I love rainy nights.
Nights when the wind is up, when I can listen to the thunder and smell the rain and watch the sky light up on the horizon. Colorado is, unfortunately, not known for its thunderstorms, but we do have them.
Once or twice a year.
Or every other year.
I’m thinking about moving. Any suggestions for a house in the woods, smack in the middle of the country, where thunderstorms come through regularly?
Let me know.
When we do have a rainy night, my favorite thing to do is to wrap up in a cozy blanket on my couch, brew a cup of tea, and cuddle with my kitty while I read. And what better book to have on hand for that sort of night than an Agatha Christie novel?
I will admit right now, I have avoided anything written by Agatha Christie for years. I bought a few of her books some years back, and they gathered dust on my shelves. I’d seen one or two shows based on her Hercule Poirot novels, hadn’t found them particularly interesting and decided that whatever kind of books she’d written, they weren’t for me.
Then, last year, I read And Then There Were None.
Instantly, I was hooked.
The simple style, the almost breathtaking suspense, and, of course, the mystery in her books captured my attention immediately, and I began to devour as many of them as I could find. Including Death on the Nile.
Right off the bat, I loved reading this book. The exotic surroundings and vibrant characters made it a fascinating—and quick—read. I very quickly fell in love with Hercule Poirot and his eccentric style. As a detective, he is brilliant, subtle, and wonderfully full of himself. As a person, he is quirky and compassionate, an interesting combination for the type of work he is in.
And yet, it really is the characters that revolve around him that made the story. The lovely heiress, Linnet Doyle, her simple and handsome husband, Simon, his former lover, and a myriad of others created a whirl of suspicion and intrigue for what was supposed to be a relaxing cruise down the Nile.
My favorite thing about Agatha Christie is the wealth of fascinating characters she has at her fingertips. Not one of her books is comprised of cardboard cutouts stuffed into the pages, but I think that the men and women in Death on the Nile may be her most brilliant set. They are charming, conniving, each with their own stories, their own issues, their own secrets. Reading this book was a pleasure, as once again I found myself almost unable to set it down. If you are a fan of mysteries—and some romance, for what is Hercule Poirot but a romantic—than I would definitely suggest you pick this book up the next time you are at a library or bookshop.
“My dear Monsieur Poirot—how can I put it? It’s like the moon when the sun comes out. You don’t know it’s there anymore. When once I’d met Linnet—Jackie didn’t exist.”