‘My name is Hercule Poirot,’ he said quietly, ‘and I am probably the greatest detective in the world.’
(Poirot, modest as ever, ‘The Mystery of the Blue Train’, chapter 17)
‘They will grab at the money and abuse you all the more afterwards.’
‘Well,’ said Katherine, ‘let them if they like. We all have our own ways of enjoying ourselves.’
(Katherine Grey’s plucky sense of humour, chapter 8)
‘What is important? What is not? One cannot say at this stage. But we must note each little fact carefully.’
(Poirot in typically sententious mode, chapter 11)
How should it have occurred to Ruth, except as the wildest coincidence, that the first person that the maid should run across in Paris should be her father’s secretary? Ah, but that was the way things happened. That was the way things got found out.
(Or at least that was the way things happen in classic detective stories which abound in outrageous coincidences and improbable situations.)
‘You are the goods, Monsieur Poirot. Every time, you are the goods.’
(Mr Van Aldin gets his money’s worth, chapter 25)
‘At the tennis one meets everyone.’
(Tennis, one of the 1920s’ new sports crazes, along with golf)
Executive summary
Millionaire’s daughter Mrs Ruth Kettering is travelling to the south of France on the famous Blue Train when, somewhere between Paris and Lyons, she is murdered in her compartment. Her jewel case, including the famous red rubies her father gave her, is stolen. Who did it? Suspicion falls on two obvious suspects:
- Her ne’er-do-well husband, Derek Kettering, heir to a title and large inheritance but is deeply in debt due to his addiction to gambling; who Ruth’s father was telling her to divorce because of his infidelity; and whose hard-hearted mistress, the dancer Mirelle, had suggested would be much better off if Ruth died before she divorced him because then he would inherit her millions; and who was on the same train heading south as Ruth, although he swears they were travelling separately and he didn’t know she was on it too.
- The Comte de la Roche: Ruth’s long-term secret lover, a seducer and exploiter of rich women well known to the police, who had written to Ruth asking her to come and visit him in the south of France and explicitly told her to bring the precious rubies because he was writing a book about famous gems; might he have been the mysterious man seen by various eye witnesses entering Ruth’s compartment soon before her death?
It just so happens that Poirot was travelling on the very same Blue Train and so, once the murdered woman’s body is found, he volunteers his services to the local police and sets about untangling the complicated motives of all the major players in the story, along with various peripheral figures (such as Ruth’s maid, Van Aldin’s secretary, and the mysterious figure of ‘the Marquis’).
Only after Christie has strewn the narrative with numerous red herrings and complicated but ambiguous details, does Poirot finally identify the murderer.
Longer summary
‘The Mystery of the Blue Train’ is the fifth Poirot novel. But it is not narrated by his sidekick, Captain Hastings, who doesn’t appear at all, so it lacks the layer of (often unwitting) comedy which Hastings brings to the stories. And it completely lacks the sparkling high spirits of the very funny comedy murder mysteries, The Secret of Chimneys and ‘The Mystery of the Seven Dials’, with their cast of wonderfully droll and self-aware young chaps and chapesses. Those two novels have preposterously complicated and far-fetched plots but that just makes them all the more amusing.
By striking contrast, ‘The Mystery of the Blue Train’ is a much more sober affair: there is only one murder and the three leading figures are rather boring. Katherine Grey is a former lady’s companion, who has led a boring life until the old lady she’s been caring for dies and leaves her a fortune; Derek Kettering is a suave but impetuous adulterer, quick to anger; and the Comte de la Roche is a slick con-man. No real laughs between the three of ’em.
Instead there’s such a long and elaborate build-up of character and backstory meaning that Poirot doesn’t appear until chapter 11 of this 36-chapter book.
