I love it when David Suchet and Hugh Fraser read Poirot novels, their lovely RP accents distract you from the racist and utterly unpleasant tone much of Agatha Christie’s work has. I like Poirot, even though the stories are convoluted, unbelievable and hinge on thin slivers of ridiculous chance. There’s something gently comforting about a formula repeated endlessly. The kind of book that makes you say, “Mmmm, where are my slippers?”