HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF First published in Great Britain by Collins 1934 Copyright © 1934 Rosalind Hicks Charitable Trust. All rights reserved. Cover by ninataradesign.com © HarperCollins 2017 Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008131470 Ebook Edition © June 2017 ISBN: 9780007534968 Version: 2018-04-11 Contents Copyright Foreword BOOK I: The Island Chapter 1. The Woman in the Garden Chapter 2. Call to Action
BOOK II: Canvas
Chapter 1. Home
Chapter 2. Abroad
Chapter 3. Grannie
Chapter 4. Death
Chapter 5. Mother and Daughter
Chapter 6. Paris
Chapter 7. Grown Up
Chapter 8. Jim and Peter
Chapter 9. Dermot
Chapter 10. Marriage
Chapter 11. Motherhood
Chapter 12. Peace
Chapter 13. Companionship
Chapter 14. Ivy
Chapter 15. Prosperity
Chapter 16. Loss
Chapter 17. Disaster
Chapter 18. Fear
BOOK III: The Island
Chapter 1. Surrender
Chapter 2. Reflection
Chapter 3. Flight
Chapter 4. Beginning
Also by Agatha Christie
About the Publisher
My Dear Mary: I send you this because I don’t know what to do with it. I suppose, really, I want it to see the light of day. One does. I suppose the complete genius keeps his pictures stacked in the studio and never shows them to anybody. I was never like that, but then I was never a genius—just Mr Larraby, the promising young portrait painter. Well, my dear, you know what it is, none better—to be cut off from the thing you loved doing and did well because you loved doing it. That’s why we were friends, you and I. And you know about this writing business—I don’t. If you read this manuscript, you’ll see that I’ve taken Barge’s advice. You remember? He said, ‘Try a new medium.’ This is a portrait—and probably a damned bad one because I don’t know my medium. If you say it’s no good, I’ll take your word for it, but if you think it has, in the smallest degree, that significant form we both believe to be the fundamental basis of art—well, then, I don’t see why it shouldn’t be published. I’ve put the real names, but you can change them. And who is to mind? Not Michael. And as for Dermot he would never recognize himself! He isn’t made that way. Anyway, as Celia herself said, her story is a very ordinary story. It might happen to anybody. In fact, it frequently does. It isn’t her story I’ve been interested in. All along it’s been Celia herself. Yes, Celia herself … You see I wanted to nail her in paint to a canvas, and that being out of the question, I’ve tried to get her in another way. But I’m working in an unfamiliar medium—these words and sentences and commas and full stops—they’re not my craft. You’ll remark, I dare say, que ça se voit! I’ve seen her, you know, from two angles. First, from my own. And secondly, owing to the peculiar circumstances of twenty-four hours, I’ve been able—at moments—to get inside her skin and see her from her own. And the two don’t always agree. That’s what’s so tantalizing and fascinating to me! I should like to be God and know the truth. But a novelist can be God to the creatures he creates. He has them in his power to do what he likes with—or so he thinks. But they do give him surprises. I wonder if the real God finds that too … Yes, I wonder … Well, my dear, I won’t wander on any more. Do what you can for me. Yours ever, J.L.
There is a lonely isle
Set apart
In the midst of the sea
Where the birds rest awhile
On their long flight
To the South
They rest a night
Then take wing and depart
