The Mysterious Affair at Styles

By Agatha Christie

When Emily Inglethorp, the elderly matriarch of Styles Court, an Essex country manor, is found poisoned with strychnine, a guest of the manor, Arthur Hastings calls upon his friend, famous Belgian detective Hercule Poirot, to solve the mystery that surrounds her death. Chief amongst the suspects is Emily’s husband Alfred Inglethorp, a much younger man whom she has recently married and has the most to gain from her death. Another potential suspect is her eldest stepson John Cavendish, who stands to receive the manor upon her death. Or one of the other occupants of the manor; Lawrence Cavendish, her younger stepson; Mary Cavendish, John’s wife; Cynthia Murdoch, the daughter of a deceased friend of the family; or Evelyn Howard, Emily's companion; may be to blame. With the help of Inspector Japp, a Scotland Yard detective and the investigating officer, Hercule Poirot endeavors to uncover the mystery of who killed Emily Inglethorp. Mystery fans will delight in this first installment of Agatha Christie’s most famous character, Hercule Poirot.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Digireads.com Publishing
• Release date: May 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781420957181

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.

Book preview

Chapter I. I Go to Styles.

The intense interest aroused in the public by what was known at the time as The Styles Case has now somewhat subsided. Nevertheless, in view of the world-wide notoriety which attended it, I have been asked, both by my friend Poirot and the family themselves, to write an account of the whole story. This, we trust, will effectually silence the sensational rumours which still persist.

I will therefore briefly set down the circumstances which led to my being connected with the affair.

I had been invalided home from the Front; and, after spending some months in a rather depressing Convalescent Home, was given a month’s sick leave. Having no near relations or friends, I was trying to make up my mind what to do, when I ran across John Cavendish. I had seen very little of him for some years. Indeed, I had never known him particularly well. He was a good fifteen years my senior, for one thing, though he hardly looked his forty-five years. As a boy, though, I had often stayed at Styles, his mother’s place in Essex.

We had a good yarn about old times, and it ended in his inviting me down to Styles to spend my leave there.

The mater will be delighted to see you again—after all those years, he added.

Your mother keeps well? I asked.

Oh, yes. I suppose you know that she has married again?

I am afraid I showed my surprise rather plainly. Mrs. Cavendish, who had married John’s father when he was a widower with two sons, had been a handsome woman of middle-age as I remembered her. She certainly could not be a day less than seventy now. I recalled her as an energetic, autocratic personality, somewhat inclined to charitable and social notoriety, with a fondness for opening bazaars and playing the Lady Bountiful. She was a most generous woman, and possessed a considerable fortune of her own.

Their country-place, Styles Court, had been purchased by Mr. Cavendish early in their married life. He had been completely under his wife’s ascendancy, so much so that, on dying, he left the place to her for her lifetime, as well as the larger part of his income; an arrangement that was distinctly unfair to his two sons. Their step-mother, however, had always been most generous to them; indeed, they were so young at the time of their father’s remarriage that they always thought of her as their own mother.

Lawrence, the younger, had been a delicate youth. He had qualified as a doctor but early relinquished the profession of medicine, and lived at home while pursuing literary ambitions; though his verses never had any marked success.

John practiced for some time as a barrister, but had finally settled down to the more congenial life of a country squire. He had married two years ago, and had taken his wife to live at Styles, though I entertained a shrewd suspicion that he would have preferred his mother to increase his allowance, which would have enabled him to have a home of his own. Mrs. Cavendish, however, was a lady who liked to make her own plans, and expected other people to fall in with them, and in this case she certainly had the whip hand, namely: the purse strings.

John noticed my surprise at the news of his mother’s remarriage and smiled rather ruefully.

Rotten little bounder too! he said savagely. I can tell you, Hastings, it’s making life jolly difficult for us. As for Evie—you remember Evie?

No.

Oh, I suppose she was after your time. She’s the mater’s factotum, companion, Jack of all trades! A great sport—old Evie! Not precisely young and beautiful, but as game as they make them.

