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The Cornish Mystery: A Hercule Poirot Story
The Cornish Mystery: A Hercule Poirot Story
The Cornish Mystery: A Hercule Poirot Story
Ebook37 pages24 minutes

The Cornish Mystery: A Hercule Poirot Story

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About this ebook

Previously published in the print anthology Poirot's Early Cases.

A wife is convinced that her husband has been trying to poison her and run off with a younger woman, and she begs Hercule Poirot to save her.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherHarperCollins
Release dateJul 16, 2013
ISBN9780062298249
The Cornish Mystery: A Hercule Poirot Story
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 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Mrs Pengelly visits Poirot because she thinks that her husband is poisoning her, but refuses to go to the police because of the possible notoriety from the case. Poirot and Captain Hastings travel to Cornwall to investigate.
    Another short enjoyable mystery

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The Cornish Mystery - Agatha Christie

Contents

The Cornish Mystery

About the Author

The Agatha Christie Collection

Copyright

About the Publisher

THE CORNISH MYSTERY

I

‘Mrs Pengelley,’ announced our landlady, and withdrew discreetly.

Many unlikely people came to consult Poirot, but to my mind, the woman who stood nervously just inside the door, fingering her feather neck-piece, was the most unlikely of all. She was so extraordinarily commonplace—a thin, faded woman of about fifty, dressed in a braided coat and skirt, some gold jewellery at her neck, and with her grey hair surmounted by a singularly unbecoming hat. In a country town you pass a hundred Mrs Pengelleys in the street every day.

Poirot came forward and greeted her pleasantly, perceiving her obvious embarrassment.

‘Madame! Take a chair, I beg of you. My colleague, Captain Hastings.’

The lady sat down, murmuring uncertainly: ‘You are M. Poirot, the detective?’

‘At your service, madame.’

But our guest was still tongue-tied. She sighed, twisted her fingers, and grew steadily redder and redder.

‘There is something I can do for you, eh, madame?’

‘Well, I thought—that is—you see—’

‘Proceed, madame, I beg of you—proceed.’

Mrs Pengelley, thus encouraged, took a grip on herself.

‘It’s this way, M. Poirot—I don’t want to have anything to do with the police. No, I wouldn’t go to the police for anything! But all the same, I’m sorely troubled about something. And yet I don’t know if I ought—’ She stopped abruptly.

‘Me, I have nothing to do with the police. My investigations

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