Van Aldin-Ruth-Derek
Nothing is too good for American millionaire Rufus Van Aldin‘s daughter, Ruth. Which is why the narrative opens with him doing dodgy deals amid Paris’s criminal underworld, and even fighting off a mugging attempt by the notorious ‘Apaches’ or street criminals, in order to get his hands on some world-famous red rubies, including the legendary Heart of Fire which was supposedly worn by Catherine the Great of Russia. Why these lurid opening scenes? 1) Nominally in order to give them tom his beloved daughter Ruth. But 2) also to create a sense of crime and violence which is to loom over the rest of the novel.
Van Aldin’s daughter, Ruth, is no soft touch.
Ruth Kettering was twenty-eight years of age. Without being beautiful, or in the real sense of the word even pretty, she was striking looking because of her colouring. Van Aldin had been called Carrots and Ginger in his time, and Ruth’s hair was almost pure auburn. With it went dark eyes and very black lashes—the effect somewhat enhanced by art. She was tall and slender, and moved well. At a careless glance it was the face of a Raphael Madonna. Only if one looked closely did one perceive the same line of jaw and chin as in Van Aldin’s face, bespeaking the same hardness and determination. It suited the man, but suited the woman less well. From her childhood upward Ruth Van Aldin had been accustomed to having her own way, and anyone who had ever stood up against her soon realized that Rufus Van Aldin’s daughter never gave in.
Unfortunately, no amount of gifts can conceal the fact that Ruth is unhappy because she is married to the Honourable Derek Kettering who is a drawling philanderer who cares nothing for her.
…thirty-four, lean of build, with a dark, narrow face, which had even now something indescribably boyish in it…
In the scene where he gives Ruth his dramatic present of super-valuable rubies, Van Aldin also forces her to concede that, after putting up with Derek’s wretched behaviour for years, it’ about time she divorced him. Ruth appears reluctant because (the narrative strongly implies) any court case might bring out the fact that Ruth herself has been less than an angel, and we slowly realise this is because she has remained in touch with her first love, the louche Comte de la Roche.
In a separate scene Van Aldin calls Derek Kettering in for an interview. He loathes his son-in-law and tells him he must divorce his daughter but Derek infuriates the old man with his suave irony and flippancy. He counters Van Aldin’s criticism of him by pointing out that the main reason Ruth married him was because he is heir to the title of Lord Leconbury, ‘one of the oldest families in England’. When the current Lord dies, Derek will inherit the title and the grand house at Leconbury and Ruth will become its mistress. Derek says Ruth is well aware it would be a shame to divorce him (Derek) now, just as his father is on his last legs, just as he is about to inherit the title, at which point Ruth would become a Lady and chatelaine of a grand English country house. Derek leaves Van Aldin with the parting shot that the father (Van Aldin) ought to know the daughter (Ruth) better than he evidently does.
Derek then goes to the apartment of his lover, the attractive but slovenly Mirelle.
The dancer was a beautifully made woman, and if her face, beneath its mask of yellow, was in truth somewhat haggard, it had a bizarre charm of its own.
In their conversation it becomes clear that Derek is very poor, he has borrowed large sums against the promise of his inheritance and managed to lose most of it gambling. When he jokily describes how losing Ruth would leave him utterly penniless Mirelle makes it clear she will leave him if he is ruined. There is no love lost between them. She jokily suggests that Derek should bump off Ruth while they’re still married; then her fortune would come to him. But he doesn’t take it seriously and storms out.
Meanwhile, Van Aldin hires a private detective, Mr Goby, to find out the dirt on Derek, mainly confirming for Van Aldin what the reader has just learned – that he is broke and has a mistress.
After some business in the City, Van Aldin calls in again on his daughter and almost bumps into a man coming out of her hotel apartment. Only talking to Ruth does he realise that the man was Armand, the Comte de la Roche.
The Comte’s charm of manner was usually wasted on his own sex. All men, without exception, disliked him heartily.
Now it comes out that when Ruth was living in Paris she fell deeply in love with the Comte but her father, convinced he was a swindler (which the novel goes on to show that he is), broke them up and more or less forced her to marry Derek. So she blames her father for wrecking the love of her life and attaching her to a drawling wastrel (Derek).
