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3.82 AVERAGE
3.82 AVERAGE
My rating is probably closer to a 3.5, classic Hercule Poirot mystery.
dark
mysterious
fast-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
dark
mysterious
sad
fast-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
Complicated
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Complicated
Agatha Christie was way ahead of her time in tackling women’s issues through crime fiction.
mysterious
reflective
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
N/A
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Complicated
The ending is so cute despite the sad revelations about the murder.
Whodunnit?
Peter and Christine. He killed a different girl before and Christine pretended to find the body. This time his wife, using self tanning lotion, pretended to be the body on the beach. Peter checked the body and said it was dead and sent the woman on the boat to go call the police. After that, his wife raced back to the hotel to wash off the tan and be seen again. Peter called Arlena (who was hiding inside the cave), strangled her and staged her as the first fake "dead body" was staged. He was the man that she was sending money to. Apparently men used her and she liked men enough to eagerly run after them when they paid her attention. Her husband liked to rescue strays and she was his second rescue, but unlike his first wife, he fell out of love with her quickly enough and afterwards stayed out of a sense of duty. In the end he ended up with Rosamund??(the dressmaker) and their final bit was super cute.
4.5/5 – An interesting murder, but what really made it was the Captain and Rosamund and their cute set up.
Whodunnit?
Peter and Christine. He killed a different girl before and Christine pretended to find the body. This time his wife, using self tanning lotion, pretended to be the body on the beach. Peter checked the body and said it was dead and sent the woman on the boat to go call the police. After that, his wife raced back to the hotel to wash off the tan and be seen again. Peter called Arlena (who was hiding inside the cave), strangled her and staged her as the first fake "dead body" was staged. He was the man that she was sending money to. Apparently men used her and she liked men enough to eagerly run after them when they paid her attention. Her husband liked to rescue strays and she was his second rescue, but unlike his first wife, he fell out of love with her quickly enough and afterwards stayed out of a sense of duty. In the end he ended up with Rosamund??(the dressmaker) and their final bit was super cute.
4.5/5 – An interesting murder, but what really made it was the Captain and Rosamund and their cute set up.
mysterious
reflective
fast-paced
mysterious
reflective
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Plot
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Content Warnings
Graphic: Suicide attempt, Murder
Moderate: Infidelity, Sexism, Violence
4,5*
TW: homicídio, suicídio
Palmas para a mestre do crime!
Este livro acabou de entrar para o meu top de Agatha Christie, que agora já é um top3: "O crime no expresso do oriente", "No início eram dez" e agora "Morte na praia". Já é bem sabido que a Agatha Christie é um pequeno génio do mal, e esta história segue o mesmo modus operandi de sempre: uma data de personagens, uma data de mistérios, uma data de pistas que isoladas não fazem sentido, e uma explicação genial por detrás dos acontecimentos. Gosto muito muito muito do Hercule Poirot e dos seus métodos, e estou altamente curiosa para os mistérios de Miss Marple.
Sinto que as histórias da Agatha Christie são tão boas por terem sido escritas na altura em que foram, em meados do séc. XX. Na altura, a investigação policial estava muito mais limitada, a nível forense e não só, e por isso o céu era o limite para qualquer tipo de crime. Provavelmente, se tivessem sido escritas hoje, alguns dos livros só teriam meia dúzia de páginas, porque facilmente se descobria o culpado. Mas ainda bem que não foram escritas hoje! Têm tanto mistério associado que se tornam perfeitas para ler em qualquer altura. Não há como falhar com Agatha Christie.
TW: homicídio, suicídio
Palmas para a mestre do crime!
Este livro acabou de entrar para o meu top de Agatha Christie, que agora já é um top3: "O crime no expresso do oriente", "No início eram dez" e agora "Morte na praia". Já é bem sabido que a Agatha Christie é um pequeno génio do mal, e esta história segue o mesmo modus operandi de sempre: uma data de personagens, uma data de mistérios, uma data de pistas que isoladas não fazem sentido, e uma explicação genial por detrás dos acontecimentos. Gosto muito muito muito do Hercule Poirot e dos seus métodos, e estou altamente curiosa para os mistérios de Miss Marple.
Sinto que as histórias da Agatha Christie são tão boas por terem sido escritas na altura em que foram, em meados do séc. XX. Na altura, a investigação policial estava muito mais limitada, a nível forense e não só, e por isso o céu era o limite para qualquer tipo de crime. Provavelmente, se tivessem sido escritas hoje, alguns dos livros só teriam meia dúzia de páginas, porque facilmente se descobria o culpado. Mas ainda bem que não foram escritas hoje! Têm tanto mistério associado que se tornam perfeitas para ler em qualquer altura. Não há como falhar com Agatha Christie.
