“We must act quickly Hastings. The peril is very close at hand.”
So say the closing words to the first chapter of Peril at End House, and already a frisson of excitement runs through us. We have a threat of danger, and know that we are in for a classic read, featuring one of our favourite detective duos: Hercule Poirot and Captain Arthur Hastings.
The exciting thrills begin, when we learn that the young pretty Nick Buckley has been the victim of three “near accidents”. The first happened on a treacherous Cornish hillside, when the brakes on her car failed. Later, on a coastal path, a falling boulder missed her by mere inches. Then an oil painting over her bed in her house fell, and could easily have crushed her to death.
Hercule Poirot finds all this very interesting. When Nick carelessly tells him of a wasp shooting past her head, to her surprise, he points out a bullet-hole in her sun hat. Despite the fact that he is retired, and on holiday, Hercule Poirot decides that the young woman needs his protection, and determines to use his “little grey cells” to solve the mystery, and reveal just who seems to be trying to kill Nick, and why.
The story which follows is certainly ingenious. A standard group of suspects surround the prospective victim: a close group of Nick’s friends and relations, all of whom seem perfectly amiable and straightforward. However, every single one of these has a secret, which gradually becomes evident to us, and which could give each of them a motive for murder.
There is a cousin, who is a crusty old lawyer. Would he have anything to gain by Nick’s death? What about the elderly tight-lipped housekeeper? There is Nick’s closest friend: an abused wife, and her companion who is an art dealer. What about either of these? Or perhaps the engaging young ex-army officer, who views himself as Nick’s protector, and is clearly in love with her. Perhaps they are the “bright young things” of this era, always searching for a quick thrill, and a way to more excitement by whichever uppers are available. There are strangers—in this case Australians—living in the Lodge of “End House”, on the edge of the cliff, who may not be all they seem. There is another distant cousin, a mousy good-natured girl, who, invited by Nick, arrives on the scene later than the others. And there is a famous daring young adventurer, who never actually appears in the novel. He is clearly someone’s sweetheart, but whose? And who will really mourn his death?
We have a secondary murder, to add spice, and intrigue, even though the first is still merely a perceived threat. We have instances of forgery, tricksters, shady business practises, and drug-dealing, all within this close group of Nick’s inner circle. We have pretence loaded upon pretence. And the setting, at “End House”, is suitably gothic. Here is the servant’s doom-laden description:
“‘In an old house,’ he said, ‘there is sometimes an atmosphere of evil.’
‘That’s it, sir,’ said Ellen, eagerly. ‘Evil. Bad thoughts and bad deeds too. It’s like dry rot in a house, sir, you can’t get it out. It’s a sort of feeling in the air. I always knew something bad would happen in this house, someday.’”
It is designed to make any reader shudder, and has just enough of the melodramatic about it, to make the narrative feel delightfully camp.
“End House” is a ramshackle building in a bad state of repair, and it is clear that Nick Buckley, who inherited it from her uncle, is not a rich young woman. This makes her position as an intended victim even more puzzling. Who could want to kill her, and for what possible reason?
This country house is situated up a steep hill, just along the road from another imposing structure: the “Majestic Hotel” where Poirot and Hastings are staying for a short holiday. This hotel is not entirely fictitious. It is actually based on the “Imperial Hotel” in Torquay—which is in Devon, not Cornwall. Another instance in this novel where Agatha Christie alludes to a real place, but gives it a slight twist is “St. Loo” itself. This may make English readers smile, as it is an amalgamation of two real life pretty little fishing villages: “Looe”, at the foot of the Cornish coast, and “St. Agnes”, a little further in to the East. Neither will the reader find the Cornish riviera in a map of Cornwall, although you may find the term “Cornish Riviera” in a travel agent’s brochure. However, this is not an invention of the author, but is an informal name for the coastal part of Cornwall which gets the most sun, and so is fancifully thought to be similar to the French riviera.
Peril at End House is the eighth work by Agatha Christie to feature her detective Hercule Poirot. These include a play, a reworked novel and some short stories about him. It was published in 1932. The original book cover dramatically proclaimed “Poirot returns!” In actual fact, following the back story in this series is not always straightforward. Although there are just over 30 more works about him still to come, in this one, just as in the third novel, “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd”, Poirot is said to have retired from detective work, to grow vegetable marrows:
“‘Years since I’ve seen you, Moosior Poirot. Thought you were growing vegetable marrows in the country.’
