Isabel Hastings loved reading to her son, but tonight, the tradition wasn't just a pleasant way to end the day, the reading also provided a much-needed diversion. At least for the time she was reading, Isabel wasn't thinking about what time it was and where her husband and family friend were.
"Are you worried about daddy?"
"No, sweetie," Isabel assured her son, tapping his nose as Aaron leaned on her while they sat on the couch in their own living room. The hot cocoa they shared was finished and the cup sat on the coffee table. Normally, Isabel didn't mind sitting with the other guests and no doubt there were still a few people playing in the lounge. Right now, the last thing her over-active imagination wanted or needed was people asking where Arthur or Hercule were. "Daddy called. He has a flat tire. He'll be home soon."
"With Papa Payrow?"
'God, I hope so! ' she thought. "I think Papa Payrow is getting a later train home. I'll have to go and pick him up when (please God, WHEN! ) he calls. Your dad won't be in much of a mood for driving after paying too much to have his tire fixed."
"Daddy has bad luck with cars." Aaron just managed to say before he yawned.
Isabel had to laugh. That was true enough. Quickly she snuck another glance at her watch 8:45. Japp called at just after 7 p.m . Arthur drove Poirot to the station at ....oh...not long after six. Or was it before six? What was taking them so...DAMN long to call!? Someone!
Those thoughts she kept to herself as she did her best to immerse herself in the tale of The Mystery of the Kitten's Missing Mittens." Mystery! Not a brilliant choice of reading material at the moment. Thankfully, she was hardly heard from the boy who who'd dosed off on her lap. Reading for a few more minutes, just in case Aaron was just listening, she finished the book. Nothing from her son about how silly the kitten was to lose his mittens under his bed. Oddly enough, Isabel wouldn't have minded the childish chatter right now. But the boy was out for the night, and so, maneuvering so's not to wake the child, Isabel lifted and carried Aaron to his room and his bed. Kissing Aaron on the cheek she raised the safety bar, which was made to look like the side of his car. Isabel turned on Aaron's stars and moon night light and left the room. She was debating whether to go to bed when she remembered the hot chocolate mug. She had just picked it up when the phone rang.
Nearly dropping the mug, Isabel flung herself onto the couch and grabbed the receiver. "Arthur?"
"Hello, Isabel. No, it's Edgar Bennett."
"Edgar Bennett?" She had to think for a minute. Felicity's husband. "Hello, Edgar. Sorry about that. I'm waiting for my husband to call. He phone...."
"Arthur is with us, Isabel." The man's tone sounded flat. "He and Jim Japp arrived a few minutes ago."
"Why are they ....?" Isabel stopped. He said Arthur and Jim were there. Where was Hercule?
"May I speak to Arthur, please? I've been in a near panic since Jim called, and that was over an hour ago."
"Hold on."
While she waited to hear from Arthur, she listened to background sounds. A voice, female, alternated between soft weeping and threats of retribution. "I will BURN that ...WITCH and use her books as kindling!" While she hadn't known Felicity Lemon for too long, Isabel learned that the woman was fiercely protective of 'family' . Someone got on her bad side at their peril.
FINALLY! A voice. "Hello, Isabel, it's Japp. Hastings isn't up to talking at the moment. He's sitting, nursing a Brandy."
"What happened, Jim?" Isabel was no longer panicked. Her heart had ceased thudding and had dropped into her stomach.
James Japp cleared his throat a couple of times and then told her. "Ariadne Oliver was in the pay of the Manchester Brotherhood. She used that business of the book to lure Poirot into a trap. He trusted her."
Japp's use of Poirot's name in past tense statement unnerved her. "He's....?"
"We arrived in time to catch Oliver and Suchet as they were leaving a restaurant that wasn't open to the public. Ariadne was arrogant enough to tell us what she did. My men got the gun and I called for an ambulance but....." he cleared his throat again. "he didn't make it."
