The Mysterious Affair at Styles

By Agatha Christie and Mint Editions

When Emily Inglethorp is poisoned the police are certain they’ve found the killer, but Hercule Poirot is not so easily satisfied. The sleuth digs deep into a tangled mystery in his debut appearance as the detective hero of Christie’s classic crime series.

Agatha Christie’s first mystery novel marks the initial appearance of her renowned Belgian sleuth Hercule Poirot, known for his impeccably neat appearance, fine mustache, and ability to cut to the core of some of the most complex and puzzling mysteries ever conceived. Summoned to investigate a murder in an elegant English country house, Poirot begins assembling clues and finding reasons to doubt the apparently obvious culprit was actually responsible for the murder. Riddles and secrets multiply as documents vanish, secret alliances are unveiled and the seemingly unsolvable is broken wide open. Deliberately conceived and written to puzzle devoted mystery fans, The Mysterious Affair at Styles has delighted readers since its first publication in 1920 and marks a perfect entry point for those new to the author or her unforgettable sleuth.

With an eye-catching new cover, and professionally typeset manuscript, this edition of The Mysterious Affair at Styles is both modern and readable.

Since our inception in 2020, Mint Editions has kept sustainability and innovation at the forefront of our mission. Each and every Mint Edition title gets a fresh, professionally typeset manuscript and a dazzling new cover, all while maintaining the integrity of the original book.

With thousands of titles in our collection, we aim to spotlight diverse public domain works to help them find modern audiences. Mint Editions celebrates a breadth of literary works, curated from both canonical and overlooked classics from writers around the globe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mint Editions
• Release date: Sep 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781513265544

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 1

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 practised 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? Everyone 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. Everyone 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.

Reviews for The Mysterious Affair at Styles

[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.

[jrsearcher · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Hastings is an idiot.

Other than that, this was a pretty good book!

[Anja · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

This version of the ebook doesn't include the pictures mentioned in the text, which means you are missing a huge part of the story (floorplans and clues for the case are not shown) and the descriptions in the text don't make sense. I switched to a different version of the ebook which includes the pictures properly.

[sageness · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

First novel syndrome at work, but isn't it wonderful that her writing gets so much better?

[sandman61961 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Enjoyable story. Plenty of intrigue and twists and turns in the narrative. Poirot does not disappoint. Neither does Christie. The only problem with the style is that it brings to mind the countless parodies that have been written or filmed. ‘Game of tennis anyone?’
All in all enjoyable and clever plot and story. On to the next one...there are plenty more Agatha Christie stories to read

[spoko_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

It might have just been the audiobook performance (by Hugh Fraser), but this book really seemed to just plod along. I didn't like Hastings as a character—he’s too much of a buffoon to be interesting. This is my least favorite if the Christie novels I’ve read, and he is a big part of that. The mystery itself was pretty good, though really it relied on some pretty technical chemical knowledge, such that no average reader could have been expected to ever solve it. Still, quite intriguing. And the final twist of bringing it right back around to the original suspect was a nice touch.

[kalliegrace · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I liked this one but I don't think it will be a favorite. Poirot is indeed a cheeky little man, always scattering facts about and never connecting them for anyone until the end. The commentary by Hastings is hilarious, as he obviously thinks himself far smarter and more astute that Poirot most of the time, but still asks him for help and begs him for explanations.

[charlie68_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The novel that introduced Agatha Christie and the enigmatic Monsieur Poirot. Fun, intriguing and convoluted but a great way to spend a few hours.

[lauraklemme · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The Mysterious Affair at Styles: A Hercule Poirot Mystery (Hercule Poirot Mysteries Book 1) is where it all began for Agatha Christie’s beloved character, Hercule Poirot. It is obvious that Poirot is influenced and similar to Sherlock Holmes in that they share certain characteristics such as being a somewhat eccentric yet brilliant detective, a master at observation, a respected consultant to Scotland Yard, and has a loyal but somewhat slow sidekick. For Holmes, it is Watson; for Poirot, it is Hastings.

The Introduction, written by the Agatha Christie scholar, John Curran provides historical context to what led up to this book’s publication. The Mysterious Affair at Styles (1921) is Christie’s first published novel and she used the shortened name, A. M. Christie to disguise the fact that she was female to avoid bias. She was assumed to be male and referred to as “Mr Christie”. When Christie submitted the completed manuscript to her publisher, he wanted her to change the ending to what he thought was more believable. She first wrote the ending in a courtroom setting, where the facts were summarized and led to the final reveal of the murderer. Based on this request for revision, Christie changed the ending to have the confrontation and reveal in the parlor room at Styles, which became her signature style of concluding the mystery.

