The novel, Peril At End House was published in early February, 1932. It followed previous Poirot mysteries, The Mystery of the Blue Train, published in 1928, and a play, Black Coffee in 1930. As Peril At End House begins, Poirot is holidaying with Captain Hastings in the Cornish Riviera. We are led to believe that Poirot’s sleuthing days are coming to an end.
‘I have retired – I am finished.’
‘You are not finished,’ I exclaimed warmly.
Poirot patted my knee.
‘There speaks the good friend – the faithful dog. And you have reason, too. The grey cells, they still function – the order, the method – it is still there. But when I have retired, my friend, I have retired! It is finished! I am not a stage favourite who gives the world a dozen farewells…’
The sun is shining and he and Hastings are enjoying a restful break at The Majestic Hotel in St Loo.
The gardens of the hotel lay below us freely interspersed with palm trees. The sea was of a deep and lovely blue, the sky clear and the sun shining with all the single-hearted fervour an August sun should (but in England so often does not) have. There was a vigorous humming of bees, a pleasant sound – and altogether nothing could have been more ideal.
it is to discover a murderer before the crime has been committed, but Poirot is determined to save Nick Buckley from a tragic death. Retired? How could you imagine such a thing! (Christie would go on the writer over 30 more stories featuring Poirot after Peril At End House).
One thing that I adore about reading an Agatha Christie novel, is that she leaves a trail of clues throughout. You may or may not pick them up as you go along. You may or may not guess who the villain is BUT you will marvel at her genius in creating a mystery time and time again. This novel has the feel of a holiday read but also the darkness of evil lingers throughout and the pure audacity and cold-heartedness of the murderer will give you chills on even the warmest of days.
‘I tell you, Hastings. This is all very black – very black.’
Oh, what a writer she was! One we will never see the likes of again but oh boy can we still enjoy the wonderful legacy she left behind.
‘You comprehend, Hastings? The murderer has been successful. Four times he has tried and failed. The fifth time he has succeeded.’
The novel, Peril At End House was published in early February, 1932. It followed previous Poirot mysteries, The Mystery of the Blue Train, published in 1928, and a play, Black Coffee in 1930. As Peril At End House begins, Poirot is holidaying with Captain Hastings in the Cornish Riviera. We are led to believe that Poirot’s sleuthing days are coming to an end.
‘I have retired – I am finished.’
‘You are not finished,’ I exclaimed warmly.
Poirot patted my knee.
‘There speaks the good friend – the faithful dog. And you have reason, too. The grey cells, they still function – the order, the method – it is still there. But when I have retired, my friend, I have retired! It is finished! I am not a stage favourite who gives the world a dozen farewells…’
The sun is shining and he and Hastings are enjoying a restful break at The Majestic Hotel in St Loo.
The gardens of the hotel lay below us freely interspersed with palm trees. The sea was of a deep and lovely blue, the sky clear and the sun shining with all the single-hearted fervour an August sun should (but in England so often does not) have. There was a vigorous humming of bees, a pleasant sound – and altogether nothing could have been more ideal.
If, like me, you are a lover of Cornwall (and Devon) then this novel will whisk you away there without even having to leave home. All is tranquil. All is calm. And then Poirot meets a charming young woman called Nick Buckley. She seems full of light and sparkle, not taking life in the least bit seriously – except for those three near death experiences she has recently had. Or ‘just accidents you know’. Poirot is immediately on high alert but Nick Buckley shrugs the instances aside with all the confidence of youth. There is absolutely no reason for anyone to want her dead. She is the owner of End House, a rather grand house that is going to ‘rack and ruin’ and mortgaged to the hilt. This is after all early 1930s Britain. The world has changed unrecognisably since the end of the First World War. Old families certainly do not mean plenty of money. And Nick is the last remaining Buckley. There is no obvious motive for anyone to want to kill her. After she leaves, Poirot picks up her forgotten hat and discovers what looks suspiciously like a bullet hole… and then he finds the actual bullet on the ground. It would seem that the would-be-assassin has made a fourth attempt! How much harder it is to discover a murderer before the crime has been committed, but Poirot is determined to save Nick Buckley from a tragic death. Retired? How could you imagine such a thing! (Christie would go on the writer over 30 more stories featuring Poirot after Peril At End House).
One thing that I adore about reading an Agatha Christie novel, is that she leaves a trail of clues throughout. You may or may not pick them up as you go along. You may or may not guess who the villain is BUT you will marvel at her genius in creating a mystery time and time again. This novel has the feel of a holiday read but also the darkness of evil lingers throughout and the pure audacity and cold-heartedness of the murderer will give you chills on even the warmest of days.
‘I tell you, Hastings. This is all very black – very black.’
Oh, what a writer she was! One we will never see the likes of again but oh boy can we still enjoy the wonderful legacy she left behind.
‘You comprehend, Hastings? The murderer has been successful. Four times he has tried and failed. The fifth time he has succeeded.’
To find out more about Peril At End House do visit the Agatha Christie website by clicking here.
After being first published back in 1932 this book is still very much in print. I read a 2001 edition from the Agatha Christie Signature Edition, published by HarperCollins.
Blurb on the back…
On holiday on the Cornish Riviera, Hercule Poirot is alarmed to hear pretty Nick Buckley describe her recent ‘accidental brushes with death’: First, on a treacherous Cornish hillside, the brakes on her car failed. Then, on a coastal path, a falling boulder missed her by inches. Later an oil painting fell and almost crushed her in bed.
So when Poirot finds a bullet hole in Nick’s sun hat, he decides that this girl needs his help. Can he find the would-be killer before he hits his target?
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