These seducers of women, these deceivers like demons, working their way from the shadows to the hearts and beds of the better sex. With silver tongues and polished hair, they find their way in and bare. Eyes are battered, curtains are drawn, only to lose their lives amid a storm. Unlucky for them, Hercule Poirot was near, visiting an old friend in Devonshire. He detected the odd and taught the bobbies to hunt, clues discovered, the murder weapon found blunt. The rooms are full of ghosts, full of stories, bits and pieces to reveal mysterious glories. The air is musty, the case nearly solved, the people are pulled together, the drama of the theatre involved. Then the perpetrator is found, justice has come, Hercule Poirot has done it, the family no longer undone. Yes, there is no more this week, there is no more.
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No single work did more to question the conventions than what you now read. Welcome to my world. View all posts by Fictional Man