You were going to say——?

Oh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on the pretext of being a second cousin or something of Evie’s, though she didn’t seem particularly keen to acknowledge the relationship. The fellow is an absolute outsider, anyone can see that. He’s got a great black beard, and wears patent leather boots in all weathers! But the mater cottoned to him at once, took him on as secretary—you know how she’s always running a hundred societies?

I nodded.

Well, of course the war has turned the hundreds into thousands. No doubt the fellow was very useful to her. But you could have knocked us all down with a feather when, three months ago, she suddenly announced that she and Alfred were engaged! The fellow must be at least twenty years younger than she is! It’s simply bare-faced fortune hunting; but there you are—she is her own mistress, and she’s married him.

It must be a difficult situation for you all.

Difficult! It’s damnable!

Thus it came about that, three days later, I descended from the train at Styles St. Mary, an absurd little station, with no apparent reason for existence, perched up in the midst of green fields and country lanes. John Cavendish was waiting on the platform, and piloted me out to the car.

Got a drop or two of petrol still, you see, he remarked. Mainly owing to the mater’s activities.

The village of Styles St. Mary was situated about two miles from the little station, and Styles Court lay a mile the other side of it. It was a still, warm day in early July. As one looked out over the flat Essex country, lying so green and peaceful under the afternoon sun, it seemed almost impossible to believe that, not so very far away, a great war was running its appointed course. I felt I had suddenly strayed into another world. As we turned in at the lodge gates, John said:

I’m afraid you’ll find it very quiet down here, Hastings.

My dear fellow, that’s just what I want.

Oh, it’s pleasant enough if you want to lead the idle life. I drill with the volunteers twice a week, and lend a hand at the farms. My wife works regularly ‘on the land’. She is up at five every morning to milk, and keeps at it steadily until lunchtime. It’s a jolly good life taking it all round—if it weren’t for that fellow Alfred Inglethorp! He checked the car suddenly, and glanced at his watch. I wonder if we’ve time to pick up Cynthia. No, she’ll have started from the hospital by now.

Cynthia! That’s not your wife?

No, Cynthia is a protégée of my mother’s, the daughter of an old schoolfellow of hers, who married a rascally solicitor. He came a cropper, and the girl was left an orphan and penniless. My mother came to the rescue, and Cynthia has been with us nearly two years now. She works in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster, seven miles away.

As he spoke the last words, we drew up in front of the fine old house. A lady in a stout tweed skirt, who was bending over a flower bed, straightened herself at our approach.

Hullo, Evie, here’s our wounded hero! Mr. Hastings—Miss Howard.

Miss Howard shook hands with a hearty, almost painful, grip. I had an impression of very blue eyes in a sunburnt face. She was a pleasant-looking woman of about forty, with a deep voice, almost manly in its stentorian tones, and had a large sensible square body, with feet to match—these last encased in good thick boots. Her conversation, I soon found, was couched in the telegraphic style.

Weeds grow like house afire. Can’t keep even with ’em. Shall press you in. Better be careful.

I’m sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful, I responded.

Don’t say it. Never does. Wish you hadn’t later.

You’re a cynic, Evie, said John, laughing. Where’s tea to-day—inside or out?

Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house.

Come on then, you’ve done enough gardening for to-day. ‘The labourer is worthy of his hire’, you know. Come and be refreshed.

Well, said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, I’m inclined to agree with you.

She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the shade of a large sycamore.

A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps to meet us.

My wife, Hastings, said John.

I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish. Her tall, slender form, outlined against the bright light; the vivid sense of slumbering fire that seemed to find expression only in those wonderful tawny eyes of hers, remarkable eyes, different from any other woman’s that I have ever known; the intense power of stillness she possessed, which nevertheless conveyed the impression of a wild untamed spirit in an exquisitely civilised body—all these things are burnt into my memory. I shall never forget them.

