Three Act Tragedy, Hercule Poirot's Christmas and Curtain: Poirot's Last Case by Agatha Christie

Exactly what it is about Agatha Christie that I love so much is, well, a mystery (PUN I), and one which I will now turn my attentions to solving in a very non-Christie kind of fashion.

Based on approximately zero detective work, I think the attraction is 3 fold:
1. I love the incredibly well described inanity of the 2 dimensional, caricature-like characters;
2. I love the order that reigns throughout, be it social order, or just the order in which the books themsleves unfold, or the orderly way everything is tied up at the end; and
3. I love that I never bother trying to outwit the story, I'm happy to be as bamboozled as the police and let Hercule or Jane explain everything to me at the end. Ignorance = bliss.

More than anything though, what I reall, really love, is the genius way Christie probes social norms, interrogates stigma and brings out, in such delicate ways, the prejudice of her times. It's masterful. For example: Having outfoxed the murderer of Sir Bartholomew Strange (yes, that's right: Sir B Strange the distinguished Harley Street nerve specialist) in Three Act Tragedy, Poirot is engaged in an illuminating dialogue: "Why do you sometimes speak perfectly good English and at other times not?", asks one of the few people left standing at the end of the novel.

'Poirot laughed. "Ah, I will explain. It is true that I can speak the exact, the idiomatic English. But, my friend, to speak the broken English is an enormous asset. It leads people to despise you. The say 'A foreigner? He can't even speak English properly.' It is not my policy to terrify people - instead I invite their gentle ridicule. Also I boast! An Englishman he says often 'A fellow who thinks as much of himself as that cannot be worth much'. That is the English point of view. It is not at all true. And so, you see, I put people off their guard. Besides", he added, 'it has become a habit."'

See? She mercilessly takes the piss out of everyone. Genius. Foreigner = retard = can sneak around the place gettin' all up in peoples' business and solving murders and shit. Likewise the spinster: what the hell would that undersexed, bespectacled old lady know? EVERYTHING, bitches.

And with all this, there are moustaches, and characters with names like 'Boyd Carrington'.

Poirot isn't my favourite, but he was excellent company this festive season. Thanks, old chap.