The-Unexpected-Guest“It was shortly before midnight on a chilly November evening, and swirls of mist obscured parts of the dark, narrow, tree-lined country road in South Wales, not far from the Bristol Channel whence a foghorn sounded its melancholy boom automatically every few moments.”

You’ll note I’m sure that the date of this book’s release is long after Christie’s death, but there’s a good reason for that. It was originally written as a play in the 1958, penned in four weeks and staged to great acclaim in the West End. Like the previously reviewed Spider’s Web, this is a novelisation of that play, completing the trifecta of plays-to-books that Charles Osborne undertook, the third being Black Coffee.

The novel opens on the foggy night described above when Michael Starkwedder’s car gets stuck in a ditch. Not knowing how he’s going to get out of it, he makes his way to a large nearby house and, finding the french windows open, enters a luxurious study. To his shock, sat in a wheelchair in the middle of the room is a dead man with a gunshot wound in his head.

Finding a light switch, he makes a second surprising discovery – a woman stands in the corner, terrified and holding a gun. She gives her name as Laura Warwick and says the dead man is – or was – her husband, Richard. For the first time in Christie history, it seems an open and shut case. Laura admits to Michael that she killed him, but Michael can’t resist a pretty woman and suggests they concoct a story to save her from arrest.

But perhaps Laura didn’t kill him at all. Maybe she’s covering for someone else, but why, and more importantly who? Everyone in the house seems relatively unworried by Richard’s death, and everyone seems very keen to let Michael, and the police, know that they know who didn’t do it, leading to a situation where everyone seems to be willing to claim they were responsible…

Brevity is the name of the game here. It’s a short book, as I said originally a play, and it’s the one of the three that sounds least like it’s still a play. The dialogue is sharp, and while some of the action does ring a bit of directions for actors (and a couple of things that the audience are meant to see but none of the characters do jar a little in the narration), it remains very obviously Christie. She’s at her prime here, having written this after her last play, Verdict, flopped. It feels like a “take that!” to all her critics, and more power to her.

It also brings in perhaps two of my favourite policemen in the series. Inspector Thomas is sharp and sarcastic, but clearly very efficient. Sergeant Cadwallader provides light comic relief, being a man who is far more interested in poetry than police work. Thomas is clearly irritated by his tendencies to quote poetry at the least appropriate moments, and to write his own poems when he should be taking down witness statements.

The novel also contains one of my favourite Christie lines of all:

“What it comes down to is this. Men are really the sensitive sex. Women are tough. Men can’t take murder in their stride. Women apparently can.”

It’s a twist on the old suggestion and one that I happen to actually agree with. The first part, at least – I’ve never brushed up against murder in real life, so I couldn’t comment on that. Although I have a feeling that I’d be the one breathing into a paper bag in the corner while my female friends dealt with the situation effectively.

Although it may have been tweaked by someone else, it’s so definitely Christie, that it can’t help but be a wonder. The twists are incredible, and the solution seems to flip-flop repeatedly, the truth being outed when you least expect it.

The back of the book contains the review, “Like a martini – crisp, dry, sophisticated, habit-forming, ever-so-slightly dated”. That’s absolutely the epitome of what Christie is about, and this book is one of the best examples of that.

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