The Mysterious Affair At Styles, by Agatha Christie

Got it yesterday, sat up late to finish reading it, loved it, loved it. But then, I am already a big fan of Agatha Christie's writing, so perhaps it would be more helpful to break this review up into two parts, to wit, A.C. in general, and this book in particular.

I love reading books by A.C. Despite the proliferation of her books (usually a good sign that the author has long run dry of creativity and is simply churning out books to keep the money flowing in), she maintains a strong showing, with good quality narrative, witty dialogue, and fairly fresh characters and plots. True, you do get to recognise a few familiar stock characters (the plucky young girl, the aimless young man who turns out to be really a decent chap, the gruff old soldier type), but you like them anyway because they really work. I think my favourite A.C. books are The Secret of Chimneys, and all the Tommy and Tuppence stories.

I am almost always completely blindsided by the final twist that leads to the unraveling of the whodunnit. Perhaps, with a bit of thoughtful deduction, I might put the clues together to better purpose and hit a bit closer to the truth on my own. But I am always so engrossed toward the end of the book that my one goal is to readreadREAD as fast as possible so as to uncover the mystery. Hence, surprise.

The books span quite an era, from pre-war Britain to the postmodern '60s. It's interesting to read about quiet little village life, bustling London life, and everything in between. Train schedules, servants, and local vicarages play a prominent role in most of these stories, which is quaint and charming.

As far as this book goes, while I thoroughly enjoyed reading it, I certainly wouldn't consider it one of her strongest. There were a couple of things that struck me as either sloppy, rushed, or careless in the plot. For one thing, the spy angle kind of dropped off the plot, once that sensation had played merry havoc with the characters. In fact, there was the alleged spy himself, giving evidence at the London trial months later, none the worse for wear, we presume. That seemed a bit anticlimactic. For another thing, the lag in plot time between the initial events and the London trial seemed rather forced. There we were, a few months later, with not even asterisks to show for all the time lapsed. For another thing, it seemed rather odd that the intrigue with Mrs. Raikes was such an inscrutable rabbit trail to the detectives the whole time. If the WHOLE VILLAGE knew what was really going on, you'd think that Poirot or Hastings might have happened to catch a bit of the village gossip on their own, instead of getting it all second-hand from the servants. In fact, the villagers really come into the story very little.

For the final thing, which is the only reason the Hercule Poirot stories are not my favourites, you simply don't have enough information to unravel the mystery because that annoying H.P. insists on keeping things to himself. Supposedly he does this to teach his rather slow friend Hastings his little grey method, but stolid Hastings himself is enough to drive me crazy. 'I could see he knew the answer, but my wonded pride forbade me from pressing him further.' Yeah, well, the silent treatment hurts most the one practising it. Hang the pride, just TELL me already!!

But the mystery was solidly done, and I was properly flabbergasted at the end, having gamely followed up all the rabbit trails and red herrings the author so temptingly dangled before me. No, wait, some of the things I saw through, but only because Hastings made such a big deal over it. As soon as Hastings gets an idea in his head, I can pretty much dismiss it out of hand.

Another thing I love about the A.C. books, which also came off well in this one, is the handling of relationships. There generally is a love affair or two, and with few exceptions these things generally come off well in the end, with generally well-behaved principals in the meantime. These are very clean, wholesome books.

Fun stuff!