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Bless my library and its sporadically reliable audiobook collection. I might be in the third month of waiting for my turn to download The Glass Castle, but at least I can always count on there being at least one Agatha Christie mystery to tide me over while I wait.

I chose Peril at End House because its premise sounded the most promising: while on vacation on the coast of England, Hercule Poirot meets Magdala “Nick�� Buckly, an heiress who’s had a handful of miraculous and suspicious brushes with death. Poirot suspects that someone is trying to kill Nick, and agrees to take her case. Along for the ride is the closest thing to a Watson Poirot will ever have (Poirot’s ridiculous ego would never allow him to fully share cases and credit the way Sherlock does with Watson), Hastings. Having read a few mysteries like this one, where Poirot has a sort-of assistant on the case, I think I prefer them over the solo Poirot investigations. Agatha Christie sometimes falls into the bad mystery novel trap of having her detective withhold information from other characters (and, therefore, the reader) in order to draw out the suspense for a few more chapters. Poirot doesn’t like to explain his thought process during an investigation, preferring to do the usual theatrical Accusations in the Parlor routine at the end of the book, so it’s helpful that he has Hastings following him around and occasionally asking clarifying questions about his process. I like mystery stories where the reader can feel like they’re solving the case alongside the detective, and even though Poirot does save some big bombshells for the final reveal, there’s at least a little transparency here.

That being said, the mystery definitely isn’t as satisfying as some of Christie’s greatest hits. There’s a subplot involving an Australian couple renting a house on Nick’s land, and it honestly felt more like padding than anything else. (Also Christie does a very clumsy and very un-Christie-like thing early in the novel where she has Poirot remark that, hmm, that couple sure seems suspicious. So then I was suspicious of them for the rest of the book, and it turned out that (view spoiler)[yes, they were indeed Up To Something the whole time, which I never would have noticed if Christie hadn’t drawn my attention to it in the first place (hide spoiler)]).

Also there’s a cocaine subplot, because no story of rich bored Bright Young Things would be complete without some cocaine floating around. The subplot doesn’t amount to much, which was frustrating for me �� like, jeez Agatha, if you’re gonna do a cocaine smuggling subplot, do a cocaine smuggling subplot. Go big or go home.

Basically, everything in this book was half-assed. There’s cocaine, abusive husbands, con artists, sketchy servants, poisonings �� and none of these plots really get the attention they deserve. The whole book, ultimately, felt very rushed, like Christie was in a hurry to just get to the end and cash her check. Also, Poirot strays just a little too far into Pompous Asshole territory in this one, and I did not care for that.

It’s been a while since I read a Hercule Poirot mystery (I re-read Murder on the Orient Express recently, but that was mainly to get the taste of that god-awful Kenneth Brannaugh version out of my memory), and I knew, going into this, that I’d always preferred Poirot over Miss Marple. But, having finished Peril at End House, I’m having a hard time remembering why. Poirot is pretty downright insufferable in this one, and also shows an unpleasantly cruel streak that I don’t remember seeing before.

Hastings mentions to another character at one point that actually, Poirot has had plenty of failed case, including one involving a box of chocolates, and he tells the other character that Poirot has told him that if his ego ever gets too big, all Hastings has to do is say “chocolate box�� and Poirot will remember to be humble. So honestly, it’s a wonder that Hastings isn’t shouting CHOCOLATE BOX at Poirot every other page, because his ego is out of control in this one. Like, at one point he decides that Nick, who has survived multiple attempts on her life, is perfectly safe thanks to the precautions that Poirot has set up, and he and Hastings are free to hop off to London for a few days to take a break. So of course while they’re gone, someone tries to poison Nick, and Poirot is like, “Oh la la, Hastings, why did I leave? Why did I leave?�� like someone else convinced him to do it. Chocolate box, Hercule.

And in possibly his worst moment in any Christie book I’ve read so far, Poirot allows the culprit (view spoiler)[to commit suicide after being caught. So the person gets caught and leaves the room (they killed somebody but whatevs, nobody needs to like restrain them or call the police or anything, this is England and we don’t make a fuss about murder, dammit) and then another character is like, my god! They have enough cocaine with them to overdose! And Poirot basically shrugs and does nothing to stop it. (hide spoiler)]

All I could think about was the end of Busman’s Honeymoon, when the criminal that Peter Wimsey caught is scheduled to be hanged. The culprit did it, stood trial, and is being appropriately punished, but Peter is still so upset by the role he played in sending this person to their death that he has to be consoled by his wife. I loved that scene, because it brought up an element of detective fiction that often gets glossed over �� at the end of the day, a detective’s job is to send someone to jail, and sometimes to their execution. This takes an emotional toll on the detective, as it should.

Anyway, Hercule is like the polar opposite of that �� solving mysteries has no human element whatsoever to him; they’re purely logic puzzles that he does first and foremost for his own amusement. And I don’t find that nearly as charming as I used to.