Mary’s husband burst into the house, panicked and out of breath. “Darling come quick, we’re leaving town. Poirot’s staying at the hotel!”

“Poirot? The detective?” She frowned, “Good heavens what have you done?”

“Nothing! But I’m not waiting around to be his next case; death follows at that man’s heels!”


A mini-saga in honour of everyone’s favourite Belgian detective; he’s been helping me procrastinate of late. I actually had this though a few years ago about Jessica Fletcher from Murder She Wrote. I imagined a wife telling her husband she’d invited her over:

“Oh, did I tell you? I invited Jessica Fletcher to stay, you know the writer?”

“Jessica Fletcher? You must be mad! Wherever she goes someone dies!”

I always thought it’d be a good final twist if it turned out it was her doing all the murders and then framing other people so she could write about it later. Anyway, I like Poirot better (it’s the moustache!) so he gets to be my subject today…


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