She greeted me with a few words of pleasant welcome in a low clear voice, and I sank into a basket chair feeling distinctly glad that I had accepted John’s invitation. Mrs. Cavendish gave me some tea, and her few quiet remarks heightened my first impression of her as a thoroughly fascinating woman. An appreciative listener is always stimulating, and I described, in a humorous manner, certain incidents of my Convalescent Home, in a way which, I flatter myself, greatly amused my hostess. John, of course, good fellow though he is, could hardly be called a brilliant conversationalist.

At that moment a well remembered voice floated through the open French window near at hand:

Then you’ll write to the Princess after tea, Alfred? I’ll write to Lady Tadminster for the second day, myself. Or shall we wait until we hear from the Princess? In case of a refusal, Lady Tadminster might open it the first day, and Mrs. Crosbie the second. Then there’s the Duchess—about the school fête.

There was the murmur of a man’s voice, and then Mrs. Inglethorp’s rose in reply:

Yes, certainly. After tea will do quite well. You are so thoughtful, Alfred dear.

The French window swung open a little wider, and a handsome white-haired old lady, with a somewhat masterful cast of features, stepped out of it on to the lawn. A man followed her, a suggestion of deference in his manner.

Mrs. Inglethorp greeted me with effusion.

Why, if it isn’t too delightful to see you again, Mr. Hastings, after all these years. Alfred, darling, Mr. Hastings—my husband.

I looked with some curiosity at Alfred darling. He certainly struck a rather alien note. I did not wonder at John objecting to his beard. It was one of the longest and blackest I have ever seen. He wore gold-rimmed pince-nez, and had a curious impassivity of feature. It struck me that he might look natural on a stage, but was strangely out of place in real life. His voice was rather deep and unctuous. He placed a wooden hand in mine and said:

This is a pleasure, Mr. Hastings. Then, turning to his wife: Emily dearest, I think that cushion is a little damp.

She beamed fondly on him, as he substituted another with every demonstration of the tenderest care. Strange infatuation of an otherwise sensible woman!

With the presence of Mr. Inglethorp, a sense of constraint and veiled hostility seemed to settle down upon the company. Miss Howard, in particular, took no pains to conceal her feelings. Mrs. Inglethorp, however, seemed to notice nothing unusual. Her volubility, which I remembered of old, had lost nothing in the intervening years, and she poured out a steady flood of conversation, mainly on the subject of the forthcoming bazaar which she was organizing and which was to take place shortly. Occasionally she referred to her husband over a question of days or dates. His watchful and attentive manner never varied. From the very first I took a firm and rooted dislike to him, and I flatter myself that my first judgments are usually fairly shrewd.

Presently Mrs. Inglethorp turned to give some instructions about letters to Evelyn Howard, and her husband addressed me in his painstaking voice:

Is soldiering your regular profession, Mr. Hastings?

No, before the war I was in Lloyd’s.

And you will return there after it is over?

Perhaps. Either that or a fresh start altogether.

Mary Cavendish leant forward.

What would you really choose as a profession, if you could just consult your inclination?

Well, that depends.

No secret hobby? she asked. Tell me—you’re drawn to something? Every one is—usually something absurd.

You’ll laugh at me.

She smiled.

Perhaps.

Well, I’ve always had a secret hankering to be a detective!

The real thing—Scotland Yard? Or Sherlock Holmes?

Oh, Sherlock Holmes by all means. But really, seriously, I am awfully drawn to it. I came across a man in Belgium once, a very famous detective, and he quite inflamed me. He was a marvellous little fellow. He used to say that all good detective work was a mere matter of method. My system is based on his—though of course I have progressed rather further. He was a funny little man, a great dandy, but wonderfully clever.

Like a good detective story myself, remarked Miss Howard. Lots of nonsense written, though. Criminal discovered in last chapter. Every one dumbfounded. Real crime—you’d know at once.

There have been a great number of undiscovered crimes, I argued.

