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Peril at End House: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
Peril at End House: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
Peril at End House: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
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Peril at End House: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

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In the Agatha Christie classic Peril at End House, a young woman who has recently survived a series of very close calls appears to be the target of a dedicated killer—and it’s up to Hercule Poirot to save her life.

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?

LanguageEnglish
PublisherHarperCollins
Release dateMar 17, 2009
ISBN9780061749278
Author

Agatha Christie

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She died in 1976, after a prolific career spanning six decades.

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Rating: 3.736702179787234 out of 5 stars
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  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    If there’s a strong novel for a Poirot newbie, "Peril at End House" may be it. It’s not Christie’s best, or Poirot’s – indeed, my own rankings would seem to indicate it’s at about the midpoint for both of them – but this book features Poirot as both a cunning investigator and a human, featuring a rare case in which he becomes heavily invested. Along with Hastings, Japp, and some well-drawn secondary characters, "Peril" is a great novel to recommend to someone intrigued by Christie: all of her best elements, yet there are so many even better things to come.

    Although the suspects are deftly drawn, Christie gives over so much time to their interactions (necessary, I think, for the denouement) that it occasionally feels like a drama novel, not a mystery. (Although the same could be said of the splendid "The Hollow".) This is one of Christie’s best misdirections, with even Poirot fooled. If you figure this one out, you’re a genius.

    Three-and-a-half stars.

    Poirot ranking: 17th out of 38
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A blithe and snappy Christie in a classic configuration: Poirot and Hastings take a holiday on the Cornish coast and become involved with a young socialite, Mademoiselle "Nick," who has survived multiple murder attempts. Poirot takes it upon himself to protect her from further misfortune but (somewhat uncharacteristically) fails to be vigilant during a loud fireworks display, allowing someone else to be shot in the young woman's place. With the killer still at large and frustrated by his mistake, Poirot focuses his efforts to keep Nick from an untimely end that could come from any corner.This is Christie by the numbers, at a point in her career (1932) when she could really first be said to have patterns and tropes emerging in her work. It's probably around this point that Christie starts considering phasing Captain Hastings out - he'll be gone from the novels in another five years - and Japp is already relegated to little more than an extended cameo. Still, this is very much the Poirot of the popular perception, fussy and a bit exaggerated, without the "Papa Poirot" speeches or tangents into Catholicism that occasionally show up in the earlier books. As such, Peril at End House is probably a strong candidate for the first "regular" Poirot novel - even coming, as it does, seventh in the series, and well after the runaway success of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. It's a strong formula, and if it seems a little familiar in retrospect, that doesn't stop it being entertaining. The book practically glides along: it's incredibly "readable." Christie will stick to the same basic framework and tone for the Poirot mysteries for almost another decade, an unusually prolific period in her career; there are no less than fourteen Poirot novels between this one and Five Little Pigs in 1942, with several of them regarded as classics. It's only after the war - and Christie's own fears of being killed in the Blitz, which led to the writing and ferreting away of Curtain - that the stories start to take a far darker turn. This is, effectively, the Poirot everyone remembers, and the Poirot everyone wants to revisit. It's like your favorite childhood candy: nothing terribly substantial but full of nostalgia and pleasant memories. There are far worse ways to spend a couple of afternoons poolside than with Hercule Poirot, his friend Hastings, and the mysterious goings-on at End House.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This was another Poirot book that I don't recall having read before. (I've read some of Christie's titles many times, while others are a first as I make my way through her entire list from start to finish.) In this one, Poirot and Hastings befriend a woman who has had several attempts made on her life in recent days, and yet another attempt is made in the presence of our two pals, who are vacationing along the English Channel coast. It didn't take me long to figure out what was going on, and when the key action sequence transpired, it was very obvious to me what was taking place. I did miss out on a few minor things involving a couple of B-plots, but, as is often the case, it was because Christie didn't offer up the needed information until she did so in retrospect. Still, it was a fun read in the typical Christie fashion, and a solid outing for Hercule and his little grey cells.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    3.5/5 stars

    While on holiday famous detective, Hercule Poirot, meets a young woman whose life has been in danger and has escaped death on several different occasions, including directly in front of Poirot. Wanting to protect this girl from a fatal event, Poirot examines the evidence and psychology in order to solve the case.

