a decade in which adaptors misleadingly continued to keep her name on theatrical marquees on both sides of the Atlantic, and in which she herself wrote four further full-length scripts, none of which were to achieve West End productions in her lifetime.
Charles Laughton made his Broadway exit as Poirot on 1 March 1932, and six weeks later Hughes Massie issued Francis L. Sullivan with a licence for a new Poirot stage script written by Christie herself.1 This was a one act play (or ‘Sketch’ as it was titled) based on the short story ‘The Wasp’s Nest’, which had been published in the Daily Mail in November 1928. The licence allowed Sullivan to perform the piece at a ‘royal charity matinee’ in June 1932, which appears to have been the purpose for which it was written, and to present it at London’s Arts Theatre. It also gave him the right to perform it as a ‘music hall’ act, in return for 10 per cent of his income therefrom; the concept of a Poirot play featuring on a variety bill is indicative of the theatrical curiosity that the character had rapidly become.
On Tuesday 7 June 1932 the King and Queen attended a gala matinee in aid of the British Hospital in Paris at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane.2 The production consisted of a variety of numbers and sketches, in one of which Gerald du Maurier caused much hilarity by playing the role of a non-speaking butler. This may well have been the event for which The Wasp’s Nest was originally written, although it did not in fact form part of the programme. Neither did it turn up at the Arts Theatre or on the music hall stage, although in 1937 it was broadcast live by BBC television, with Sullivan as Poirot. Also in the cast were Douglas Clarke-Smith, who had directed the West End transfer of Black Coffee, and Wallace Douglas, who would go on to direct the London premiere of Witness for the Prosecution. The broadcast took place on 18 June at 3.35 p.m., with the Radio Times announcing that
Viewers will be the first to see this Agatha Christie play, which has never previously been performed anywhere. Francis L. Sullivan, who will bring to the television screen the famous detective character, Hercule Poirot, originally made a great hit in another Poirot play, Alibi, which he toured for almost a year, and subsequently in the same characterisation in Black Coffee. In addition to being familiar to theatre audiences in New York, London and Stratford upon Avon, he has appeared in a number of films, amongst them Jew Suss, Great Expectations, Chu Chin Chow and The Mystery of Edwin Drood. The character of Poirot is one of his favourite parts, and with the exception of a notable portrayal by Charles Laughton, the character has been almost permanently associated with him for the past six years.3
A myth has grown up that the play was actually written by Christie for television and, as such, is her only work for the medium. The contractual trail, however, makes it clear that she originally wrote it for theatrical presentation, and that it was subsequently sold to the BBC for the princely sum of £4, and simply broadcast as written. The BBC Television Service had been established at Alexandra Palace the previous year, and the broadcasting of drama was in its infancy, so the straightforward live transmission of a short stage script would have been entirely in keeping with the methodologies of the day.
Significantly, the script itself does not immediately lend itself to presentation as part of a variety bill, either in the context of a gala event or a music hall presentation. It is a gentle four-hander concerning a love triangle and the redeployment to murderous purpose of the cyanide being used to destroy a wasp’s nest. Poirot is at his most contemplative and unshowy. There is nothing at all ‘Guignol’ about the piece, and the murder is prevented before it can actually take place. It is almost as if Christie had deliberately undermined the brief that she had been given in order to avoid Poirot being reduced to a music hall turn. Yet, although Christie herself had no interest in television – far from being a pioneering dramatist in the medium, she positively disliked it – all of these qualities in the script make the piece perfectly suited to presentation as a television studio drama. It seems likely that it was Sullivan himself who identified and promoted this opportunity, thereby securing himself a place in history as television’s first Poirot.
A 1949 letter from Edmund Cork to Christie’s American agent, Harold Ober, provides an interesting postscript to the Wasp’s Nest affair. ‘The Mallowans have just gone off to Baghdad for five months, and Agatha has left me with her power of Attorney and instructions not to trouble her about any business matter!’ says Cork, before going on to discuss the issue of an American offer for Poirot television rights. He advises Ober against accepting the deal due to problems that Christie was experiencing with the American tax authorities, and also because ‘television is so much in its infancy that there is the danger that rights may be disposed of now for trifling royalties that would otherwise be extremely valuable in the future – I believe many mistakes were made in the early days of movies.’4
This remarkably prescient advice undoubtedly paved the way for more lucrative deals in the future and is an insight into the dilemmas faced by those responsible at the time for licensing intellectual property rights in the ‘new media’ of radio, film and television; not dissimilar to the challenges currently faced by those licensing work for use on the similarly unknown quantity of the internet. There had also been an enquiry about Sullivan reprising The Wasp’s Nest on television in the USA. Cork continues:
I think, however, I ought to explain the personal background. Francis Sullivan is a close friend of the author of many years standing, and The Wasp’s Nest, which was originally a short story written in 1928, was dramatised for Sullivan to appear in at a charity matinee in 1932. He has always regarded the play as more or less his, although in point of fact he has no rights in it, and the author received the fee when it was televised by the BBC in 1937. Sullivan, like many successful actors, is a most temperamental person, and makes the most of his personal standing with Agatha whenever we have had to refuse him his own way. He is certainly making a lot of excitement over this proposed production … and while I do not want to influence you in any way, it might make life momentarily simpler if Larry Sullivan got his way!
I shall leave it to television historians to establish whether the production actually took place, as we return to the world of theatre, but I do rather like Cork’s frank appraisal of Francis L. Sullivan, who was widely known as ‘Larry’ (though the ‘L’ in his name actually stood for ‘Loftus’).
The next full-length play based on Christie’s work to receive a West End production was Love From a Stranger, which opened at the New Theatre on 31 March 1936 for a relatively successful run of 149 performances, and was purportedly adapted by Frank Vosper from her short story ‘Philomel Cottage’.
The story itself was first published in the Grand Magazine in November 1924, and was included in the collection The Listerdale Mystery ten years later. It is the gripping and dramatic tale of a woman who unexpectedly inherits a sizeable sum of money, effectively liberating her to reject her uninspiring and prevaricating suitor in favour of an alliance with a man who she has just met and about whose background she knows nothing. They settle in the country, in apparently blissful surroundings, but her new husband turns out to be a notorious wife murderer and she, it appears, is intended to be his next victim. In an astonishingly tense final scene she manages to outwit him and turn the tables by herself pretending to be a killer. The short story picks up the narrative at the point where they have moved into Philomel Cottage and are apparently living in wedded bliss. The two-hander denouement and country cottage location are echoed in one of Christie’s four scripts for radio, 1948’s Butter In a Lordly Dish; and the mythical serial wife murderer Bluebeard, who featured in one of Agatha’s youthful dramatic enterprises, would again be the inspiration for a villain in her 1954 radio script Personal Call.
