Journal Entry 1 by catsalive from Rooty Hill, New South Wales Australia on Saturday, July 11, 2009

After the Funeral
The trouble with Cora Lansquenet was her lack of discretion. She had been the same, even as a chiold. Where other people maintained a guarded silence she would blurt out something, without a thought of the possible consequences, that would reduce the rest of the company to red-faced discomfort. So it was after the funeral of her brother Richard. When everyone else was intent on preserving a decent reticence about the effect of the bequests they were to enjoy she failed to conceal her delight. Far worse was her remark concerning the suddenness of the death: "It's all been hushed up very nicely, hasn't it?" she had said. And when the dead man's lawyer had found her meaning not quite clear she was wide-eyed with surprise: "But he was murdered, wasn't he?" she had asked with birdlike innocence! 

Journal Entry 2 by catsalive at Rooty Hill, New South Wales Australia on Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Death On The Nile
Linnet Ridgeway was one of those women who have, or seem to have, everything. Looks, and a figure envied by friends of her own sex; charm in plenty; and money. Almost beyond other things she was fortunate in her wealth; wealth that could buy anything, any service which her fancy demanded. Only one thing seemed missing. She had never enjoyed, or suffered, the kind of emotional experience which she envied in her friends and which alone would make marriage seem a vital need. Then, quite suddenly and to the astonishment of all her acquaintances she married "a nobody" without money or prospects; but a nobody who, until swept up by Linnet, was the adored betrothed of a close friend. The strangely assorted pair, honeymooning in Egypt, become the focus of a series of events whose violence is matched by their perplexing nature, which even the astute Hercule Poirot discovers to be a formidable challenge. 

Journal Entry 3 by catsalive at Rooty Hill, New South Wales Australia on Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Towards Zero
It was February 14th and the figure, alone in the room, was busily writing with a cool controlled intelligence. Had there been anyone else to read they would have been startled; because what was being written was a clear and carefully detailed project for murder. The mind of the writer, of the murderer to be, had only one thought and one purpose - the destruction of another human being; and the thing had got to be perfect. There was to be no possible escape for the victim; no possible major disarrangement of strategy. The victim had long been selected. Now the place and the method were determined in detail, and only one thing remained to be done: the writer selected a date in September and smiled...