As much for his friends' health as for his own peace of mind, Hercule Poirot gave in and went back to Belgium for a year where he enjoyed a reunion with his siblings and their families and even worked in the bakery of his sister, Adelise. As much as the famous Belgian sleuth enjoyed when people recognized him;
"Good grief! You are Hercule Poirot! And you're really Adelise's brother?"
"That I am." Hercule said with a smile as he served the coffee.
And here I thought Adelise was telling tales!" a long time friend laughed at the wager that backfired on her.
He seemed every bit as comfortable simply being Adelise' s baby brother.
All the while, he kept in contact with his friends; purchasing a post office box at the nearest post office at the recommendation of Japp. "Better safe than sorry."
Miss Lemon assured her friend that she was gainfully employed as head mistress at a Rainstree Comprehensive. "Though, after a day of dealing with Britain's youth, not to mention their parents, I shall not complain, ever again, when you three boy scouts hold a last minute pow-wow in your dining room. With you, at least I can be assured of NO food fights!"
Hastings, to Poirot's rejoicing, wrote of much good fortune. He had started work at a garage, which was a hobby he always had. Cars.
"....That was well enough. Then came the invite of a millionaire philanthropist and historian by a newspaper ad. He was looking for anyone with carpentry, plumbing, electrical expertise to help refurbish a mansion of historical significance. Well, old boy, you could have knocked me over when I read that this fella wanted to do a proper remodeling of none other than STYLES COURT. Yes, as in THE Styles Court, where you solved the murder of Emily Cavendish-Inglethorp , committed by her husband Alfred Inglethorp and assumed good friend Evelyn Howard. As you can imagine, the place has fallen into disrepair. For whatever reason, the brothers didn't want to live in the same house as married men, so they sold the mansion to someone who insisted he was going to make a hotel out of it.
Long story short, the man died and left the upkeep of the mansion to his son and daughter in law. That turned out to be a huge mistake as the only thing they made was a gargantuan mess; spending, or should I say squandering his father's money on drink and gambling. The back taxes piled up like dust in the unkempt rooms and so the son just swaned off and left the mansion unused. Truth to tell, I didn't even realize the place was still standing until I read the ad in the paper. Just for the sake of curiosity, I went over to find out if this Gardner fellow was on the level. Sure enough, he had all the best tradesmen on the job. Plumbers. Electric. You name it.
While I excel NEITHER at electrical work or plumbing, I could save the men some bother by taking out doors and putting a jackhammer to other items. The first week of work, of which I worked a mere three days, I received a pay packet of only a few pounds less than what the more trained workers received. When I informed Mr. Gardner of the mistake, he replied,
"No mistake, Captain Hastings, I gave you extra recompense in exchange for the history you've given me'. The men who are hired as electricians and plumbers would, likely as not, redecorate hell to look like Buckingham Palace if the price was agreeable. You, on the other hand, are here out of sheer enjoyment of wanting to give the old place a second chance. That enjoyment inspires me to want to do likewise."
I've seen the blueprints. Mr. Raymond Gardner had drawn up. It's for an INN, Poirot! I all but drooled over the prospect of being able to manage the place when Mr. Gardner showed me all the improvements. The dining room, itself, was like something of of the best country villa you would be comfortable at. Without a doubt, the man has MONEY. Even after all the de-construction is complete, there is reconstruction and furnishing. We're talking about a couple million pounds at least! I'll continue to keep you up to date on progress. All going well, you'll be able to see it in person. I know I can't wait to see it. I've tried to locate John and / or Lawrence Cavendish but they might as well be on the dark side of the moon. Even the advertisement I placed in the major papers has yielded nil.
Here I will finish. Isabel and Aaron send their love. Enclosed is the latest photo of the three of us. My developing skills are improving.
Hope this missive finds you well, old boy!
Warmest regards, always!
