Now a new Channel 5 Christmas drama, Agatha And The Truth of Murder, explores a new theory: Did she go missing while trying to solve a real-life murder?
When we found out about Florence it was this tragic, unsolved case that jumped out as a very good answer to that question. He pops up again and again. The title is so specific it seems reasonable to imagine at least that she had picked up on it.
Miss Marple writer Agatha, who wrote 66 detective novels including Murder On The Orient Express , was grieving for her mother when she went missing in , aged Her husband, Colonel Archie Christie, a former World War One pilot, had also just announced he was in love with a younger woman and wanted a divorce. Close to the scene was a natural spring known as the Silent Pool, where two young children were reputed to have died.
Some journalists ventured to suggest that the novelist had drowned herself. Yet her body was nowhere to be found and suicide seemed unlikely, for her professional life had never looked so optimistic. Her sixth novel, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, was selling well and she was already a household name.
She was finally located when a musician at a hotel in Harrogate called police. Nobody knew where she had been. She was found in Yorkshire but nobody knows why and she never told anybody.
But since I looked into her as a real, living, breathing woman she actually had a traumatic time in her 30s. So when she lost that, it affected her very badly. This film looks at where she might have disappeared to. The nurse spent 12 years caring for the poor and sick across North East England. While training in Edinburgh she met fellow nurse Mabel Rogers in and they became great friends — and probably lovers.
They worked together for many years, both earning medals during the Boer War, with Florence later being awarded the Royal Red Cross medal. I am Sylvia Rule. As you know perfectly well. A moment ago, I did not know. Very well, then, I shall.
A TIME FOR JUSTICE is the first in Nick Oldham's fast paced, highly acclaimed crime thrillers featuring Henry Christie and is now available for the first time in. A Time For Justice book. Read 9 reviews from the world's largest community for readers. Carl Hinksman does not think twice when he embarks on a mission t.
I received a letter arrived this morning — a most disgusting and objectionable letter, signed by you. Sylvia Rule! You claimed that you could prove my guilt, and you advised me to go at once to the police and confess to my crime. How dare you? You cannot prove anything against me, for the simple reason that I am innocent. I have not killed anybody! I am the least violently inclined person I have ever met. And I have never heard of a Barnabas Pandy!
Simply monstrous. I shall not stand for it. Perhaps I shall go to the police. The slur I have suffered! The insult!
But do not try, Georges, to tell this to Sylvia Rule, who imagines that I know all about him! You can remove the unavailable item s now or we'll automatically remove it at Checkout. Marxist scholarship on the subject, with its desperate contortions to avoid identifying the obvious, offers the reader hours of amusement. He has usurped the functions of le bon Dieu. She is the widow of the late Clarence Rule. Although her siblings were educated privately — her sister at a school that later became Roedean and her brother at Harrow — Christie was for the most part raised at home.
A woman of my standing in the world! Sylvia Rule went on in this manner for some time. There was a lot of hiss and fizz in her agitated whispering. She made Poirot think of the loud, turbulent waterfalls he had encountered on his travels: impressive to watch, but mainly alarming on account of their relentlessness. The flow never stopped.
If you have received one, it was not sent by me. I too have never heard of Barnabas Pandy. That is the name of the man you are accused of murdering, by whoever wrote the letter? You both know that I have killed nobody, that I am as blameless as it is possible for a person to be! You and Eustace have hatched a plan together to send me out of my wits! This is exactly the sort of thing he would do, and no doubt he will claim later that it was all a joke. How much did he pay you? I know it must have been his idea. And you did his dirty work. You, the famed Hercule Poirot, who are trusted by our loyal and hardworking police.
You are a fraud! How could you?
Slandering a woman of my good character! Eustace would do anything to defeat me. If she had been willing to listen, Poirot might have told her that he would be unlikely to cooperate with any man who considered himself to be the cleverest man in England for as long as he, Hercule Poirot, resided in London. It made me ill to hold it in my hand! I tore it into a dozen pieces and tossed it on the fire. I should like to toss Eustace on a fire!
What a pity such actions are against the law. All I can say is that whoever made that particular law must never have met Eustace. If you ever traduce me in this way again, I shall go straight to Scotland Yard — not to confess to anything, for I am entirely innocent, but to accuse you, M. He did not call her back. He stood for a few seconds, shaking his head slowly.
Inside his spacious and well-appointed flat, his valet awaited him. I am perplexed, Georges. Tell me, as one who knows much about the upper echelons of English society…do you know a Sylvia Rule? She is the widow of the late Clarence Rule. Extremely well-connected.
I believe she sits on the boards of various charities. George shook his head. London society is my area of special knowledge, sir. I do not know if he lives, or if he was, perhaps, murdered. Vraiment , I could not know less about Barnabas Pandy than I do presently — that would be an impossibility! But do not try, Georges, to tell this to Sylvia Rule, who imagines that I know all about him! She believes I wrote a letter accusing her of his murder, a letter I now deny having written.
I did not write the letter. I have sent no communication of any kind to Mrs Sylvia Rule. Poirot removed his hat and coat with less care than he usually took, and handed both to George. One ought to be able to brush the untruths aside, but somehow they take hold of the mind and cause a spectral form of guilt — like a ghost in the head, or in the conscience! Someone is certain that you have done this terrible thing, and so you start to feel as if you have. Even though you know you have not. I begin to understand, Georges, why people confess to crimes of which they are innocent.
George looked doubtful, as he frequently did. English discretion, Poirot had observed, had an outward appearance that suggested doubt. Many of the politest English men and women he had met over the years looked as if they had been ordered to disbelieve everything that was said to them. A sirop de menthe, if I might be permitted to make a suggestion.
Am I to bring your drink immediately, and ask him to wait a little longer?