‘Tis the season for road trips and Agatha Christie audiobooks! My husband and I recently traveled to his mom’s for a pre-Thanksgiving visit and then on to a college football game. Accompanying us was Agatha Christie’s famed detective, Hercule Poirot. Hugh Fraser’s narration is a must for us, but the book he read, Appointment with Death, was not a hit. Poirot did not show up until the book was about 2/3’s of the way finished. He took the accounts of the characters and came to his conclusion, one that came out of left field for us. I think we would have enjoyed the book more if Poirot had been involved more.
It has been busy-busy at my house and finding time for exercise has been challenging. But with Hercule as a walking partner, I have a great excuse to get out and moving. Dumb Witness is Hercule at his finest. Colonel Hastings is also along for the ride and the story is told from his perspective. I love his little asides about Poirot’s idiosyncracies. The mystery kept me engaged and guessing and it was not far-fetched.
Do you listen to audiobooks while traveling, commuting or exercising?
What are your favorites?
Among the towering red cliffs of Petra, like some monstrous swollen Buddha, sits the corpse of Mrs.Boynton. A tiny puncture mark on her wrist is the only sign of the fatal injection that killed her.
With only 24 hours available to solve the mystery, Hercule Poirot recalled a chance remark he’d overheard back in Jerusalem: “You see, don’t you, that she’s got to be killed?” Mrs. Boynton was, indeed, the most detestable woman he’d ever met . . . .
Miss Emily was old, rich, and afraid – and now, she’s dead. Her terrified plea to Hercule Poirot came a little too late. All that’s left is a house full of greedy heirs, and a very strange letter that could solve the mystery – or add to it.
This title was previously published as Poirot Loses a Client.
Mr. Shaitana is famous as a flamboyant party host. Nevertheless, he is a man of whom everybody is a little afraid. So when he boasts to Hercule Poirot that he considers murder an art form, the detective has some reservations about accepting a party invitation to view Shaitana’s private collection. Indeed, what begins as an absorbing evening of bridge will turn into a more dangerous game altogether.
A perplexed girl thinks she might have killed someone . . . . Three single girls shared the same London flat. The first worked as a secretary; the second was an artist; the third who came to Poirot for help, disappeared convinced she was a murderer. Now there were rumours of revolvers, flick-knives and blood stains. But, without hard evidence, it would take all Poirot’s tenacity to establish whether the third girl was guilty innocent or insane . . . .
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