It has to be a simple murder as it looks so unnervingly complex, dilly, dilly, come and get killed..
For someone who reads with the ardentness that I do, has to get bored of reading at some point in time right? what will one do when they get to the point, perhaps have a change of a habitat they live in. Perhaps change the geography of books to music, or maybe have a change of sport if they have any in mind. Well what is it for me, what would I do if I feel like giving up on the stitched up flattened plant carcass?
I would just return to my comfort zone, to the author who could and would never disappoint me, in the embrace of Agatha Christie by the high backed armchair of M Poirot.
Yes there is murder, yes there is the thrill and there is a snivelling need to know what happens but then again all of it, the entirety is represented in such freshness that time and pages fly by like old companions synchronising their feet at the new number for their ballroom dance.
I could not express the amount of freshness that brushed across my face the moment after I picked up The Clocks, a book from my favourite author after what seemed like an eternity. It is kind of ironic that a thing and person long dead seems to bring new freshness in your life. It is flabbergasting that even after reading a thousand mysteries, one that has been written decades ago.
A murder is discovered at a very unreasonable time, at a circumstance which should only be termed as extensively curious. At the home of a blind teacher, discovered by a shorthand typist who has been hired for the hour but by whom, nobody seems to know. The dead lay with a peaceful expression on his face certainly aghast by the wound on his body penetrated by a kitchen knife but nobody seems to find out whence the man came. A brute of a set-up and a grand success at clean up. Usually the John Does' just exists in the police files as the cases are unsolved.
Detective inspector Hardcastle and our young Protagonist Mr Colin Lamb are at loss for words when they set foot in the room riddled by numerous clocks tuned to 4:13. Accessory to murder, a prank or is there some sinister meaning behind the ill-placed over imposed devices of distractions. Surely not owned by the blind woman who has had been the victim of circumstantial ruthlessness by being played by some wicked person who chose it humorous to place a certain dead bleeding man at a blind woman's sitting room.
A book written by the end of Poirot's life of honour, No he is not dead yet, just terribly bored at having no impetus to exercise his sharp as scythe little grey brain cells. It was a pleasure when the Young Lamb brought in the mystery at the feet of The Master Hercule Poirot. It was Lamb's wish to test out if the great Hercule Poirot who often said mysteries can be solved in your living room by sitting in your comfy chair and just thinking your way out. I would not point to anything but I hope Mr Colin Lamb does find out what he was asking for.
A dilapidated community with the victorian household but modern people can guarantee one thing, you just might be able to get away with murder. Strange neighbours, but are they all innocent or are they hiding some facet of the truth that has a deeper root encircling the mystery. Strangely superimposed but brilliantly carried out. You get the inkling you have your suspects but lo behold the plot twist is at hand and the red herring is revealed.
A murderer on loose, is their chaos to the madness, dilly, dilly, dilly, come and be killed...
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