Don’t mean the police, but the people that are right in it. The family. You couldn’t really hoodwink them. They’d know.

Then, I said, much amused, you think that if you were mixed up in a crime, say a murder, you’d be able to spot the murderer right off?

Of course I should. Mightn’t be able to prove it to a pack of lawyers. But I’m certain I’d know. I’d feel it in my fingertips if he came near me.

It might be a ‘she,’ I suggested.

Might. But murder’s a violent crime. Associate it more with a man.

Not in a case of poisoning. Mrs. Cavendish’s clear voice startled me. Dr. Bauerstein was saying yesterday that, owing to the general ignorance of the more uncommon poisons among the medical profession, there were probably countless cases of poisoning quite unsuspected.

Why, Mary, what a gruesome conversation! cried Mrs. Inglethorp. It makes me feel as if a goose were walking over my grave. Oh, there’s Cynthia!

A young girl in V. A. D. uniform ran lightly across the lawn.

Why, Cynthia, you are late to-day. This is Mr. Hastings—Miss Murdoch.

Cynthia Murdoch was a fresh-looking young creature, full of life and vigour. She tossed off her little V. A. D. cap, and I admired the great loose waves of her auburn hair, and the smallness and whiteness of the hand she held out to claim her tea. With dark eyes and eyelashes she would have been a beauty.

She flung herself down on the ground beside John, and as I handed her a plate of sandwiches she smiled up at me.

Sit down here on the grass, do. It’s ever so much nicer.

I dropped down obediently.

You work at Tadminster, don’t you, Miss Murdoch?

She nodded.

For my sins.

Do they bully you, then? I asked, smiling.

I should like to see them! cried Cynthia with dignity.

I have got a cousin who is nursing, I remarked. And she is terrified of ‘Sisters’.

I don’t wonder. Sisters are, you know, Mr. Hastings. They simp—ly are! You’ve no idea! But I’m not a nurse, thank heaven, I work in the dispensary.

How many people do you poison? I asked, smiling.

Cynthia smiled too.

Oh, hundreds! she said.

Cynthia, called Mrs. Inglethorp, do you think you could write a few notes for me?

Certainly, Aunt Emily.

She jumped up promptly, and something in her manner reminded me that her position was a dependent one, and that Mrs. Inglethorp, kind as she might be in the main, did not allow her to forget it.

My hostess turned to me.

John will show you your room. Supper is at half-past seven. We have given up late dinner for some time now. Lady Tadminster, our Member’s wife—she was the late Lord Abbotsbury’s daughter—does the same. She agrees with me that one must set an example of economy. We are quite a war household; nothing is wasted here—every scrap of waste paper, even, is saved and sent away in sacks.

I expressed my appreciation, and John took me into the house and up the broad staircase, which forked right and left half-way to different wings of the building. My room was in the left wing, and looked out over the park.

John left me, and a few minutes later I saw him from my window walking slowly across the grass arm in arm with Cynthia Murdoch. I heard Mrs. Inglethorp call Cynthia impatiently, and the girl started and ran back to the house. At the same moment, a man stepped out from the shadow of a tree and walked slowly in the same direction.

He looked about forty, very dark with a melancholy clean-shaven face. Some violent emotion seemed to be mastering him. He looked up at my window as he passed, and I recognized him, though he had changed much in the fifteen years that had elapsed since we last met. It was John’s younger brother, Lawrence Cavendish. I wondered what it was that had brought that singular expression to his face.

Then I dismissed him from my mind, and returned to the contemplation of my own affairs.

The evening passed pleasantly enough; and I dreamed that night of that enigmatical woman, Mary Cavendish.

