~Author's Note~
I'm going for the gold, here. This is my ...sort of, last Poirot story. It will, OBVIOUSLY, be set before Code Name: Aggie as that was the story I used, to replace a rather unkind ending for Poirot in another story. The written villain in Curtain was only a fraction as cruel to Poirot as the one who wrote the story.
While a funeral was held in "..Aggie" there was also family and a sense of community and friendship. I was happy to give Hastings his wife back, and rebuild an old mansion. The highly esteemed Ms christie, on the other hand, didn't build up, she tore down. She ripped down homes, tore apart families. Worse, she destroyed a character she stole from someone else. Yeah, 'cause that makes so much sense.
Well, I'm taking Poirot back and giving him to his originator and his brother. Hope Mr. Doyle doesn't mind if I borrow him. I've considered letting them work together but brothers , especially as adults, are best in their own space. Sherlock and Hercule are just too much alike to be able to work together. Though, apparently, some fan fiction writers have made such a
collaboration work. Hey, bravo! Just so long as Poirot is a safe distance from the cruel woman who kidnapped him from his originator, just so's to build her own reputation off his back.
But enough of that. I have a story to write.
{ Premise: Japp and Poirot investigate the death of a young woman, whose family refuses to co-operate with police. Sadder still is what Poirot suspects but can do nothing about. }
While a funeral was held in "..Aggie" there was also family and a sense of community and friendship. I was happy to give Hastings his wife back, and rebuild an old mansion. The highly esteemed Ms christie, on the other hand, didn't build up, she tore down. She ripped down homes, tore apart families. Worse, she destroyed a character she stole from someone else. Yeah, 'cause that makes so much sense.
Well, I'm taking Poirot back and giving him to his originator and his brother. Hope Mr. Doyle doesn't mind if I borrow him. I've considered letting them work together but brothers , especially as adults, are best in their own space. Sherlock and Hercule are just too much alike to be able to work together. Though, apparently, some fan fiction writers have made such a
 |
| Father and sons. |
But enough of that. I have a story to write.
~~~~~~~
~~~~~
Rain. Wouldn't you know it? And on a Monday.
James Japp had made a long weekend for himself by booking the Friday off a few weeks previous. Miracle of miracles, no one called to ruin his weekend. Instead, he and Emily began the fall cleaning of the yard and house. Japp watered the shrubs and trimmed them before covering them with burlap and then gave them one last watering before the snow fell. Go figure. After all that work, he woke up the following Monday to low, dark clouds and a steady drizzle.
"Come hell or high water," Japp murmured to himself, very much looking forward to the retirement that awaited him less than a decade read, as he stared out the living room window.
"What was that, Jim?" Emily Japp said, pointing to the breakfast table.
Japp smiled and nodded, heading to the kitchen where he sat across from his wife. Breakfast for Monday was hardy fare, which made him wish, especially on a day like this, that he could just go back to bed. Three sausages, two eggs, over easy, and brown toast.
"What were you contemplating?" Emily spooned a dab of Marmelade onto her toast.
"Day dreaming." Japp declared, letting two cubes of sugar plop into his coffee before adding cream. "Looking forward to my last day of work." Japp cut into his sausage, dipped it into the egg yolk before he was able to savor it. "Days like this make me wish we could walk away from it all right now," he said as soon as he chased his forkful of breakfast with a sip of coffee.
"Your retirement. That's about...what? Five years away!" Emily Japp replied. "You're thinking ahead."
Japp made a show of calculating by 'writing' the numbers out in thin air, with his index finger acting as a pen. Finally he announced, "Five years, seven months, three days and twelve hours. Give or take."
Emily smirked as she sipped. "That'll give us enough time to squirrel away a few more pounds. As long as you don't start playing the ponies or lose anymore five pound wagers with Mr. Poirot, we'll fare just fine. We got through the Depression. well enough."
