Again a novel without Captain Hastings. In fact the “Three Act Tragedy” barely features Hercule Poirot until the 5th chapter or so.

This is a novel where the victims take charge of the matters and try to find out for themselves who is the criminal. And lets say that the victims are not that slow on the uptake and manage to find more clues than the police.

When a clergyman dies at a dinner party thrown by stage actor Sir Charles Cartwright, it is thought by nearly everyone (Poirot included) to be an accidental death. Shortly afterwards, however, a second death in suspiciously similar circumstances and with many of the same people present puts both Poirot and a team of sleuths on the trail of a poisoner whose motive is not clear.

The novel starts with a party and ends with a broken heart from the lady that pushes to have the murders solved. It’s quite a sad story on many levels. For instance, I will never understand the fascination of women with older men. OK, I have favorite actors that are pretty old and yet still look amazing for their age; for example Hugh Jackman, Patrick Wilson, and my all time fav Keannu Reeves. But one thing is admiring from a distance and the other one is to marry them.

I always believed age is a big factor is someone happiness. And that what we see on the screen does not come even close to what happens in real life. I like my actors, they seem really nice but this is from a distance. But I’m sure that if I ever ran into them (I doubt that will ever happen) all the illusions of their personality will crumble.

Also this novel, presents the love of a 20 year old woman for a 55 year old actor like its something normal, actually more normal than marring the young and rich friend. I seriously cannot see this as a normal thing.

I don’t think I’m old in my thinking but old people are ..old. They have sagging skin, they do not have the energy that young people have and most of them have a very different mentality from the new generation. I know that I will get old as well and my mind will probably become a lot slower, but at least I’ll get old at the same time with someone dear to me. And we’ll both be on the same page.

This sounds really harsh, but it is the truth.

The other sad thing is that we only get to see the genius of Hercule Poirot in the last chapter and even then, everything is explained very simply and briefly.

I can’t say that I am disappointed by this novel, cause I’m not. It was interesting and fun to find out who did it, but it’s just sad to think that even then there were girls that instead of picking the right guy they end up with the worst possible man.