{also published as Blood Will Tell}
Agatha! Bravo! Bravo!
Some of my favorite parts were Ariadne Oliver's clear references to what it's like for you to be writing of Hercule Poirot:
Mrs. Oliver interrupted: "He's 60."
"Oh no!"
"He is."
"I don't see him like that. Thirty five - not a day older."
"But I've been writing books about him for thirty years and he was at least thirty five in the first one."
...
"How do I know?" said Mrs Oliver crossly. "How do I know why I ever thought of the revolting man? I must have been mad! Why a Finn when I know nothing about Finland? Why a vegetarian? Why all the idiotic mannerisms he's got? These things just happen. You try something - and people seem to like it - and then you go on - and before you know where you are, you've got someone like that maddening Sven Hjerson tied to you for life. And people even write and say how fond you must be of him. Fond of him? If I met that bony gangling vegetable eating Finn in real life, I'd do a better murder than any I'd ever invented."
...
And this, though not in reference to Poirot, but it made me giggle because I get it:
"I'm afraid you're tired," said Robin.
"Not really. The truth is I'm not very good with people."
"I adore people, don't you?" said Robin happily.
"No," said Mrs Oliver firmly... I think trees are much nicer than people, more restful."
...
This one, I just thought was right on:
"Madre," (Robin) said solemnly, "would have wished me to go on with my work."
Hercule Poirot had heard many people say much the same thing. It was one of the most convenient assumptions, this knowledge of what the dead would wish. The bereaved had never any doubt about their dear ones' wishes and those wishes usually squared with their own inclinations.
5 stars on this one, dear Agatha!
Always,
me
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