I´m only two chapters in, but it´s pretty clear from the get go that someone else than Agatha Christie has written this book. Compared to Christie´s Poirot books, this one is incredibly wordy.
This might be because it is told from the perspective of a Scotland Yard detective named Catchpoole, who acts as a sort of side kick to Poirot in this book. In short, he is a wannabe Hastings, who has a mental breakdown of sorts over a murder scene. A murder, which I don´t think was that bad to lay ones eyes upon. Well, who knows? He might have some sceletons in the closet.
I haven´t found to many flaws in the character of Poirot yet, although him fussing about the cutlery on the table gives him the appearance of suffering from OCD. I never fought of his quirks and antics in this way. And I don´t think that I can get on board with it.
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