    Mystery novels are not my go-to for reading. However, Agatha Christie's writing is interesting and keeps the reader's attention. I definitely did not expect that ending, which to me is the sign of a great mystery. I liked this novel a bit less because it was slower in the beginning and didn't grab me as fast as other Christie novels.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Nice, relatively early Poirot. Hastings, back from the Argentine, and Poirot are on holidays in the south of England and celebrating Poirot's retirement. After turning down an urgent plea for assistance from the Home Secretary Poirot is drawn into the mystery of the attempts on the life of a reckless, poor, upper class young woman. This is more the Jeeves-ish end of the Christie oeuvre, with rather stereotyped characterisation but it's an enjoyable quick read. (I picked this up after a picture fell from the wall onto a family member's bed and my sister said "that's what happened in Peril at End House! - life imitated art!).
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Peril at End House was a great mystery to follow. It did not pretended to be anything than a straight forward murder mystery. There was hardly any social commentary - and none of which I remember to be dubious (well, not as dubious as some of Dame Agatha's other ones), and I did not guess the murderer until the very end. It also had some of the delightful conversations where Poirot pokes fun at Hastings - either about his understanding of women or his admiration for the capabilities of English sportsmen:

    "Still no news of that flying fellow, Seton, in his round-the-world flight. Pretty plucky, these fellows. That amphibian machine of his, the Albatross, must be a great invention. Too bad if he's gone west. Not that they've given up hope yet. He may have made one of the Pacific Islands."
    "The Solomon islanders are still cannibals, are they not?" inquired Poirot pleasantly.
    "Must be a fine fellow. That sort of thing makes one feel it's a good thing to be an Englishman after all."
    "It consoles for the defeats at Wimbledon," said Poirot.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The trouble with re-reading these after a period of decades is that I am never sure if I am cleverly working out bits of the solution or just remembering them.This was ingenious, and I enjoyed the Poirot/Hastings dynamic, but none of the other characters really appealed.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The seventh novel-length adventure of Hercule Poirot finds him and Hastings in Cornwall, in the unusual position of trying to prevent a murder rather than solve one that's already been committed. This one features loads of suspects and Poirot is forced to eat an unusual amount of humble pie, though of course he spits it all back up in the end like the sleek, self-satisfied cat he really is. As usual with Dame Christie, I gleaned bits and pieces of the eventual dénouement as the story progressed but there enough surprises left in the end to make it enjoyable.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I thoroughly enjoyed Peril At End House by Agatha Christie. This story features Hercule Poirot and his long suffering friend, Hastings, as they get involved with a young woman whose life has been threatened on numerous occasions. Things take a serious turn when, in a case of mistaken identity, the young lady’s cousin is shot dead. Poirot in his egotistic, bombastic manner puts all the pieces together and solves the mystery.What struck me as most interesting is the reference Hastings makes to a failed case of Poirot’s. A case involving a box of chocolates. In fact, whenever Hastings wants to warn Poirot that he is getting too high-handed, he just has to say the words “Chocolate Box” to draw him in. I wonder if this is Christie’s tongue-in-cheek reference to Anthony Berkeley’s book, The Case of the Poisoned Chocolates, which was published just two years before Peril at End House. While Peril At End House isn’t the finest of Christie’s mysteries, it was an entertaining read. Technically this was a re-read as I had originally enjoyed the book in the 1970’s but I literally had no memory of the story. I enjoyed revisiting her fussy, little detective and the rest of the inventive characters she has peopled this book with and I freely admit that she totally baffled me again.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    Poirot is on holiday in Cornwall, he is talking to Captain Hastings and then he meets Nick Buckley who tells of her close situations with death, and Poirot thinks someone is trying to kill her. Nick treats it all as a joke but Poirot is convinced that she is in danger,so he founds that it is true, when Nick lends her shawl to her cousin Maggie. She is shot when she is wearing Nick´s shawl.He then starts to find clues, to investigate people, just for helping Nick.Unknown words:Shawl: a piece of wool or other material worn, especially by women, about the shoulders, or the head and shoulders, in place of a coat or hat outdoorsHilt:the handle of a sword or dagger.Baffle:to frustrate or confoundDictum:an authoritative pronouncement; judicial assertion.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Twice I thought I had this one solved, but I was wrong on both accounts and by a wide margin. The characters in this mystery are lively and made for an unusual tale. It is my favorite Poirot to date.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The last audiobook from our travels earlier in the month. We ended up finishing this one over dinner in the living room since we were enjoying it so much and didn't quite get to the end in the car. As always, Fraser is an absolute delight. This is one of my favorite Poirots that I've read/listened to (as opposed to the ones I've only watched the TV adaptations). The characters are all really interesting, and there's so much more going on than you think. Excellently done.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Trust Hercule Poirot to see that if someone lies some of the time, they're probably lying all the time. Poirot's holiday gets interesting when murder presents itself. And of course he's never really on holiday so don't mess with him.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Peril at End House shows a naïve Hercule Poirot that falls under the spells of Magdala “Nick” Buckley. Each chapter displays a foolish man that believes everything a young, beautiful woman tells him. Poirot does not allow the little gray cells to invade this case until the final chapters. Nick enlists Poirot to guard against multiple plots of killing her. But why would anyone want to kill Nick, she has no money? Then a glimmer appears when Nick tells of her engagement to Michael Seton, a world class flyer. Michael is lost in his attempted flight, and many think Nick will inherit his estate. The plots of murder continue, but instead of killing Nick, her cousin Maggie is killed. Why? What is Poirot doing to protect Nick and solve this mystery? I would love to talk with Agatha Christie and ask her many questions: where does she find all these strange names for her characters and how does she establish the steps of the killer? This story presents an interesting tale but shows the weakness of Poirot.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A fine Hercule Poirot novel, with the story being narrated by Hastings. Even though this is the 8th novel (with many more to come), the career of Poirot is portrayed to be at the twilight, which I thought was interesting.

