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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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“I began to reconstruct. The maid would provide herself with duplicate clothes. She and her accomplice chloroform and stab Mrs. Carrington between London and Bristol, probably taking advantage of a tunnel. Her body is rolled under the seat; the maid takes her place. At Weston she must make herself noticed. How? In all probability, a newspaper-boy will be selected. She will insure his remembering her by giving him a large tip. She also drew his attention to the color of her dress by a remark about one of the magazines. After leaving Weston, she throws the knife out of the window to mark the place where the crime presumably occurred, and changes her clothes, or buttons a long mackintosh over them. At Taunton she leaves the train and returns to Bristol as soon as possible, where her accomplice has duly left the luggage in the cloak-room. He hands over the ticket and himself returns to London. She waits on the platform, carrying out her rôle, goes to a hotel for the night and returns to town in the morning exactly as she said.

 

When we drew up before Halliday’s house, he skipped out nimbly, paid the driver and rang the bell. To the footman who opened the door he made a request in a low voice, and we were immediately taken upstairs. We went up to the top of the house, and were shown into a small neat bedroom.

 

“But I found another bit of news when I got back. They’re passing the jewels, all right! That large emerald was pawned last night—by one of the regular lot. Who do you think it was?”

 

Japp was an old friend of ours, and greeted Poirot with a sort of affectionate contempt.

 

The millionaire hesitated for a moment, and then replied.

 

“Georges Conneau disappeared twenty years ago, but we have no reason to believe that he is dead.”

 

I endeavoured conscientiously to do as he had said. After a moment or two, I said rather doubtfully:

 

“Là, là, you do not believe all that rigmarole, do you? The masked men and all the rest of cette histoire-là!”

 

“Of course! I am an idiot. If the tramp was Georges Conneau, it was after the stormy interview with him that Mr. Renauld apprehended danger. He sent away the chauffeur, Masters, whom he suspected of being in the other’s pay, he wired to his son, and sent for you.”

 

Before I could move a hand to stop her, she appeared to leap upward into space. I rushed and looked out. To my horror, I saw her hanging by her hands from the roof, propelling herself along by jerks in the direction of the lighted window.

 

“For my son. When the news of my husband’s death came I was ill. My son, who has just come down from Oxford, went out there. He brought the—the body home, but now he has gone out again, in spite of my prayers and entreaties. He is so fascinated by the work that he intends to take his father’s place and carry on the system of excavations. You may think me a foolish, credulous woman, but, Monsieur Poirot, I am afraid. Supposing that the spirit of the dead King is not yet appeased? Perhaps to you I seem to be talking nonsense——”

 

“I should rather like to see the room next door.”

 

“You’re talking through your hat, Monsieur Poirot. Surely you’ve not been guyed into believing all that fool talk?”

 

“There must be something wrong with it. Perhaps it is haunted, as Mrs. Robinson suggested.”

 

He suited the action to the word, demanded and was accorded a private room. We three followed him, puzzled and uncomprehending.

 

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