Isabel Hastings began to weep. It was Poirot, after all, who brought her and Arthur together, after all the business with Jack Renaud and the murder of his step father was over. Oh, what a sordid affair that turned out to be! The woman Paul Renaud had left her for was planning to kill him for his step-father's estate. Mr. Poirot not only found out who the killer was, but then he, somehow, figured where Hastings would be and had the driver drop her off where she would find the man she would marry.
"I'm gonna go home but I think it's best that Hastings stay the night with ....Felicity and her husband. We'll start to make....arrangements tomorrow and he'll be home ..." Jim stopped talking and began talking to someone who sounded like her husband. "Hold on."
Isabel managed to stop crying and wiped her eyes, and runny nose on the sleeve of her blouse by the time her husband got on the phone.
"Hi hon," he did his best to sound half way normal and was not succeeding. "Look, I need to stay over for the night. They have a spare room. I'll be home tomorrow."
"It's okay, darling. I'm just thankful...." she stopped and collected herself. "I am so sorry, Arthur."
"Yuh," he said, trying to push passed anymore talk on the mater he couldn't bear to think about anymore.. "You didn't tell Aaron anything?"
"I didn't know anything until I got this phone call. I spend the last hour or more trying to make myself believe that you and Japp would make it in time. Oh, God! I thought any number of things. I didn't want to think of ....this. Oh, Arthur, what am I supposed to say to Aaron. He'll want to know why you two aren't in the dining room for breakfast."
Silence.
"Arthur?"
"I'm sorry. The Brandy's making me a bit wonky. Umm..... just tell him ....there was an accident ad I'm with Papa in the hospital. I'll tell him the rest when I get home. Not THAT. I'll just...." He stopped and began again. "I'll figure it out later ." Hastings' voice trailed off and then came back with startling clarity.
"Oh, Isabel! Try to keep Aaron away from the guests tomorrow. Japp called his boss at Scotland Yard. Newspaper reporters are already swarming the place. By tomorrow, it'll be in the papers and the radio. The guests will be talking. Have you heard from anyone?"
"No. Except for Enid when Jim called to try to reach you."
The fatigue was back. "Good. Anyway, I am too tired to talk anymore. I'm gonna try to sleep. Love you."
Through new tears, Isabel replied, "Love you back."
Isabel hung up and went to her room. It was all she could do force herself to take a shower. It had an odd effect, and she cried in the shower, over the sound of the running water. When she was dressed for bed, all she wanted to do was crawl under the covers and sleep. Tears still came and she damped her husband's pillow with a fresh torrent of tears, wondering if he was crying in the guest bedroom of a friend who he'd known since their days of working together.
When it happened, she had no idea, but Isabel Hastings finally fell asleep.
****
The mood at Scotland Yard's headquarters was somewhat subdued when Japp arrived at just after ten in the morning. The front desk Sargent, Trevor Inman, with whom he usually cracked jokes about the state of the staff room coffee was polite but didn't discuss the state of the coffee.
"Commissioner Spaulding wants to see you....about...um....last night." Inman relayed the information; adding an awkward, "Sorry" , before returning to his duties.
Japp only nodded and replied, "Yeah." What was there to say in such circumstances? Over the years, Japp had heard bad news at the office. Men cut down in the field. Odd how it sometimes happened in such unlikely cases. Domestic dispute. On one occasion, one officer came close to losing a couple of fingers in a property squabble between two neighbors. The story went that the officer tried to keep one neighbor from going after the other with a broken beer bottle and got gouged with that same bottle. Japp recalled joking, months later, that the only thing that poured out of that Sargent, faster than blood, were the profanities.
But this.... this was different. This shouldn't have happened at all. Scariest part was, not even Poirot saw it coming. Even Hastings was more suspicious, though his issues were more along the lines of literary theft than the way she ended up betraying him.
Poirot trusted Ariadne Oliver, as her readers once did.