Christmas time with family was a blessing and working at the bakery was like visiting with extended family. But the sight of mutual friends he shared with Virginie brought back a pain Hercule was sure had healed. For the most part, too, it had. Only now....
The day before Christmas, with the bakery closing early, Poirot asked if he could stop by the florist's shop.
"Be of good cheer, big sister, your gifts, they are under the tree. I just need to ...."
Adelise read the sadness in her brother's eyes and remembered, "Of course. Hildemara and I will finish up here. Just don't stay out long. It's getting chilly."
"Spoken as a true big sister."
*****
Upon leaving the florist's shop, Poirot was fortunate enough to find a taxi. They were practically lined up; waiting for passengers. A last minute bit of cash and spending before everything closed up.
Getting into a cab, Poirot gave the cabbie a sum in advance and asked to be taken to the cemetary, and then to wait. "I will be only five minutes."
But the fare Poirot had given the cabbie would have taken four more trips. So he was willing to wait.It had been....too long really. Poirot did not want to think of it, for the shame of not being able to visit her place for so long. But she knew. Safe with their son in the place where all tears were dried, Virginie would know and understand.
Placing the red roses on her memorial marker, Hercule found it easy to speak to the woman he loved, even though she was represented by no more than a marble monument. "I would ask how you and our son are, but you are well. If Le Bon Dieu, He has told you what is going on, then I will spare you the details. But friends urged me to go to a place of safety and what could be safer than my London home.
Well, except for the insanities of war. And there are times when I wish...." Poirot shook the thought from him mind. "All of that is over. Times, they are better. I genuinely enjoy working in the shop with my sister. I have even refrained, for the most part, from trying to re-organize her things. My sister has her place as she wants, and that is good enough. But I admit I miss my second home. Does that make me a bad person? I have family in both places, Not all family is blood related.
I miss you, dearest love. And one day, we will be together again. The good Lord knows when that will be, and for now, I will let Him keep that secret."
Hercule Poirot was suddenly aware of the light snow that had begun to fall and was brought back to the fondest of memories of the first Christmas they were married. Picking up a handful of snow, he set it on the marker, next to the bouquet of roses.
"Merci boucoup, Virginie," he said in a broken voice, that did not wish to interfere with the memory reel playing in his mind, of Virginie and himself, throwing loose snow at each other. The reel replayed itself right until he reached the cab. Getting in, he gave the cabbie the address of his sister's home.
"Just in time, my friend. Your voice is a bit hoarse. Catching a bit of a cold?"
Relieved not to be caught out, blubbing, Poirot agreed, "Oui. True. The beginning of a chill. I must get home to a mug of hot chocolate and a warm fire place."
"Just the place." The cabbie agreed.
Christmas day was begun with church, and then, once home, gifts were opened and breakfast was had. Everyone cleaned up his or her own dishes and then Poirot, per request, helped with the main dinner. He was so engaged in the family chatter and laughs that any of his usual fussiness was put to one side. It was only after dinner, where everyone else was too full even to talk, that Poirot asked his sister, over coffee, at the kitchen table, "Am I fussy?"
"Fussy? About what?"
Poirot shrugged in uncharacteristic uncertainty. "Things. Where they go. What time? How many? I do not remember our parents being ..."
"Mama was. Only we loved her too much to admit it, and she was patient with us because we were kids. Papa she nearly drove batty. But he, too loved her and she was nice about her....fussiness as you call it." Adelise sipped her Belgian Chocolate coffee. "I think I know what started it with you. After you lost Virginie. It was a way of trying to control things where you felt totally unable to control what was happening. Over-compensating. "
"I wish I didn't. It drives my friends crazy and I am jealous that I cannot just let things be. My colleague and friend, Arthur Hastings, he can go with the fashions. Where whatever the times dictate. Me? I cannot seem to just go along to get along." Poirot sipped his coffee.
