The familiarity didn’t feel proper, though propriety was already waning in the years after the Great War.
But I never would, not in those early days, no matter how many weekends I spent at one of her homes, no matter how many private moments we shared. “Call me Agatha,” she always said, reaching out a slender hand. In retrospect it’s frightening, but I daresay in the moment it feels sweet, the way justice feels sweet.Īgatha Christie had a fascination with murder. Your hands, harmless until now, rise up to squeeze another person’s life away. It conveys a strength you never knew you possessed. It takes over your body so completely it’s like a divine force, grabbing hold of your will, your limbs, your psyche. First comes rage, larger than any you’ve ever imagined. It’s a particular feeling, the urge to murder. A long time ago in another country, I nearly killed a woman.
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