Heading to his office, as was his automatic routine, Japp back-tracked and headed to an office no more than five feet away from his own. Okay, ten. More often than not, he had to knock on the door, but this time it was open.
"You wanted to see me, Alan?"
Commissioner Spaulding waved Japp in. "Close the door," he said, taking a bottle and two glasses out of his bottom drawer, pouring a tumbler and handing it across the desk to Japp. "As a rule, I don't drink with colleagues during work hours, but I thought you could use this. Anyway, I'm sending you home right after."
Alan turned the newspaper around so Japp could see it.
"You okay? You look a bit rough."
"Didn't sleep well last night."
"I don't wonder." Alan Spaulding downed second his drink then went to the private bathroom and washed his glass while Japp nursed his own drink.. "You two were a handful, I gotta tell ya. A couple of over-aged kids; trying to prove yourselves to the other fella." The commissioner rested the back of his head in entwined fingers. "What finally changed?"
Shrugging, Japp guessed, "Time I suppose. We just got used to the way we worked and decided it made more sense working together than competing." He finished the first drink and accepted another pour. "If you can believe it, I used to consider Poirot an amateur." The Assistant Commissioner gave a bitter chuckle that he aimed at himself. Staring up from his glass, Japp inquired, "Any chance I'll get to see Ariadne Oliver?"
"About the same as my marrying Joan Crawford." Spaulding said with a brief smile. "Seriously, Japp, no. In your state of mind, if I let you in the same room with that woman , I might as well hand you my tie and let you hang yourself in the men's room. It would save the cost of the trial."
"Got my own." Jim finished his second drink and set the glass down; thankful there were no offers for thirds . "Speaking of trials, do you honestly expect Mrs. Oliver and Suchet are going to drop the penny on each other?"
"Frankly, Jim, it wouldn't matter if they both said they were in Paris, at the top of the Ifel Tower when Poirot was killed; you delivered the evidence. But never mind all that for now. I'm gonna call you a cab and you're going home." Commissioner Spaulding phoned for a taxi and the followed Japp out of the office, closing the door behind him.
"I don't want to see you back here for a few weeks at least." Spaulding insisted as they walked past desks and offices to the front door of the police station.
"Weeks? I can't be ...."
"Come on, Jim! How many times have you tried to take a vacation, only for something to come up at, almost literally, the last minute? We owe you. So take it."
"Vacation pay and all?"
"Not much of a vacation, I realize, but you need the down time." The Commissioner said as they walked out the front door of the building. "I assume you'll be in touch with Captain Arthur Hastings?"
"I'll probably call him when I get home. Since I won't have to be in to work tomorrow, Emily and I will probably head out to Styles Villa."
"As soon as you can make funeral arrangements, call me and we'll get it done." Spaulding said, lighting a cigarette. "Mr. Poirot's been a friend to Scotland Yard. Least we can do is give him a proper send off."
He's not taking a cruise! Japp thought, but said nothing apart from "Thanks. I assume you'll be doing this for me one day."
"Yes, but not anytime soon. That's why I want you taking this break. I've scheduled you AWAY. INCOMMUNICADO. We're not to call you and you cannot return to work until a week after the funeral. "
"And if I do you'll fire me?"
"Worse. I'll have you committed. "
Japp couldn't help but chuckle. "I'd just about deserve it, too."
*****
Arthur Hastings arrived home about half past nine in the morning. looking somewhat better for the night's rest. Not that he got much sleep. It was the coffee and breakfast at Felicity's that kept him alert. That, and focusing on what needed to get done.
Somehow, the thought of having to pay for a cab, all the way back to Styles was enough of an incentive to get Hastings home, by way of his own car. By the time he pulled into the driveway, guests and tenants were out and about. The sky was partly cloudy and threatened rain. In the meantime, people took advantage of the day out. It was getting chillier so only a couple of guests or tenants braved the golf course.