    I found the story to be engaging, but most of the characters were not fully developed in my opinion. I didn't have much empathy for the cast, except for Poirot and Hastings, but they are developed in all the books.

    Nevertheless, the mystery is satisfying to follow and sleuth out.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    The twists in this books were so clever. it is a must read
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    This is not the very best Poirot novel there is, but definitely one I enjoyed more than some others. I liked the setting very much - a hotel and an old country house in Cornwall - on the one hand because it's such a classic setting, and on the other hand because right now, what could be better than a seaside holiday in a place as beautiful as Cornwall.The story intrigued me from the beginning and although I guessed a few parts of the solution, I did not guess the culprit. I feel like the characters are a little flat in this one, and Poirot was boasting about himself a little too much, but the story and the case captivated me and it was just the kind of comfort read I was looking for.
  • Rating: 1 out of 5 stars
    1/5


    What a way to begin the year.... with a loser!

    M. Poirot & Hastings are on holiday, staying at a beach side hotel..... Enter a young woman, Nick, who has been shot at and has had a few other near attempts on her life in the past 3 days....

    M. Poirot takes these attempts very seriously, but Nick merely laughs them off. M. Poirot not one to allow murder to pass undetected assigns himself to Nick & her house party, so that he might protect her.

    During the fireworks, both Nick & her cousin go back in the house for their coats. The cousin is found shot to death wearing Nick's the shawl, proof that Nick is in danger.

    I didn't like this book, I didn't like the characters...... I also didn't like the constant barrage of forced dialog between Poirot & Hastings. Hastings was his usual inept self, and Poirot was all conjecture, exclamations, & prattle.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Hercule involves himself when a light-hearted young woman discounts the possibility that there have been a number of murder attempts on her.Typical Christie mystery set in a country house in Cornwall, and as usual Poirot collects together all the characters involved at a final meeting and dramatic reveal.4* because I couldn’t guess the ‘why done it’.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Another good entry in the Poirot series by la Christie. I found this a remarkable one, since for the first time I figured out who committed the murder before Poirot did himself (at least, in the story). :-)

