Nick Buckley was a curious name for a pretty young woman. But then hers was no ordinary case. First, on a treacherous Cornish hillside, the brakes on her car failed. Then, on a coastal path, a falling boulder missed her by inches. Later, an oil painting fell and almost crushed her in her bed. Upon discovering a bullet-hole in Nick's sun hat, Hercule Poirot decides the girl needs his protection. At the same time, he begins to unravel the mystery of a murder that hasn't been committed. Yet.
Peril at End House was a great mystery to follow. It did not pretended to be anything than a straight forward murder mystery. There was hardly any social commentary - and none of which I remember to be dubious (well, not as dubious as some of Dame Agatha's other ones), and I did not guess the murderer until the very end. It also had some of the delightful conversations where Poirot pokes fun at Hastings - either about his understanding of women or his admiration for the capabilities of English sportsmen:
"Still no news of that flying fellow, Seton, in his round-the-world flight. Pretty plucky, these fellows. That amphibian machine of his, the Albatross, must be a great invention. Too bad if he's gone west. Not that they've given up hope yet. He may have made one of the Pacific Islands." "The Solomon islanders are still cannibals, are they not?" inquired Poirot pleasantly. "Must be a fine fellow. That sort of thing makes one feel it's a good thing to be an Englishman after all." "It consoles for the defeats at Wimbledon," said Poirot.
