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catherine_the_greatest 's review for:
The Mystery of the Blue Train
by Agatha Christie
Hopefully this is the beginning of Agatha getting her groove back, but she's not quite there yet.
Papa Poirot doesn't even show up until 50+ pages into the novel, by which time we've followed jewels being smuggled out of Russia, sold to an American millionaire (Van Aldin), and given as a gift to his headstrong daughter (Ruth), who is on the brink of divorcing her unfaithful British husband (Derek). (She married him for his title; he married her for her money, natch.) She's murdered on a French train, en route to meet her (not-so) secret lover and the jewels disappear. Poirot happens to be on the train, as does her husband, and another young woman named Katherine Grey, to whom Ruth unburdened her troubled mind. All of this is told in limited third person p.o.v., which is a departure from previous Poirot stories, and leaves the story feeling unanchored.
Katherine is a great character, a serene woman of 33, who has inherited a hefty sum from a rich woman after being her companion for 10 years. Free of financial worries, she's headed to the Riviera to spend the winter with a wealthy cousin. Her cousin's daughter, Lenox, who is somewhere in her late teens or early twenties, is a delightfully spunky modern girl. Either of these characters would have been great narrators. Instead, they're relegated to pop up occasionally and moon over Derek, who is soon accused by the French police of murdering his soon-to-be ex-wife. (Lenox's mother, Lady Tamplin, is a hilarious send-up of society women as she tries to "mold" her less-cultured cousin.)
Lenox went down again to find her mother and step-father discussing the newcomer.
"Presentable," said Lady Tamplin, "quite presentable. Her clothes are all right. That grey thing is the same model that Gladys Cooper wore in Palm Trees in Egypt."
"Have you noticed her eyes--what?" interposed Mr. Evans.
"Never mind her eyes, Chubby," said Lady Tamplin tartly; "we are discussing the things that really matter."
"Oh, quite," said Mr. Evans, and retired into his shell.
"She doesn't seem to me very--malleable," said Lady Tamplin, rather hesitating to choose the right word.
"She has all the instincts of a lady, as they say in books," said Lenox, with a grin.
(Yes, her husband's name is "Chubby." And he ends sentences with "what?")
A few lines later, when Chubby wonders whether Katherine plays tennis, his wife responds:
"Of course not. She has been a companion, I tell you. Companions don't play tennis--or golf. They might possibly play golf-croquet, but I have always understood that they wind wool and wash dogs most of the day."
When Dame Christie gets satirical, she is on fire!
But the mystery itself is too drawn out. Poirot is often confused, and runs around interviewing and bullying, instead of letting his "little grey cells" do the work.
Papa Poirot doesn't even show up until 50+ pages into the novel, by which time we've followed jewels being smuggled out of Russia, sold to an American millionaire (Van Aldin), and given as a gift to his headstrong daughter (Ruth), who is on the brink of divorcing her unfaithful British husband (Derek). (She married him for his title; he married her for her money, natch.) She's murdered on a French train, en route to meet her (not-so) secret lover and the jewels disappear. Poirot happens to be on the train, as does her husband, and another young woman named Katherine Grey, to whom Ruth unburdened her troubled mind. All of this is told in limited third person p.o.v., which is a departure from previous Poirot stories, and leaves the story feeling unanchored.
Katherine is a great character, a serene woman of 33, who has inherited a hefty sum from a rich woman after being her companion for 10 years. Free of financial worries, she's headed to the Riviera to spend the winter with a wealthy cousin. Her cousin's daughter, Lenox, who is somewhere in her late teens or early twenties, is a delightfully spunky modern girl. Either of these characters would have been great narrators. Instead, they're relegated to pop up occasionally and moon over Derek, who is soon accused by the French police of murdering his soon-to-be ex-wife. (Lenox's mother, Lady Tamplin, is a hilarious send-up of society women as she tries to "mold" her less-cultured cousin.)
Lenox went down again to find her mother and step-father discussing the newcomer.
"Presentable," said Lady Tamplin, "quite presentable. Her clothes are all right. That grey thing is the same model that Gladys Cooper wore in Palm Trees in Egypt."
"Have you noticed her eyes--what?" interposed Mr. Evans.
"Never mind her eyes, Chubby," said Lady Tamplin tartly; "we are discussing the things that really matter."
"Oh, quite," said Mr. Evans, and retired into his shell.
"She doesn't seem to me very--malleable," said Lady Tamplin, rather hesitating to choose the right word.
"She has all the instincts of a lady, as they say in books," said Lenox, with a grin.
(Yes, her husband's name is "Chubby." And he ends sentences with "what?")
A few lines later, when Chubby wonders whether Katherine plays tennis, his wife responds:
"Of course not. She has been a companion, I tell you. Companions don't play tennis--or golf. They might possibly play golf-croquet, but I have always understood that they wind wool and wash dogs most of the day."
When Dame Christie gets satirical, she is on fire!
But the mystery itself is too drawn out. Poirot is often confused, and runs around interviewing and bullying, instead of letting his "little grey cells" do the work.