The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and I was full

Reviews for The Mysterious Affair at Styles

[carl_alves_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Although this novel is a Hurcule Poirot, it is told through the viewpoint of a friend of Poirot, Mr. Hastings. The viewpoint character is effective, since he basically has no detective instincts whatsoever, therefore not giving away what Poirot is thinking, which would ruin the mystery. The novel starts off with the death of Emily Cavendish. There are a handful of characters who are in the house at the time, and like with most good mysteries, there are various clues lying about. Half the time, I felt like Hastings, not being able to figure out who did what and always playing catch up with Poirot. About two thirds of the way through, I had a guess as to who committed the murder, and it turns out I was half right.I like Christie’s story telling style, but there were some problematic elements of the way the story unfolded, and a couple of elements that defied logic. Poirot comes off as enigmatic and charming. Because of the gap in time from when the story was written until now, some of the aspects of the plot were a bit hard to grasp, but for the most part the plot was strong, and the reveal was logical. This was a strong mystery novel that I would recommend.Carl Alves – author of Conjesero

[dh1writer · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Agatha Christie's first Poirot mystery. What else is there to say?

[humouress · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Apparently, Agatha Christie - who had never written a book before - wrote this book in response to a complaint that there were no crime novels where all the facts were known to the reader, as well as the detective, before the denouement which weren't solvable in the first few chapters. This is the book, narrated by Hastings, that introduces us to Hercule Poirot.Hastings has been invalided out of the war, and while convalescing, is invited back to Styles, the country home of an old acquaintance, John Cavendish. While there, a crime occurs, and on wishing out loud that a great detective he met in Europe was here to help them, Hastings discovers that Poirot is, in fact, living in the nearby village, as a Belgian refugee from the war. And so Poirot gets involved in the case, and finally brings the criminal to justice.I've read many books by Christie in the past, but I can't remember if I've read this one before. So earnest was I (previously) in reading the clues to solve the crime (which I never did) that I hadn't realised before that Christie is quite funny; written at the same period as P.G. Wodehouse was writing, while not being as uproariously funny, it has a similar sense of humour.Poirot (speaking of the criminal) : "... We must be so intelligent that he does not suspect us of being intelligent at all."I acquiesced."There, mon ami, you will be of great assistance to me."I was pleased with the compliment. There had been times when I hardly thought that Poirot appreciated me at my true worth."Yes," he continued, staring at me thoughtfully, "you will be invaluable."This was naturally gratifying, ...Poor old Hastings would like to think of himself as the romantic lead, or at least the great detective (since he often thinks that Poirot is no longer on his game), but is usually seen by the other cast members as a sympathetic shoulder to lean on.Christie (and occasionally Poirot) misdirects us gaily until the last moment, when Poirot explains all. There are, of course, the odd coincidence, and a few instances of great good luck. I might have docked stars for my not being able to solve the crime (*sour grapes*), but I'll give them back for the unexpected humour. And the hint of romance doesn't hurt; there's nothing so sweet as requited love.I must say that, while reading Poirot's dialogue, I kept thinking of David Suchet playing the part (though admittedly his eyes aren't green). Kudos to him for getting the part down.

[addunn3 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A poisoning at Styles brings in the clueless Cpt. Hastings and HP to solve the murder.

[tomdonaghey · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Mysterious Mr. Quin (1930) (Harley Quin) by Agatha Christie. This character, Harley Quin, is reported to have been Dame Agatha’s favorite as she only had to write about him when she wished to. Quin, along with his puppet, the good Mr. Satterthwaite, set out to right wrongs, solve vexing problems of the heart, and occasionally solve a murder.Satterthwaite is in his sixties, an English gentleman who has no wish for sport or romance or business. He is from that class of people Christie liked to populate her books with, the idle rich who know everyone of importance and in hand, are known to all, and beloved by them in return. He has an interest in people and they seem to trust and open up to this benign older gent. But it is Mr. Quin who is the driving force here. He appears and disappears like a spector, arriving in a time of need, appearing to Mr. Satterthwaite when there is a problem, merely talking with the kind gentleman, asking questions that Mr. Satterthwaite is surprised to find he knows the answers to, and helping the latter solve the puzzle.This book contains an even dozen tales of the pair, each a tie plum of deliciousness ready to be devoted. Help yourself.