Staring at them, Hastings steeled himself against a wave of memories and headed into the house. Almost as soon as he entered, he could tell, people knew. The front desk clerk, Wendy Sugden; generally friendly and somewhat talkative college age girl greeted Hastings with a simple "Good morning."
"Mrs. Hastings told me to keep the papers hidden from Aaron. They're in the dining room. So Mr. Poirot...?" she stopped short, not sure how to ask.
Hastings only nodded.
"I'm sorry. He was very kind. Funny. He and Mr. Cohen would talk about all sorts of things during their chess games."
"Thank you, Wendy. Oh, have you had your breakfast? I can sit in if..."
"I ate as soon as I got here. I'm fine. Mrs. Hastings and Aaron are in the dining room."
"Thank you."
Hastings headed down the hall to the dining room when he heard a voice that cheered him, "DADDY!" The boy sang/ called and ran. Hastings scooped his son up and hugged him close. He was joined, hardly seconds later, by Isabel, whose eyes were red.
Over a light breakfast of coffee and an English muffin with blueberry jam, Hastings kept the conversation light; all the while formulating a story to tell his son. There was no way to hide the tragic reality, but a five year old did not need to to be let in on the evils of the world.
"Mama said there was an accident and you and Papa were in the hopsital." Aaron recalled as the family made their way to their suite. The home with in the house.
"Hos-pit-al," Hastings corrected, syllable by syllable as he carried Aaron on his shoulders and Isabel opened the door.
Lifting the boy from his shoulders, Hastings landed Aaron, like a plane, onto the couch. The boy giggled at the flying. Soon enough, however, was asking the question Hastings dreaded having to answer.
"Are you good enough to be out of the hopsital?"
Hastings ignored the mispronunciation and sat the boy on his lap. "I'm okay. I was a bit dizzy and fainted."
"Not enough veggables ." Aaron decided. "Mama, we need to feed dad more veggables."
"I'll see to it." Isabel promised her son. "Now you have to listen to your dad."
"When is Papa Payrow coming home?"
"What did your mum tell you?" Hastings asked, partly as a stall tactic. He did NOT want to have to tell his little boy that his Papa Payrow would not be coming home.
Poirot had been the closest Aaron would come to having a granddad. Likewise, Aaron was the closest Poirot came to having a grandson and Hastings could see the difference in his former colleague and good friend. Hercule Poirot had put his adopted grandson ahead of the considerations of making sure his bedroom was tidied up before he went down for breakfast.
The boy thought for a moment. For a child, he had amazing gifts of recall. But usually for things he wanted to remember. "When I woke up, I woke mum because she and Papa were going to help me make my bed. But momma told me that Papa was sick and needed to be in the ...." he stopped and carefully pronounced the word "hos-pit-al."
"That's right, Aaron." Hastings congratulated his son's proper pronunciation as well as remembering the reason why.
"But dad, you said hospitals were for sick people like garages were for sick cars. You always get your car fixed so Papa will be well after a day? Tomorrow?"
Hastings cleared his throat, haunted by the vivid scene of the night before. "Papa Payrow can't come home, Aaron."
The boy's eyes filled will tears. "Why? Doesn't he like me?"
Arthur hugged his son and rocked him. "Your Papa Payrow loved you so much. From the first second he saw you, when you a wee little baby. No, no, my boy! Your Papa would be here right this minute, if he could. But he became ill when he was visiting."
Aaron sniffled, "He should have stayed home if he was sick."
"I agree, my boy," Arthur said, wiping the boy's runny nose with his handkerchief. "But he wasn't ill when he left. He didn't talk about any pains." Hastings shook off the sight of his dying friend. "I'm thinking that all the fuss he made, in getting ready for his trip, might have wore on him more than he thought. When I met up with him, he was very weak so I called for an ambulance." A white lie. But how could he explain the presence of Japp without spilling the truth of what really happened?
