Hercule Poirot returns – and yes, he’s as irritating as ever

First, a confession. I have never cared much for Hercule Poirot. In this I am not alone, for his creator felt much the same way, describing him as a ‘detestable, bombastic, tiresome, egocentric little creep’, albeit a creep with remarkable commercial staying power. Fortunately, my prejudice doesn’t affect enjoyment of the brilliantly constructed plots and the unobtrusively effective storytelling. But I find it far easier to warm to Miss Marple.

Poirot is, after Sherlock Holmes, the most celebrated fictional detective in the world. It was only a matter of time before the Agatha Christie estate allowed him to be brought back to life. Continuations have become big business in recent years — marriages of convenience between a prominent, dead author and a well-established living one. Sophie Hannah was a wise choice: not only is she an excellent crime novelist in her own right, but she understands Christie’s books in a way that only an admirer can.

The Monogram Murders is set in 1929 (the year Christie published one of her less successful novels, The Seven Dials Mystery). Poirot is taking a long holiday, which in this case means moving from his London mansion block to a lodging house 300 yards away. He becomes friendly with another lodger, Inspector Edward Catchpool of Scotland Yard, a man whose idea of fun is working on a nice crossword by the fire (he may well be the wettest, wimpiest detective in crime fiction).

As part of his holiday routine, Poirot dines once a week at a coffee house that serves the finest coffee in London. One evening a distraught young woman announces that she is about to be murdered, and begs Poirot to ensure that the police won’t pursue her murderer.