An incredibly melodramatic story that will cause contemporary readers to roll their eyes, laugh out loud, or simply groan inwardly.

From the beginning of this tale, one thing is certain: Eleanor Appleby has horrible taste in men. Her first husband, Prof. Appleby, is an insanely cruel monster who delights in torturing Eleanor and everyone else. Eleanor’s subsequent suitors go downhill from there.

When Prof. Appleby drops dead in an armchair late one night, the authorities suspect he has been poisoned; although no one can figure out what kind of poison was used, and the police can find no trace of it at the murder scene. In spite of the indefinite cause of death and the crippling lack of evidence and the fact that no one misses Prof. Appleby now that he is gone, Eleanor is accused of her late husband’s murder and stands trial. Although Eleanor is eventually acquitted, a cloud of suspicion hangs over her head. Will anyone ever be able to ascertain what really happened to Aldous Appleby on that fateful night, and will the real culprit ever be brought to justice? It seems not, until a mysterious visitor named Mr. Quinny arrives on the scene and inexplicably reveals all.

This really is a painfully arduous book to try and get through. The exaggeratedly overwrought descriptions of everything wear thin very quickly: from the fawnly fluttering of Eleanor’s doe-like eyes to the milk-white creaminess of her snowy limbs, from the manly manliness of the men’s masculinity to the mahoganiness of the majestic mahogany furniture…all that verbose prose is exhausting for the reader.

The character of Eleanor Appleby is mind-boggling, but not in a good way. The never-ending, rapturous descriptions of Eleanor’s dazzling beauty are nothing short of nauseating. And, unfortunately for both Eleanor and the reader, unsurpassed exquisiteness is the only thing Eleanor has going for her. Poor Eleanor! She spends the entirety of the book cowering, swooning, having hysterics, or otherwise lapsing into unconsciousness. In between her bouts of hysteria-induced oblivion, she is routinely crushed in the arms of worthless cads who are madly, passionately, feverishly in love with her. Apparently it’s not easy being a doey, creamy personification of feminine perfection…who knew?

Especially disturbing is the fact that witless Eleanor is always described as a little girl. On almost every page Eleanor is referred to as an innocent child, childish, childlike, etc…with a sultry figure! It has the unintended consequence of making every man in the book sound like a certified pedophile. Just…yuck.

And why is Doctor Alec Portal always referred to by his full name? That’s downright odd.

This book supposedly features Christie’s Harley Quin character, but it does not. Mr. Quinny (or Mr. Quinn…the author can’t seem to make up his mind) bears no resemblance to the original Christie character, and is actually not Mr. Harley Quin at all. For that reason, Agatha Christie purists will be mortified by this variation of her story.

The silent film on which this book is based must have been a real stinkerino. It’s no wonder Agatha Christie absolutely despised it. If this movie really disgusted her, I can only imagine how poor Agatha must be positively turning over in her grave because of all the monumentally vile screen adaptations of her work being spewed out today…I’m talking to you Kenneth Branagh, and Sarah Phelps, and France! ( )