"Anyway, we got to the hospital, but ....." Hastings stopped. "Aaron, do you remember when I was tinkering under the hood of the car, and you asked me what I was doing and I said the car needed a new heart?"
"You said that the motor was the heart of the car."
"You forget nothing." Hastings smiled at his son.
"Except how to clean your room." Isabel teased.
"It turned out, Papa's heart, his motor was weak." Tears came to Hastings' eyes that Aaron wiped from his dad's cheeks with his fingertips.
Wiping her own tears, Isabel spoke up. "Remember when we were in Papa's room and you saw the picture of he and his wife? The wedding picture?" Good Lord! Was that just YESTERDAY?!
Aaron nodded. "He said she was in heaven."
Aaron's mum nodded. "That's right. And now, Papa is with her, in heaven." She wiped her eyes on her handkerchief and then blew her nose and put the linen hanky back in her skirt pocket.
"But why didn't he tell us?" The boy insisted on knowing.
"Because he didn't know." Hastings replied. "That would be like blaming you for catching cold or tripping tomorrow. How can you be blamed for something you didn't know would happen? Papa didn't know he would ...become ill or he would have tried to prevent it." By NOT meeting with the scheming WITCH who would trap him! The problem was, Poirot could no more suspect Ariadne Oliver of colluding with the Manchester Brotherhood anymore than he could be convinced that Felicity Bennett (formerly Lemon) was a safe-cracker.
The latter would be just about hilarious to anyone who knew Felicity, including her husband.
A moment of silence and then Aaron posed the request that momentarily caught his parents off guard. "Can I go to Papa's room?"
Hastings' first impulse was to say no. Poirot would be offended that his privacy was invaded. Then he realized...
Hesitantly, Hastings agreed and all three went to Poirot's suite.
*****
Stepping into Poirot's suite set off a flood of memories in Hastings' mind.
Their first meeting in Belgium, where Hastings had been (albeit, temporarily) a suspect in a case Poirot had been investigating. Their reunion at the general store in town. The death and murder investigation of Emily Inglethorp.
Once situated in London, there were any number of cases and occasions. The usual annoyances of working with a person over a period of time. Hercule Poirot. The man was a walking enigma. He was so tidy and yet he smoked. He could seem self-involved and yet go far out of his way for a client.
"Have you seen this photograph, Arthur?" Isabel brought Hastings out of his dream- scape and he found himself in Poirot's bedroom.
Taking the framed photograph, Hastings only stared at it for a minute or so. Finally speaking ; "A time or two. He kept it in his bedroom on his bureau drawer. Lovely." He handed the photo back.
Neat, as always, while, somehow, a bit...rumpled. Not everything was EXACTLY as symmetrical as he was known to have them on his dresser or desk. Hastings smiled, briefly, to think that his long time friend had found something more important to occupy his time.
Poirot's writing desk was neatly arranged, but with a notebook opened to a title page.
" Good Lord! He did it!" Hastings laughed, flipping through the written pages. Half the book anyway.
"What?" Isabel looked to what drew her husband's attention.
"The book! Those wild stories he told about 'Master Detective Hastings' . I suggested, only joking, that he should write the stories down. Publish them. You want to talk about FICTION, those stories were that, and then some!" Hastings cleared his throat. "You think I should bring it? Read one of the stories to Aaron before bed?"
"I think anytime today might be a good idea." Isabel was suddenly aware that their son hadn't so much as said a word for a few minutes. They found their son on the couch, hugging one of Poirot's pillows that he had cried into, until he fell asleep.
Not even attempting to take the pillow away, Hastings lifted his child up and heard him whimper. it was all he could to do keep it together. On the way out of the suite, he pointed to the desk ; asking his wife to take the book. "We'll read to him later."
