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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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17. How the number persisted. It was on the 17th I had sailed from Southampton. It was a 17—I stopped with a sudden gasp. Quickly I unlocked my suit-case, and took my precious paper from its place of concealment in some rolled stockings.

 

“I swear to you, Anne, that it was mainly on his account that I was so bitter against that woman. It had gone deeper with him than with me. I had been madly in love with her for the moment—I even think that I frightened her sometimes—but with him it was a quieter and deeper feeling. She had been the very centre of his universe—and her betrayal of him tore up the very roots of life. The blow stunned him and left him paralyzed.”

 

We were facing each other, glaring at each other with the ferocity of bitter enemies. For the first time, I took in the details of his appearance, the close-cropped dark head, the lean jaw, the scar on the brown cheek, the curious light grey eyes that looked into mine with a sort of reckless mockery hard to describe. There was something dangerous about him.

 

I slept heavily that night on my hard bunk, struggling with ill-defined, menacing dreams. I awoke with a headache and went out on the observation platform of the car. It was fresh and lovely, and everywhere, as far as one could see, were the undulating wooded hills. I loved it—loved it more than any place I had ever seen. I wished then that I could have a little hut somewhere in the heart of the scrub and live there always—always. . . .

 

The main facts were, of course, cabled to the South African papers, but I only read my own lengthy articles at a much later date! I received approval and full instructions by cable at Bulawayo. I was on the staff of the Daily Budget, and I had a private word of congratulation from Lord Nasby himself. I was definitely accredited to hunt down the murderer, and I, and only I, knew that the murderer was not Harry Rayburn! But let the world think that it was he—best so for the present.

 

“Good heavens!” cried the distracted nobleman. “I must see him, I suppose. No, not here, Mullings, in the library.”

 

“Her name is Stella,” I said stiffly, “but I don’t see——”

 

Like a flash the doctor ran to our tent. Poirot was lying as I left him.

 

“Balderdash, sir,” he exclaimed angrily. “Pure balderdash. The man’s an impostor. He doesn’t know the difference between the superstitions of the Middle Ages and the beliefs of Ancient Egypt. Never have I heard such a hotch-potch of ignorance and credulity.”

 

“Well, presumably to admit her confederate, the black-bearded man.”

 

“That, of course, I cannot say, but—shall I tell you my own private opinion, Hastings?”

 

“She meant,” replied Poirot promptly, “that she found it on top of a wardrobe.”

 

“My dear Evie, do be careful. Lawrence is of the opinion that my mother died from heart seizure.”

 

“What have you been doing, doctor?” cried Mrs. Cavendish.

 

It seemed to be the middle of the night when I was awakened by Lawrence Cavendish. He had a candle in his hand, and the agitation of his face told me at once that something was seriously wrong.

 

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