Another classic detective story!
Frank davenport was murdered in his own family home a few months ago. When Richard Davenport asks Poirot for his help, he immediately sets out to Kingfisher estate with his trusted fellow, Edward Catchpool, Inspector of the Scotland Yard ( I dislike him very much).
However, mystery and misery surround them even before they reach their destination. A young woman claims that if she sat on a certain seat on the coach, she would be killed. Another young woman who sits beside Poirot just confesses to the murder of her loved one. Both our heroes are shrouded with mysterious dilemmas but things worsen when they reach the crime scene.
The woman on the coach turns out to be Frank’s sister but the case seems closed because Frank’s fiancé had already confessed to killing him.
When things seem to be clearing up, another dead body shows up the estate. Utterly confused by these happening, Catchpool accompanies Poirot as he deals with these killings at the Kingfisher Hill using his little grey cells.
I’ve read Sophie Hannah before and I actually like Hannah’s books but this one was missing something. I do not know what but the ending seemed to be devoid of the usual satisfactory sentiment often associated with these detective stories.
So, this book is one of my lesser favorite Poirot books, though I am planning to read Halloween Party by Agatha Christie before A Haunting in Venice comes out this month.
Also, as I have mentioned before and as I will mention again, I do not like Inspector Catchpool. In fact, I simply do not like Poirot accompanied by anyone else than Hastings. God! I missed Capt. Hastings bit too much in this one.
Having Catchpool with Poirot is like having Lestrade with Holmes. And God forbid if Holmes ( or any of his readers) would ever allow anyone else to be his Boswell except his dear Watson. It almost makes me feel good that ACD killed Mary Morstan early. Although I remember I felt awful when I first read about it.
I mean he was a soldier and then he gets shot and then he gets this eccentric best friend who just dies and then comes back from the dead one day and then the only joy in his life, his wife also dies. Traumatic. But also, good because there’s no Holmes without Watson. Apparently, that rule doesn’t apply to Poirot.
Poirot doesn’t need a constant companion. As he has proved on so many occasions. He, alone, is enough. And I must say, as much as I would like Poirot to have a perfect sidekick (cough….cough….Hastings), his stories are alluring even when he’s alone.
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