“The greatest victories come only if one is willing to risk losing everything.”
“I would prefer my murder to be about me.”

A bah humbug of a of a holiday for Catchpool is upon him when his mother entices Poirot to Frelly in the hopes of stopping a dying man from impending death. While the victim and the possible victim were ‘jolly’ men it was sadly lacking in the telling of the story, which was full of Catchpool’s misery and lacking the usual Poirot-ness of the preceding books. ( )

Having read all of Agatha's novels, and most of her short stories. I began this novel with a certain amount of trepidation because only one of the previous four Sophie Hannah attempts at Poirot was anywhere near worthy of the Icon that Agatha created.

I have invoked "my rule of 60 plus". That is; When the reader has been reading for more than sixty years, and the book doesn't capture the reader in sixty pages (I gave this one almost 114 pages), then the reader is free to move on without guilt, life is short.

Agatha Christie Limited also needs to move on. Sophie Hannah is not up to the assigned task. Characters that add no value to the story, are thinly described, Page after page of fatuous dialog, with very little participation by Poirot at all, seem overtly designed to keep the reader reading in the hope of something of value. Is anyone editing these works?

Not worthy of Agatha, Poirot, or my time.
Fortunately I borrowed it from a library. ( )

Hercule Poirot’s Silent Night (New Poirot #5) bySophie Hannah. This was an adequate mystery novel that I had a hard time with and it was only by reading a Poirot novel by Dame Agatha herself that I discovered the reason for my misgivings. I do not like the narrator. It is as simple as that. I do not care for Inspector Catchpool in the least and I can’t fathom as to why Poirot would put up with the man. And as the Inspector acts as narrator for our tale, I am left is a certain amount of distaste for the entire affair.
Catchpool is supposed to be an inspector with Scotland Yard. Reaching that rank means you have shown an inordinate amount of curiosity as to the things surrounding a crime, especially murder. An inspector is expected to be bold, dynamic, cagy, intelligent and perseverant in his or her duties. Catchpool appears to be none of these. I would say he was the embodiment of the “Inspector Plod” detective character who appeared so many times under so many names throughout the history of the detective novel. I would say it, but here he is out “Plodded” by the local inspector, Gerald Mackle. He manages to be worse than Catchpool by insisting on a ludicrous explanation for the murders. Together they besmirch the noble credit earned by The Yard and the British Constabulary.
Poirot and Catchpool had planned on spending Christmas of 1931 together at Poirot’s flat in London. But, before you can say voila they are whisked off by Catchpool’s mother to a country manor to solve a murder. A man named Stanley Niven as killed while in local hospital. His head was crunched via a large vase to the skull. There are three problems that need to be solved. Who did this terrible thing and why, and how without being seen. According to everyone, Mr. Niven as a jovial man without an enemy in the world. Add to that every doctor, nurse, visitor or patient on the scene swear no one entered his private room during the time he was killed making this a sort of locked room mystery.
The importance of having Poirot on the scene comes from Mrs. Catchpool’s friend, Arnold Laurier, who is due to be admitted to the same ward as the murdered man, only in the next room. His wife Vivienne and their two married sons mostly feel that Arnold, a jolly fellow himself although with a terminal illness, will be the killer’s next victim.
There is a lot of talks and abbreviated conversations (you know the kind that happens just as one person is about to say something vital, the action hinges away, usually by them saying we will talk later) and nothing much happens for the bulk of the story. The descriptions of the characters run to the minimal (tall for one, china doll-like for another, buxom for a third) to the point where you begin to think nothing these people say or do matters.
Poirot solves the case but is assisted by a gimmick that leaves him possessing information no one else has. And the placement of that information is a bit heavy handed as if the writer had no other means of giving Poirot what he needed to solve this. And the reasons for the murders are stretching the bounds of reasonability.
I found this outing rather dull for the most part followed closely by unbelievable for the closing. I can only recommend this if you are one who has to read EVERY! Poirot novel. Everyone else can skip it and be no worse for wear. ( )

Inspector Catchpool is looking forward to a quiet Christmas in London with his friend Hercule Poirot but an unexpected visit from his mother seems likely to disrupt this. She is staying with a family in a house on the Norfolk Coast, the father is terminally ill and due to enter a 'hospice' ain the new Year but a recent murder there has convinced his wide that he will be murdered if he goes. Poirot is intrigued but determined to solve the mystery before Christmas.
This is the lasted in Hannah's rebooted tribute to Christie and it serves up all the well-loved elements. It is a long time since I read a Poirot story but I really enjoyed this one. It is period perfect and the story is suitably twisty. I did guess fairly early on who was the guilty party but the why was the fun part. ( )

This new Poirot mystery was well-constructed, with some interesting characters and a solid plot. Although the clues to “who dunnit” were all there, I found that some of the characters acted for reasons that were not made clear until the end. And aside from being a reason for the family to gather at the mansion and a bit of tree trimming, the Christmas setting did not play as large a role as I had hoped.

All in all a satisfying read for true Christie fans. I received a complimentary copy of this book. Opinions expressed in this review are completely my own. ( )