Summary so far
To summarise: Van Aldin is pressurising his daughter Ruth to divorce her no-good husband Derek. Derek has discussed the possibility of murdering Ruth to ensure he inherits her fortune. Ruth is reluctant to take divorce proceedings because any legal action is likely to bring out the fact that she has carried on having an affair with the Comte de la Roche i.e. been just as unfaithful as Derek.
As for the Comte, we don’t get many scenes with him early on so we are inclined to Van Aldin’s view that he is a gold-digger, that he has always only pretended to love Ruth in order to get his hands on her fortune. The arrival of the famous red rubies in Ruth’s possession has only raised the stakes all round. And Mirelle is a wild card because she alternately loves Derek (for his money) and hates him (for threatening to leave her / becoming penniless).
In other words the three men and two women in this matrix of relationships all have good reason to resent and dislike each other.
On an impulse Derek decides that he wants to get away from London and drops into the Thomas Cook shop in Piccadilly to buy a ticket on the Blue Train to the Riviera. (Unbeknown to him, his wife is also going to be travelling on the same train, in response to the letter from the Comte.) And here (in the Thomas Cook office) he bumps into a mysterious grey-haired lady, who is also buying a ticket on the Blue Train. Who is she?
Miss Katherine Grey-Lady Tamplin
At which point we are introduced to a new thread and the other major character in the story:
Katherine Grey was thirty-three. She came of good family, but her father had lost all his money, and Katherine had had to work for her living from an early age. She had been just twenty-three when she had come to old Mrs Harfield as companion… Katherine Grey was born with the power of managing old ladies, dogs, and small boys, and she did it without any apparent sense of strain.
The Katherine narrative is more straightforward. For years she has been a companion to old Mrs Harfield in the sleepy village of St Mary Mead. The old lady has recently passed away. When Katherine goes to see the family solicitor, she expects she will get a little nest egg from the old lady who was always frugal, but is astonished to learn she had been nursing a small fortune which will now come to Katherine. What shall she do with it and with her life? Well, certainly buy some nice clothes but what then?
It’s at this juncture that Katherine receives a letter from one Lady Tamplin. A chapter is devoted to introducing her in her villa in the south of France. Lady Tamplin is:
A golden-haired, blue-eyed lady in a very becoming negligee. That the golden hair owed something to art, as did the pink-and-white complexion, was undeniable, but the blue of the eyes was Nature’s gift, and at forty-four Lady Tamplin could still rank as a beauty.
Lady Tamplin lives with her dim husband, ‘Chubby’, and her sharp, ironic daughter, the Honourable Lenox Tamplin.
A daughter such as Lenox was a sad thorn in Lady Tamplin’s side, a girl with no kind of tact, who actually looked older than her age, and whose peculiar sardonic form of humour was, to say the least of it, uncomfortable.
The point is that the Katherine Grey who has just inherited a fortune is a distant relative of Lady Tamplin. Lady T has just read about the legacy in The Times and sees an opportunity to mulct some money out of the innocent Katherine. So this is why Lady T decides to invite Katherine to come and stay with them on the Riviera, so that she and Lenox can introduce her into the ways of the upper class and/or try to extract some of her fortune from her, and writes her a letter of invitation to come and stay. At a loose end, Katherine agrees to accept the invitation.
So this is what she is doing at Thomas Cook’s offices in Piccadilly. Here she recognises the man in the queue to be served; he nearly bumped into her in the Savoy Hotel that morning (as he came out of the suite inhabited by the visiting millionaire Van Aldin). It is Derek Kettering. He has reserved a berth on the Blue Train to the Riviera on the 14th of the month under the name of his man, Pavett. Katherine follows him in the queue, and also buys a berth on the Blue Train to the Riviera on the 14th of the month.
What neither of them know is that Derek’s wife, Ruth, is also going to be on the same Blue Train because she has been invited to come and meet him in the south of France by the Comte.
