There is a Tide by Agatha Christie

Source of book: I own this

 

Back in my childhood, I read a lot of Agatha Christie - my mother was and is a big fan. My first was And Then There Were None, which is a classic to be sure. 

 

While I still read mysteries fairly regularly, it has been many years since I actually read one by Christie, which is kind of odd considering my wife had a pretty good collection. 

 

Anyway, for my annual backpacking trip with my brother and assorted cousins, I needed something small, light, and expendable to take with me. (Considering we got caught in a thunderstorm and downpour on the trail, it is a miracle the book survived.) In this case, my wife suggested this beat up trade paperback that could easily fit in a pocket. 

 

This book, like so many 20th century British books, There is a Tide was published under two different names - this is the US title. The British one is Taken at the Flood. Shakespeare aficionados will recognize both titles from Brutus’ speech in Julius Caesar. 

 

One of the reasons that Christie is considered one of the all time great mystery writers is that she avoided recycling plots or otherwise reusing material. Sure, there are the necessary elements for a proper British mystery, but her books don’t feel like the same books with different characters. 

 

This one is no exception. It includes Hercule Poirot, the Belgian detective, now retired yet still dabbling. However, it is notable that we don’t get our first dead body until halfway through the book. There are a number of unexpected twists and turns, although experienced mystery readers may well be able to follow the careful clues and arrive at the truth before it is revealed. 

 

This book is also notable because literally nobody in the story is likable. Well, except Poirot, perhaps, and he is an acquired taste. 

 

The Cloade family is one of those bourgeois-with-ambition sorts you find in many of Christie’s books. They aren’t aristocracy, but they have in some cases married it, and they hope to move up in the world. 

 

Most of them, however, have been disappointed. Jeremy, the lawyer, married the girl with a title, but her father went bankrupt. His law business has been struggling anyway. Lionel, the doctor, has gotten in debt for his research projects. Rowley, the farmer, needs to improve his land to compete, but lacks funds.

 

The one with money is Gordon - and the rest of the family sponges off of him. 

 

But there is a problem. During World War Two, Gordon unexpectedly marries the young Rosaleen, a widow whose husband disappeared and was reported dead somewhere in Africa. 

 

Back in London during the Blitz, a bomb takes out Gordon, and Rosaleen inherits everything. Her brother David is an unscrupulous sort, and seems to exert a strange control over his sister. 

 

Meanwhile, Hercule Poirot is told a strange story at his club, of a man whose wife loathed Africa and wanted out of her marriage, so he faked his own death, referencing the old poem, “Enoch Arden.” When he is later consulted by one of the Cloades, he remembers the story and realizes it is the same person. 

 

Obviously, there are all kinds of motives for murder here, but when we finally get a corpse, everything is all wrong. Poirot has to dig through layers of deception to figure out what happened. 

 

I won’t spoil further than that, other than to say that plenty of people in this book are not who they claim to be, and the obvious motives conceal the deeper ones that really drive what happens. 

 

As with most of Christie’s books, there are some dated elements. This one at least avoids racial slurs and background racism - probably because all the characters are white. However, the ending unfortunately recycles the trope that what independent women really want is a dangerous man, and the way to catch her is to use violence. 

 

Yeah, ugh. I wish I could say this is a thing of the past, but this presidential election has revealed that a disturbing number of douchebros still think that what feminist women really need is a good rape. 

 

This is particularly disappointing, because Lynn is otherwise a good character. Poirot’s observation is particularly good:

 

Poirot looked at the girl with interest. A handsome girl, he thought, and intelligent also. Not the type he himself admired. He preferred something softer, more feminine. Lynn Marchmont, he thought, was essentially a modern type – though one might, with equal accuracy, call it an Elizabethan type. Women who thought for themselves, who were free in language, and who admired enterprise and audacity in men.

 

Other than the last part of it – I find that women of that sort admire enterprise, but not necessarily audacity – he hits on some truth. The certain “femininity” that certain subcultures value isn’t some universal, or even universal of the past. Rather, it is a specifically Victorian or 1950s affectation. A cultural moment. Strong women have always existed, and at various times, they have been celebrated.

 

That part aside, this is a good mystery, with Christie’s characteristic skill in providing clues. One of the complaints I have had about some modern books lately has been that they forget the important rules of good writing - particularly mystery writing. Don’t include anything that is irrelevant. A clue is either crucial to solving the mystery, or a red herring that will be important in other ways. Don’t skip crucial clues either, though. The reader must be given everything necessary to solve the mystery if they pay attention and are as sharp as the detective. 

 

This book certainly demonstrates these rules - every detail turns out to matter, and there are no holes in the plot or evidence. Christie is a classic for a reason.