After the Funeral (Hercule Poirot, #33)

by Agatha Christie

“One reads about them, of course,” said Miss Gilchrist, relegating crimes to their proper sphere. “And even that I’m not very fond of doing. So sordid, most of them.”

Perhaps an adolescent—they’re so queer at that age sometimes—especially if they’re the neurotic arty type.

“It all seems so stupid.” Should murder make sense? Mr. Entwhistle wondered. Academically the answer was yes. But many pointless crimes were on record. It depended, Mr. Entwhistle reflected, on the mentality of the murderer.

The question came out with unconscious pathos. Susan felt suddenly stricken. She realized the desperation of this pleasant-spoken commonplace woman who was dependent for existence on the fears and whims of employers.

what is it that the police prefer?” “I would suggest beer, sir.” “How horrible! But how British. Bring beer, then.”

“No. Beauty culture. Herbal preparations. Face creams!” “The full racket?” “The racket as before. It pays. It always pays. What you need to put it over is personality. I can do it.”

“It’s a waste of time—having regrets.”

“The time has come to tell you all.” Inspector Morton grinned. “You sound like a young lady in a Victorian melodrama.