Book review: Three Act Tragedy by Agatha Christie

Three Act Tragedy by Agatha Christie

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I read all of Agatha Christie’s work between the ages of 8 and 13, and then re-read a good chunk of it over the years as well as watched countless productions for television and the big screen. Yes, Agatha Christie is pure kitsch; but I find her so comforting and easy to read – a sort of “Anne of Green Gables” with corpses – that I can’t help returning whenever I want something quick to clean my palate between large reads.

Although I knew who’ddunit for this cosy mystery, I couldn’t remember why. The pleasure of reading Christie in my old age is paying attention on how she crafted her chapters and placed red herrings, as well as spotting the politically incorrect that pours out of the cast of posh suspects. (For this novel, published in 1934, there’s a dark and troubled-looking young man who’s Jewish, considered an inappropriate suitor for the heroine, and even called a “sly Shylock” at one point.)

Renowned stage actor Sir Charles Cartwright moves to a cottage in Cornwall and throws a cocktail party, where the local vicar – a cuddly, lovable type with no enemies – drops dead. Belgian sleuth Hercule Poirot happens to be present and the rest is standard Christie: a cast of suspects, poison, people that know too much, people that know too little, clues that mean nothing, and throw away sentences that mean everything, leading up to Poirot’s illuminating final monologue.

View all my reviews