Worthing Flash

‘It’s impossible.  She couldn’t have done it.’  Captain Hastings put down his coffee cup.    Hercule Poirot placed his cup precisely in the centre of its saucer.  ‘What makes you think that, mon ami?’    ‘She has always been neat and methodical.  This was so sloppy, not her style at all.’  He leaned forward.  ‘And she was nowhere around.’    Hercule Poirot nodded.  ‘We must exercise the little grey cells. Let us consider your first  point.  You are sometimes methodical.’  He tapped his own chest.  ‘Hercule Poirot is always methodical.  But it is different for a woman.’    He paused.  ‘Think of Miss Lemon.  She has been my secretary for some years. She has her system, which is sometimes hard to realise.  She is neat - women often are neat - but not methodical.’  He shook his head.  ‘No, my friend.  Men are methodical; women assuredly are not.’    ‘Bu...

‘Friday the thirteenth! Hardly the date for a party,’ Sharon said. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘If you’re born on the 13th, your birthday’s bound to fall on a Friday some years.’ She shuddered. ‘But it’s so unlucky.’ Pat laughed. ‘Surely you’re not superstitious!’ Jacky was unnaturally quiet. I was her birthday. ‘Anyway, I don’t believe it’s unlucky,’ I put in. ‘Both my grandparents lived in houses number 13, and I’m still alive.’ ‘Both sets?’ ‘My paternal grandad built his house in West Wickham and called it No 2. Someone built a house at the end of the road and numbered that 2. A third family built at the other end of the road and numbered that 2 as well. Then the whole road was built up and the council renumbered. My grandad’s house was between No 11 and No 15. It wasn’t actually numbered 13 until he sold up after grandma died. And my maternal grandparents lived in 13 Whitworth Road, South Norwood - admittedly that was after my...

I recognised my sister Alison’s handwriting on the envelope. Puzzled, I opened it - to find a plain sheet of paper. Not a word. After that dreadful quarrel five years ago over Mother’s locket, Alison had stormed out. ‘I’ll never speak to you again!’ And she hadn’t. Far too proud. I looked down at the blank sheet of paper and realised that she couldn’t bring herself to write to me. Still too proud. But this was a cry for help. Someone had to relent. It was time to forgive. I picked up the phone and dialled her number. Janice Robinson