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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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With a sob of anguish, Mrs. Renauld buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders heaved convulsively. At last she lifted her head, and said brokenly:

 

“Aha!” said M. Hautet, acknowledging the young man’s bow. “So you did not sail on the Anzora?”

 

“Why did the servants hear nothing? Were they drugged? Was there an accomplice and did that accomplice see to it that the front door should remain open? I wonder if—”

 

“Do you remember mine?” she asked, with a smile.

 

“I wish you would tell me what is worrying you,” I said impatiently.

 

Hard upon the discovery of the Tomb of Tut-ankh-Amen by Lord Carnarvon, Sir John Willard and Mr. Bleibner of New York, pursuing their excavations not far from Cairo, in the vicinity of the Pyramids of Gizeh, came unexpectedly on a series of funeral chambers. The greatest interest was aroused by their discovery. The Tomb appeared to be that of King Men-her-Ra, one of those shadowy kings of the Eighth Dynasty, when the Old Kingdom was falling to decay. Little was known about this period, and the discoveries were fully reported in the newspapers.

 

Poirot smiled a little, but made no direct reply. “What I would ask you to do, milord, is to place yourself in my hands. If you do so unreservedly, I have great hopes of averting the catastrophe.”

 

“There, there, my girl; that’s all right,” said the inspector, opening the door. “Nobody suspects you. You go along and get on with your work.”

 

“You—but why? What?” The nobleman spluttered impotently.

 

On the previous morning, two gentlemen had called to see his master. They were Italians, and the elder of the two, a man of about forty, gave his name as Signor Ascanio. The younger was a well-dressed lad of about twenty-four.

 

“In the waste-paper basket. You recognise the handwriting?”

 

The murder, he said, was a most premeditated and cold-blooded one. It was neither more nor less than the deliberate poisoning of a fond and trusting woman by the stepson to whom she had been more than a mother. Ever since his boyhood, she had supported him. He and his wife had lived at Styles Court in every luxury, surrounded by her care and attention. She had been their kind and generous benefactress.

 

“That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame”—she started ever so slightly—“remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service.”

 

Miss Howard shook hands with Poirot, but glanced suspiciously over her shoulder at John.

 

“You are loyal to your friend. I like you for that.”

 

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