After Derek’s got back home from buying his ticket, he is paid a visit by Van Aldin’s secretary, Major Knighton, ‘a tall fair man with a limp’ from a wound received in the war. Deeply embarrassed, Knighton presents van Aldin’s final offer that, if Derek doesn’t contest the divorce, VA will give him £100,000 flat. Derek listens then tells him to go to hell. Then tells his man to start packing his bags for his trip to the south of France.
On the Blue Train
So Ruth and Katherine are on the same Blue Train and end up sitting opposite each other at lunch and get talking. After over a decade as a lady’s companion, Katherine is used to listening, has an aura of confidentiality about her. So they quickly become confidential and Ruth confesses that she is going against her father’s explicit orders, to meet her lover in the south of France. Katherine learns all about her marital misfortunes but nonetheless advises her to telegram her father when the train gets to Paris to let him know where she’s going, and Katherine agrees.
They two women pass the afternoon on the train in their different ways, then, at dinner, Katherine finds herself sat opposite a small man with a waxed black moustache and an egg-shaped head. Well, any Christie fan immediately knows who this is – the world-famous detective Hercule Poirot, who is all politeness, charm and egotism.
‘It is true that I have the habit of being always right—but I do not boast of it.’ (Chapter 10)
He notices that Katherine is reading a detective novel (a roman policier in French). She says she enjoys reading them because such things never happen in real life. Poirot politely points out that sometimes they do. Either way a connection has been made between them.
More minor incidents occur the most significant of which is that just before the train reaches Lyon, Katherine thinks she sees the man she saw in the Thomas Cook office, in the corridor and then entering the compartment of Ruth. She thinks. Later she is not 100% sure…
The murder
When the train reaches Nice a train assistant knocks on the door, then enters, and discovers Ruth’s body. She is lying peacefully up in her bed, with her head turned away. Only when he shakes her does the train assistant realise she is dead. She has been strangled from behind and then, notable detail, her face severely disfigured by punches or blows.
The police are called in the shape of M. Caux the Commissary of Police. One by one they interview witnesses in an office in the station. The Commissary is surprised when there’s a knock on the door and in looks the famous Hercule Poirot. He and the other police officials enthusiastically welcome Poirot’s offer to help the investigation, so from here on he sits in on all the interviews of all the relevant witness.
It’s in this context that he meets Katherine again and notes that ‘From the beginning we have been sympathetic to each other’ going on to say, in his confidential manner:
‘This shall be a ‘roman policier‘ à nous. We will investigate this affair together.’ (Chapter 11)
And a little later:
‘This is our own roman policier, is it not?’ said Poirot. ‘I made you the promise that we should study it together. And me, I always keep my promises.’ (Chapter 20)
To some extent, Katherine replaces the figure of Captain Hastings, as a sort of assistant who he can bounce ideas off, muse out loud with and thus, at the same time, share his ideas with the reader.
At the Villa Marguerite
When she is released from questioning by the police, Katherine continues her plans. She is met at Nice station by Lady Tamplin’s husband, the harmless ‘Chubby’ Evans (Lady T’s title derives from a former marriage), and taken to the Villa Marguerite. Katherine quickly gets the measure of its three inhabitants:
She looked in turn at the three people sitting round the table. Lady Tamplin, full of practical schemes; Mr. Evans, beaming with naïve appreciation, and Lenox with a queer crooked smile on her dark face. (Chapter 12)
Later there is lunch and she is staggered to find herself sitting next to the (to her, unnamed and unknown) man who she saw in the queue at Thomas Cook’s, and then saw on the Blue Train. Even more staggered when a servant hands him a message and reveals his name is Kettering and so she learns that he is the husband of the murdered woman.
The cops
Van Aldin is in the middle of doing work with his secretary when he gets the telegram saying his daughter has been murdered. He immediately makes plans to catch the first train south and 24 hours later is joining the investigation, along with his own theories and prejudices (he thinks the murder must be Derek).
Cut to Van Aldin and his secretary arriving in Nice and being introduced to the French police and Poirot. They question Ruth’s maid, Mason. Oddly, Ruth had told her to stay behind, in Paris, at the Paris Ritz, and await further instructions. Why?
