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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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“Well, I can make a guess at it, Captain Hastings. A pair of revolvers of my husband’s were mounted upon the wall. One of them is missing. I pointed this out to the police, and they took the other one away with them. When they have extracted the bullet, I suppose they will know for certain.”

 

“I think it grew pretty fast—grew in the five miles from Elmer’s Dale to Hunter’s Lodge. Americans that I’ve met are mostly clean shaven. I questioned the housekeeper first, and then her mistress, and their stories agree all right; but I’m sorry Mrs. Havering didn’t get a look at the fellow. She’s a smart woman, and she might have noticed something that would set us on the track.”

 

“I’m afraid not. I didn’t see him. Mrs. Middleton showed him straight into the gun-room and then came to tell my uncle.”

 

“He’s the goods, M. Poirot! If he says so, there’s something in it. And I hardly noticed the woman! I don’t know that I can go so far as arresting her, but I’ll have her watched. We’ll go up right away and take another look at her.”

 

“Good for you, Poirot. You are becoming quite a public character. And fortunately you haven’t missed anything of particular interest during this time.”

 

“‘A sensational discovery was made last night. A young naval officer returning to Plymouth found under the seat of his compartment, the body of a woman, stabbed through the heart. The officer at once pulled the communication-cord, and the train was brought to a standstill. The woman who was about thirty years of age, and richly dressed, has not yet been identified.’

 

Doors banged; a stentorian voice shouted: “Plymouth only. Change for Torquay. Plymouth next stop.” Then a whistle blew, and the train drew slowly out of the station.

 

I picked up the note he flicked across the table to me. It was brief and to the point.

 

“Anyway, he must be followed, arrested! But what could be his motive?”

 

“It was about the master’s build, sir—but I never thought of it being him. We so seldom saw him. I couldn’t say it wasn’t him!”

 

“I may be old-fashioned, but I certainly don’t believe in marrying out of one’s class. It never answers.”

 

The run took just over forty minutes. As we approached the doorway of the Villa Marguerite, Jack Renauld shot a questioning glance at Poirot.

 

“Dear me,” murmured the commissary, with a crestfallen air, “I really cannot imagine how I came to overlook this.”

 

“ ‘Yeas—yeas—butt for Gaud’s saike go nauw!’ ”

 

“Madame,” he said gently, “do you recognize this?”

 

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