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    Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly: A Hercule Poirot Short Story
    Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly: A Hercule Poirot Short Story
    Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly: A Hercule Poirot Short Story
    Ebook100 pages1 hour

    Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly: A Hercule Poirot Short Story

    By Agatha Christie

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    About this ebook

    Never before published—the lost classic, unseen for sixty years!

    A party game goes dead wrong in this ingenious mystery from the most beloved novelist of all time. Hercule Poirot, the world's favorite detective, has agreed to take part in a mock murder mystery in a charming English village—but when tragedy strikes, a different sort of game begins ...

    In 1954, Agatha Christie wrote this novella with the intention of donating the proceeds to a fund set up to buy stained glass windows for her local church at Churston Ferrers, and she filled the story with references to local places, including her own home of Greenway. But, having completed it, she decided instead to expand the story into a full-length novel, Dead Man's Folly, which was published two years later, and donated a Miss Marple story (Greenshaw's Folly) to the church fund instead.

    Unseen for sixty years, Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly is finally published in this ebook-exclusive edition.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateNov 12, 2013
    ISBN9780062334466
    Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly: A Hercule Poirot Short Story
    Author

    Agatha Christie

    Agatha Christie is known throughout the world as the Queen of Crime. Her books have sold over a billion copies in English with another billion in over 70 foreign languages. She is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. She is the author of 80 crime novels and short story collections, 20 plays, and six novels written under the name of Mary Westmacott.

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    Reviews for Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly

    4/5

    58 ratings6 reviews

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    • 3/5
      I received this book from the publisher in exchange for an honest review.Hercule Poirot received a a request from a friend to spend the weekend with her and help oversee a mock murder mystery. Unfortunately, a murder and a disappearance take place! Only Hercule Poirot can figure out what happened and make sure that the murderer doesn't get away.I am a big Agatha Christie fan. I always enjoy her mysteries, and they are short enough that I can read one in one sitting, if I want. Christie always gives you enough to figure out the mystery, if you want to solve it. At the same time, if you want to just be taken in with the story, the mystery is never obvious enough that you stumble upon it and spend the rest of the time yelling at the characters because they can't figure it out. Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly is no exception. The mystery is short, but it doesn't fell rushed, and you need your "little grey cells" to figure out the mystery.My one critique of this book (and with most of Christie's books) is that it is a child of its time. Women are not portrayed in the best light, and there are some racist remarks in this book too. I don't know enough about Christie to say how she felt about certain things in her personal life. So I can't speak to how much some of the characters' statements are her own beliefs versus a way to show that certain beliefs are wrong.I thought this was a fun book. This is not my favorite Christie book, because there is a lot of talk about the lady of the house being dim. I understand why this needed to be discussed, but I feel another tactic could have been used to introduce the mystery. If you are Christie fan and have not read Dead Man's Folly (Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly was expanded into Dead Man's Folly), I would recommend this book. If you have already read the longer novel, I would only recommend this for the extreme Christie fan.
    • 5/5
      waw
    • 5/5
      This edition was made all the more fascinating by the foreword from Tom Adams who illustrated the covers of so many Agatha Christie novels, a preface by her grandson Matthew Prichard, and an afterword by Christie apologist John Curran. These extras allow the reader to have an insight into the creation of this novella.At the village fete Lady Hattie Stubbs, the hostess, disappears when she should have been doing something official. At the same time Ariadne Oliver's worst fears are realised when the victim of her mock murder mystery at the fete is found strangled. Later the gardener's father, who'd dropped a few cryptic lines into Hercule Poirot's ear, also dies. Lady Stubbs is never found and it is finally Hercule Poirot who works out what has happened to her, and just who Sir George Stubbs is.This is longer than a short story, and about half the size of a full length novel.
    • 4/5
      The original story by this name, which Christie was unable to sell at the time because of its novella length, puts us in familiar Christie territory. You can pretty much see the disaster coming, but the denoument is still delicious, as is Poirot.
    • 5/5
      Hercule Poirot is summoned to Greenshore Folly to assist with a Murder Fete which could turn into a real murder.A humor laced colorfully detailed narrative winds a devious multi-leveled mystery.Characters are authentic, varied, and entertaining.Overall, an enjoyable read.
    • 4/5
      What a fun read. The setting is actually Agatha Christie's summer Devon home. Hercule's friend, novelist Ariadne Oliver, has been asked to write a mystery murder game and senses something isn't quite right and phones Hercule to come to Greenshore in Devon under the pretense of handing out the award to the winner who solves the game. Hercule takes the train arrives and meets the guests and the Lady of the house vanishes and the selected "victim" in the game is found murdered. Having visited Greenway I just loved this novella.

    Book preview

    Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly - Agatha Christie

    Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly

    I

    It was Miss Lemon, Poirot’s efficient secretary, who took the telephone call.

    Laying aside her shorthand notebook, she raised the receiver and said without emphasis, ‘Trafalgar 8137.’

    Hercule Poirot leaned back in his upright chair and closed his eyes. His fingers beat a meditative soft tattoo on the edge of the table. In his head he continued to compose the polished period of the letter he had been dictating.

    Placing her hand over the receiver, Miss Lemon asked in a low voice, ‘Will you accept a personal call from Lapton, Devon?’

    Poirot frowned. The place meant nothing to him.

    ‘The name of the caller?’ he demanded cautiously.

    Miss Lemon spoke into the mouthpiece.