Van Aldin is staggered to learn that Ruth had taken her jewels with her, in a red morocco case, even the red rubies, when he had specifically told her to lock them in a safe deposit in London. All becomes clear when the French Juge d’Instruction, M. Carrège, produces a letter found on Ruth’s body, sent from the Comte, telling her to bring her jewels with her as he claimed to be writing a book about famous jewels.
The conference of cops gravitates to the theory that this Comte did the murder and stole the jewels, bringing themselves into conflict with Van Aldin who is unshakably convinced that it was his no-good son-in-law. Van Aldin hires Poirot on a commercial basis, as a freelance investigator, and the book takes on a new complexion. Out of the rather anarchic setup, we emerge into clarity knowing that whatever happens going forward, Poirot will, eventually, fix it all. For example it is Poirot who discovers that the Comte is staying at a villa he’s rented, the Villa Marina at Antibes.
So the police call in for questioning, or requestioning, the following witnesses: the Comte, Derek Kettering, the maid, and Katherine.
And it’s at this point that the plot becomes convoluted in the familiar Christie way because a straightfoward narrative of events starts to get overlaid and mixed up with the theories developed by the various personnel:
- obviously the police have their theories
- Poirot hints at his ideas, not least in conversations with Katherine, and adds questions to the police interrogations designed to confirm or refute them
- Van Aldin has his simple animus against Derek and carries out his own interviews with Katherine and the maid to try and prove his point
- and we are party to Katherine’s evolving theories about who did what, where.
‘But this is an entirely new theory,’ cried Knighton. (Chapter 33)
So it’s at this point that I’ll stop even trying to summarise the plot because from here onwards it consists of all the characters concocting theories which themselves continually shift and need updating as more information becomes available:
- Who did the cigarette case found on the train with a monogrammed ‘K’ belong to?
- What is the renowned and unscrupulous jewel merchant M. Papopolous (and his daughter Zia) doing in Nice?
- What favour did Poirot do for Papopolous 17 years ago, and why does he call it in now?
- What role is played by the mysterious figure M. Papolous refers to as ‘the Marquis’?
- What is Derek’s mistress Mirelle doing in Nice and, furious at being dumped by him (‘She looked not altogether unlike a leopardess, tawny and dangerous’), will her spiteful denunciation persuade the police that Derek is guilty?
And many more convoluted questions. Not to mention the two leading suspects engaging in guilty behaviour of one sort or another.
You can read the whole thing, along with its surprising denouement, online. Here are a few scattered thoughts or observations.
Poirot
Poirot drew himself up. ‘Leave it in the hands of Hercule Poirot,’ he said superbly; ‘have no fears. I will discover the truth.’ (Chapter 24)
‘I am a good detective. I suspect. There is nobody and nothing that I do not suspect. I believe nothing that I am told.’ (Chapter 35)
Retirement
As always, I am puzzled why Poirot is permanently presented as having retired.
‘This is M. Hercule Poirot; you have doubtless heard of him. Although he has retired from his profession for some years now, his name is still a household word as one of the greatest living detectives.’ (Chapter 14)
How odd of Christie to introduce her detective as having retired just as he was about to embark on a 40-year career of solving crimes (that last Poirot book was published in 1974).
Poirot’s process
As far as I can tell Poirot’s process has two aspects: 1) record the facts and lay them out as logically and dispassionately as possible, 2) supplement the facts with psychology: why would so-and-so do x? Is it consistent with his or her character?
Here he is on the facts:
‘Let us arrange our facts with order and precision….’
‘I mean nothing,’ said Poirot. ‘I arrange the facts, that is all.’
And on the importance of psychology:
Poirot wagged an emphatic forefinger. ‘The psychology.’
‘Eh?’ said the Commissary.
‘The psychology is at fault. The Comte is a scoundrel—yes. The Comte is a swindler—yes. The Comte preys upon women—yes. He proposes to steal Madame’s jewels—again yes. Is he the kind of man to commit murder? I say no! A man of the type of the Comte is always a coward; he takes no risks.’
