Murder on the Orient Express. By Agatha Christie. Audiobook

Emma Smith

This is a winding, personal reflection on the first - and so far, only - Agatha Christie novel I've ever read: Murder on the Orient Express. Much like the famous train itself, my thoughts on it tend to meander, take unexpected sidings, and change track. Frankly, even writing about this book is a delightful diversion. I needed a literary palate cleanser, a light reprieve from the grim reality of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's The Gulag Archipelago. So, I chose a fictional murder in the Yugoslavian snows as my escape from a history of all-too-real murder in the Stalinist frost.

The journey began when I found a well-loved, battered copy on my mother's bookshelves. It instantly transported me back to a family holiday in Istanbul. My mum, a voracious reader, passed away last summer, and sorting through her library was a poignant task. Her books were treasures, often sourced from the bargain tables outside Kirkdale Bookshop in Sydenham. That shop had a genius "buy-back" policy - read a book, return it for a few pence, and put that toward the next stack. Through this wonderfully economical system, she devoured mountains of paperbacks over the years, with Agatha Christie's distinctive green Penguin covers being a staple.

Until 1977, the Orient Express ran from Istanbul to Calais. Christie allegedly penned her famous mystery in Room 411 of Istanbul's Pera Palace Hotel. As a child, my family stayed in that very hotel - less than forty years after her visit and while the author was still alive. It was surprisingly affordable then, long on faded grandeur and short on maintenance, likely looking much as it did in Christie's day. Built in 1892 specifically for Orient Express passengers, it features briefly in the novel. To me, it remains the most atmospheric place I've ever stayed. Or does childhood simply color everything more vividly? It was a magnificent, half-empty relic, with elegantly dressed staff outnumbering the guests. I'll never forget the ornate lift: it would plunge, shudder, stall, and then plunge again - a terrifying thrill for a child that makes you feel intensely alive. The place cried out for tender loving care and a nod to safety. It's since been lavishly restored, but I hope it, like the legend of the Express itself, still drips with that old-world romance.

Even if you've never read it, you likely know the premise: the world's greatest detective, Hercule Poirot, boards the luxury Orient Express in Istanbul. As it travels through a snowy Central Europe, a wealthy man with a shadowy past is murdered in his first-class compartment. The killer must be among the small group of passengers. When an avalanche halts the train in its tracks, Poirot must solve the case.

This is the quintessential whodunit. Christie invites you to play detective alongside Poirot, scattering genuine clues and clever red herrings with equal generosity. I concocted several theories as I read, all of them wrong. The ending is masterful. It kept me guessing until the final pages, yet the solution felt fair - all the pieces were there, waiting to be assembled.

It wasn't the book I expected. My impressions were shaped by star-studded film adaptations, and I anticipated more atmospheric description and psychological depth. What you get instead is crackling dialogue, remarkably tight prose, and a pace that never lets up. You also get a writer who is clearly amused and fascinated by human folly. She cares about her creations, and so, effortlessly, do we - in our billions, across every format imaginable.

Let's be clear: the plot is wildly far-fetched. Coincidences and clues pour down like the snow outside the train windows, yet none of the characters bats an eye. And yet - it didn't bother me one bit. Christie constructs such a reassuringly consistent world that, for the duration of the journey, everything feels perfectly plausible. More than that, I desperately wanted to step into that world. I felt a powerful urge to board that legendary train, settle into the dining car, and study my fellow passengers over the crisp pages of the Herald Tribune.

Writing that, I realized my observation is more universal than I'd first thought. The same could be said of Sherlock Holmes's London, the decks of the Starship Enterprise, or the halls of Hogwarts. We accept the improbable because we yearn for the delightful, fully-realized worlds these artists build for us. We believe because we want to believe.

I was once in the magnificent John Rylands Library in Manchester, a neo-Gothic masterpiece. The place was buzzing with excited children, giggling and pointing at gargoyles. "It's wonderful," I whispered, puzzled, "but why such enthusiasm in a scholarly library?" "Harry Potter," my friend murmured. Of course. The most gifted creators forge worlds so intoxicating we ache to live in them, if only for a while. We search for Platform 9¾, we check the back of wardrobes, and we dream of a ticket for the Orient Express.

We humans are storytelling creatures, not purely rational ones. Anyone who thinks we could be - "if only we removed all the nonsense" - is in for a profound disappointment. As our traditional cultural narratives face constant erosion, perhaps we need our artists more than ever. They provide a basic human need: stories we can live inside, or, at the very least, stories that offer a glorious temporary escape.

This book is a captivating, swift, and utterly satisfying read. I highly recommend picking up a copy - or, for an extra layer of period atmosphere, listening to the superb audiobook narration. It's the perfect journey for your mind, no ticket required.