.' So we wandered happily through the orchard eating apples, and then went back through the Forest again and sat down on a fallen tree. It was raining gentlybut we were very happy. I didn't talk about the hospital or my work, and Archie didn't talk much about France, but he hinted that, perhaps, before long, we might be together again.

I told him about my book and he read it. He enjoyed it and said he thought it good. He had a friend in the Air Force, he said, who was a director of Methuen's, and he suggested that if the book came back again he should send me a letter from this friend which I could enclose with the MS and send to Methuen's.

So that was the next port of call for The Mysterious Affair at Styles. The Mysterious Affair at Styles. Methuen's, no doubt in deference to their director, wrote much more kindly. They kept it longerI should think about six monthsbut, though saying that it was very interesting and had several good points, concluded it was not quite suitable for their particular line of production. I expect really they thought it pretty awful. Methuen's, no doubt in deference to their director, wrote much more kindly. They kept it longerI should think about six monthsbut, though saying that it was very interesting and had several good points, concluded it was not quite suitable for their particular line of production. I expect really they thought it pretty awful.

I forget where I sent it next, but once again it came back. I had rather lost hope by now. The Bodley Head, John Lane, had published one or two detective stories recentlyrather a new departure for themso I thought I might as well give them a try. I packed it off to them, and forgot all about it.

The next thing that happened was sudden and unexpected. Archie arrived home, posted to the Air Ministry in London. The war had gone on so longnearly four yearsand I had got so used to working in hospital and living at home that it was almost a shock to think I might have a different life to live.

I went up to London. We got a room at a hotel, and I started round, looking for some kind of a furnished flat to live in. In our ignorance we started with rather grand ideasbut were soon taken down a peg or two. This was wartime.

We found two possibles in the end. One was in West Hampsteadit belonged to a Miss Tunks: the name stuck in my mind. She was exceedingly doubtful of us, wondering whether we would be careful enoughyoung people were so carelessshe was very particular about her things. It was a nice little flatthree and a half guineas a week. The other one that we looked at was in St. John's WoodNorthwick Terrace, just off Maida Vale (now pulled down). That was just two rooms, as against three, on the second floor, and rather shabbily furnished, though pleasant, with faded chintz and a garden outside. It was in one of those biggish old-fashioned houses, and the rooms were s.p.a.cious. Moreover it was only two and a half guineas as against three and a half a week. We settled for that. I went home and packed up my things. Grannie wept, mother wanted to weep but controlled it. She said; 'You are going to your husband now, dear, and beginning your married life. I hope everything will go well.'

'And if the beds are of wood, be sure there are no bed bugs,' said Grannie.

So I went back to London and Archie, and we moved into 5 Northwick Terrace. It had a microscopic kitchenette and bathroom, and I planned to do a certain amount of cooking. To start with, however, we would have Archie's soldier servant and batman, Bartlett, who was a kind of Jeevesa perfection. He had been valet to dukes in his time. Only the war had brought him into Archie's service, but he was devoted to 'The Colonel' and told me long tales of his bravery, his importance, his brains, and the mark he had made. Bartlett's service was certainly perfect. The drawbacks of the flat were many, the worst of which was the beds, which were full of large, iron lumpsI don't know how any beds could have got into such a state. But we were happy there, and I planned to take a course of shorthand and book-keeping which would occupy my days. So it was goodbye to Ashfield and the start of my new life, my married life.

One of the great joys of 5 Northwick Terrace was Mrs Woods. In fact I think it was partly Mrs Woods which decided us in favour of Northwick Terrace rather than the West Hampstead flat. She reigned in the bas.e.m.e.nta fat, jolly, cosy sort of woman. She had a smart daughter who worked in one of the smart shops, and an invisible husband. She was the general caretaker and, if she felt like it, would 'do for' the members of the flats. She agreed to 'do for' us, and she was a tower of strength. From Mrs Woods I learned details of shopping which had so far never crossed my horizon. 'Fishmonger done you down again, Love', she would say to me. 'That fish isn't fresh. You didn't poke it the way I told you to. You've got to poke it and look at its eye, and poke its eye'. I looked at the fish doubtfully; I felt that to poke it in its eye was taking somewhat of a liberty.

'Stand it up on its end too, stand it up on its tail. See if it flops or if it's stiff. And those oranges now. I know you fancy an orange sometimes as a bit of a treat, in spite of the expense, but that kind there has just been soaked in boiling water to make them look fresh. You won't find any juice in that orange.' I didn't.

The big excitement of my and Mrs Woods' life was when Archie drew his first rations. An enormous piece of beef appeared, the biggest piece I had seen since the beginning of the war. It was of no recognisable cut or shape, did not seem to be topside or ribs or sirloin; it was apparently chopped up according to weight by some Air Force butcher. Anyway, it was the handsomest thing we'd seen for ages. It reposed on the table and Mrs Woods and I walked round it admiringly. There was no question of if going in my tiny oven. Mrs Woods agreed kindly to cook it for me. 'And there's such a lot,' I said, 'you can have it as well as us.'

'Well, that's very nice of you, I'm surewe'll enjoy a good go of beef. Groceries, mind you, that's easy. I've got a cousin, Bob, in the groceryas much sugar and b.u.t.ter as we want we get, and and marge. Things like that, family gets served first.' It was one of my introductions to the time-honoured rule which holds good through the whole of life: what matters is who you know. From the open nepotism of the East to the slightly more concealed nepotism and 'old boys' club' of the Western democracies, everything in the end hinges on that. It is not, mind you, a recipe for complete success. Freddy So-and-So gets a well-paid job because his uncle knows one of the directors in the firm. So Freddy moves in. But if Freddy is no good, the claims of friendship or relationship having been satisfied, Freddy will be gently eased out, possibly pa.s.sed on to some other cousin or friend, but in the end finding his own level. marge. Things like that, family gets served first.' It was one of my introductions to the time-honoured rule which holds good through the whole of life: what matters is who you know. From the open nepotism of the East to the slightly more concealed nepotism and 'old boys' club' of the Western democracies, everything in the end hinges on that. It is not, mind you, a recipe for complete success. Freddy So-and-So gets a well-paid job because his uncle knows one of the directors in the firm. So Freddy moves in. But if Freddy is no good, the claims of friendship or relationship having been satisfied, Freddy will be gently eased out, possibly pa.s.sed on to some other cousin or friend, but in the end finding his own level.