I've said it before, and (hopefully!) I'll say it again. Just when I think I've read my last Agatha Christie mystery, another one comes out of the woodwork. This time it's a collection of short stories called While the Light Lasts. And although it includes two stories I read in other compilations (always a danger with collections), the rest are as fresh as a just-killed corpse. That said, they aren't so much whodunits as mysteries of the mind. Which are, in some ways, more frightening. Because it's all well and good to find out who killed Professor Plum in the conservatory with a candlestick (I know that's Clue and not Christie, but if mixing murder metaphors is wrong, I don't want to be right). Yet sometimes envy, greed, and/or vanity can poison the well between a husband and wife even more potently than cyanide. Because Christie's not just the crème de la crème of crime writers. She's a master of human nature, spinning stories around the seven deadly sins with the supernatural skill of a sorceress.
Which brings us to something else that's not human, namely the moths on the cover. Their dark beauty reflects the macabre allure of the tales within, proving that sometimes you can judge a book by its cover. Also, they remind me of my own moths. No, I'm not keeping the winged things as pets. We just have a real influx of them this year, with at least one clinging to the wall in each room, looking as lifeless as a pinned specimen. As everyone knows, they're famous for eating fabric (hence those malodorous moth balls beloved by octogenarians). So, I've been annihilating them with my Dyson. Now you know my secret. Not only am I not one of those people who insists on shuttling offending insects outside; I'm a willing murderess when it comes to preventing crimes of fashion.
And with that we come full circle to my favorite sin: vanity, with a side of sloth.