Very exciting to read as usual. The mystery was well structured but as an Agatha Christie fan, the solution was one of my two guesses. Still very enjoyable to read because you keep wondering how Poirot is going to prove it.
Oh c'mon, Agatha.
How about you just skip this one and read the fanfic epilogue I just wrote to make myself feel better about this whole mess?
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
3 years later
Poirot does not know what makes him pay attention. It is definitely not the hair. The dead woman had hair made of fire, whilst the one in front of him has dark mahogany hair – sleek bobbed and healthy looking. Maybe it is the way she holds herself, the curve of her mouth or how the air seems to shimmer around her. But he’s almost sure. No, he is sure that it cannot be anybody but her.
‘Madame Marshall?’
Arlena Marshall turns unhurriedly towards the small man and regards him coolly. She doesn’t seem surprised, but merely expectant, as if she had been waiting for this moment for decades and he just happens to be late.
‘Hello, M. Poirot. Wasn’t the first half just marvellous? The lead actors are veterans, but I believe the young girl is the one to keep an eye on.’
‘But Madame, please, how is this possible? I have touched your cold skin, I studied and learnt about you like a much loved book, I solved your murder!’
The woman throws back her head and laughs deeply, a laugh that seems to come from the very core of her. She does not cover her mouth or hold her coat more securely around her shoulders. Poirot can perfectly see the long expanse of her throat, her strong chin and shiny teeth. ‘But for a dead woman’, Poirot thinks, ‘she still makes the loveliest corpse.’
‘You studied and learnt about me like a much loved book. How embarrassing. I must admit, M. Poirot, I expected more from you,’ the woman who was Arlena Marshall says.
He looks at her. At this Arlena Marshall who is so unlike Arlena Marshall in all the small ways that count and the same in all the big ones that do not. This undead woman looks at objects and people in a very direct manner. She looks as if she knows exactly the power of her rounded shoulders and her strong calves. This woman is unafraid of him, Hercule Poirot. And that, that is something he cannot stand.
Poirot draws himself up to his full 163cm and touches his perfect moustaches twice before launching into a speech worthy of his name.
‘But yes, Madame, you are an actress. One cannot forget. But can even someone of your obvious calibre maintain such an act? It must be so! But the clues, Madame, the clues. They did not lie! Your husband pitied you! And the women, poor little Linda, they all felt suffocated by your very presence. And of course, the criminals confessed! I, myself, extracted the admission of guilt from them. It all fitted together, like a beautiful puzzle, the black cat and the white tail!’
Two red ugly splotches have formed on the great detective’s cheeks. He does not think he has ever felt this way before. He does not think. He cannot.
Arlena-Not looks on at Poirot like he is a pupil and her a school mistress. She is not angry, just disappointed.
‘Words’, she says. ‘Everybody lies. Isn’t that something all you boy detectives say? Upstanding husbands lie, sensible women lie and even killers do so too.’
‘Money does not lie! You follow the course of the coin and you get the truth.’ With renewed energy, Poirot says. ‘So pray tell, Madame, what about your fortune, the most famous inheritance, robbed piece by piece by the greedy men who promised to love you?’
Again, she laughs, those teeth flashing at him like a dare. ‘There were never any men. Not real ones anyway. Of course, there was the occasional ‘Go get yourself something pretty’ pocket money, but a woman has to have hobbies. The money went away, piece by piece, in safe little pots, just waiting for me.’
‘And the leftover £1500?’ Poirot will find it, the gap in the logic and the world will go back to how it is supposed to be.
‘A token. A going away present if you will. Kenneth was always good to me, in his own way, to the best of his limited abilities. He saw what he wanted to see just like the rest of them.’ She does not seem saddened by this, merely resigned. ‘You think I was unaware, Monsieur? That I did not hear what people have been saying about me my whole life? What You have been saying about me? The actress; Scarlet woman; the Whore of Babylon; tall, beautiful and dumb; weakness for the flesh; savage, animalistic, creature; an empty vessel for everybody’s unwelcome desires. I am very much aware, Poirot. I knew at 12 when men my father’s age asked me if I had a boyfriend and I knew at 35 when I decided I had to die.’
The famous detective seems to shrink and flatten under her words; stringless. He finally looks like what he is: an old man, living on the past and struggling for relevance in the present.
‘But please, how did you do it? How did you fool me?’ Poirot says pitifully, his moustaches quivering. He needs to know. He needs this more than anything.
Arlena Stuart Marshall, deceased, looks at the little detective and feels nothing. She won long ago and this interaction, though much desired, was not needed.