"With you squeezing pennies til they cried for mercy, I guess we made it through okay." Jim finished off his breakfast with a last gulp on his warmed coffee and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He left the bathroom and headed for the hall, where he took his signature long, beige raincoat off the carved wooden coat rack when the phone started ringing.
Seeing he was closer to the the phone than Emily, who was tidying up the breakfast dishes Japp grumbled his way to the phone table which was just off the dining room.
"I'm just about out the door. Can't this wait...?" He was stopped short by the official tone of Commissioner Alan Spaulding. "Sorry about that, Commissioner." He listened for another minute as he fumbled for the watch fob in his vest pocket. "Jennings will be here in about three to five minutes. He's good about that." Another tick and Japp was reaching for a pencil contained in an old coffee cup and scribbling a note on a pad of paper. He knew the area Spaulding gave him. Mayfair was an affluent part of town, (to say the very least!) and just inside the city. Otherwise someone else would be dealing with it.
"Swipe me! It's only Monday! You'd think people with that sort of money could find better things to do with their day." Hardly a breath later and Japp was apologizing. "I realize that. Alright. I'll head there. Oh, sir, I'm sure Poirot's already on site. He has an impeccable sense of timing, that one. Absolutely. As soon as I know, you'll know."
What a relief to hear the horn outside. He had to beg off and ended the phone call with assurances of communication as soon as he knew what was going on.
"Trouble?" Emily said, handing her husband a small paper bag. "Blueberry muffin and a peach, just in case you can't stop for lunch."
"Thanks love. Honestly, I am an Assistant Commissioner. To hear Spaulding talk, you'd think I was a rookie on my first day, who wouldn't know my trousers from a dress shirt."
Emily surmised, "It's hard to admit your kids are all grown up."
"Oh, right!" Japp smirked and kissed his wife on the cheek and headed out the door. "Thanks, again for the muffin!" He held up the bag before closing the passenger door of the police car.
~~~
Acting on ...a hunch if nothing else, Japp asked Jennings to stop in front of Whitehaven Mansions. Checking the chained watch in his vest pocket, Japp hardly had the watch back in his pocket with Constable Jennings nodded toward the front door of the apartment building. Sure enough, there he was. Full length coat, shoes with a shine you could see, almost across the street and a proper hat. Hercule Poirot could be spotted in a crowd of a thousand men.
Rolling down the window, Japp called, "Need a lift, Poirot?"
Poirot raised a gloved hand in greeting and spoke to the building's doorman, who nodded. Taking the familiar waking stick from under his left arm, Poirot descended the apartment building's stairs and approached the police car, touching his fingers to the brim of his hat by way of the time honored greeting of tipping one's hat. Then again, that was more of a greeting made to ladies and neither Japp or his colleague were women.
"To where are you going, mon ami? The good Miss Lemon culled a headline from yesterday's late edition, about a sudden death of a young woman." He removed the neatly folded newspaper cutting from his coat pocket and presented it to Japp, who showed it to Jennings. Sure enough, same case.
Returning the clipping to Poirot, Japp conceded, "I got a call from the commissioner as I was headed out the door. He gave me the address. You're welcome to ride along with us if you like."
Hercule Poirot had only to gaze up at the deep-grey, dreary sky before agreeing and getting in the back seat and closing the door. Promptly, Jennings pulled away from the curb.
En route, the longtime friends /former competitors first engaged in a spot of small talk. Japp asked about Captain Hastings, who hadn't been around for a while.
"The impending child, he is fraying the nerves of our good friend. In turn, Captain Hastings ..."
"...Is driving Mrs. Hastings batty," Japp filled in the rest of the statement, with a smirk in his voice as well as on his lips.
Poirot nodded in agreement. From there, they went on to discuss what precious little they understood about the case in question
"From what I know,...that is to say, from what little Spaulding told me," Japp informed his colleague. "there's a dead woman and a distraught husband."
"Nothing new under that sun." Jennings spoke up from the driver's seat.
