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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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The bullet had been extracted and was proved to have been fired from a revolver identical in size to the one held by the police. Furthermore, Mr. Havering’s movements on the night in question had been checked and verified, and it was proved beyond doubt that he had actually arrived in London by the train in question. And thirdly, a sensational development had occurred. A city gentleman, living at Ealing, on crossing Haven Green to get to the District Railway station that morning, had observed a brown paper parcel stuck between the railings. Opening it, he found that it contained a revolver. He handed the parcel over to the local police station, and before night it was proved to be the one we were in search of, the fellow to that given us by Mrs. Havering. One bullet had been fired from it.

 

“He seemed rather annoyed, but went off at once. It was about five minutes later that I heard the sound of raised voices. I ran out into the hall, and almost collided with Mrs. Middleton. Then we heard the shot. The gun-room door was locked on the inside, and we had to go round the house to the window. Of course that took some time, and the murderer had been able to get well away. My poor uncle”—her voice faltered—“had been shot through the head. I saw at once that he was dead, and I sent Mrs. Middleton for the police straight away. I was careful to touch nothing in the room but to leave it exactly as I found it.”

 

“I’m afraid not. I didn’t see him. Mrs. Middleton showed him straight into the gun-room and then came to tell my uncle.”

 

“Would it interest you, Hastings, to go down and hear what our visitor’s particular trouble is? Make him all my excuses.”

 

“H’m,” I said. “I rather fancy that’s the girl who used to act at the Frivolity—only she called herself Zoe Carrisbrook. I remember she married some young man about town just before the war.”

 

“Some one is hoaxing us,” cried Dr. Tosswill, rising indignantly to his feet.

 

“You tell me Madame Davenheim is not a very intelligent woman. Nevertheless I think that if you took her to Bow Street and confronted her with the man Billy Kellett, she would recognize him! In spite of the fact that he has shaved his beard and moustache and those bushy eyebrows, and has cropped his hair close. A woman nearly always knows her husband, though the rest of the world may be deceived!”

 

“No; they were left by hand—by a Chinaman. That is what frightens me.”

 

“And how do you account for the events of the evening, then?”

 

“I should say his domestic life was quite peaceful and uneventful. Mrs. Davenheim is a pleasant, rather unintelligent woman. Quite a nonentity, I think.”

 

“Perhaps you are right, my friend. Ah, here is Japp! I recognize his knock.”

 

“You will come round and see me this evening, and tell me the result?”

 

“No sir; he stood with his back to me all the time.”

 

“I was looking, monsieur, for this.” Poirot withdrew from the trunk a coat and skirt of bright blue frieze, and a small toque of white fox fur.

 

Poirot considered a little while. Then he said: “I think that is all, monsieur.”

 

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