By Sophie Hannah; William Morrow, August 2018
I usually view revivals of old book series by new authors with trepidation. A little bit of writer’s ego is involved; I don’t know of any author that would want to admit that another might be able to seamlessly take their place in the creation of their simulated worlds. But, to be honest, very rarely have I found that books like these ever really capture the essence, the atmosphere, of their original authors. While imitation might be the sincerest form of flattery, it is usually not the highest form of literature – and, unfortunately, such is the case with The Mystery of Three Quarters, the novel by Sophie Hannah that delves into the realm of Agatha Christie and the world of Hercule Poirot, her infamous Belgian detective.
As a person who has read virtually everything Agatha Christie ever wrote, I was eager to see whether or not Hannah could capture the spirit of Christie’s persnickety gumshoe and his “little grey cells.” The premise seemed promising: four separate individuals receive letters from someone claiming to be Hercule Poirot accusing them of murdering Barnabas Pandy; a man whom, to everyone’s knowledge, had accidentally drowned in his own bathtub. When the individuals confront Poirot, protesting their innocence, he is drawn into the myriad of questions surrounding both the letters and their origin, as well as why anyone would assume Pandy’s death a murder.
Most of the usual suspects in Poirot’s world – Captain Hastings, Miss Lemon, Inspector Japp – all are missing in Three Quarters. In their place is Inspector Edward Catchpool with Scotland Yard; the narrator of the story and an engaging enough character, albeit in a generic sort of way. Catchpool would be a fine placeholder for Captain Hastings (who, to be honest, was a bit of a generic character himself), if Hannah’s Poirot was the same as Christie’s Poirot. Unfortunately, though, this is not the case. Reading Three Quarters is like seeing an old friend after a long separation and finding them older, a little duller, and somewhat diminished. Historically, Poirot was an enigmatic character; reposed, rarely unsure, and never exposing his thought processes until the penultimate moment. This Poirot does not possess any of these qualities; he seems fussy and unsure, stumbling upon solutions as if by accident, and with an inner (and somewhat outer) monologue that takes away from his previous mystique. Frankly, I would prefer to keep my memories of my old friend as they were; the alternative is a bit too depressing.