    It strikes me however how very much her storylines rely on the particularities of society so typical to the era they are written in. The position of women, the reliability of promises, the pose one needs to hold in public, etc... To me, this adds an interesting layer into Christie's books as it kind of allows me to immerse myself into the world my grandparents grew up in.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The sparkle of Dame Agatha's writing and the verve of her plotting in her absolute peak years, the 1930s, is a sheer joy to read. Poirot and Hastings, on their way to Cornwall's fleshpots, meet Miss Nick Buckley. She is a lovely local landowner, a bit short of the ready (to borrow Sir Plum's locution for Bertie Wooster) but possessed of a glorious ramshackle seaside house. She inveigles Poirot and Hastings into her world to help her deal with mysterious attempts on her life. Since she has no money, no prospects of getting any, and a mortgaged house, who's trying to kill her and why?The plot hinges on a shared family name, a unique coincidence that could not be foreseen, and a cold and calculating soul looking out for Number One. Nothing is quite as simple as the surface suggests; the threads of the subplots do gum up the works a bit; but in the end, there is a happy resolution and ma'at is maintained. No one profits from their crimes. No one suffers injustice. There is a single example of the Old Boy's Network in action, and that wasn't quite so nice. But it's the chain of coincidence that bugs me the most. It's clearly intentional, and I suppose you could argue that the coincidences are seized upon by the ruthless killer as a further example of astute quick thinking in service of one's own survival. Maybe a bit like The Usual Suspects with Our Kind of People.Still. Not quite the top drawer, Dame Agatha.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Christie was feeling so comfortable with her detectives' fame that she indulged in quite a bit of quiet humour at their expense, as well as poking fun at mystery-stories in general.The other characters were "stock" although the references to the between-wars upper-class drug-culture lent some piquancy to the narrative (Sayers referenced the same milieu in one of her Wimsey novels).The clues were fairly laid, but ultimately too implausible for believability. Without revealing the perpetrator, I want to point out that,at the time, the psychology of a sociopath might not have been bandied about by the population as it is today, but the personality-character traits were plainly known to Christie (and others) .SPOILER FOLLOWS The idea that a 20-something young English gel could outsmart Poirot might have been fun for Christie to write, but it is rationally impossible for Nick to have carried out the complex scheme, and unlikely she would have even thought out how to do it. The name gimmick was good, although I actually twigged to that one almost as soon as Poirot did.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Hercule Poirot mystery # 8 has the “retired” detective on holiday with his friend Hastings at the Cornish seaside town of St. Loo. A mystery lands in their laps when a young heiress, the current owner of the once magnificent End House, admits that she’s had several near misses in the last few days. Nick Buckley can’t imagine why anyone would try to kill her, but Poirot insists she is in grave danger, and, indeed, there are several more attempts. Unfortunately her cousin is shot instead when she’s mistaken for Nick while wearing Nick’s Chinese shawl.

    This is a fine example of the kinds of puzzling cases Christie is so good at crafting. We have a large cast of interesting characters – a sullen housemaid, a sweet ingénue, a suspicious Australian couple, a best friend (who’s married to a drunk), an aviator who has gone missing during an around-the-world mission, an art dealer, and a penniless former Navy commander. There are considerable plot twists, and just when you are sure you have it figured out, Christie throws another curve at you.

    On the whole an entertaining summer read.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Really enjoyed that, the end is astonishing. One of the better Poirot novels, methinks. The plot is easy and yet the solution takes some guts.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Peril at End House is a worthy entry in Christie's Hercule Poirot portfolio. The story contains plenty of murder, intrigue and deception to satisfy any lover of mysteries.At the start Poirot is retired and intends to stay that way. His endearing conceit lets slip that England won't have their finest detective to help them solve crimes anymore, but it's time to move aside for a younger generation. Naturally, a murder eventually finds Poirot and his sense of duty pulls him back into the fold. No doubt his innate curiosity had something to do with it too.I appreciate the charm of Poirot being slightly off his game in this book as he is occasionally caught unaware by events. Seeing the famed detective flustered from time to time is a welcomed departure.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Hercule Poirot Stumbles Across a Difficult ChallengeThis book is exactly what you come to expect from an Agatha Christie mystery, but with a change in Hercule Poirot, the famous detective and star of this mystery series. He has just retired and is slowly settling into a quiet, calm life of leisure and is refusing to be called back into duty. His mind, he thinks, is made up. However, a new mystery finds him, small and subtle at first, then shows itself to have a sinister meaning. He can’t help but observe that which is right in front of him, and without meaning to, he is drawn into its web, and begins to apply his detective skills.The great Hercule Poirot, who is known far and wide for his unmatched detective skills, can’t resist asking one question, then another, then another. A perplexing and potentially deadly set of circumstances takes shape, and his concern for the wellbeing of a young woman he happens to meet, leads him to investigate. However, the motives and players behind this mystery prove themselves difficult for him to ascertain. Where he was always bursting with confidence and assuredness in his perceptions, skills, and outcomes, he is now struggling with something unfamiliar to him – a shaky self-confidence that worsens and lingering uncertainty. He finds himself bumbling about without meaning to. As events unfold, he feels powerless to stop them. His once sharp and nearly infallible intellect and investigative skills seem to be outmatched. His frustration grows and so do his mistakes, missteps, and incorrect assumptions.With its intriguing twists and turns, Peril at End House is a very engaging and rewarding mystery tale and will be sure to please die-hard Agatha Christie fans as well as those new to the stories.Rai Aren, co-author of Secret of the Sands

