With impeccable timing Hercule Poirot, the renowned Belgian detective, makes his dramatic entrance on to the English crime stage. Recently, there had been some strange goings on at Styles St Mary. Evelyn, constant companion to old Mrs Inglethorp, had stormed out of the house muttering something about 'a lot of sharks'. And with her, something indefinable had gone from the atmosphere. Her presence had spelt security; now the air seemed rife with suspicion and impending evil. A shattered coffee cup, a splash of candle grease, a bed of begonias all Poirot required to display his now legendary powers of detection.
Another book that I can’t really review because really? What can you say about a master like Christie? I think what I like best about Poirot is not just that so much of what he detects is based on observation, but that he has a real soft spot for love. Someday, I will make it through all of these!
