{also published as Hickory, Dickory, Dock}
Dear Agatha,
Hickory, dickory, dock, the mouse ran up the clock. The police said, "Boo," I wonder who, will eventually stand in the Dock?
Twisty, twisty, twisty. When you know it can't be X, because it's too obvious, so you suspect Y, Z, and A through E, and then we get right back to X again. Bad person, that X.
Glad I never resided at 26 Hickory Road. What an absolute mess.
Thanks for the fun,
b.
{also published as So Many Steps to Death}
Ah, Agatha ~
This book... hmmm...
I loved Hilary and her story, and the book was interesting enough for me to keep on because I wanted to see how that all would turn out, but... this one... this one I'm not sure stands the test of time. Or perhaps it does, but I am just not a fan of whatever genre this is. A mystery, yes - and even a murder thrown in at the end - but the politics / conspiracy / spy / take-over-the-world genre... not really my favorite.
But no worries... I have many more to go.
Respectfully,
b.
Dear Agatha,
It's been awhile. It's been awhile since I have read anything, but I have especially missed you. I've worked. We've moved. In fact, I'm not sure where my next Christie even is...
But this book was sure a wonderful one to return to. I loved how you used an innocent nursery rhyme as a blueprint for a murder mystery. I read someone used the term "rhyme crime" and you've certainly used that pattern before and again, but I love it and find it wonderful. The whole conflict between the innocence of childhood and the that wickedness of adults is such a perfect tension.
From Goodreads: Librarian's note: this is one of 13 books in the Miss Marple series, which includes twelve novels and one collection of short stories - "The Thirteen Problems." There are a total of 20 short stories about Miss M, seven of which can be found in other collections. Entries for each of the novels and short stories can be found on Goodreads.
Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye.
Four and twenty blackbirds,
Baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened
The birds began to sing;
Wasn't that a dainty dish,
To set before the king.
The king was in his counting house,
Counting out his money;
The queen was in the parlour,
Eating bread and honey.
The maid was in the garden,
Hanging out the clothes,
When down came a blackbird
And pecked off her nose.
Thanks again, Dame Agatha,
b.