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  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    So, after 4 books which gleaned 5 stars, this dud arrives. This book doesn't really deserves 2 stars but I had to judge it as a re read. The solution would have been breathtaking. But I remember only too well the outcome. I only read it because I didn't remember the title of Peril at End House. The book does not hold well as it's not a cozy mystery. There's no coziness, no nastiness, no sadness, no doom, no (in my opinion) romance even. It's a big nothing.It's just one of those attempts of bending the rules of mystery writing. A coup that Agatha Christie pulls off but with little aplomb. The red herrings are too unlikely and ponderous. St Loo, the location, seems like a nest of crime. Too much not interesting stuff happens in too few days. I don't care for this book's characters, and therefore I don't care for the book itself. Poirot was very bland in it. He cannot be interesting by himself, however clever his deductions are. He's not even that eccentric. Hastings was a waste of space. I don't like that duo much. Poirot is a necessity for explaining, other than that he doesn't contribute a lot to the atmosphere. I will remind myself never to read this paltry offering again. I hope there's not too many Agatha Christie books like that.That should have been the end of my review, but for those who haven't read this book, I request you to at least read the first few pages and if you like the style and the setting, do go for it. You may extract from it more than I could. After all, this book might be even a darling of the critics, a classic that I'm dissing. A good review lets the reader be the judge. I rest my case.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Nick Buckley is a pretty young woman living in a ramshackle mansion on the English coast. She seems to be terribly accident prone, with the brakes failing on her car, a falling boulder barely missing her, and an oil painting almost crushing her in bed. Luckily (or is it?) for her, Hercule Poirot is taken in by this girl and her “accidents” when he discovers a bullet-hole in Nick's sun hat. Hercule comes out of retirement to protect the girl and unravel the mystery of a murder that hasn't yet been committed.When I checked this out from the library I hadn’t realized that I had recently watched the BBC Poirot solve this case. At first I was disappointed I already knew the end, but I found I listened to the story differently and was able to pick up on some subtle clues and foreshadowing. One thing that really struck me was how much of an ass Hastings was in this book. He has this superiority complex with nothing to be superior about. It seems his role in the book was to blurt out inane observations to have Poirot make sense of them and as a result to highlight how much smarter, and genteel, Poirot is. I thought this was a heavy handed tactic. And it was even more disappointing, especially since this audio book was read by Hugh Fraser, who plays a likeable (albeit still slightly bumbling) Hastings in the BBC series.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    All in all a rather unspectacular outing for Poirot and Hastings. Hastings seems to enjoy marriage mainly by not being on the same continent as his wife and he becomes, book by book, less an active part of the investigation. Poirot seems to be a caricature of himself and indeed only “solves” the case after all the facts are basically dropped in his lap and after he has clearly mis-solved it. Once again we see that there are at least two sets of laws in England; one for the rich/members of the gentry and the other for the poor. Japp appears on the scene for no reason and Poirot wanders around speaking in riddles for no purpose. Not one of Christie’s stronger efforts.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    abridged audiobook, read by Hugh Fraser, abridged by Kati Nicholl, 3 CD set, running time approx 3 hoursPoirot has retired, and is taking his leisure in a seaside town, determined not to take on any new cases. But when a pretty young woman by the nickname of Nick tells him about a series of near-fatal accidents that have befallen her, he cannot resist temptation. The accidents are clearly not accidents, and the young lady must be protected. He is determined to unmask the killer before one of the accidents proves fatal. Alas, the killer strikes again -- but strikes down Nick's cousin, who had the misfortune to be wearing Nick's distinctive wrap. Now Poirot'spersonal pride is at stake, and there is still Nick to protect...Red herrings and side plots abound, but Poirot gets there in the end. It's a beautifully constructed book, with the answer right in front of the reader from early in the book, concealed by some artful misdirection. The audiobook is read by Hugh Fraser. who plays Hastings in the tv series. Fraser is generally a good reader, but I found his portrayal of Poirot rather off-putting. He uses a very strong accent that in comparison with Suchet's performance sounds like an overplayed stereotype. Of course, part of the problem here is that Suchet *is* Poirot for me, and anything else would sound wrong -- and my subconscious attention is drawn to it because Hastings sounds right.In spite of which, I enjoyed this 3 CD set a lot. The story has been abridged well, and I enjoy listening to Hugh Fraser. I happened to pick this up in The Works for four pounds, and think that it was superb value for money at that price. List price is 13 pounds, although the online shops are listing it for less. I might think twice about paying full price for others in the series because of my issue with Fraser's portrayal of Poirot, but I wouldn't have considered it a waste of money. One minor point with the cheap version offered in The Works -- it's a very simple case with only one spindle for the 3 CDs, so you have to lift the first discs out to get at the later discs, with an additional risk of scratching one eventually. It's also available in download.

