Agatha Christie - The Mystery of Three Quarters - The New Hercule Poirot Mystery

HarperCollins Publishers

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First published by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

The Mystery of Three Quarters ™ is a trade mark of Agatha Christie Limited, the Agatha Christie Monogram Logo and the Poirot Icon are trade marks and Agatha Christie®, Poirot® and the Agatha Christie Signature are registered trade marks of Agatha Christie Limited in the UK and elsewhere.

Copyright © Agatha Christie Limited 2018

All rights reserved.

www.agathachristie.com

Sophie Hannah asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018

Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008264451

Ebook Edition © August 2018 ISBN: 9780008264475

Version: 2018-09-21

For Faith Tilleray,

who has gone above and beyond,

and taught me so much

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

The First Quarter

Chapter 1: Poirot is Accused

Chapter 2: Intolerable Provocation

Chapter 3: The Third Person

Chapter 4: The Odd One Out?

Chapter 5: A Letter with a Hole in it

Chapter 6: Rowland Rope

Chapter 7: An Old Enemy

Chapter 8: Poirot Issues Some Instructions

Chapter 9: Four Alibis

The Second Quarter

Chapter 10: Some Important Questions

Chapter 11: Emerald Green

Chapter 12: Many Ruined Alibis

Chapter 13: The Hooks

Chapter 14: At Combingham Hall

Chapter 15: The Scene of the Possible Crime

Chapter 16: The Opportunity Man

Chapter 17: Poirot’s Trick

Chapter 18: Mrs Dockerill’s Discovery

Chapter 19: Four More Letters

The Third Quarter

Chapter 20: The Letters Arrive

Chapter 21: The Day of the Typewriters

Chapter 22: The Solitary Yellow Square of Cake

Chapter 23: Meaning Harm

Chapter 24: Ancient Enmities

Chapter 25: Poirot Returns to Combingham Hall

Chapter 26: The Typewriter Experiment

Chapter 27: The Bracelet and the Fan

Chapter 28: An Unconvincing Confession

Chapter 29: An Unexpected Eel

Chapter 30: The Mystery of Three Quarters

The Fourth Quarter

Chapter 31: A Note for Mr Porrott

Chapter 32: Where Is Kingsbury?

Chapter 33: The Marks on the Towel

Chapter 34: Rebecca Grace

Chapter 35: Family Loyalty

Chapter 36: The True Culprit

Chapter 37: The Will

Chapter 38: Rowland Without a Rope

Chapter 39: A New Typewriter

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Authors

Also by Sophie Hannah

About the Publisher

Hercule Poirot smiled to himself as his driver brought the motorcar to a stop with satisfying symmetry. As a lover of neatness and order, Poirot appreciated such perfect alignment with the entrance doors of Whitehaven Mansions where he lived. One could draw a straight line from the middle of the vehicle to the exact point where the doors met.

The luncheon from which he was returning had been très bon divertissement : the most excellent of food and company . He alighted, bestowed a warm thank-you upon his driver, and was about to go inside when he had a peculiar feeling that (this was how he put it to himself) something behind him was in need of his attention.

He expected, on turning, to observe nothing out of the ordinary. It was a mild day for February, but perhaps a light breeze had put a tremor in the air around him.

Poirot soon saw that the disturbance had not been caused by the weather, though the well-turned-out woman approaching at a great pace did, in spite of her fashionable pale blue coat and hat, resemble a force of nature. ‘She is the whirlwind most fierce,’ Poirot murmured to himself.

He disliked the hat. He had seen women in town wearing similar ones: minimal, without ornament, fitted close to the scalp like bathing caps made of cloth. A hat ought to have a brim or some manner of embellishment, thought Poirot. At least, it should do something more than cover the head. No doubt he would soon get used to these modern hats—and then, once he had, the fashion would change as it always did.

The blue-clad woman’s lips twitched and curled, though no sound came from her. It was as if she was rehearsing what she would say when she finally reached Poirot’s side. There was no doubt that he was her target. She looked determined to do something unpleasant to him as soon as she was close enough. He took a step back as she marched towards him in what he could only think of as a stampede—one consisting of nothing and nobody but herself.

Her hair was dark brown and lustrous. When she came to an abrupt halt directly in front of him, Poirot saw that she was not as young as she had looked from a distance. No, this woman was more than fifty years old. She was perhaps sixty. A lady in her middle age, expert at concealing the lines on her face. Her eyes were a striking blue, neither light nor dark.

‘You are Hercule Poirot, are you not?’ she said in the loudest of whispers. Poirot noted that she wished to convey anger but without being overheard, though there was nobody nearby.

‘ Oui , madame. I am he.’

‘How dare you? How dare you send me such a letter?’

‘Madame, pardon me, but I do not believe we know one another.’

‘Don’t act the part of the innocent with me ! I am Sylvia Rule. As you know perfectly well.’

‘Now I know, because you have told me. A moment ago, I did not know. You referred to a letter—’

‘Will you force me to repeat your slander of me in a public place? Very well, then, I shall. I received a letter this morning—a most disgusting and objectionable letter, signed by you .’ She stabbed the air with a forefinger that would have poked Poirot in the chest had he not hopped to one side to avoid it.

‘ Non , madame—’ he tried to protest, but his attempt at denial was swiftly demolished.

‘In this travesty of a letter, you accused me of murder. Murder! Me! Sylvia Rule! You claimed that you could prove my guilt, and you advised me to go at once to the police and confess to my crime. How dare you? You cannot prove anything against me, for the simple reason that I am innocent. I have not killed anybody. I am the least violently inclined person I have ever met. And I have never heard of a Barnabas Pandy!’