Oh, how I love a good Agatha!
So much, in fact, that one of my reading plans for next year is to finally read all of the Marples - but, I digress, because this is #36 in the Poirot series, and is a bright spot among the later books. Published in 1969, it is preceded by Third Girl (which is truly awful) and followed by Elephants Can Remember (which is slightly less awful than Third Girl, in my opinion, but still isn't very good).
I did quite enjoy this one, though - enough that I've read it a few times at this point. It is one of the Ariadne Oliver books, Agatha's most autobiographical character, who bumbles around in her usual scatterbrained fashion. By this time in the series, Christie is frankly tired of Poirot's affectations, as am I. Nonetheless, this one has an interesting mystery with a most un-obvious solution.
There are certain Poirot mysteries that I would only recommend for readers intent upon reading the entire series. This isn't one of those - it's a second tier mystery that stands on its own fairly well. Not one of Christie's first rate, most innovative stories, but a solid entry in her oevre.
I read this for the Pumpkin square, because of the cover!