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IT was a typical Dickens Christmas: deep snow everywhere, and down in the little village of Sittaford on the fringe of Dartmoor probably deeper than anywhere. Mrs. Willett, the winter tenant in Captain Trevelyan's country house, was with her daughter Violet giving a party. Finally they decided to do a little table rapping, and after the usual number of inconsequential messages from the other side suddenly the table announced that Captain Trevelyan was dead. His oldest friend, Captain Burnaby, was disturbed. He quickly left the house and tramped ten miles of snowy roads to Exhampton. There was no sign of life in Trevelyan's house. A back window was broken in and the light was burning —and there, on the floor, was the body of Trevelyan. Inspector Narracott took the case in hand, and after wandering through a maze of false clues and suspects, he ultimately discovered the murderer of Captain Trevelyan. Mrs. Christie has never formulated a more ingenious or enthralling plot, and her characterisation is of the vivid type which marked The Murder at the Vicarage and The of Roger Ackroyd.
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