‘I tried, Japp, I tried. But even when you grow vegetable marrows you cannot get away from murder.’
He sighed. I knew of what he was thinking—that strange affair at Fernley Park. How I regretted that I had been far away at that time.”
Inspector Japp also features in the novel, although he also is not officially on duty:
“‘I’m on a holiday Mrs. Rice. Just obliging an old friend—that’s all I’m doing. The St Loo police are in charge of the case.’
It seems an odd coincidence that all three detectives involved in solving this case should be on holiday, but this novel abounds with coincidences.
There are several references dotted through this novel to other cases solved by Poirot—and hence other novels by Agatha Christie. The reference to “Fernley Park” for instance, harks back to the first Poirot novel, “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd”. On the very first page, we are reminded that a murder had been committed on the Blue Train: “The Mystery of the Blue Train”, and later on Poirot regretfully refers to the one failure of his career (or at least, the only one he chose to remember):
“‘I had a bad failure in Belgium in 1893. You recollect, Hastings? I recounted it to you. The affair of the box of chocolates?’
‘I remember,’ I said.
And I smiled, for I remembered that at the time that Poirot had told me that tale, he had instructed me to say ‘chocolate box’ to him if ever I should fancy he was growing conceited! He was then bitterly offended when I used the magical words only a minute and a quarter later.”
Interestingly Agatha Christie does rehash the exact episode in this novel, even to the great detective being fooled by an aspect of it. Perhaps she felt that if she was upfront about it by mentioning it in the text, this would be permissible.
The friction between Hercule Poirot and Captain Hastings is very evident in this novel. Although the quotation above is an amusing instance, and could even be thought of as affectionate, most of them fall flat, and the relationship between the two is quite unexpectedly acrimonious. Take this exchange:
“‘Poirot,’ I said. ‘I have been thinking.’
‘An admirable exercise my friend. Continue it.’
Perhaps it is amusing and droll, but it is barbed and rather unkind. It invites us to share a snide remark at the rather stolid Hastings’s expense. The following instance is not even amusing:
“‘You have a tendency, Hastings, to prefer the least likely. That, no doubt, is from reading too many detective stories.’”
It is egotistic and completely uncaring. As an observation it would have been best kept as an inner thought! After Hastings has expressed his admiration for one character, calling him a “pukka sahib”, Poirot gives the following response. Unsurprisingly it is taken as an insult by Hastings:
“‘You have an extraordinary effect on me, Hastings. You have so strongly the flair in the wrong direction that I am almost tempted to go by it! You are that wholly admirable type of man, honest, credulous, honourable, who is invariably taken in by any scoundrel. You are the type of man who invests in doubtful oil fields, and non-existent gold mines. From hundreds like you, the swindler makes his daily bread. Ah, well—I shall study this Commander Challenger. You have awakened my doubts.’”
Poirot’s conceit in this novel does not seems amusing; neither does his friend seem to have much affection for him. It is all rather embarrassing, as if we are eavesdropping on a bickering couple:
“‘Well?’ I said maliciously, as he sorted his letters. ‘Has the post done what you expected of it?’
… I thought he looked rather cast-down and not his usual cock-a-hoop self.”
Hastings matches Poirot’s animosity. Although he narrates the story, he often reports that he speaks “maliciously” to Poirot, whom he believes to be unbearably conceited. We see that he is quite correct in this assertion. When Poirot says, “I am a mere humble adviser”, it is in the full knowledge that he will not be believed for an instant. When Hasting attempts to reassure him, he is firmly quashed:
“‘Nobody could have prevented it.’
‘You speak without reflection, Hastings. No ordinary person could have prevented it—but of what good is it to be Hercule Poirot with grey cells of a finer quality than other people’s, if you do not manage to do what ordinary people cannot?’
‘Well of course,’ I said. ‘If you are going to put it like that— ’
‘Yes indeed. I am abased, downhearted—completely abased.’
