I’ve often wondered what might have happened if Rebecca had been written by Agatha Christie instead of Daphne Du Maurier. Maybe it would have ended like this…
“Mesdames, Messieurs,” said the dapper little Belgian. “Thank you all for coming here at my invitation. I apologise for incommoding you. I would have preferred to have assembled you at Monsieur de Winter’s home at Manderley, but unfortunately the recent conflagration has prevented that. I hope that you have made yourself as comfortable as one may be here in the room where the inquest into Madame de Winter’s death was held.”
Poirot moved a few paces to his right, stopped, and turned to face the company. Every eye was on him. The company, seated or standing, looked at him expectantly; he, in his turn looked at them.
“We are here to reveal the late Madame de Winter’s murderer,” he said. At that…
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