And Then There Were None – Agatha Christie, 1939 ★★★★½

Putting on a Master Class in Murder

The image of Agatha Christie today is so often interlaid with that of crumpets and cosies, wet-weather ruminations, and dignified Belgians with luxuriant moustaches that one might almost suspect her the author of Tintin comics rather than some of the darkest and most fiendish mysteries of our time.

A quick corrective is on tap in the form of this, one of her blackest and most revered thrillers.

Eight people are invited to an out-of-the-way island off the Devon coast for vague reasons which none of them bother much worrying over. Instead, they show up at the appointed spot, get picked up by a boat, and are brought to the aforementioned isle, dominated by a manor house. Two people await them, but neither is the host; rather they are domestic servants, and as seemingly unaware of the true purpose of their being here as anyone else. And what is the purpose? Indian Island, it turns out, is like one of those roach motels: Those checking in don’t check out.

“He was not afraid of danger in the open, only of danger undefined and tinged with the supernatural,” it is written of one character here. The second kind of danger predominates at Indian Island.

Those who don’t like mystery novels that work like a puzzle, be warned: And Then There Were None is pretty much all puzzle. But it’s as intricate and tightly-coiled as a Rubik's Cube, and about as hard to let go of once you pick it up.

You are given at the outset a list of ingredients, in the form of a line or two about each of the various characters and their dark pasts. Later on, you are given a key, in the form of a children’s poem, “Ten Little Indians.” It’s not a poem one hears much these days, but older readers might catch a note of familiarity in the form: Ten little Indian boys went out to dine;/One choked his little self and then there were nine. Anyway, that more or less introduces the pattern that comes into play, as the eight guests and two servants are rubbed out one by one, each in a manner reminiscent of the next couplet in the poem.

None of this comes off as anything that could possibly really happen. It’s a total set piece, a locked-room mystery where the island is the locked room. But that’s the beauty of And Then There Were None. It’s completely logical within its own confines, and totally nuts beyond them. There’s no question which side of the divide you fall on while you read this.

Other reviews have said the characters themselves aren’t much for personality. I would agree. They are presented as stereotypes, deliberately I think, as part of this overt puzzle approach Dame Agatha takes.

There’s a slippery doctor with a case he’d like forgotten; a military man who cheerfully admits to letting perish some native troops under his command; an ex-police detective who carries a gun and apparently lost his job over some rum testimony; a devil-may-care playboy who ran over a couple of kids during a jaunt; a “reptilian” judge rumored to have sent an innocent man to his death; an old biddy whose religious mania makes her judgmental as well as unstable…

The closest the novel does in the way of engaging us with a particular character is Vera Claythorne, who shows up at Indian Island thinking she has a new secretarial job, only to discover once arriving that she has a guest room instead. To the extent Christie works up any character ambiguity, it is with Vera, whose crime is presented in the haziest way of any in this novel. You are almost ready to believe her undeserving of being in the company of such out-and-out scoundrels as Dr. Armstrong and Mr. Blore.

The people aren’t as important as their interactions with one another, especially when whoever is hosting this gathering springs his/her surprise, in the form of a recording played to them on a vinyl record that accuses each person of a capital crime.

“Prisoners at the bar, have you anything to say in your defense?” the recording concludes.

That’s a nice touch, being that they are in the midst of serving themselves drinks as the recording begins. Not very long after, the first execution occurs, as someone tossing back their drink suddenly loses their ability to breathe and collapses dead on the floor.

Like the poem says: Ten little Indian boys went out to dine;/One choked his little self and then there were nine.

Readers will find themselves continually flipping back to the poem, as well as to a list of the characters which author Agatha Christie helpfully provides. Both function as scorecards, which as the action unfolds, marks off a particular character’s fate.

The dialogue is crisp, to-the-point, and not long on subtlety: “There are five of us here in this room. One of us is a murderer.”

“I’ve no doubt in my own mind that we have been invited here by a madman – probably a dangerous homicidal lunatic!”

“I’ve been in some tight places, you know.”

“Well, you’ve probably never been in a tighter place than you are today!”

A promotional still for a 1965 adaptation of the novel, which goes by Ten Little Indians and features Bond girl Shirley Eaton filling the place mousy Vera Claythorne does in the book. Very much worth a look even if you read the book; it manages to surprise and amuse. Image from thisislandrod.blogspot.com.

There is a stage version of this novel. Called “Ten Little Indians,” it has been adapted for film, with some changes to the story. A 1965 version is set in a snowbound mountain retreat, and includes a romantic subplot that must have amused Christie, although it doesn’t bog things down. The concept is otherwise the same, of people one by one murdered in accordance with a nursery rhyme, copies of which are found in each guest suite. There is also a set of miniature Indians at a table, which disappear one by one after each murder.

Christie plays her cards like Criss Angel. She makes clear quite early that the house we are in is of simple, modern construction. There are no priest-holes or hiding spots for an 11^th person to secrete themselves. Nor is there any access off the island, except by a boat being kept away by storm. It’s the kind of mystery where one almost accepts the idea of a murderer arranging the weather to suit his/her purposes.

Despite the quaint structure and high English manners (even in their deepest dread the surviving characters find time to break for tea), And Then There Were None has none of that charm we associate with the author. Published soon after the start of World War II, in late 1939, the novel seems drenched with a sense of the evil that men and women do, rather casually we discover in many cases. While caricatures, several protagonists earn sympathy for their plight. This serves mostly to give their ends a toughness a less committed author would be hard-pressed to deliver.

The point of And Then There Were None is not character development nor empathy, it’s rather a celebration of human skullduggery in all its forms, those employed by the killer and by the victims. Christie showcases her craft in many clever ways that don’t call attention to themselves; my favorite is a hidden-thoughts roundelay where we see, in a series of ellipses, flat statements in the form of mind readings of various surviving characters as they sit around the table. You try to guess at who is thinking what, and in the middle of it all, whether that one extended thought might belong to the killer…

And what about that killer? “U. N. Owen [the moniker adopted by the webspinner and death-dealer of our story] dealt with cases that the law couldn’t touch…”

If there is a moral aspect to the novel, it lies here, in the nature of guilt as something that exists beyond man's capacity to deal with it. In fact, the irrational holds sway, in an entirely rational way that leaves one breathless.

Usually, a good mystery keeps you reading to the last page. This one keeps you thinking well after it's over.

If you go back and re-reads certain sections over again, you will discover two things. 1) It all holds together, and makes perfect sense under the scenario Christie devises. There are no loose ends. 2) Every part of the narrative, even the smallest digression, serves a larger aim. Even those tongues the characters devour in lieu of other provisions turn out to be hiding a secret worth knowing.

“And Then There Were None” is the sort of novel so clever and archly witty it is worth anyone’s time, even those who usually like to keep their puzzles and their reading matter separate.