"Neither can I, as far as certain fashions for women. I see what young women are wearing, even on the beach and I want to call the police and have them arrested for public nudity. The kids say I'd put a parka on a penguin." Adelise chuckled. "I might just, too. It's a peculiarity, Hercule, but I'd hardly label it the unforgivable sin. Besides which, your attention to little details has served you well in your career. You see what others don't. Even your friends from Scotland Yard, who tease you over it. You make them look good by the things you find. That's probably why they like working with you. Victory for one is the victory for all."
"They didn't always see it that way. Especially Assistant Commissioner Japp. He said I should have been a hunter; forever chasing after my rabbit trails."
"What's wrong little brother?"
Again, Hercule Poirot shrugged. "I don't know if I want to go back and yet, I want to. That makes no sense, I realize." he took a drink of his slightly warmer coffee.
"When were you planning on going? Hopefully not before New Year's."
"Spring. If I go back at all. I have so enjoyed working at the bakery with you. And our holiday time."
"And we've enjoyed having you at the bakery. The customers especially. The ones who know you as the great detective, they have big stories made up, about how you're at work to uncover some crime over phony chocolate or some such silliness."
Poirot chuckled. "I have heard that. I tell them that it's very hush hush and they can't say anything. "
"But you miss ...the game. Alas, the challenge of deciding whether or not to top raspberry Cheese cake with whipped cream dollops just isn't keeping those 'little grey cells' of yours sufficiently active."
"My little grey cells, dear sister, are wearing me out. I WANT to stay here. I want the biggest crime I have to confront, is the cost of supplies. Murder and death....it is not the way to live. It's a dark place and I have been to enough dark places. This home., your work...it is a haven."
Adelise finished her coffee and set her spoon in the cup. ."It has its aggravations. And I have had days where I wanted to supply you will a murder to solve when an order is not filled in time because one of the bakers is too busy gossiping."
Poirot smirked,"That is easy. Fire Ecaterina. Or at least give to her a warning. If you lose that customer, you lose money and cannot keep her on staff That will close her mouth and move her hands."
Adelise nodded. "Good idea. Thank you."
"I wish I could do that. You cannot tell to a murderer, 'If you kill one more person, I will have to let you go. Even the mother of a murderer, she pleaded with me to let her daughter go. 'Spare her as once you spared me'. But jewel robbery and killing people, it is not the same thing."
"I know just the thing." Adelise patted her brother's fidgeting hands. "New Year's eve. Make a resolution. A resolution is a promise and you, Hercule Poirot, have always kept your promises."
"Sometimes I made promises I could not keep," he confessed.
"Well this promise you can keep. Think and pray hard about it between now and New Year's Eve. That way, when you make the promise to yourself, you will be resolute."
Hercule Poirot smiled. "You sounded like Mama when you said that. "
Rising from the table with his empty coffee mug, Poirot cleaned it and his sister's mug and then headed up to bed. "Merry Christmas, Adelise. And thank you."
By the time 1948 was ushered in, Hercule Poirot decided that he would return to England, while at the same time, secretly hoped his request would be turned down.
But the news that persuaded him to return had nothing to do with Japp's assurances. Rather, it was a letter, invitation from Miss Lemon, soon-to-be Mrs. Giles Bennett; asking if he would attend the wedding. A most lovely picture of the future bride and groom prompted him to reply by phone call and then by post.
"When is the wedding to take place?"
"Saturday, May 15, 1948. I do hope you can come, Mr. Poirot. It would mean a lot to me."
"I can think of no better reason, mon cher ami. And you may count on my being in attendance. I will begin to make the arrangements before the end of the day."
"But Mr. Poirot, it's just passed the middle of March." Miss Lemon replied on the other end of the receiver.
"You know how I dislike leaving things to the last minute."
"Unless it's a dental appointment." Felicity Lemon teased.
"But working at my sister's bakery has made me aware of the painful necessity of that very duty." Poirot conceded. "One last thing, Miss Lemon. Does your Mr. Giles Bennett make you happy? He is good to you? You do not have to answer if I have stepped on the toes."