In summary:
‘It is nothing,’ said Poirot modestly. ‘Order, method, being prepared for eventualities beforehand—that is all there is to it.’ (Chapter 21)
‘I am always punctual,’ said Poirot. ‘The exactitude—always do I observe it. Without order and method—’
Poirot’s green eyes
As to Poirot’s other characteristics, they are all here to please fans. The green light in his eyes when he becomes excited:
Poirot sat up suddenly in his chair. A very faint green light glowed in his eyes. He looked extraordinarily like a sleek, well-fed cat. (Chapter 17)
When the car had driven off he relapsed into a frowning absorption, but in his eyes was that faint green light which was always the precursor of the triumph to be. (Chapter 28)
As Lenox remarks:
‘I have rather lost my heart to him. I never met a man before whose eyes were really green like a cat’s.’ (Chapter 29)
Poirot’s monstrous ego
‘Voilà,’ said the stranger, and sank into a wooden arm-chair; ‘I am Hercule Poirot.’
‘”Yes, Monsieur?’
‘You do not know the name?’
‘I have never heard it,’ said Hippolyte.
‘Permit me to say that you have been badly educated. It is the name of one of the great ones of this world.’
(Chapter 29)
Papa Poirot
The spooky way he refers to himself as Papa Poirot, especially when talking to women.
‘You mock yourself at me,’ said Poirot genially, ‘but no matter. Papa Poirot, he always laughs the last.’ (Chapter 21)
Poirot’s arrogance
It amused her to see the little man plume himself like a bird, thrusting out his chest, and assuming an air of mock modesty that would have deceived no one. (Chapter 21)
Poirot raised a hand. ‘Grant me a little moment, Monsieur. Me, I have a little idea. Many people have mocked themselves at the little ideas of Hercule Poirot—and they have been wrong.’ (Chapter 21)
‘M. Van Aldin is an obstinate man,’ said Poirot drily. ‘I do not argue with obstinate men. I act in spite of them.’ (Chapter 27)
At several points he compares himself to God, as being the only two forces in the world you can utterly rely on.
‘Trust the train, Mademoiselle, for it is le bon Dieu who drives it.’ The whistle of the engine came again. ”Trust the train, Mademoiselle,’ murmured Poirot again. ‘And trust Hercule Poirot. He knows.’
(Last words of the novel)
Praise from others
‘He is a very remarkable person,’ said Knighton slowly, ‘and has done some very remarkable things. He has a kind of genius for going to the root of the matter, and right up to the end no one has any idea of what he is really thinking.’ (Chapter 21)
Christie’s antisemitism
Apparently, the Anti-Defamation League in America complained to her publishers about the antisemitic stereotypes or tropes often found in Christie’s stories. ‘The Mystery of the Blue Train’ is no exception.
A little man with a face like a rat. A man, one would say, who could never play a conspicuous part, or rise to prominence in any sphere. And yet, in leaping to such a conclusion, an onlooker would have been wrong. For this man, negligible and inconspicuous as he seemed, played a prominent part in the destiny of the world. In an Empire where rats ruled, he was the king of the rats… His face gleamed white and sharp in the moonlight. There was the least hint of a curve in the thin nose. His father had been a Polish Jew, a journeyman tailor. It was business such as his father would have loved that took him abroad to-night. (Chapter 1)
A face like a rat?!
‘Seventeen years is a long time,’ said Poirot thoughtfully, ‘but I believe that I am right in saying, Monsieur, that your race does not forget.’
‘A Greek?’ murmured Papopolous, with an ironical smile.
‘It was not as a Greek I meant,’ said Poirot.
There was a silence, and then the old man drew himself up proudly.
‘You are right, M. Poirot,’ he said quietly. ‘I am a Jew. And, as you say, our race does not forget.’
