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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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“Would it interest you, Hastings, to go down and hear what our visitor’s particular trouble is? Make him all my excuses.”

 

I may as well confess at once that they were rather disappointing. In detective-novels, clues abound, but here I could find nothing that struck me as out of the ordinary except a large bloodstain on the carpet where I judged the dead man had fallen. I examined everything with painstaking care and took a couple of pictures of the room with my little camera, which I had brought with me. I also examined the ground outside the window, but it appeared to have been so heavily trampled that I judged it was useless to waste time over it. Now I had seen all that Hunter’s Lodge had to show me. I must go back to Elmer’s Dale and get into touch with Japp. Accordingly I took leave of the Haverings, and was driven off in the car that had brought us up from the station.

 

Advise Japp arrest housekeeper before it is too late.

 

“Second son of fifth Baron Windsor. Married 1913 Zoe, fourth daughter of William Crabb.”

 

“Ah, yes—I was going to ask you what you thought about that beard?”

 

“Good. Call for me in passing—the last house in the village. I will go with you. At Styles, Mr. Inglethorp will give you, or if he refuses—as is probable—I will give you such proofs that shall satisfy you that the case against him could not possibly be sustained. Is that a bargain?”

 

Manning came slowly and hesitatingly through the French window, and stood as near it as he could. He held his cap in his hands, twisting it very carefully round and round. His back was much bent, though he was probably not as old as he looked, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent, and belied his slow and rather cautious speech.

 

“No, no, no!” cried Miss Howard wildly, flinging up her hands. “Don’t say it! Oh, don’t say it! It isn’t true! It can’t be true. I don’t know what put such a wild—such a dreadful—idea into my head!”

 

“I say, that’s playing it a bit low down,” I protested.

 

“Indeed. It is near the window, this cupboard?”

 

“He was trying to make a getaway, but I was too sharp for him. He is under arrest for the murder of his father, M. Paul Renauld.”

 

“Yes, madame. It would, perhaps, be better if we could speak to you alone.” He looked meaningly in the direction of the girl.

 

Poirot leaned back in his chair, and brought the tips of his fingers together in familiar style.

 

“But I have proper credentials,” he remarked, and rose slowly to his feet.

 

So I told myself repeatedly, but at the bottom of my heart there still remained a cold fear.

 

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