[aliceanna-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Very enjoyable debut of both Christie and Poirot.

[therebelprince · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

In which a lieutenant, an inspector and a Belgian emigré solve murder during the War.

Let the flaying begin. Well, actually, don’t. Coming 39th on the Agatha Christie rankings isn’t that bad. "Styles" is a seminal novel in 20th century detective fiction: Christie’s first published work, and Hercule Poirot’s first appearance in literature, as well as the introduction of then-Lieutenant Arthur Hastings, and Inspector Japp. Poirot’s methodology is relayed to us by Hastings in a manner very similar to Watson’s introduction of Sherlock Holmes in "A Study in Scarlet". This novel, I rush to point out, is a damn sight better than Holmes’ introductory one, with Poirot emerging almost fully formed, and the country house of Styles a suitably atmospheric host for murder.

The David Suchet adaptation – coming very early on before the series had established a darker visual style – is satisfactory, largely due to Suchet’s ability to create a younger, more ‘foreign’ Poirot. But it doesn’t have the raw power of the later adaptations in the series.

I do have to be honest, though, and confess this is not one of my favourite Poirots. Christie hadn’t yet ironed out her style yet (she had another sixty years of writing to go, so I’ll cut her some slack), and – aside from Poirot – none of the characters really jump off the page. Still, this is an impressively easy read, and all fans should check out where Poirot began his British career (in the same place he would end it sixty years later). If you’re new to the series, keep in mind that Christie will – with experience – challenge her own style in the years to come.

Poirot ranking: 24th out of 38

[mrsrk-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I was curious to read Agatha Christie’s first Poirot novel, which was published in 1920. And I was not disappointed. Midway through the book I was surprised to remember that this was one of her first novels… I think Mrs. Christie was born a writer: there is nothing in this book that betrays the novice. She worked as a dispenser in a hospital during WWI, hence, I believe, her knowledge of poisons and the presence of the young nurse’s character in the book. Here you will find the first description of Hercule Poirot, the “little man” with a gigantic intellect and an even larger (if possible!) ego. Inspector James Japp is also first presented to the reader, “a little sharp, dark, ferret-faced man”—physically different from Philip Jackson of the Agatha Christie’s Poirot series, Japp also does not present any of the irritating and almost unintelligible cockney accent the Jackson of the movies sported. Most definitely this is a must read for any Agatha Christie fan.

[bogopea · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Timeless. First in Christie's series of Hercule Poirot and loved it.

[hopeevey · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I have loved Agatha Christie's mysteries for as long as I can remember. It's good to know that her books were excellent from the beginning. The Mysterious Affair at Styles was her first published work.

If you use the Wake County public library, you can borrow this recording from the Download library - I've just returned it :) The narration was excellent, the story and the characters delightful.

[martensgirl · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This was a passable mystery; it seems so very similar to Christie's other books, except that it has a very convoluted plot.

[sasham-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

While I am not a huge fan of the character Poirot this is still an excellent little crime caper and more impressive that it was Christie's First published book. While I did think the plot was overly clever / complicated that is what you want in a who-dun-it, isn't it?

[john257hopper · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is the very first Agatha Christie novel, written and set during the First World War, though not published until 1921. It is also the first Hercule Poirot novel, with the famous Belgian detective being a refugee in England having fled the invasion and subjugation of his country by the Kaiser's army. He is first described as follows:"Poirot was an extraordinary-looking little man. He was hardly more than five feet four inches, but carried himself with great dignity. His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he always perched it a little on one side. His moustache was very stiff and military. The neatness of his attire was almost incredible; I believe a speck of dust would have caused him more pain than a bullet wound."Even on his first appearance, he is regarded by several characters as an old eccentric who is already past his prime). Nevertheless, he of course sees through a tortuous set of clues to solve a murder, the final resolution of which seemed even more than usually convoluted and, frankly, absurdly risky from the murderer's point of view. The narrative did not feel particularly dated to me, unlike the last Christie novel I read, the Tommy and Tuppence novel The Secret Adversary, set in the 1920s. One interesting touch in this edition is the inclusion as an appendix of an alternative penultimate chapter where the plot threads are resolved, discovered in one of Christie's notebooks decades later; though the essential difference rests only in its taking place in a courtroom where Poirot is being cross-examined, rather than in the Styles House with the detective doing his standard presentation in the drawing room in front of all the principal actors.

