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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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“I think—I am sure—he cared for me at first. But I suppose we were not well matched. Almost at once, we drifted apart. He—it is not a pleasing thing for my pride, but it is the truth—tired of me very soon.” I must have made some murmur of dissent, for she went on quickly: “Oh, yes, he did! Not that it matters now—now that we’ve come to the parting of the ways.”

 

But, on the following day, no sign of Poirot. I was getting angry. He was really treating us in the most cavalier fashion.

 

“I am sure she would be delighted. It’s an interesting little place.”

 

“Oh, come!” said Summerhaye, opening his lips for the first time. “Surely the whole thing is clear as daylight. The man’s caught red-handed. How he could be such a fool beats me!”

 

“Well, my friend, as I say, my views as to Mr. Inglethorp’s guilt were very much shaken. There was, in fact, so much evidence against him that I was inclined to believe that he had not done it.”

 

Coming from a convalescent influenza patient, I hailed the remark as showing a beneficial optimism. I myself had been the first sufferer from the disease. Poirot in his turn had gone down. He was now sitting up in bed, propped up with pillows.

 

“Well, I’d got my eye on Havering to begin with.... Oh, yes,”—noting my exclamation of astonishment,—“Havering has one or two shady incidents in his past. When he was a boy at Oxford, there was some funny business about the signature on one of his father’s checks. All hushed up, of course. Then he’s pretty heavily in debt now, and they’re the kind of debts he wouldn’t like to go to his uncle about; whereas you may be sure the uncle’s will would be in his favor. Yes, I’d got my eye on him, and that’s why I wanted to speak to him before he saw his wife; but their statements dovetail all right, and I’ve been to the station, and there’s no doubt whatever that he left by the six-fifteen. That gets up to London about ten-thirty. He went straight to his club, he says, and if that’s confirmed all right—why, he couldn’t have been shooting his uncle here at nine o’clock in a black beard!”

 

She handed me the bit of pasteboard. “‘Hon. Roger Havering,’” I read.

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Havering. Now, what time was it that this man arrived?”

 

“There’s a gentleman downstairs. Says he must see M. Poirot or you, Captain. Seeing as he was in a great to-do,—and with all that quite the gentleman,—I brought up ’is card.”

 

“Cinderella warned him, I’m sure! You see, she couldn’t promise to turn into a princess. She was only a little scullion after all—”

 

“I have nothing against Mademoiselle Daubreuil in any way. But I should prefer you to marry an Englishwoman, or if a Frenchwoman not one who has a mother of doubtful antecedents!”

 

“They declared, after examination of the body, that death had taken place between ten and seven hours previously. Mon ami, for some reason, it was imperative that the crime should seem to have taken place later than it actually did. You have read of a smashed watch or clock recording the exact hour of a crime? So that the time should not rest on Mrs. Renauld’s testimony alone, some one moved on the hands of that wrist watch to two o’clock, and then dashed it violently to the ground. But, as is often the case, they defeated their own object. The glass was smashed, but the mechanism of the watch was uninjured. It was a most disastrous manoeuvre on their part, for it at once drew my attention to two points—first, that Madame Renauld was lying: secondly, that there must be some vital reason for the postponement of the time.”

 

Poirot waved his egg-spoon in vigorous refutation of my remark.

 

“Your penetration is amazing, Hastings! Now, if you please, we will go up to the Villa Geneviève.”

 

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