“Mon dieu! Hastings, does this contraption not possess the brakes?!”
As the gleaming Delage D6-11 tore through the Norfolk countryside, a beaming Captain Hastings at the wheel, Hercule Poirot clung grimly to his bowler hat, which seemed insistent in its intent to exit the vehicle. Poirot could sympathise with this sentiment perfectly well. The country roads were twisting and very narrow, flanked on either side by thick boarders of fragrant gorse and Alexander, which would have been delightful to observe had they been traveling at a more sedate pace.
A warm breeze tugging at his golden locks, Hastings seemed oblivious to the notion that his driving had already frightened two horses, not to mention the startled flock of geese encountered on the high street of the last sleepy, flint-built village through which they passed. A young woman and her scruffy little dog had been quite vocal about their disapproval…
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