"You have not stepped on my toes, Mr. Poirot." Miss Lemon spoke with a smile Poirot could hear if not see. "Giles is a good man. He is the principal of Rainstree Comprehensive where he has to deal with some very odd characters, and that's just the parents.
If you can keep your head after a day of listening to kids making sorry excuses for not completing their assignments, and then get the same indulgent , pardon the language, 'twaddle' from the parents, then you either have the patience of ten saints or you're ready for psychiatric evaluation. That's Giles' perspective. I can only say, if he is ready for psychiatric care, he has me completely fooled. And you know me well enough, Mr. Poirot, to know that I do not fool easily."
"I would not even attempt such folly."
The following morning, even before he began his shift at the bakery, Poirot stopped by a booking agency to purchase a one-way ticket to London, England. After which, he stopped by the telegraph office to send off telegrams to both to Captain Hastings and Miss Lemon; letting them know when he would arrive. At the bakery, Poirot volunteered to work through lunch to make up for the time Hildemara had to fill in for him. At the end of the day, he let his sister in on his plans as customers trickled in and out.
"I'll be sad to see you go, dear brother. And I'm sure you'll be invited to just about every table for a farewell snack." Adelise said, boxing a small Strawberry short cake and ringing it up on the til; handing the man back his change. "Enjoy."
"Then maybe we shouldn't tell anyone or I'll be too big to get on the plane."
That night, lying in his bed, Poirot went back and forth, in his mind about the good and sad parts about leaving home...again. He did promise he would do this, and yet it was Miss Lemon who made the decision that much easier. A good reason to go back.
At last, it dawned on Hercule Poirot, as sleep finally claimed him, how fortunate he was to have two families when others didn't even have one.
~~~~
"Ten seconds to air, Jo-Lyn !" a man behind a glass partisan of the radio studio B. spoke into a microphone.
"Thanks Pete!" Jo-lyn Francs replied and then asked the woman across a small round table from her. Ariadne Oliver; dressed somewhat audaciously for a Saturday afternoon radio program, in a floral print dress and coral green necklace. "You nervous?"
Sipping her morning coffee, the author shook her head. "I prefer this to having to look at a live audience. Good coffee, by the way. French Vanilla?"
Jo-Lyn nodded, "Consider it a Thank You for the autographed copies of your last novel. I have just about your entire library except this one. 'Big Top Tragedy'. I never saw Sven Hjerson ; {pronounced Here-son for those of us whose Finnish is a bit rusty} as a circus-going...." Jo-Lyn cut herself off and raised her hand ; beginning her introduction upon seeing the ON AIR sign light up. "Good afternoon and welcome to 'Out and About.' I'm your host, Jo-Lyn Francs! It's Saturday afternoon, partly cloudy outside the studio window, with a few smatterings of rain starting up. And if you're anything like me, you want to spend your lazy rainy day snuggled into an easy chair, feet propped up on foot-rest, a with a good book and a cup of hot tea, coffee or hot cocoa.
Speaking of good books, I am THRILLED to have, as my guest in the studio, none other than Ariadne Oliver! Now , unless you've been hiding in a cave for the last, what, ten years or so, then you know Ariadne as the author as the wildly successful Sven Hjerson detective novels. To date there are fourteen in the series. Is that correct, Mrs. Oliver?"
"You're two ahead of me. To date the number stands at twelve." Ariadne corrected with a smile. She was thankful when the host of the radio program began to discuss her new book, "Blood in the Water."
"Some might see this novel as.....tacky," Ariadne Oliver explained. "as the Titanic tragedy is little over three decades old. However, it is an historic event and the novel I've just completed is based on that event, with fictional elements. A ruthless child killer is found dead and the widow of a Scotland Yard police officer solves the murder. Enough said."
"WOW!!! Definitely a novel worthy of standing in line for. High praise from someone who doesn't care for standing in line-ups. When can we expect to find it in the book shop windows?"
