I’m on a bit of a Poirot kick at the moment. I’m an Agatha Christie fan anytime, but I’ve been powering through my scarf, and extended knitting stretches call for longer-form television watching, ideally with a large amount of dialogue. While Poirot means I’m continually distracted by the costumes and set dressing, it does otherwise fit the bill, so I’ve been watching episodes like they’re going out of style. But don’t worry, this isn’t a television review—I also just finished reading Dumb Witness, a mystery set up in classic Christie fashion. An elderly woman with a collection of nearly-equally sketchy relations has a suspicious accident, followed closely by an unsuspicious death…or is it?
There was a lot about this book I enjoyed. A niece and nephew are hilariously louche suspects, and Poirot’s blatant lying as he begins to question the neighbours is really amusing. There were also a few plot points that resonated particularly with me—there are some spinster occultists who offer Poirot and Hastings a delicious vegetarian repast (Christie’s revulsion is palpable), and the lawyer executing the all-important will is none other than William Purvis. (Heeeey!) And, as the title indicates, a dog plays a central role in the mystery. Christie gives the terrier a bit of a voice by describing what he would be saying if he were capable of speech, which I think any dog owner immediately recognises as a tic we all do ourselves, and which everyone else in the world finds irritating and possibly mental. I routinely speak for Remy, so I of course found it hilarious.
There were two things, though, that spoiled the book a little for me. The first was turning the (electronic) page and being confronted with the title of Chapter 18, “A Nigger in the Woodpile.” ……Oh. Well then. Yes, it was a figure of speech at the time. Yes, it would be ridiculous to censor the book. But it’s very, very hard to remain enjoying a book when you’re being rather forcibly reminded that it’s the product of a time and culture that thought using black people as a metaphor for evil was totally ducky!
The second point is a massive spoiler, so I’m going to use a safety paragraph break. If you don’t want to know the ending, stop reading now!
So two sub-points: firstly, the identity of the killer is flagged up MASSIVELY due to a plot point involving suspects with reversed initials and an initialled brooch being seen through a mirror. But secondly…so Poirot tells the murderess, via a letter, that he knows she’s the killer. She then kills herself. Poirot reasons that this was the best solution because it stopped her killing anyone else, and presumably saved her family the scandal of a trial. Uh…huh? Poirot isn’t particularly characterised as a bend-the-rules, wrong-side-of-the-law detective, so for him to suddenly toss the idea of proper justice out the window was bizarre. And his justification doesn’t actually centre around saving her family scandal; it’s MUCH more that she would have tried to kill her husband and this way she’s been stopped. Meanwhile, he told her in a letter while she still had her children with her, and then gave her a full night and morning to think about what she was going to do! It seems like Christie just orchestrated events for the gotcha! moment where Hastings thinks the woman’s been murdered, and then Poirot announces with a flourish that no, SHE WAS THE MURDERER.
It was an amusing enough read, but I think the ending really let the book down. (Well, that and the uncomfortable reminder of that whole “socially acceptable racism” thing.) Sorry, Bob the terrier, but even your barking speeches couldn’t save it for me.
