When we talk about examples of the classic novel of detection being treated as a knowing parody of itself, titles oft-mentioned include The Poisoned Chocolates Case (1929) or Jumping Jenny (1933) by Anthony Berkeley. But I’ve just read The Body in the Library (1942) by Agatha Christie for the first time in 25 years, and, like, her tongue is positively bulging through her cheek at times, no?

The discovery of a dead body in the library of Colonel and Mrs. Bantry is already acknowledged by Christie in a foreword as a “cliché”, but Mrs. Bantry, like Christie, fully intends to “enjoy myself over it”. Indeed, it is the very familiarity of the conceit from books — one of these days I really do intend to track down the roots of this particular trope — that makes it seem like the sort of occurrence one would enjoy: just as every GAD-reading nerd wishes for the opportunity to play amateur sleuth, there’s something about the dressing this up in such traditional terms which prevents the tragedy of the situation really hitting home until, very cleverly, the final stages.

And it’s not just Mrs. Bantry who finds the murder anything but a source of tragedy, with many of the “ruling class of censorious spinsters” in St. Mary Mead only too happy to bask in the salacious possibilities:

“Forgive me coming so early, dear, but I thought, perhaps, you mightn’t have heard the news.“

“What news?” demanded Miss Hartnell. She had a deep bass voice and visited the poor indefatigably, however hard they tried to avoid her ministrations.

“About the body in Colonel Bantry’s library — a woman’s body—”

“In Colonel Bantry’s library?“

“Yes. Isn’t it terrible?“

“His poor wife.” Miss Hartnell tried to disguise her deep and ardent pleasure.

“Yes, indeed. I don’t suppose she had any idea.”

Of course, one expects a certain amount of diegetic commentary from a Golden Age mystery (at times Christie veers a little close to tastelessness with the implication that a “well-bred girl” would never have allowed herself to be murdered), some of this is very much found around the edges of how people behave or speak — Mrs. Bantry refusing to suspect that movie-adjacent-ne’er-do-well Basil Blake could be involved because “I know his mother” — it’s interesting to see Christie step outside of the characters and offer her own omnipotent view of some of the proceedings.

So, for instance, when Mrs. Bantry invites Jane Marple up to look over the scene (“Doesn’t it remind you of anything?”) and is blocked in her efforts by Constable Palk, we get the following…

“Don’t be stupid, Palk. After all, it’s my library, isn’t it?”

Constable Palk gave way. His habit of giving in to the gentry was lifelong. The Inspector, he reflected, need never know about it.

…which is an excellent meta-reflection on much that has driven the novel of detection through its now-fading Golden Age. Or, say young Peter Carmody boasting about his collection of “autographs from Dorothy Sayers and Agatha Christie and Dickson Carr and H. C. Bailey,” heightening the remove from which we have been viewing events all this time. Sure, it’s not on Anthony Berkeley’s level of subtlety or savagery, but was Christie ever this playful before or since?

And, damn, she’s extremely funny, too, with Chief Constable Colonel Melchett given a couple of superb interactions:

[Inspector] Slack was an industrious and zealous officer and Melchett disliked him a good deal.

For one, and…

“When did you last see [the car], Mr. Bartlett?”

“Well, I was tryin’ to remember. Funny how difficult it is to remember anything, isn’t it?”

Colonel Melchett said coldly:

“Not, I should think, to a normal intelligence.”

…for another. The Bantrys, too, after the reality finally begins to penetrate and the notion of “go[ing] through hell for something [they] didn’t do” finally hits them (though it’s mostly social castigation which seems to cause this revelation, about which someone far more intelligent that I could write at least 3,000 words) — are finally allowed a moment of comedy in the closing stages:

“[C]an’t judge a fellow by what he does when he’s drunk. When I was at Cambridge, I remember I put a certain utensil — well, well, never mind. Deuce of a row there was about it.”

One feels that, were Christie not so committed to delivering the sort of straight mystery that she had become so celebrated for — and the mystery here is good, with pathos and brutality as its core, and a clever scheme that I had completely forgotten, which is why I picked this up to reread in the first place — she could have had a lot more fun picking apart the trappings of these books. She certainly knew the genre inside out, and must by now, especially after the shattering work done in 1939, have been fairly assured of her own place among the genre’s leading lights, but maybe it was better to ignore this particular l’appel du vide.

In place of slightly aloof commentary, then, we get lovely moments like the delightful short paragraph in which Griselda, the vicar’s wife, enjoys a playful moment with her infant son, or the briefly heart-breaking characterisation of a man who was sent into burning buildings as part of his A.R.P. work at a mere 18 years of age. And while Christie was always quite good at thumbnail sketches like this, often tying them more directly to motive and means, it’s nice to see her take the time to fill out these people just because she wants to.

I should probably have talked more about Conway Jefferson and his ménage, but this is a book I’m really pleased I returned to, if only because its clever plot — while, no, not quite playing fair — carries with it these little moments that so enliven what could easily have been a formulaic trudge through a familiar landscape. Of course Christie’s not to everyone’s liking, no single author is, but I feel a little sorry for anyone who picks up something constructed with this much insight and skill and is unable to see the talent that has gone into bringing it all to life.