Book preview

Peril at End House - Agatha Christie

Peril at End House

A Hercule Poirot Mystery

Dedication

To Eden Philpotts

To whom I shall always be grateful

for his friendship and the encouragement

he gave me many years ago

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

  1  The Majestic Hotel

  2  End House

  3  Accidents?

  4  There Must Be Something!

  5  Mr. and Mrs. Croft

  6  A Call Upon Mr. Vyse

  7  Tragedy

  8  The Fatal Shawl

  9  A. to J.

10  Nick’s Secret

11  The Motive

12  Ellen

13  Letters

14  The Mystery of the Missing Will

15  Strange Behaviour of Frederica

16  Interview with Mr. Whitfield

17  A Box of Chocolates

18  The Face at the Window

19  Poirot Produces a Play

20  J.

21  The Person—K.

22  The End of the Story

About the Author

The Agatha Christie Collection

Related Products

Copyright

About the Publisher

One

THE MAJESTIC HOTEL

No seaside town in the south of England is, I think, as attractive as St. Loo. It is well-named the Queen of Watering Places and reminds one forcibly of the Riviera. The Cornish coast is to my mind every bit as fascinating as that of the south of France.

I remarked as much to my friend, Hercule Poirot. "So it said on our menu in the restaurant car yesterday, mon ami. Your remark is not original."

But don’t you agree?

He was smiling to himself and did not at once answer my question. I repeated it.

A thousand pardons, Hastings. My thoughts were wandering. Wandering indeed to that part of the world you mentioned just now.

The south of France?

Yes. I was thinking of that last winter that I spent there and of the events which occurred.

I remembered. A murder had been committed on the Blue Train, and the mystery—a complicated and baffling one—had been solved by Poirot with his usual unerring acumen.

How I wish I had been with you, I said with deep regret.

I too, said Poirot. Your experience would have been invaluable to me.

I looked at him sideways. As a result of long habit, I distrust his compliments, but he appeared perfectly serious. And after all, why not? I have a very long experience of the methods he employs.

What I particularly missed was your vivid imagination, Hastings, he went on dreamily. One needs a certain amount of light relief. My valet, Georges, an admirable man with whom I sometimes permitted myself to discuss a point, has no imagination whatever. This remark seemed to me quite irrelevant.

Tell me, Poirot, I said. Are you never tempted to renew your activities? This passive life—

"Suits me admirably, my friend. To sit in the sun—what could be more charming? To step from your pedestal at the zenith of your fame—what could be a grander gesture? They say of me: ‘That is Hercule Poirot!—The great—the unique!—There was never anyone like him, there never will be!’ Eh bien—I am satisfied. I ask no more. I am modest."

I should not myself have used the word modest. It seemed to me that my little friend’s egotism had certainly not declined with his years. He leaned back in his chair, caressing his moustache and almost purring with self-satisfaction.

We were sitting on one of the terraces of the Majestic Hotel. It is the biggest hotel in St. Loo and stands in its own grounds on a headland overlooking the sea. 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.

We had only arrived last night, and this was the first morning of what we proposed should be a week’s stay. If only these weather conditions continued, we should indeed have a perfect holiday.

I picked up the morning paper which had fallen from my hand and resumed my perusal of the morning’s news. The political situation seemed unsatisfactory, but uninteresting, there was trouble in China, there was a long account of a rumoured City swindle, but on the whole there was no news of a very thrilling order.

Curious thing this parrot disease, I remarked, as I turned the sheet.

Very curious.

Two more deaths at Leeds, I see.

Most regrettable.

I turned a page.

"Still no news of that flying fellow, Seton, in his round-the-world flight. Pretty plucky, these fellows. That amphibian machine of his, the Albatross, must be a great invention. Too bad if he’s gone west. Not that they’ve given up hope yet. He may have made one of the Pacific islands."

The Solomon islanders are still cannibals, are they not? inquired Poirot pleasantly.

Must be a fine fellow. That sort of thing makes one feel it’s a good thing to be an Englishman after all.

It consoles for the defeats at Wimbledon, said Poirot.

I—I didn’t mean, I began.

My friend waved my attempted apology aside gracefully.

Me, he announced. I am not amphibian, like the machine of the poor Captain Seton, but I am cosmopolitan. And for the English I have always had, as you know, a great admiration. The thorough way, for instance, in which they read the daily paper.

My attention had strayed to political news.