"On the other hand, mes ami, if it were all as straight forward as an accidental death, such as, perhaps, a fall down the stairs, then why do they want the police involvement?"
"Since you were going to call a cab before we showed up, you had to know the address we're going to investigate."
"Indeed, mon ami. It is Mayfair. The home of all names affluent and well known by a vast population. A friend, Madame Ariadne Oliver resides at an address in, as you say, Assistant Commissioner, 'that neck of the woods.'"
"The mystery writer?" Jennings asked with more than curiosity in his tone. The young constable was genuinely impressed.
"I won't be mentioning that to Mrs. Japp at the moment. She and her book club are less-than-impressed with Mrs. Oliver's latest tome. Seems the poor Finnish sleuth is in one calamity after the next. Is Mrs. Oliver trying to kill him off or is he just getting careless?"
Poirot sighed, "Alas, I dare not ask. The lady, she is in a proper, as you put it, stew about writing another Sven Hjerson novel. I have, endured, with patience, her grumbling and griping. However, it is on the very tip of my tongue to ask Madame Oliver to find another occupation.
Perhaps your wife's book club members might suggest the esteemed mystery author find another genre or recommend that she find a way to let Monsieur Hjerson disappear for a while and then perhaps begin writing under another name."
"I'll get right on that." Japp side shrugged. "What? You moon-lighting as the woman's agent?"
"I'm merely trying to save the poor detective's life. The woman, she gets started with a story, it becomes popular, and now she does nothing but gripe and moan! Her planning of the story gives her no exit and so she blames the character, as if he trapped her! If I were Monsieur Hjerson, I'd want to be out of the sights of Madame Oliver at earliest convenience."
"Tell you what, Poirot. I'll let Emily talk to you about becoming an honorary member of her book club. In the meantime, can we get back to the issue at hand?"
"Pardon. Continue on."
"Anyway, Henry Elkins is a very big wig in political circles," Japp explained. "Penny to the pound, if there is so much as a whiff of scandal, his career will go up in smoke before you can SAY 'FIRE' , let alone SPELL it."
"How does that involve us?" Jennings asked as he drove closer to the long driveway of a very nice home. While the two veteran detectives hardly blinked at the sight before them, the rookie on the force was nearly transfixed. As if he'd been invited to Buckingham Palace.
"We're simply to investigate the site of the accident, conduct a few interviews, and let the press know what we want them to report."
While Japp didn't elaborate, Poirot couldn't help but hear something that wasn't said.
~~~~~
Japp had barely taken his finger off the doorbell when the door opened; bringing the Assistant Commissioner, Poirot and Constable Jennings face to face with a sniffling, bleary-eyed woman; who would have, on a good day, resembled a beautiful young woman in her mid twenties.
"Assistant Commissioner Japp, ma'am. We received a phone call about an incident."
The young woman opened the door wide and ushered the three in. Introductions were made in the rather expansive foyer, with a round marble table in the middle of the impressive entryway. On the ornate table sat a large, wide ceramic vase. The plant contained in the vase was, thankfully, artificial, but no less tacky. All the same, the planter, with its tacky plant was not the reason for the ...visit to Mayfair.
"Gentlemen," the woman began with a firm voice. "my name is Celia Watson. The woman who died was my sister, Rhoda. I don't know all the details surrounding my sister's death, except ....well... that she's...."
"Deceased." Poirot added the word the young woman could not articulate. "My sympathies, mademoiselle. But do not fret. The cause of your sister's ....demise, it will be discovered and all will be put to rights."
"Where is the husband?" Japp asked, flipping open his notebook to a fresh page. He didn't seem so moved by the plight of the mourning sister.
"Henry Elkins," Celia shared her brother-in-law's name. "He's ....."
"He's on the way down the stairs." The voice attracted the attention of Celia, Japp, Poirot and the police constable and the rather casual gait of the supposedly grieving husband attracted the Assistant Commissioner's immediate suspicion.
