The Man Who Thought He Might Have Killed Agatha Christie

It’s rum to think it was only last weekend us crime-ficcies were living it up at the Bristol Crimefest. It seems a lot longer away.  For one thing, the weather’s changed to intermittent driving rain and cold – just as I was thinking of breaking out the barbie, too.  (Does anyone else, on a historical note, remember that comment of Jasper Carrot’s, referring to the Australian take on life in medieval France?   “Open another tinnie of wine and throw another saint on the Barbie.”)

One of the highlights of the weekend was John Curran, Matthew Pritchard and Marcel Berlins talking about John’s new book, The Secret Notebooks of Agatha Christie. It was a really fascinating conversation.  John Curran has spent ages working through the notes Agatha Christie left as she jotted down ideas for stories.  Her handwriting was pretty hard to read apparently, and the notes weren’t in any particular order, so he’s done some very solid hard work in getting them into an order that a reader can really understand.  I’ve ordered a copy from Amazon and am eagerly awaiting for it to arrive.  Matthew Pritchard is, of course, Agatha Christie’s grandson, and was able to bring some fascinating family insights to bear in response to Marcel Berlins’ intelligent questions.  Marcel Berlins is the former crime reviewer of The Times and a perfect choice to conduct the panel.  One nice little sidelight was in response to the question about Mrs Ariadne Oliver.   Ariadne Oliver is one of Agatha Christie’s best creations.  Agatha Christie wasn’t a “comic” writer as such, but there’s an awful lot of humour in her books and when Mrs Oliver hoves into sight, you know there’s a some light-hearted moments in store.  She can be serious, of course – she’s not a comic turn – but she does find the humour in situations.  It’s always said that Mrs Oliver is Agatha Christie’s pen-portrait of herself, and all three on the panel confirmed that was, indeed, how Agatha Christie saw the agreeable Ariadne Oliver.  Matthew Pritchard, after listening to what the others had to say, threw in another likeness – his grandmother loved apples!  Poirot reflects (in Mrs McGinty’s Dead, I think) that apples and Ariadne Oliver always go together.

One contribution to the discussion came from Yours Truly.  It was apology from a close friend of mine, Terry Thompson, who had met Agatha Christie in circumstances which he never really forgot. (Or got over, either, but you’ll see why in a minute.)  Poor old Terry died some time ago, but this was his story.

He was a young student for the priesthood at the time and was delighted when one of his college friends invited him to a private dinner where Agatha Christie was to be a fellow-guest.  She was very old and found walking difficult, so she got about in what, in her books, she always called “A wheeled chair”.  She asked Terry, who she liked, to take her for a walk in the chair after dinner.  Terry leapt to it, and soon this young student from Birkenhead was pushing one of England’s foremost writers down a fairly steep hill in the grounds of an English country house.  It was a very steep hill; and Terry couldn’t find the brake.  To his horror, the chair started to go faster and faster and pretty soon the chair was rattling down the hill with Terry ineffectively hanging on the back. (Think cartoons here; that gives the right sort of image!)

Well, he more or less knew what was going to happen and it did.  The front wheel of the chair hit a stone and (again, think cartoons) Agatha Christie was precipitated out of her chair, sailed through the air and came to earth in a bush.  Utterly horrified and full of apologies, Terry unpicked her from the foliage.  Dame Agatha, a real lady, didn’t blame him – much.  Terry, with his tail very much between his legs, pushed her up the hill and back to the safety of the dining-table. Agatha Christie, he was sorry to learn, died a few months afterwards, and he always wondered if he was The Man Who Had Killed Agatha Christie.  Such is the unfeeling quality of human nature, that everyone, Dame Agatha’s grandson included, greeted this tale of woe with unseemly mirth!  And, apparently, even Dame Agatha herself laughed.  But afterwards, I imagine.