They seem to be giving the Home Secretary a pretty bad time of it, I remarked with a chuckle.

The poor man. He has his troubles, that one. Ah! yes. So much so that he seeks for help in the most improbable quarters.

I stared at him.

With a slight smile, Poirot drew from his pocket his morning’s correspondence, neatly secured by a rubber band. From this he selected one letter which he tossed across to me.

It must have missed us yesterday, he said.

I read the letter with a pleasurable feeling of excitement.

But, Poirot, I cried. This is most flattering!

You think so, my friend?

He speaks in the warmest terms of your ability.

He is right, said Poirot, modestly averting his eyes.

He begs you to investigate this matter for him—puts it as a personal favour.

Quite so. It is unneccessary to repeat all this to me. You understand, my dear Hastings. I have read the letter myself.

It is too bad, I cried. This will put an end to our holiday.

"No, no, calmez vous—there is no question of that."

But the Home Secretary says the matter is urgent.

He may be right—or again he may not. These politicians, they are easily excited. I have seen myself, in the Chambre des Députés in Paris—

Yes, yes, but Poirot, surely we ought to be making arrangements? The express to London has gone—it leaves at twelve o’clock. The next—

Calm yourself, Hastings, calm yourself, I pray of you! Always the excitement, the agitation. We are not going to London today—nor yet tomorrow.

But this summons—

Does not concern me. I do not belong to your police force, Hastings. I am asked to undertake a case as a private investigator. I refuse.

"You refuse?"

Certainly. I write with perfect politeness, tender my regrets, my apologies, explain that I am completely desolated—but what will you? 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. In all generosity I say: let the young men have a chance. They may possibly do something creditable. I doubt it, but they may. Anyway they will do well enough for this doubtless tiresome affair of the Home Secretary’s.

But, Poirot, the compliment!

Me, I am above compliments. The Home Secretary, being a man of sense, realizes that if he can only obtain my services all will be successful. What will you? He is unlucky. Hercule Poirot has solved his last case.

I looked at him. In my heart of hearts I deplored his obstinacy. The solving of such a case as was indicated might add still further lustre to his already worldwide reputation. Nevertheless I could not but admire his unyielding attitude.

Suddenly a thought struck me and I smiled.

I wonder, I said, that you are not afraid. Such an emphatic pronouncement will surely tempt the gods.

Impossible, he replied, that anyone should shake the decision of Hercule Poirot.

"Impossible, Poirot?"

"You are right, mon ami, one should not use such a word. Eh, ma foi, I do not say that if a bullet should strike the wall by my head, I would not investigate the matter! One is human after all!"

I smiled. A little pebble had just struck the terrace beside us, and Poirot’s fanciful analogy from it tickled my fancy. He stooped now and picked up the pebble as he went on.

Yes—one is human. One is the sleeping dog—well and good, but the sleeping dog can be roused. There is a proverb in your language that says so.

In fact, I said, if you find a dagger planted by your pillow tomorrow morning—let the criminal who put it there beware!

He nodded, but rather absently.

Suddenly, to my surprise, he rose and descended the couple of steps that led from the terrace to the garden. As he did so, a girl came into sight hurrying up towards us.

I had just registered the impression that she was a decidedly pretty girl when my attention was drawn to Poirot who, not looking where he was going, had stumbled over a root and fallen heavily. He was just abreast of the girl at the time and she and I between us helped him to his feet. My attention was naturally on my friend, but I was conscious of an impression of dark hair, an impish face and big dark-blue eyes.

A thousand pardons, stammered Poirot. Mademoiselle, you are most kind. I regret exceedingly—ouch!—my foot he pains me considerably. No, no, it is nothing really—the turned ankle, that is all. In a few minutes all will be well. But if you could help me, Hastings—you and Mademoiselle between you, if she will be so very kind. I am ashamed to ask it of her.

With me on the one side and the girl on the other we soon got Poirot onto a chair on the terrace. I then suggested fetching a doctor, but this my friend negatived sharply.

It is nothing, I tell you. The ankle turned, that is all. Painful for the moment, but soon over. He made a grimace. See, in a little minute I shall have forgotten. Mademoiselle, I thank you a thousand times. You were most kind. Sit down, I beg of you.

The girl took a chair.

It’s nothing, she said. But I wish you would let it be seen to.

"Mademoiselle, I assure you, it is a bagatelle! In the pleasure of your society the pain passes already."

The girl laughed.

That’s good.

What about a cocktail? I suggested. It’s just about the time.

Well— She hesitated. Thanks very much.

Martini?

Yes, please—dry Martini.

