I am normally hopeless at deducing the person ‘whodunit’.

So much so, that I don’t even try any more.

I am content to wait – indeed, to relax – until Poirot, or his equivalent, is ready to gather the family around the fireside and deliver his pronouncement.

But in the past couple of weeks I made a concerted effort to change this state of affairs. I chose ‘After the Funeral’, by Agatha Christie.

I kept assiduous notes, marking down against each suspect anything that might relate to motive, opportunity, lack of alibi and suspicious behaviour. I collected 102 pieces of evidence!

And – eureka! Three-quarters of the way through the book, it came to me.

(Curiously, the apparent culprit was not on my list of suspects!)

This put me on tenterhooks for the remainder of the novel.

Having invested a ton of effort – and more than a pinch of professional pride – I did not want to be wrong.

And what does Ms. Christie do? She throws in a couple of curved balls right at the death. She had me doubting my judgement.

So it was quite a relief when Monsieur Poirot put me out of my misery. (I did get it right – though for the life of me I could not work out the motive!)

The upside? Satisfaction.

The downside? Anxiety.

On balance? I’m undecided! It created a challenge – but I’m not sure I could muster the discipline to do it every time.

Finally, it left me with even greater admiration for Agatha. Though her writing in this novel is as endearingly clunky as ever, the mystery she contrives is as endearingly masterful as ever.