[leggimiqui · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Unsurpassed!

[jrsearcher · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Hastings is an idiot.

Other than that, this was a pretty good book!

[redfiona_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I know I said I was going to expand my reading horizons but when I find myself in times of trouble, Agatha Christie comforts me. I also owe the Gutenberg Project for putting it online.The Mysterious Affair At Styles is a solid book, and a good introduction to Poirot. What I find most interesting about it however is how much you can see Christie developing from it. It's got all the building blocks of your average Poirot, the country house, the summation in the drawing room, but it's lacking some of the small character bits that the later Christies have.

[katie_h_11 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Christie introduces her most famous character and one of literature's most loved detectives, Hercule Poirot, in classic Christie fashion. The murder mystery takes place in an upper class hosehold known as Styles Court. The mistress of the manor is Emily Inglethorpe, an elderly woman who has just married a much younger man. The many family members occupying the home become suspects when Mrs. Inglethorpe is murdered, and Poirot gets to work in what is later learned to be his typical quirky style. It is a fun adventure full of clues, suspicious characters, and theories, and it will keep you guessing until the very end.

[jimgysin_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This Poirot guy just might have a future in literature...

[banoczi_henrietta · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I liked this a little bit less than Murder on the Orient Express but it was still amazing. It's been a long time since I've enjoyed first-person narration so much and Hastings was a lovely narrator. The ending was once again unexpected and Poirot has successfully become one of my favourite characters of all time <3

[olegalca · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I own every single Agatha Christie book ever written - every play, every book under Mary W... and I'm going to reread every single one interspersed with Anne Perry's two series. My mother and I worked hard to scour used bookstores for my collection and they deserve to be honoured.

[michigantrumpet_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

How have I managed to get this far in life without reading ANY Agatha Christie? Came across this lovely audiobook quite by chance at the library and set about to rectify the omission. So glad that I did. The first of the Hercule Poirot novels, we meet the fastidious Belgian detective and his upright friend, Arthur Hastings. Hastings is visiting his good friend John Cavendish and his lovely wife Mary. Of course, nothing is ever as it seems. In typical country house mystery fashion, the doyenne of the manor is apparently poisoned, right before the appalled family's eyes leaving a house full of suspects. The Cavendish family quickly enlists Arthur's little foreign detective friend to investigate. Charmingly narrated by Penelope Dellaporta, the mystery rips right along. Her clipped English tones helped keep David Suchet's voice out of my head.

[cassandrat-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed solving as the story progressed. Instead of just learning whodunnit and who-didn't-dunnit all at the end. I was given plenty of time to revise theories.

[jean_sexton-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I actually had to buy this book twice. The Kindle Chios/Perennial Press edition was missing the illustrations. The Kindle "Fully Restored Edition" included them and helped the mystery make sense. I thoroughly enjoyed this mystery. I thought it played fair with the reader. I loved Hercule Poirot. I cannot believe I hadn't read this before and have missed out on this classic series. I'm going to work others into my reading schedule (already overloaded!) for next year. If you enjoy classic mysteries, try this. If you've read it long ago, I think you might enjoy revisiting it.

[sriddle_13 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

First Agatha Christie in which a device she is to use frequently is introduced into the novel of unusual complexity for her usual plotting. See _Evil Under the Sun_, _Death on the Nile_, for other examples.