(Chapter 22)
Christie’s sexism
Along with the stereotypes about Jews (and lots of other nationalities) go a raft of sexist generalisations about women. Obviously the books are of their time, allowances ought to be made etc, but it’s still notable. In particular there’s a lot of dwelling on the idea that women are attracted to romantic bad guys.
‘He is Lord Leconbury’s son, married a rich American woman. Women are simply potty about him.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, the usual reason—very good-looking and a regular bad lot.’
(Chapter 12)
I don’t know where we are on the idea that some women are attracted to bad boys. It’s been true in my experience, but my experience is just a drop in the ocean. It’s certainly a recurring trope in this story, because both the men in it are wrong ‘uns who both seem to be popular with the ladies and, in particular, with Katherine.
‘A mauvais sujet,’ said Poirot, shaking his head; ‘but les femmes—they like that, eh?’
He twinkled at Katherine and she laughed.
(Chapter 20)
But really the bad boy in question is Derek Kettering.
‘There are men who have a strange fascination for women.’
‘The Comte de la Roche,’ said Katherine, with a smile.
‘There are others—more dangerous than the Comte de la Roche. They have qualities that appeal—recklessness, daring, audacity…’
Poirot repeats the thought to Kettering:
‘Your reputation is bad, yes, but with women—never does that deter them. If you were a man of excellent character, of strict morality who had done nothing that he should not do, and—possibly everything that he should do—eh bien! then I should have grave doubts of your success. Moral worth, you understand, it is not romantic. (Chapter 24)
All this is relevant because by the middle of the novel it’s become clear that Katherine is being actively wooed, both by Kettering and by Knighton. On the face of it they represent two polar opposites: the smooth seducer versus the honest war hero. And we are shown Katherine developing feelings for both of them. But can it be as simple as all that?
Other sexisms
The story invokes what I assume to be another sexist caricature, namely that women are preternaturally attracted by the glamour of precious stones, in a way that men aren’t.
Her eyes grew misty, a far-away light in them. The Comte looked at her curiously, wondering for the hundredth time at the magical influence of precious stones on the female sex. (Chapter 19)
‘They are all the same, these women—they never stop telling tall stories about their jewels. Mirelle goes about bragging that it has got a curse on it. ‘Heart of Fire,’ I think she calls it.’
‘But if I remember rightly,’ said Poirot, ‘the ruby that is named ‘Heart of Fire’ is the centre stone in a necklace.’
‘There you are! Didn’t I tell you there is no end to the lies women will tell about their jewellery?’
‘You have the outlook cynical,’ [Poirot] murmured.
‘Have I?’ There was no mirth in his sudden wide smile. ‘I have lived in the world long enough, M. Poirot, to know that all women are pretty much alike.’ (Chapter 24)
Well, in that case, are not all men pretty much alike. In reality, this is a meaningless statement except to express a kind of worldly misogyny. As many other empty generalisations along these lines:
‘And yet, who knows? With les femmes, they have so many ways of concealing what they feel—and heartiness is perhaps as good a way as any other.’ (Chapter 26)
But maybe the general thought about all these sweeping generalisations – so easy to notice and condemn in our progressive times – is that genre fiction like this is based on generalisations about human nature. The generalisations may have changed with the times, but maybe genre fiction can only really function if it not only complies with the requirements of the genre itself, but also abounds in obvious, easy and stereotypical generalisations about human nature – reflecting the commonly accepted values of the day in order to make the whole thing easier to consume.
Men
And so along with generalisations about ethnic groups and women, there are also generalising, stereotypical remarks about men. When he and Zia step out of the casino at Monte Carlo, she points out this is the garden where so many men have committed suicide after losing everything.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. ‘So it is said. Men are foolish, are they not, Mademoiselle? To eat, to drink, to breathe the good air, it is a very pleasant thing, Mademoiselle. One is foolish to leave all that simply because one has no money—or because the heart aches.’
