Library book sales are a good thing. I picked up The Mystery of the Blue Train, by Agatha Christie, at our library’s bag sale last month, and then just days later discovered that the radio play version of it cast someone other than John Moffatt as Poirot. Words are insufficent to describe just how wrong the actor was, so we’ll just move right on to the book itself, which I picked up after I turned the radio play off to protect my poor innocent brain.
(I am, I should note, just a little sleep-deprived.)
Anyway. A sensible woman has just inherited a lot of money unexpectedly and decided to go to France. She meets an arrogant, unhappy rich woman who’s threatening to divorce her husband. When the rich woman is strangled, the sensible woman finds herself helping Poirot solve the mystery, with some unconvincing romance along the way.
I immediately suspected the correct person when listening to the radio play, but didn’t work out, when reading the book, how that suspicion translated to the solution. Of course, the solution strikes me as pretty far-fetched, but I just don’t have time to work out mystery solutions in books, because I’m reading fast enough to occupy all of my conscious mind.