How do I know this? She told me, when I was arranging the sale of the house Barbara West left me in Holland Park. Lana asked why I was selling the house, and I said that apart from that I loathed the place and all its memories, the bottom line was I needed some cash. I needed something to live on—otherwise I would end up destitute on the street. I was joking, but Lana looked grave. She told me she wouldn’t let that happen—that she’d always take care of me, as long as she lived; and she had left me seven million pounds in her will.
I was stunned by her generosity, and deeply moved. Lana, perhaps regretting her indiscretion, asked me to forget what she had said—in particular, she requested I never mention it to Jason. The unspoken implication was that Jason would be furious. Of course he would—Jason was greedy, mean-spirited, ungenerous. The opposite of Lana and me, in fact.
Knowing about this inheritance didn’t make the slightest bit of difference to my feelings. I certainly didn’t plot Lana’s murder, if that’s what you’re thinking.
But you can think what you like—that’s the fun of a murder mystery, isn’t it? You can bet on whichever horse you choose.
If I were you, I’d put my money on Jason.
We all know how desperate he was, how much he needed money—which he doesn’t admit to Mavropoulos. But Jason has an air of guilt clinging to him like cigarette smoke. Any inspector worth his salt should pick up on it and become suspicious.
And Kate? Well, her motive was not financial—in Kate’s case, it would be a crime passionnel, wouldn’t it? But the question remains whether Kate would actually kill Lana to steal her husband. I’m not convinced she would.
Nor am I convinced that Agathi is a realistic suspect. She was also to receive an inheritance, like me—and, like me, was intensely loyal. There’s no reason to think she’d harm Lana. She loved Lana; perhaps even a little too much.
Who is left?
I don’t seriously consider Leo. Do you? Would a son kill the mother he adored simply because she wouldn’t let him go to drama school? Although, to be fair, I’m sure people have committed murder for less compelling reasons. And if it did turn out to be Leo, it would prove to be a sufficiently shocking surprise; a dramatic end to our tale.
But a more savvy armchair detective might be likely to go for Nikos—shady from the get-go, increasingly obsessed with Lana, isolated and eccentric.
Or is Nikos too obvious a suspect? A Greek island version of “the butler did it”?
But then, who is left?
Only one other solution is possible. A trick that Christie herself sometimes used. An outsider: someone whose name was not on the list of six suspects. Someone who landed illegally on the island, despite the bad weather, armed with a gun and the desire to kill. Someone from Lana’s past?
Was it possible? Yes. Probable? No.
But let’s not dismiss this idea entirely—not until Inspector Mavropoulos has reached his conclusion; when he asks us all to meet for the solution of the murder.
The inspector gathers us in the living room of the main house—or at the ruin, if he’s feeling particularly theatrical. Six chairs, arranged in a row, in front of the columns.
We sit and watch Mavropoulos pace back and forth, taking us through his investigation, all the twists and turns his thinking took. Finally, he deduces that, to everyone’s immense surprise, the murderer is …
Well—that’s as far as I can go, for the moment.
* * *
All of the above is what might have happened—if this tale were being written by a firmer hand than my own—by Agatha Christie’s implacable, unshakable pen.
But my hand isn’t firm. It’s weak and wildly erratic; like me. Disorganized and sentimental. You couldn’t imagine worse traits for a mystery writer. Thankfully I’m just an amateur—I’d never make a living at this.
The truth is, none of it played out the way I have just described.
There was no Inspector Mavropoulos, no investigation, nothing so orderly, methodical, or safe. When the police finally did arrive—by then, it was daylight, and the identity of the murderer was well-known. By then, there was chaos.
By then, all hell had broken loose.
So what happened? Allow me to refill your glass, and I’ll tell you.
The truth, as they say, is often stranger than fiction.
ACT III
It is not unnatural that the best writers are liars. A major part of their trade is to lie or invent and they will lie when they are drunk, or to themselves, or to strangers.
—ERNEST HEMINGWAY
1
At this point, I suppose—like that poor bastard harangued by the Ancient Mariner, forced to endure his weird tale—you must be wondering what the hell you let yourself in for, agreeing to hear my story.
It only gets weirder, I’m afraid.
I wish I knew how you felt about me, right now. Are you slightly charmed, even beguiled, as Lana used to be? Or like Kate, do you find me irritating, self-dramatizing, self-indulgent?
All of the above is probably closest to the truth.
But we like to keep moral questions simple, don’t we? Good/bad, innocent/guilty. That’s fine in fiction; real life is not so clear-cut. Human beings are complex creatures, with shades of light and dark operating in all of us.
If this sounds like I’m trying to justify myself, I assure you I’m not. I am well aware that as we proceed, and you hear the rest of this tale, you might not approve of my actions. That’s fine. I don’t seek your approval.
What I seek—no, what I demand—is your understanding.
Otherwise my story will never touch your heart. It will remain a two-a-penny thriller that you might pick up at an airport to devour on the beach—only to discard, forgotten, by the time you get home. I will not allow my life to be reduced to pulp. No, sir.
If you are to understand what follows—if any of the incredible events I’m about to relate are to make any sense to you—I must explain some things about myself. Some things I felt I couldn’t reveal to you when we first met. Why not? I wanted you to get to know me a little better, I suppose. I hoped you might then excuse some of my less attractive traits.
But now, it has overtaken me—this desire to unburden myself. I couldn’t stop now, even if I wanted to. Like the Ancient Mariner, I need to get it off my chest.
I must warn you, what follows is, at times, hard to take. It’s certainly hard to write about. If you thought Lana’s murder was the climax of this sordid tale, you were sadly mistaken.
The real horror is yet to come.
* * *
Once again, I must turn back the clock. Not to the Soho street in London, this time—but much, much further.
I will tell you about Lana and me—about our friendship; strange and extraordinary thing that it was. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg, to be frank. My relationship with Lana Farrar began a long time before we ever met.
It began when I was someone else.
2
It’s funny, whenever the novelist Christopher Isherwood would write about his younger self, it was always in the third person.
He would write about “him”—a kid named “Christopher.”
Why? Because, I think, it allowed him to access empathy for himself. It’s so much easier to feel empathy for other people, isn’t it? If you see a scared little boy on the street, bullied, shamed, disrespected by an abusive parent, you instantly feel sympathy for him.
But in the case of our own childhoods, it’s hard to see so clearly. Our perception is clouded by the need to comply, justify, and forgive. It takes an impartial outsider sometimes, like a skilled therapist, to help us see the truth—that as kids we were alone and afraid in a frightening place, and no one took any notice of our pain.
We couldn’t admit this to ourselves, back then. It was too scary—so we swept it under an enormous carpet, hoping it would go away. But it didn’t. It remained there, lingering forever, like nuclear waste.
High time, don’t you think, to lift up the rug and take a good look? Although, for safety’s sake, I shall borrow Christopher Isherwood’s technique.
What follows is the kid’s story—not mine.
* * *
The kid’s early years were not happy.