Murder she wrought

"Kindly read from the passage in your book, Mrs Christie. So that the jury may hear the words you wrote."

"Yes..... yes of course..."

Annabel Christie stood in the witness box, adjusting her spectacles and fumbling with the book. With her book. Her most recent novel, The Unfaithful Servant. Her third and most successful murder mystery. She felt a little shaky reading the passage, knowing how much her husband's liberty... his life, depended upon her evidence to the court.

"Read just the words that I have underlined, Mrs Christie, nothing else."

"Yes, of course, you mean starting with 'He gripped the iron bar...'

"Yes, if you please, Mrs Christie. Clearly enough for the jury to hear."

He gripped the iron bar, firmly, but with indecision. Could he do it? Could he commit murder for the sake of his marriage? Would he get away with it? He imagined the rough rope, tightening around his neck, strangling the life out of him, and shivered. A moment's further hesitation and then he struck with all the strength he possessed...

"That will be enough, Mrs Christie"

...and with all the hate and venom...

"Oh! Sorry, oh yes."

"Thank you, Mrs Christie. Now, would you tell the jury where you found the inspiration to write such graphic detail of a fictitious murder in your book.

"Well, I just made it up."

"You... just... made it up? The Barrister gave a significant look in the direction of the jury.

"Yes, of course, it is a story. No more and no less."

"So your account of this fictitious murder is, as you say, not based on any actual killing, any taking of life, with malice aforethought?

"Yes, of course. I mean no, it is not."

"Are you aware of the similarities that your account in the book of this... awful, but fictitions, murder... have with the actual murder that your husband stands trial for?"

"Yes, I am aware."

"And would you say that this similarity is... somehow... pure coincidence?"

"Well, yes, it must be and... yet... "

"And yet... Mrs Christie?"

"And yet, I was aware of the fatal incident... From accounts in the newspapers."

"The newspapers, Mrs Christie?"

"Yes, the newspapers, sir. I read the newspapers, though I imagine you find that unusual in a female..."

"Just answer the questions, if you please, Mrs Christie."

"Yes, sorry... yes of course."

"I read the newspapers, I was aware of the unsolved murder of... of a servant girl, and I may have been influenced by these reports when I wrote my book."

"Thaaank you Mrs Christie... And are you aware that, in the instant case, Professor Tilbury described the violence committed against the deceased as 'the most frenzied attack with a blunt instrument that I have ever seen, in my entire career'?"

"Yes, I am sir, and as for the graphic detail, I have read many of Professor Tilbury's testimonies from earlier murder trials."

"You read the testimonies of past murder trials? Do you consider that quite decorous for a lady of your... of your.. position in society?"

"Yes, well, yes, it is how I make my books so... well... so realistic... so believable."

"Yes, yes, thank you, Mrs Christie," interjected the judge. "We are aware of your reputation as a author of best-selling murder mysteries..."

"I am sorry, your honour, I didn't mean to suggest..."

"No, no, of course, it's perfectly alright, Mrs Christie... Mr Ponsonby, where is this line of questioning leading?"

"My lord, I am simply trying to establish whether there is any reason for the similarity between the account in Mrs Christie's book, and the circumstances of the death in this case."

"You are suggesting Mrs Christie had some knowledge of the murder?"

"Of course not, my lord, I was just trying to ascertain whether there was any reason why the account in this novel..." The barrister, Ponsonby, held it up in what he instantly regretted as a 'theatrical' gesture,' "... was so similar to the circumstances of the unfortunate young girl..."

"Oh, very well... you may continue."

"Thank you, My..."

"Mrs Christie, I know this must be deeply distressing to you but I would ask you to bear with the court while Mr Ponsonby makes his point."

"Thank you your hon... er... my lord."

"Mr Ponsonby... pray continue."

"Thank you my lord. Mrs Christie, you were aware of your husband's... infidelity." At this, the witness faltered. "Please take your time."

"Yes."

"And you... forgave your husband?"

"I don't say I forgive him but... well... I know that gentlemen have... well, have... needs. If anything I blame myself..."

"You blame yourself? Can you explain why you might blame yourself, and what exactly you might blame yourself for?"