Beginning with her first book, Christie’s signature style of introducing characters and having all of them, one by one, seem to have secrets and suspicious activity, lead you to guessing ‘who dunnit’. Remarkably, this format was highly developed from the very first book. Christie wrote over 33 novels with Poirot as the main character.

Christie kept extensive notes so the original, unpublished version with the alternative ending was found. As a special treat, this edition of The Mysterious Affair at Styles includes both versions of the endings - the parlor room and courtroom reveal.

Christie fondly dedicated this book “To my mother”.

I am a huge fan of Agatha Christie and find her style of mysteries to be delightful. The characters Poirot and Hastings are an excellent pair. I would highly recommend reading this first in the Poirot series if you enjoy Agatha Christie novels.

There is a companion Amazon audiobook that matches the Kindle version (Narrator: James Langton).

[muumuumousie · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I was delighted to go back and read this, the first of the Hercule Poirot novels. Goodreads lists this as Agatha Christie's debut novel, and it's easy to see here many of the elements that her readers have come to know and love: Delightful characters, a charming setting, a twisty plot, and—of course!—a sense of fun. Hercule Poirot is a joy, as always. I am deducting a star because she has a tell; there is one easy way to pick out the killer right from the start, and it works in almost every Christie book I've read so far. It worked here. I hadn't solved anything, but I could still tell right off whodunit. I don't really mind, though, since this book was so much fun.

[kgabriel-863860 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I was pleased to find out that this was the first Poirot. Admittedly, would have been better in print. Very much past its best buy date (some nasty racial references). Putting those aside, it made me laugh out loud. From this distance it has a feel of heavy handed camp and I enjoyed it.

[kurtwombat · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Ah, beginnings. This first Agatha Christie novel feels more like a sketch than a painting—it’s an Agatha Christie novel but not everything is there yet. Some of the writing is a little forced, the characters are thin or extreme, and there is a lot of magical hand waving to try and distract from an overly complicated plot. Then there’s Hastings—the outsider, reader stand-in and human misdirection machine—who becomes quite tiresome. How can Hastings hold Poirot in the highest esteem when the novel begins but immediately doubt everything he says—almost before he says it. However, meeting Hercule Poirot is worth the bother of the rest of the novel. Indefatigable and charming, Poirot is a delight and gives this novel the breath it needs—opening the windows on this stuffy house of a mystery.

[nancyina2 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The story is fun, but the narrator, Melissa Clifford, isn't very good.

[usuallee · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Enjoyable puzzle.

[pgchuis · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I seem to have left a sufficient number of decades since my first reading of this novel to remember absolutely nothing about it. This was enjoyable for the Poirot/Hastings relationship even more than for the complex plot.

[quondame · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Archetypal Brits in Big House* mystery with more lace on its plot ruffles than any Victorian frock. If a single cast member other than HP showed a bit of personality it was obscured by Hastings putridly narrow point of view.
As I've enjoyed the BBC dramatizations of Christie's mysteries, she must have done better than this piece which only serves as a test run of her detective and ability to add lace to ruffles. The relentless joke of Hasting's dim wit was not even funny once.

*I despise BiBH dramas with characters having nothing to recommend them by way of accomplishments or interests.

[pmtracy · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Quick, fun read. I forgot how entertaining Christie can be though the facts of this case were far more obscure than I remember from other Poirot novels.

[slmr4242 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A fun read...Poirot is delightful.

[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

[danielstj · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

This was absolute trash. It was my first Christie book and, judging by how bad it was, it is most likely my last. It left a bad taste in my literary palate. It is completely devoid of interest and engaging prose. VERY bad. DO NOT RECOMMEND.

[addunn3 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

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

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

Very enjoyable debut of both Christie and Poirot.

[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.

[chellebearss · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is the first time I have picked up an Agatha Christie novel and I'm wondering what took me so long?!
This was her debut novel introducing Hercule Poirot and it was a great read. It had all the characteristics of a good murder mystery and I especially enjoyed that Hercule gave the reader all the same clues that he had and left it up to the reader to figure out, if they can. I thought I had it figured out and then they threw me for a loop! I will check out more from this series!

[sianpr · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

First outing for Hercule Poirot narrated by Hastings, his side-kick. This has all the classic Christie characters with taut plotting but the unpalatable nature of class and race relations did not leave me wanting to pick up another Agatha Christie in a hurry.

[dh1writer · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

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

[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

[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.

[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.