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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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Mrs. Havering did not keep me waiting long. In a few minutes I heard a light step descending the stairs, and looked up to see a very handsome young woman coming toward me. She wore a flame-colored jumper, that set off the slender boyishness of her figure. On her dark head was a little hat of flame-colored leather. Even the present tragedy could not dim the vitality of her personality.

 

“I engaged her about three weeks ago, when Mrs. Emery, our former housekeeper, left. She came to me from Mrs. Selboume’s Agency in Mount St.—a very well-known place. I get all my servants from there. They sent several women to see me, but this Mrs. Middleton seemed much the nicest, and had splendid references. I engaged her on the spot, and notified the Agency of the fact. I can’t believe that there was anything wrong with her. She was such a nice, quiet woman.”

 

From Mrs. Havering we elicited all the facts we could.

 

“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.”

 

“I shall try and get rid of it. I could never live here again.”

 

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

 

Poirot smiled up at the big actor. They made a ridiculous contrast.

 

“You could find out?” asked Poirot with curious persistence.

 

He moved a little aside as he spoke, and a figure came forward out of the darkness. It was the second male prisoner who had gone in the other car, and as the light fell on his face, I gave a gasp of surprise.

 

The Daily Newsmonger enabled us to become conversant with succeeding events.

 

“Voilà,” grumbled Françoise. “That is all you get for telling the truth.”

 

He dismissed Denise and, after a moment or two for consideration, recalled Françoise. To her he propounded the question as to whether she had not made a mistake in fixing the night of Madame Daubreuil’s visit. Françoise, however, proved unexpectedly obstinate. It was last night that Madame Daubreuil had come. Without a doubt it was she. Denise wished to make herself interesting, voilà tout! So she had cooked up this fine tale about a strange lady. Airing her knowledge of English too! Probably Monsieur had never spoken that sentence in English at all, and even if he had, it proved nothing, for Madame Daubreuil spoke English perfectly, and generally used that language when talking to M. and Madame Renauld. “You see, M. Jack, the son of Monsieur, was usually here, and he spoke the French very badly.”

 

“Here I am, M. le juge, at your service. Accept my excuses for not presenting myself sooner.”

 

“There is no such lady as you describe staying here.”

 

He broke off, and, darting across the room to where the girl was bending over ministering to Mrs. Renauld, he embraced her with Gallic fervour—slightly to my annoyance.

 

 

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