I went off. On my return, after having ordered the drinks, I found Poirot and the girl engaged in animated conversation.

Imagine, Hastings, he said, that house there—the one on the point—that we have admired so much, it belongs to Mademoiselle here.

Indeed? I said, though I was unable to recall having expressed any admiration. In fact I had hardly noticed the house. It looks rather eerie and imposing standing there by itself far from anything.

It’s called End House, said the girl. I love it—but it’s a tumbledown old place. Going to rack and ruin.

You are the last of an old family, Mademoiselle?

Oh! we’re nothing important. But there have been Buckleys here for two or three hundred years. My brother died three years ago, so I’m the last of the family.

That is sad. You live there alone, Mademoiselle?

Oh! I’m away a good deal and when I’m at home there’s usually a cheery crowd coming and going.

That is so modern. Me, I was picturing you in a dark mysterious mansion, haunted by a family curse.

How marvellous! What a picturesque imagination you must have. No, it’s not haunted. Or if so, the ghost is a beneficent one. I’ve had three escapes from sudden death in as many days, so I must bear a charmed life.

Poirot sat up alertly.

Escapes from death? That sounds interesting, Mademoiselle.

Oh! they weren’t very thrilling. Just accidents you know. She jerked her head sharply as a wasp flew past. Curse these wasps. There must be a nest of them round here.

The bees and the wasps—you do not like them, Mademoiselle? You have been stung—yes?

No—but I hate the way they come right past your face.

The bee in the bonnet, said Poirot. Your English phrase.

At that moment the cocktails arrived. We all held up our glasses and made the usual inane observations.

I’m due in the hotel for cocktails, really, said Miss Buckley. I expect they’re wondering what has become of me.

Poirot cleared his throat and set down his glass.

Ah! for a cup of good rich chocolate, he murmured. But in England they make it not. Still, in England you have some very pleasing customs. The young girls, their hats come on and off—so prettily—so easily—

The girl stared at him.

What do you mean? Why shouldn’t they?

"You ask that because you are young—so young, Mademoiselle. But to me the natural thing seems to have a coiffure high and rigid—so—and the hat attached with many hat pins—là—là—là—et là."

He executed four vicious jabs in the air.

But how frightfully uncomfortable!

Ah! I should think so, said Poirot. No martyred lady could have spoken with more feeling. "When the wind blew it was the agony—it gave you the migraine."

Miss Buckley dragged off the simple wide-brimmed felt she was wearing and cast it down beside her.

And now we do this, she laughed.

Which is sensible and charming, said Poirot, with a little bow.

I looked at her with interest. Her dark hair was ruffled and gave her an elfin look. There was something elfin about her altogether. The small, vivid face, pansy shaped, the enormous dark-blue eyes, and something else—something haunting and arresting. Was it a hint of recklessness? There were dark shadows under the eyes.

The terrace on which we were sitting was a little-used one. The main terrace where most people sat was just round the corner at a point where the cliff shelved directly down to the sea.

From round this corner now there appeared a man, a red-faced man with a rolling carriage who carried his hands half clenched by his side. There was something breezy and carefree about him—a typical sailor.

I can’t think where the girl’s got to, he was saying in tones that easily carried to where we sat. Nick—Nick.

Miss Buckley rose.

I knew they’d be getting in a state. Attaboy—George—here I am.

Freddie’s frantic for a drink. Come on, girl.

He cast a glance of frank curiosity at Poirot, who must have differed considerably from most of Nick’s friends.

The girl performed a wave of introduction.

This is Commander Challenger—er—

But to my surprise Poirot did not supply the name for which she was waiting. Instead he rose, bowed very ceremoniously and murmured:

Of the English Navy. I have a great regard for the English Navy.

This type of remark is not one that an Englishman acclaims most readily. Commander Challenger flushed and Nick Buckley took command of the situation.

Come on, George. Don’t gape. Let’s find Freddie and Jim.

She smiled at Poirot.

Thanks for the cocktail. I hope the ankle will be all right.

With a nod to me she slipped her hand through the sailor’s arm and they disappeared round the corner together.

So that is one of Mademoiselle’s friends, murmured Poirot thoughtfully. One of her cheery crowd. What about him? Give me your expert judgement, Hastings. Is he what you call a good fellow—yes?

Pausing for a moment to try and decide exactly what Poirot thought I should mean by a good fellow, I gave a doubtful assent.

He seems all right—yes, I said. So far as one can tell by a cursory glance.

I wonder, said Poirot.

The girl had left her

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