"Hopefully, just before summer or not to far into it. It's with my editor right now and I always shudder when that time comes. It's like turning in homework. You just pray for a big check mark that tells you it's all done."
Jo-Lynn giggled, "I remember those days. You know what, though, ...not to be a back-seat editor, but I was kinda hoping you were going to say that Sven would be on that cruise, and therefore, on the case."
Ariadne took a long, calming breath. "I was considering the idea myself, but I needed a change of scenery. " She said, praying the tone and words dropped a sufficient hint. The next words from the host poured rain on that fragile hope.
"Assuming this new story is successful, which I'm guessing it will be, I hope it doesn't mean the end of the Sven Hjerson....."
"Oh, for the love of Mercy!" Ariadne Oliver just about shouted, slapping her open- palmed hands on the table. Across from her, Jo-Lynn stared, open mouthed but speechless. On the other side of the glass partition, the station's program director and sound engineer looked on, gob smacked at the scene they were witness to. Mrs. Oliver, herself, seemed oblivious to the stares she was getting as she ranted on.
"I wrote that first Sven Hjerson book as something of a friendly competition with an author I'd enjoyed for a while. Much of the foundation of ...the character you ask about is modeled after his." The long sigh she emitted sounded more like a low growl. " If ONLY I knew then, what I've since learned, I would NEVER have even started the first chapter, let alone this series! Deathly bore! Hjerson is easily the most CONCEITED little CREEP! Self-important. Utterly deserving of every last ounce of VENOM I have for him! Honestly! How anyone even wants to read about him, I wish to heaven I knew! "
Ariadne took a swig of her now cooled coffee and continued her diatribe. "So help me, if I had the time to live all over again, I'm not sure what I'd be doing, but writing for an uppity foreign Sherlock Holmes would NOT be on the list! If I could wish him out of existence right this second, I'd do it, like that!" Ariadne Oliver snapped her fingers which, magically, cut the recording. The On Air sign over the door went out and almost immediately, the phone in the control book came to life.
What Ariadne Oliver had failed to notice, as she railed away, was the radio station's programming director giving the directive to the sound engineer to cut transmission of the show. She only came back to herself when Jo-Lynn Francs announced to her, in a tone so cool it gave the author frost bite, "I'm afraid we've been cut off, Mrs Oliver. Apologies."
Ariadne Oliver pondered over her last few minutes and found herself hoping they were cut off a few minutes earlier. "Oh dear. I suppose I went a bit too far with my little tantrum."
"That's possible. In any case, the director is going to air a recording of a previous show. Thanks for dropping by." Jo-Lynn left the recording studio without so much as a handshake exchanged between them. In the control booth, the Programming Director had the receiver in one hand as he rubbed his forehead with the other. Every so often, he got a few words in. And when Pete wasn't trying to speak to whomever was on the other end of the line, he was glaring icicles through the author he had been so looking forward to hearing, hardly half an hour ago.
On her way home, later that day, Jo-Lynn stopped her car across the street from a make-shift homeless shelter. Going to the passenger's side of her Lagonda, she took up every copy of "Big Top Tragedy" that had been abandoned by radio station staff (eight in all) including her own, and deposited the hardcover novels, one by one, into a metal barrel that was used as a fire pit by some of the city's homeless. The hardcover books gave fuel to the waning fire and ignited an idea in the mind of the radio show host.
She returned to 'Shelter city" a few hours later with a box that contained sandwiches, two thermoses of coffee and every Ariadne Oliver novel she owned.. As the citizens of the make-shift shelter enjoyed the coffee and sandwiches, Jo-Lynn handed out long sticks and a bag of marshmallows just before dropping her collection of Sven Hjerson novels into the metal drum. That brought the nearly-dead fire to life and let the poor souls have the first fun they'd had in a while; roasting marshmallows in the fire that was fueled by the consequences of a reader's betrayed trust.
******
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