‘Monsieur Poirot, you will never know. Enjoy the rest of the play.’
And with those words, the crowd swallows her up and she does not look back.
How about you just skip this one and read the fanfic epilogue I just wrote to make myself feel better about this whole mess?
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
3 years later
Poirot does not know what makes him pay attention. It is definitely not the hair. The dead woman had hair made of fire, whilst the one in front of him has dark mahogany hair – sleek bobbed and healthy looking. Maybe it is the way she holds herself, the curve of her mouth or how the air seems to shimmer around her. But he’s almost sure. No, he is sure that it cannot be anybody but her.
‘Madame Marshall?’
Arlena Marshall turns unhurriedly towards the small man and regards him coolly. She doesn’t seem surprised, but merely expectant, as if she had been waiting for this moment for decades and he just happens to be late.
‘Hello, M. Poirot. Wasn’t the first half just marvellous? The lead actors are veterans, but I believe the young girl is the one to keep an eye on.’
‘But Madame, please, how is this possible? I have touched your cold skin, I studied and learnt about you like a much loved book, I solved your murder!’
The woman throws back her head and laughs deeply, a laugh that seems to come from the very core of her. She does not cover her mouth or hold her coat more securely around her shoulders. Poirot can perfectly see the long expanse of her throat, her strong chin and shiny teeth. ‘But for a dead woman’, Poirot thinks, ‘she still makes the loveliest corpse.’
‘You studied and learnt about me like a much loved book. How embarrassing. I must admit, M. Poirot, I expected more from you,’ the woman who was Arlena Marshall says.
He looks at her. At this Arlena Marshall who is so unlike Arlena Marshall in all the small ways that count and the same in all the big ones that do not. This undead woman looks at objects and people in a very direct manner. She looks as if she knows exactly the power of her rounded shoulders and her strong calves. This woman is unafraid of him, Hercule Poirot. And that, that is something he cannot stand.
Poirot draws himself up to his full 163cm and touches his perfect moustaches twice before launching into a speech worthy of his name.
‘But yes, Madame, you are an actress. One cannot forget. But can even someone of your obvious calibre maintain such an act? It must be so! But the clues, Madame, the clues. They did not lie! Your husband pitied you! And the women, poor little Linda, they all felt suffocated by your very presence. And of course, the criminals confessed! I, myself, extracted the admission of guilt from them. It all fitted together, like a beautiful puzzle, the black cat and the white tail!’
Two red ugly splotches have formed on the great detective’s cheeks. He does not think he has ever felt this way before. He does not think. He cannot.
Arlena-Not looks on at Poirot like he is a pupil and her a school mistress. She is not angry, just disappointed.
‘Words’, she says. ‘Everybody lies. Isn’t that something all you boy detectives say? Upstanding husbands lie, sensible women lie and even killers do so too.’
‘Money does not lie! You follow the course of the coin and you get the truth.’ With renewed energy, Poirot says. ‘So pray tell, Madame, what about your fortune, the most famous inheritance, robbed piece by piece by the greedy men who promised to love you?’
Again, she laughs, those teeth flashing at him like a dare. ‘There were never any men. Not real ones anyway. Of course, there was the occasional ‘Go get yourself something pretty’ pocket money, but a woman has to have hobbies. The money went away, piece by piece, in safe little pots, just waiting for me.’
‘And the leftover £1500?’ Poirot will find it, the gap in the logic and the world will go back to how it is supposed to be.
‘A token. A going away present if you will. Kenneth was always good to me, in his own way, to the best of his limited abilities. He saw what he wanted to see just like the rest of them.’ She does not seem saddened by this, merely resigned. ‘You think I was unaware, Monsieur? That I did not hear what people have been saying about me my whole life? What You have been saying about me? The actress; Scarlet woman; the Whore of Babylon; tall, beautiful and dumb; weakness for the flesh; savage, animalistic, creature; an empty vessel for everybody’s unwelcome desires. I am very much aware, Poirot. I knew at 12 when men my father’s age asked me if I had a boyfriend and I knew at 35 when I decided I had to die.’
The famous detective seems to shrink and flatten under her words; stringless. He finally looks like what he is: an old man, living on the past and struggling for relevance in the present.
‘But please, how did you do it? How did you fool me?’ Poirot says pitifully, his moustaches quivering. He needs to know. He needs this more than anything.
Arlena Stuart Marshall, deceased, looks at the little detective and feels nothing. She won long ago and this interaction, though much desired, was not needed.
‘Monsieur Poirot, you will never know. Enjoy the rest of the play.’
And with those words, the crowd swallows her up and she does not look back.
mysterious