****
With Aaron napping, {having cried himself to sleep} Isabel waited for her husband to let loose. He couldn't very well break down in front of the child. So, as soon as she checked to make sure everything was going well with the staff and the guests were okay, she returned to their suite to find Hastings pouring himself a drink. It was hardly noon. Then again, Arthur wasn't known for even sitting around in the afternoon. For today, though, he needed it.
"Got a message from the front desk. Jim and Emily Japp are driving down tomorrow. Japp just got two weeks off. Felicity and Edgar will likely be in the day after. They have to find someone to cover for a week."
Arthur only nodded as he took the photo album from the top shelf and brought it to the couch.
"Did you hear what I said?" Isabel asked.
"Yeah," Hastings replied. "Japp and Emily are dropping by tomorrow. Wonder how long they'll be able to stay. Seems the poor man hardly gets out of his office when they're calling him back."
"That's probably why they're coming in tomorrow. To make sure he can't be reached."
Arthur flipped through the pages of the album, smiling at photos but not really focusing on them.
"Aren't you going to talk to me?" Isabel insisted.
"About what?"
"About...?!" she asked, incredulous. "Arthur, you just lost a very dear friend yesterday. You've got to be feeling something!"
"I don't want to think about it, Isabel." Hastings' tone was flat and cold. Unlike him. "If I do, I'm liable to drive up to London, charge into Scotland Yard, grab a gun off one of the officers and fill that BACKSTABBING MURDERING BITCH full of holes! They'd have to kill me to stop me from ...."
"Oh, that's just what your son needs; to lose a grandfather and a father within hours of each other."
"Then don't force me to think about it, because right now, I'm not sure I wouldn't do it, it given half the chance!" He closed the photo album and just about slammed it on the coffee table. Taking a sip of his Scotch, and then a swig, Hastings's sigh was long, but did nothing to lift the ache from his chest. "I can't explain why, love, but I didn't trust Ariadne Oliver. Does that make sense? She betrayed her own readers so I'm glad she's getting back a bit of the disrespect she dished out. Still, I didn't suspect her of doing anything more ruthless than maybe leaving Poirot's name off the credit for her book. It never dawned on me that she would do..... "
He stopped short of saying what he was thinking and downed the rest of his drink and let Isabel take the glass and set it on the table. "I keep hoping this will be like that time, a while back, where Poirot was supposed to have been killed in an explosion, rigged by the top dog in 'the Big Four'. Turned out the whole bruehaha was over one lunatic, sending the political world into a tailspin over being spurned by a woman he was in love with. Claude Darrell. We all went to Poirot's funeral, only to find out he ..... wasn't even dead." Hastings began to laugh. "I keep hoping this will be the same as that. And Poirot will call and tell me I missed out on some clues I should have picked up on. Is that possible?"
"I don't think so, love. Not if what Japp told me is true."
Silence for a half a minute. "Araiadne Oliver is going to hang, Isabel, if I have to drag her to the gallows myself! I'll even volunteer to pull the lever! I won't even put that cover over her head. I want my eyes to be the last things she sees before the ground is pulled out from under her feet. "ROT IN HELL, BITCH!" I'll say, and then pull down on the lever.
"How about the man who was with her?"
Hastings had to think before he remembered, "Damien Suchet." Getting off the couch, he went and stared out the window; looking at nothing in particular. "Oh, definitely he'll hang , too. But I'll let Japp pull that lever. He and the gang from Scotland Yard have been chomping at the bit to get that king pin's head in a noose. Thing is, we expected no better from that lot. That they would stoop so low as to try and use someone Poirot knew ; that was bad enough. For someone to agree to it, and for money....it's VILE, Isabel! Poirot trusted that ...woman the same way he trusted me or Miss.... Felicity or Japp! Her betrayal of him was as cruel as cruel gets! And I am going to make DAMN sure Ariadne Oliver PAYS for what she did! If I have to buy the hanging rope, I'll do it!"
Joining Arthur at the window, Isabel felt her husband's tears wet her hair. "I might just beat you to it." she replied, enfolding the arms that held her.
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