I reflected that Poirot’s abasement was strangely like other people’s conceit, but I prudently forbore from making any remark.”
The snide digs go on:
“Poirot looked round with a gratified smile and the air of mock humility I knew so well.”
And on:
“Poirot laughed. ‘I told you so, mon ami. Your instincts are always wrong. C’est epatant!’”
And it all becomes rather tedious.
Hastings’s wife Bella is presumably back at home, on the ranch in the Argentine, as once again she is nowhere to be seen. It seems odd in retrospect, that Hastings should have chosen to go on holiday with a friend whom he seems to actively dislike, in preference to being the wife he professes to adore. She is mentioned occasionally, as when Hastings protests at Poirot’s attitude to him:
“‘Do you suppose I’d have made a success of my ranch out in the Argentine if I were the kind of credulous fool you make out?’
‘Do not enrage yourself, mon ami. You have made a great success of it—you and your wife.’
‘Bella,’ I said, ‘always goes by my judgement.’
‘She is as wise as she is charming,’ said Poirot. ‘Let us not quarrel my friend.’”
The dialogue is very noticeable in this novel. Most of the action takes place through conversation, and there is little sense of place. We are told the locations, which are mostly restricted to the Majestic hotel or End House. We have a brief thumbnail description of each of the characters, but there is little insight by them, or author’s hints as to what might be going on.
There is, however, quite a lot of misdirection, in the choice of words for what the characters actually say. On its publication in 1932, “The Times Literary Supplement” gave it a favourable review and commented that “the actual solution is quite unusually ingenious, and well up to the standard of Mrs. Christie’s best stories.” The reviewer also also thought that, “This is certainly one of those detective stories which is pure puzzle, without any ornament or irrelevant interest in character,” and this is how it feels to read. The puzzle is a fiendishly clever one, but many other aspects of an enjoyable novel are sacrificed.
The dedication of the book goes some way to explaining Agatha Christie’s slight detour from her earlier style, and the inclusion of quite so much conversation. It reads:
“To Eden Phillpotts. To whom I shall always be grateful for his friendship and the encouragement he gave me many years ago.”
In 1908, recovering from influenza and bored, Agatha Christie began to write a story at the suggestion of her mother, Clara Miller. Most of her early efforts at this stage were short stories, but a little later in the year she attempted her first novel, and sent it to various publishers. All of them rejected the work, but her mother suggested that she asked Eden Phillpotts, a neighbour in Torquay, and friend of the family to read it.
Eden Phillpotts critiqued both the book and other examples of Agatha Christie’s writing, with helpful advice to the young author:
“some of your work is capital. You have a great feeling for dialogue.”
Phillpotts further suggested:
“leave your characters alone, so that they can speak for themselves, instead of always rushing in to tell them what they ought to say, or to explain to the reader what they mean by what they are saying”.
Agatha Christie put this advice into action, allowing us to judge her characters’ feelings and motivations for ourselves, and in so doing, deceiving ourselves as to the identity of the culprit. She was to adhere to this technique for much of her later writing. Eden Phillpotts gave Agatha Christie further advice and suggestions, to help improve her work, and continued to do so later. In her autobiography, Agatha Christie wrote:
“I can hardly express the gratitude I feel to him. He could so easily have uttered a few careless words of well-justified criticism and possibly discouraged me for life. As it was, he set out to help.”
Agatha Christie’s dedications are always significant, and worth looking into.
So bearing all these aspects in mind, how does the novel stand up against others she wrote? I feel I have to give it my default rating, notwithstanding the clever plot. The trouble is, that in essence that is all it is. It is overloaded with conversation, much of it the tiresome sniping between the two detectives. Nick Buckley may have been a delightful young thing in the eyes of the two, and a darling to all her friends, but she appears to us as an irritating and brainless show-off, not worthy of dominating quite so many scenes. There was precious little sense of place, back story, or character development.
No, I did not guess the ending. I could see how clever the idea was, but Poirot explaining every step in the midst of his sniping at Hastings, was very tiresome. And why bother to have Japp there at all; such a huge coincidence, with no point at all?
I feel this was Agatha Christie trying out a new writing technique. She gives us an ingenious plot in the process, but this novel is not one of her best.