Dear Ms Christie…

When we were first married, and before the offspring arrived and used up our money, the Old Boy and I lashed out and bought the Agatha Christie collection. That’s right: all her stories gathered together in a delightful, hard-cover set. Not realising we were immediately reducing the value to “just another lot of old books”, we got rid of the dreadful plain white paper dust-jackets. The black hard covers, with gold and red trim, looked smart, sophisticated and – yes, I’ll say it – had a semi-academic je ne sais quoi air about them as they perched on our bookshelves. Dear “fluffy” Miss Marples is all lace, lavender and buttery cup-cakes until she figures out you’re the murderer and then watch out! Monsieur...

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