"I fear I rather neglected Mr Christie at that time.... my writing... often late into the night."

"And you think your 'neglect' as you describe it, excuses his behaviour?"

"No."

"No? Can you explain further?"

No. It's no excuse for what he did..."

"And what, pray, did your husband do, Mrs Christie?"

"He had... illicit... extra-marital... relations with this... this servant."

"Ah... I see... And did he do anything else?"

"No!"

"I put it to you, Mrs Christie, that you wrote that account of the murder to punish your husband for his infidelity..."

"No! No! No, I did not. My account of the murder in the book is entirely made up. It is a work of fiction."

"You were aware that Mr Christie was being blackmailed by the girl?"

"Yes, of course, we discussed it. He was... ashamed... he told me everything... I said he was a fool for having been tricked like that. I said he should pay her off and send her on her way, the dirty... "

"Yes? Dirty..."

"I won't speak ill of the dead."

"You know your husband killed Miss Silvester, don't you Mrs Christie?"

"No! It was not my husband. He didn't kill her. I know my husband and he is not capable of such a... such a beastly thing. He is innocent. I know it."

It was all true. She had known about the sordid goings on in the pantry. She had even confronted her husband about it. The fool! What did he expect? A dirty little slut of a parlour maid, egging him on. Encouraging him. Did he think she found him attractive? Men are so stupid. She had it planned all along. Mrs Stapleton at the tennis club had heard that she had done it before, with her previous employer in Esher. It was all too easy. Find a position in a respectable household, seduce the husband and then start asking for little gifts. Little gifts of money. Perhaps even pretend you are pregnant. Men are so stupid... so... so... so utterly weak.

That was three years ago, now. Flicking through the book she looked again at the passages she had read out in court.

Her husband had been acquitted, as she knew he would. He was at the club when it happened and had several witnesses who gave evidence to that effect. There was no blood on his clothing, nothing really to suggest he had anything to do with it. Other than the book, of course.

And Ernest had been the perfect husband, the perfect gentleman, since he had been freed by the court. And she had been a much better wife, much more attentive, though she still had time to write the occasional novel. They didn't need the money in any case. She had encouraged him to retire, now that the royalties from her six books kept them in perfect luxury. They only employed reliable servants now, in their comfy but modest new cottage in the Surrey countryside. They now lived together in rural bliss, without a problem in the world.

She would never forgive him for what he did with that filthy girl. But she understood. And he had had the perfect fright when they arrested him and kept him locked up awaiting trial. He probably did imagine that hempen noose around his neck.

Reading again the passage, as she sat in the front parlour, enjoying the morning sunshine and sipping from the cup, the tray of tea having been dutifully laid down for her by Duffy, or Duffin, or whatever the new maid was called.

Reading, again, the passages she had read out in court, gave her a peculiar feeling.

He gripped the iron bar, firmly, but with indecision. Could he do it? Could he commit murder for the sake of his marriage? Would he get away with it? He imagined the rough rope, tightening around his neck, strangling the life out of him, and shivered. A moment's further hesitation and then he struck with all the strength he possessed...

She chuckled to herself. No, Ernest was completely incapable of such a deed, and he certainly lacked the determination to do such a thing. When it came to decisions, to decisiveness, all sensible men deferred to their wives. She read the passage again.

He gripped the iron bar, firmly, but with indecision.

There was certainly no indecision on her part. She had gripped that metal poker firmly, but without a moment's hesitation.

That slut had deserved it. That filthy, thieving, blackmailing harlot came from the grime of the gutter and she had put her right back where she belonged. She wouldn't be able to worm her way into any other family, trying to destroy their lives for a few bits of jewellery and money to spend on gin.

It was so easy. Everything that she had said in court was true. She needn't fear being found out. She didn't lie once, didn't need to. She had just told the truth as it happened. That ever so clever lawyer, that frightful old Etonian, hadn't thought to ask her if she had killed the girl. Ha!

It was of course the book that lied, not her. Her testimony was utterly and completely reliable. The truth and nothing but the truth.

As for her book...

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Read Part two of Murder She Wrought

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