Mr. Shaitana is famous as a flamboyant party host. Nevertheless, he is a man of whom everybody is a little afraid. So when he boasts to Hercule Poirot that he considers murder an art form, the detective has some reservations about accepting a party invitation to view Shaitana's "private collection". Indeed, what begins as an absorbing evening of bridge is to turn into a more dangerous game altogether.

When Hercule Poirot, a well-known inspector and an eccentric, but very likable, Belgian refugee from the Great War, discovers that Emily Inglethorp, his wealthy benefactress who helped him through his new life, has been found dead, poisoned with strychnine, he sets out to solve the crime. But there is a problem. The main suspects are close relatives who can't or don't want to cooperate.

When James McGrath needed someone to take a memoir to a publisher and to return letters to the woman who wrote them, he chooses his friend Anthony Cade, who agrees to take on the two jobs. But on Anthony's first night in London, the letters are stolen from his hotel room. He soon finds himself embroiled in a web of intrigue, conspiracy, and secrets that leads all the way to the top levels of government.

Miss Marple encounters a compelling murder mystery in the sleepy little village of St. Mary Mead, where under the seemingly peaceful exterior of an English country village lurks intrigue, guilt, deception and death. Colonel Protheroe, local magistrate and overbearing land-owner is the most detested man in the village. Everyone—even in the vicar—wishes he were dead. And very soon he is—shot in the head in the vicar's own study. Faced with a surfeit of suspects, only the inscrutable Miss Marple can unravel the tangled web of clues that will lead to the unmasking of the killer.

From the Queen of Mystery, The Man in the Brown Suit, in which a young woman makes a dangerous decision to investigate a shocking “accidental” death she witnesses at a London tube station, and in 4:50 From Paddington, a woman in one train witnesses a murder occurring in another passing one…and only Miss Marple believes her story.