    ‘Air-raid?’ she asked doubtingly. ‘Oh, yes – what was the last name again?’

    Once more she turned to Hercule Poirot.

    ‘Mrs. Ariadne Oliver.’

    Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows shot up. A memory rose up in his mind: windswept grey hair … an eagle profile …

    He rose and replaced Miss Lemon at the telephone.

    ‘Hercule Poirot speaks,’ he announced grandiloquently.

    ‘Is that Mr. Hercules Porrot speaking personally?’ the suspicious voice of the telephone operator demanded.

    Poirot assured her that that was the case.

    ‘You’re through to Mr. Porrot,’ said the voice.

    Its thin reedy accents were replaced by a magnificent booming contralto which caused Poirot hastily to shift the receiver a couple of inches further from his ear.

    ‘Mr. Poirot, is that really you?’ demanded Mrs. Oliver.

    ‘Myself in person, Madame.’

    ‘This is Mrs. Oliver. I don’t know if you’ll remember me –’

    ‘But of course I remember you, Madame. Who could forget you?’

    ‘Well, people do sometimes,’ said Mrs. Oliver. ‘Quite often, in fact. I don’t think that I’ve got a very distinctive personality. Or perhaps it’s because I’m always doing different things to my hair. But all that’s neither here nor there. I hope I’m not interrupting you when you’re frightfully busy?’

    ‘No, no, you do not derange me in the least.’

    ‘Good gracious – I’m sure I don’t want to drive you out of your mind. The fact is, I need you.’

    ‘Need me?’

    ‘Yes, at once. Can you take an aeroplane?’

    ‘I do not take aeroplanes. They make me sick.’ ‘They do me, too. Anyway, I don’t suppose it would be any quicker than the train really, because I think the only airport near here is Exeter which is miles away. So come by train. Twelve o’clock from Paddington. You get out at Lapton to Nassecombe. You can do it nicely. You’ve got three quarters of an hour if my watch is right – though it isn’t usually.’

    ‘But where are you, Madame? What is all this about?’

    ‘Greenshore House, Lapton. A car or taxi will meet you at the station at Lapton.’

    ‘But why do you need me? What is all this about?’ Poirot repeated frantically.

    ‘Telephones are in such awkward places,’ said Mrs. Oliver. ‘This one’s in the hall … People passing through and talking … I can’t really hear. But I’m expecting you. Everybody will be so thrilled. Good bye.’

    There was a sharp click as the receiver was replaced. The line hummed gently.

    With a baffled air of bewilderment, Poirot put back the receiver and murmured something under his breath. Miss Lemon sat with her pencil poised, incurious. She repeated in muted tones the final phrase of dictation before the interruption.

    ‘– allow me to assure you, my dear sir, that the hypothesis you have advanced –’

    Poirot waved aside the advancement of the hypothesis.

    ‘That was Mrs. Oliver,’ he said. ‘Ariadne Oliver, the detective novelist. You may have read –’ But he stopped, remembering that Miss Lemon only read improving books and regarded such frivolities as fictional crime with contempt. ‘She wants me to go down to Devonshire today, at once, in –’ he glanced at the clock ‘–thirty-five minutes.’

    Miss Lemon raised disapproving eyebrows.

    ‘That will be running it rather fine,’ she said. ‘For what reason?’

    ‘You may well ask! She did not tell me.’

    ‘How very peculiar. Why not?’

    ‘Because,’ said Hercule Poirot thoughtfully, ‘she was afraid of being overheard. Yes, she made that quite clear.’

    ‘Well, really,’ said Miss Lemon, bristling in her employer’s defence. ‘The things people expect! Fancy thinking that you’d go rushing off on some wild goose chase like that! An important man like you! I have always noticed that these artists and writers are very unbalanced – no sense of proportion. Shall I telephone through a telegram: Regret unable leave London?’

    Her hand went out to the telephone. Poirot’s voice arrested the gesture.

    ‘Du tout!’ he said. ‘On the contrary. Be so kind as to summon a taxi immediately.’ He raised his voice. ‘Georges! A few necessities of toilet in my small valise. And quickly, very quickly, I have a train to catch.’

    II

    The train, having done one hundred and eighty-odd miles of its two hundred and twelve miles journey at top speed, puffed gently and apologetically through the last thirty and drew into Lapton station. Only one person alighted, Hercule Poirot. He negotiated with care a yawning gap between the step of the train and the platform and looked round him. At the far end of the train a porter was busy inside a luggage compartment. Poirot picked up his valise and walked back along the platform to the exit. He gave up his ticket and walked out through the booking office.

    A large Humber saloon was drawn up outside and a chauffeur in uniform came forward.

    ‘Mr. Hercule Poirot?’ he inquired respectfully.

    He took Poirot’s case from him and opened the door of the car for him. They drove away from the station, over the railway bridge and down a country road which presently disclosed a very beautiful river view.

    ‘The Dart, sir,’ said the chauffeur.

    ‘Magnifique!’ said Poirot obligingly.

    The road was a long straggling country lane running between green hedges, dipping down and then up. On the upward slope two girls in shorts with bright scarves over their heads and carrying heavy rucksacks on their backs were toiling slowly upwards.

    ‘There’s a Youth Hostel just above us, sir,’ explained the chauffeur, who had clearly constituted himself Poirot’s guide to Devon … ‘Upper Greenshore, they call it. Come for a couple of nights at a time, they do, and very

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