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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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 “After all,” murmured Poirot, “it is possible that I shall not die this time.”

 

While it was clear that the woman herself could not have committed the crime, since at the moment the shot was fired Mrs. Havering was with her in the hall, nevertheless she must have some connection with the murder, or why should she suddenly take to her heels and bolt?

 

I sat down and wrote a minute and lengthy account to Poirot. I was able to add various further items of information before I posted the letter.

 

She handed me the bit of pasteboard. “‘Hon. Roger Havering,’” I read.

 

“I’ve seen your good lady, sir—and the housekeeper. I wont keep you a moment, but I’m anxious to get back to the village now that I’ve seen all there is to see here.”

 

“She looks so different,” I replied rather feebly.

 

“Her name is Stella,” I said stiffly, “but I don’t see——”

 

“I got some news from my lawyers that detained me,” explained the young man. “My old uncle in Scotland died unexpectedly and left me some money. Under the circumstances I thought it better to cancel my passage. Then I saw this bad news in the paper and I came down to see if there was anything I could do. You’ll want some one to look after things for you a bit perhaps.”

 

“Certainly. The police have finished with it. But the body has been removed.”

 

“I was just going to turn on the other light,” she said, “when a man sprang on me from behind. He tore my necklace from my neck with such force that I fell headlong to the floor. As I fell I saw him disappearing through the side door. Then I realized by the pig-tail and the embroidered robe that he was a Chinaman.” She stopped with a shudder.

 

“It seems so queer, and yet I am almost sure. I will tell you. On the morning of the day M. Renauld was murdered, I was walking in the garden here, when I heard a sound of men’s voices quarrelling. I pushed aside the bushes and looked through. One of the men was M. Renauld and the other was a tramp, a dreadful looking creature in filthy rags. He was alternately whining and threatening. I gathered he was asking for money, but at that moment maman called me from the house, and I had to go. That is all, only—I am almost sure that the tramp and the dead man in the shed are one and the same.”

 

My heart gave a sickening throb. She had come then! All my efforts were in vain. Yet I could not but admire the courage that had led her to take this step so unfalteringly.

 

“I should like to assure myself that all goes well with Jack Renauld. Come with me, Hastings. Mademoiselle will perhaps remain outside. Madame Daubreuil might say something which would wound her.”

 

“No,” she said. “I have never seen him in my life. He is quite a stranger to me.”

 

Poirot paused, cleared his throat, and signed to me to write.

 

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