(Chapter 28)
And here is Katherine’s old lady friend, Miss Viner, later in the novel:
‘I was wrong about that young man of yours. A man when he is making up to anybody can be cordial and gallant and full of little attentions and altogether charming. But when a man is really in love he can’t help looking like a sheep. Now, whenever that young man looked at you he looked like a sheep. I take back all I said this morning. It is genuine.’ (Chapter 30)
Sweeping generalisations about men and women are probably the oldest trope in all literature. Think for a moment about Shakespeare or Jane Austen.
Bookishness and self-referentiality
As I’ve pointed out in all my Christie reviews, she knows she is writing popular detective stories and part of this always seems to be having your characters point out that they seem to be appearing in a story which is remarkably like a piece of popular detective fiction. There’s a curious self-aware, meta aspect to these frequent reminders that the characters are in a fiction.
‘She has all the instincts of a lady, as they say in books,’ said Lenox, with a grin. (Chapter 12)
‘They say she is wearing a ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg—not that I have ever seen a pigeon’s egg myself, but that is what they always call it in works of fiction.’ (Chapter 31)
A central example is the way Poirot first bonds with Katherine while she is reading a crime novel and Christie gives them a little exchange about the value of such things.
‘I see, Madame, that you have a roman policier. You are fond of such things?’
‘They amuse me,’ Katherine admitted.
The little man nodded with the air of complete understanding.
‘They have a good sale always, so I am told. Now why is that, eh, Mademoiselle? I ask it of you as a student of human nature—why should that be?’
Katherine felt more and more amused.
‘Perhaps they give one the illusion of living an exciting life,’ she suggested.
(Chapter 10)
This allows Poirot, once the murder is revealed, to suavely suggest that she join him in solving the murder. And, in their conversations, to remind her (and the reader) of the conventions of the genre of the book they are reading.
‘You confess that you read detective stories, Miss Grey. You must know that anyone who has a perfect alibi is always open to grave suspicion.’
‘Do you think that real life is like that?’ asked Katherine, smiling.
‘Why not? Fiction is founded on fact.’
‘But is rather superior to it,’ suggested Katherine.
‘Perhaps.’
(Chapter 21)
This self-referentiality is partly, I think, humorous. It makes the reader smile. And also it is a continuous reminder of the whimsically artificial nature of these kinds of books.
Humour
For me the single biggest appeal of Agatha Christie’s books is her consistently buoyant humorous tone. The entire story is told in a kind of tone of indulgent good humour (the entire character of Poirot is essentially comic), as well as comic interactions between other characters. In this novel the comedy is pre-eminently associated with Lady Tamplin and her daughter. Lady T is funny because of her predictable tone of snobbery and avarice.
‘I should like to meet Mr. Van Aldin,’ said Lady Tamplin earnestly; ‘one has heard so much of him. Those fine rugged figures of the Western world’—she broke off—’so fascinating,’ she murmured. (Chapter 21)
Which is perfectly complemented by the droll and knowing comments of her daughter, Lady Lenox, in exchanges like this:
‘Mademoiselle [Katherine] is wanted at the telephone,’ said Marie, appearing at the window of the salon. ‘M. Hercule Poirot desires to speak with her.’
‘More blood and thunder. Go on, Katherine; go and dally with your detective.’
Or:
‘What did Major Knighton ring up about?’ inquired Katherine.
‘He asked if you would like to go to the tennis this afternoon. If so, he would call for you in a car. Mother and I accepted for you with empressement. Whilst you dally with a millionaire’s secretary, you might give me a chance with the millionaire, Katherine. He is about sixty, I suppose, so that he will be looking about for a nice sweet young thing like me.’ (Chapter 21)
And:
‘Major Knighton was very particular to say it was Mr. Van Aldin’s invitation,’ said Lenox. ‘He said it so often that I began to smell a rat. You and Knighton would make a very nice pair, Katherine. Bless you, my children!’ Katherine laughed, and went upstairs to change her clothes.
It’s fun.
Credit
‘The Mystery of the Blue Train’ by Agatha Christie was published in 1928 by William Collins and Son.
Related links
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- 1920s reviews
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