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.