Sheila Webb expected to find a respectable blind lady waiting for her at 19 Wilbraham Crescent - not the body of a middle-aged man sprawled across the living room floor. But when old Miss Pebmarsh denies sending for her in the first place, or of owning all the clocks that surround the body, it's clear that they are going to need a very good detective.
"This crime is so complicated that it must be quite simple," declares Hercule Poirot. But there's a murderer on the loose, and time is ticking away.
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Too little of Poirot
The thing about this book is that it drags a little. And there's really very little of Hercule Poirot in it. Hugh Frasier is very good. His Poirot is almost indistinguishable from David Suchet's, probably from all those years playing opposite each other in the movies.
Not that I would dare to think I could improve on Christie, but in this instance I felt it could have moved a lot faster, and I felt that the central character - who was not actually Poirot, so calling it a Hercules Poirot mystery is misleading - was not as worldy as he was supposed to be. In fact, he felt rather flat. I just didn't care what happened with him.
Excellent in every way
- J. Norton "O. F."