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They were a contented couple, but the marriage seems more companionable than erotically charged.
She abandoned her car, a Morris Cowley four-seater, in a chalk pit and made her way from what Hack calls 'Surrey County' and turned up in a hotel in Harrogate, in Yorkshire County.
Like Miss Marple, Dame Agatha seemed a sweet old thing, with those old-fashioned glasses, shapeless clothes, and legs in brown stockings that ballooned from poor circulation.
The atmosphere of her thrillers seems that of an idyllic England, with steam trains and Art Deco cocktail shakers, cosy Devon cream teas and vintage cars.
When the bodies begin to pile up, there are no descriptions of smashed brains or blood and entrails drenching the drawing room walls. That, anyway, is the image projected by the beloved David Suchet/Peter Ustinov or Joan Hickson/Geraldine Mc Ewan productions, which tend to be quaint and are even a bit camp. There's a surprising real viciousness and defiance there, which has long been overlooked. What is commendable about Richard Hack's new biography is that he too refuses to be content with Dame Agatha's snug and congenial image.
There was an insatiable desire for violence and revenge bubbling within her - and the cause of this is not hard to seek.