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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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All this I added to my report. A wire from Poirot arrived while I was at breakfast the following morning:

 

“Poirot,” I cried, “the thing’s a dark mystery! It will never be solved.”

 

“Two days ago my uncle, rather wearied with some recent gayeties of ours in town, suggested that we should run down to Derbyshire for a day or two. My wife telegraphed to Mrs. Middleton, the housekeeper, and we went down that same afternoon. Yesterday evening I was forced to return to town, but my wife and my uncle remained on. This morning I received this telegram.”

 

“Oh, as far as that goes, me, I am very good at cracking the nuts! A veritable squirrel! It is not that which embarrasses me. I know well enough who killed Mr. Harrington Pace.”

 

To this I willingly agreed, and an hour later I was sitting opposite Mr. Havering in a first-class carriage on the Midland Railway, speeding rapidly away from London.

 

He introduced his two companions, Dr. Ames, a capable looking man of thirty odd, with a touch of greying hair at the temples, and Mr. Harper, the secretary, a pleasant lean young man wearing the national insignia of horn-rimmed spectacles.

 

“An alien note,” said Poirot, frowning. “I could swear that here we have no longer the personality of Mr. Marsh. But who else has been in the house? Only Miss Marsh, and she, if I mistake not, is also a young lady of method and order.”

 

“Mon ami,” he replied, “you miss the point. I am looking for something that I do not see.”

 

“It couldn’t have been a case of strychnine poisoning, for instance?”

 

Poirot smiled faintly, and turned to me. “Hastings, I pray you, hand me that copy of the Daily Megaphone. If I remember rightly, there is an unusually clear photograph there of the missing man.”

 

“Well, there is this: According to Jane Mason, at Bristol, Flossie was no longer alone in her carriage. There was a man in it who stood looking out of the farther window so that she could not see his face.”

 

“Old man Halliday is no fool. He would tie up her money pretty tight.”

 

“That good Inspector believes in matter in motion,” murmured Poirot as our friend departed. “He travels; he measures footprints; he collects mud and cigarette-ash! He is extremely busy! He is zealous beyond words! And if I mentioned psychology to him, do you know what he would do, my friend? He would smile! He would say to himself: ‘Poor old Poirot! He ages! He grows senile!’ Japp is the ‘younger generation knocking on the door.’ And ma foi! They are so busy knocking that they do not notice that the door is open!”

 

“And in consequence the boy did not forget her?”

 

“In town. I believe he was away in the country yesterday, but he returned last night.”

 

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