After the Funeral (Hercule Poirot, #33)

by Agatha Christie

Such a fool, Cora. Always had been. Rushing in where angels fear to tread . . . Blurting out unpleasant truths . . . Truths!

and there was something curiously impenetrable about black eyes. They concealed the thoughts that lay behind them.

His stomach was pleasantly rounded, his head resembled an egg in shape, and his moustaches curved upwards in a flamboyant flourish.

everyone has something to hide.