M. Poirot spends a great deal of this book worrying that he is too old. A young woman barges into his house one morning, seeking his help, until she actually meets him. Once she has laid eyes on him, she pronounces him too old to assist her. Thank goodness Poirot has Ariadne Oliver to boost his confidence and get him on the trail of this unidentified young woman, who may have committed a murder.
I had to wonder—Christie was in her mid-seventies when this was published, and I wonder if someone had suggested to her that she was too old to still be writing? Or was she in full self-doubt mode? It has been suggested that her last novels were adversely affected by the onset of dementia and I wonder if decline was on her mind as she penned this novel.
However, I found this book quite up to snuff. I had just begun to catch on to what was going on when all was revealed. I must confess to quite liking the psychiatrist, although I did wonder why he wanted to move to Australia. At any rate, if Christie was fighting with self doubt, I assume that she, like Poirot, came out of this book with self-esteem intact.
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