Ah, Dame Agatha, the pen that sold four billion books.  Assuming my maths GCSE is worth the paper it’s printed on, that’s just shy of 1.4 books sold every second of every day since she was first published back in October 1920.  To this day, when non crime buffs think of crime writing, the chances are they will still call to mind the genteel murder mysteries of Miss Jane Marple, or Hercule Poirot.

Of all her mysteries, Murder on the Orient Express is one of Christie’s most popular and enduring.  The title itself conjures up images of opulent surroundings, and of clandestine plotting among the wealthy classes.  It is this luxurious setting in which we find Poirot, travelling back from Syria after a particularly strenuous case.  Always in the right place when murder is afoot, Hercule’s compartment is next to that of American millionaire Simon Ratchett, and he is tasked with the investigation when Ratchett is found dead, having been drugged and then stabbed repeatedly.
All the best literary detectives have enjoyed iconic screen portrayals.  Both Marlowe and Spade had Humphrey Bogart, Holmes had Jeremy Brett, Morse had John Thaw, and Poirot had the sublime David Suchet.  It is impossible to read Poirot’s dialogue without hearing that clipped voice, not that this should hamper the reader’s enjoyment.  Suchet captured Poirot’s character perfectly; his fastidiousness, his egocentricity, even his walk.  As a result, the series and the books complement each other quite brilliantly.

However, Murder on the Orient Express is hardly a character study, at least not in the complex, psychological style of more recent detective stories.  No, the business of this detective story is detection.  The reader must keep their wits about them as clues and red herrings fly; the name of the game is to lock intellectual horns with one of the true masters of crime writing.  That was Christie’s art, constructing a tale in which the reader feels they have had fair crack at unmasking the killer, but seldom succeeds.  The modern detective tale, with all its sense of place, rich characterisation and gimmickry, is merely spoiled by failure to keep the killer’s identity a secret.  For Christie, the mystery is the alpha and the omega; there is little distraction to salve the disappointment of the successful guesser.  It is a testament to Christie’s skill that, over the years, so few of her readers have got the best of her.

Time, however, has ravaged her approach to national identity.  For stereotyping that borders on national determinism, Dame Agatha has no equal in the 21st century, save perhaps for a tabloid newspaper around World Cup time.  “Foreign,” is a term laden with contempt, American characters in particular are brash and vulgar, and the English, while labelled as miserable and reticent, are also proudly announced as a race that “do not stab.”  At risk of being facetious, Martha Tabram would probably disagree.

Overall though, Murder on the Orient Express deserves its place among the pantheon of crime novels.  Dated though it may be, Christie can hardly be faulted for a lack of political prescience.  Her structure is as rigid as Poirot’s posture, and through a masterfully selective deployment of information, she created an archetype deservedly adored by multiple millions of readers.

Bookmark to