[bcquinnsmom · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

First introduced in this novel in 1920, Hercule Poirot (who I can never picture as anyone but David Suchet anymore!!) is a retired Belgian detective who has settled in the English village of Styles St. Mary. Poirot is brought into the case because a woman who had done a great favor to a few of his fellow countrymen after WWI is killed. It is here that he rekindles his friendship with one Arthur Hastings, who will go on to become Poirot's number one sidekick friend as the later books appear. The death of Mrs. Emily Inglethorp brings out a number of possible suspects, but just as many alibis. Her death occurs while Arthur Hastings is visiting one of his old friends, John Cavendish, who is Emily's son. Poirot is called into this baffling case and soon finds himself in the thick of trying to sort out this complicated mystery.It is so much fun revisiting my books; I read this many years ago and I guess it's been long enough that I've totally forgotten both the crime and the murderer, so I've had a lot of fun with this one.If you're interested in reading the Hercule Poirot series, do yourself a favor and start with this one, the first in the series and take yourself through the books in order. Poirot is a magnificent character -- one of my favorite detectives of all time.I definitely recommend this book to anyone!

[mccin68 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is the first Hercule Poirot novel. A childhood friend of Hastings, John Cavendish, invites him to re-coup from a recent war injury at his step-mother's estate, Styles. The wealthy Mrs. Inglethorp is soon found murdered in her locked bedroom. Suspicion is thrown everwhere. An expected ending achieved in a crazy twist. I realized, in thumbing back through the book that the "clues" were present throughout the story but I still found the ending surprising.

[riverwillow · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is the first book Agatha Christie published and the one that introduced Hercule Poirot to the world. The story was inspired by her experiences working at the Torbay Dispensary during WWI and of all the criticisms that could be thrown at her stories, no one could accuse her of not knowing her poisons. This is especially true of this book where an understanding of how two chemical compounds interact is key to solving the murder. But this book uses two of Christie's key devices, misdirection and the assembling of all the suspects for the denouement. Wonderful

[mickyfine · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Invalided home from the Great War, Arthur Hastings is pleased to bump into his old friend, John Cavendish, and be invited to spend time at Cavendish's family estate, Styles. In a happy coincidence, Hastings long acquaintance, Hercule Poirot, is also in the neighbourhood as he has refugeed from Belgium. Poirot's proximity is particularly advantageous as shortly after Hastings's arrival, John Cavendish's stepmother dies suddenly and from apparent poisoning. But with the astute Belgian detective about, no murderer is safe.It was fascinating to read Agatha Christie's first novel and see just how well her mystery crafting skills were already developed in this first foray. I found Hastings to be a bit pretentious but having a somewhat unlikeable narrator didn't diminish the joy of the book. It's interesting to see here that while there is some humour, it's not quite as pervasive as in some of Christie's other novels, which often leave me chorting. While I was not as misled as the narrator, I still was in the dark about whodunnit until the final reveal, always a bonus in a mystery novel.

[philsyphe · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Although I liked the brisk narrative pace and quality of the author's writing, the actual story did little to enthrall me. The plotting was clever in its way but it didn't leave me in any great suspense like you'd expect from such a book.This was my first sample of Poirot. He reminds me of Mason's French Inspector Hanuad, though Hanuad is a much more absorbing character. That's not to say I dislike Poirot, however, as he was the best actor in this tale.

[fuzzi_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

After hearing so much about how great Agatha Christie's mysteries were, I decided to read a recommended book, "The Mysterious Affair at Styles".This story is told in first person narrative by Mr. Hastings, who is visiting an old friend at the estate of Styles, Mr. John Cavendish. John's step-mother, Mistress Emily Cavendish, has recently married a man who seems to only want her for her money. Early on in the story, Mrs. Cavendish dies of apparent strychnine poisoning, and the entire family is suspect.I suppose if I'd read this as my first ever mystery, without running into the "family in the drawing room as the murderer is exposed" cliche, I would have enjoyed it more. It was mildly diverting and amusing, but I doubt I'll reread it.