"Apologies for leaving Miss Celia to answer your inquiries, gentlemen. I just had to, " he hesitated. "get myself together." He shook hands all round and nodded, respectfully to Mr. Poirot. "Your reputation precedes you, sir. Feel free to ask whatever questions you need. On the other hand, we can hardly do that on dry throats. Celia, could you have Greta prepare a round of ....." Henry Elkins checked his watch. "coffees. Brandy's a bit strong for 9:30 a.m in the morning."
Celia headed for the kitchen and Henry escorted the three investigators into the very stylish living room, with two plush sofas that faced a large, square oak coffee table with what appeared to be embedded place mats.
Over coffee, Henry Elkins gave a complete description of the accident that claimed his wife's life. He cleared his throat a couple of times and had to set his coffee cup down when his hands began to shake. "We got into an arguement; Rhoda and I, and she stormed out of our bedroom."
Henry Elkins was a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties. He was a man of means and reputation. Poirot recognized him from the newspaper headline photos, and was no longer impressed with titles and influence. With Japp it was the same. Jennings, on the other hand, was still impressed with the mansion, though he seemed less impressed with the the man, himself.
Between sips of his coffee, Japp asked questions, took notes and watched the esteemed counselor. Posture. Mood. The calm way he responded to Poirot's questions and his own.
"I will be taking....," Counselor Elkins took a steadying breath, as if he needed it. "a week off. I need to make..uh... funeral preparations and ..uh, well, I just want to take a few days to...um..."
"Mourn?" Jennings filled in the blank.
Elkins nodded, with his head hung low. Raising it, slowly, Counselor Henry Elkins smiled sadly at the men sitting on the other side of the ornate coffee table. "It's all very straight forward, gentlemen. However, as it's already been said, I want no hint of scandal. Search for what you need to find and report back to who needs to know."
Henry Elkins stood up, prompting Poirot and Jennings to set their coffee cups on the coffee table. Japp only flipped the front page of his notebook closed as he stood up. He'd barely sipped his coffee. "Now, if you will, excuse me, gentlemen, this is a house of mourning and I need time to be alone with family." He nodded to Celia. "Would you be willing to show these good men to the door. I have....arrangements to make."
Celia only nodded and lead the investigators back to the entrance, with door opened in a less-than-subtle hint that their presence in the home was no longer welcome.
The young woman opened the door wide and ushered the three in. Introductions were made in the rather expansive foyer, with a round marble table in the middle of the impressive entryway. On the ornate table sat a large, wide ceramic vase. The plant contained in the vase was, thankfully, artificial, but no less tacky. All the same, the planter, with its tacky plant was not the reason for the ...visit to Mayfair.
"Gentlemen," the woman began with a firm voice. "my name is Celia Watson. The woman who died was my sister, Rhoda. I don't know all the details surrounding my sister's death, except ....well... that she's...."
"Deceased." Poirot added the word the young woman could not articulate. "My sympathies, mademoiselle. But do not fret. The cause of your sister's ....demise, it will be discovered and all will be put to rights."
"Where is the husband?" Japp asked, flipping open his notebook to a fresh page. He didn't seem so moved by the plight of the mourning sister.
"Henry Elkins," Celia shared her brother-in-law's name. "He's ....."
"He's on the way down the stairs." The voice attracted the attention of Celia, Japp, Poirot and the police constable and the rather casual gait of the supposedly grieving husband attracted the Assistant Commissioner's immediate suspicion.
"Apologies for leaving Miss Celia to answer your inquiries, gentlemen. I just had to, " he hesitated. "get myself together." He shook hands all round and nodded, respectfully to Mr. Poirot. "Your reputation precedes you, sir. Feel free to ask whatever questions you need. On the other hand, we can hardly do that on dry throats. Celia, could you have Greta prepare a round of ....." Henry Elkins checked his watch. "coffees. Brandy's a bit strong for 9:30 a.m in the morning."
Celia headed for the kitchen and Henry escorted the three investigators into the very stylish living room, with two plush sofas that faced a large, square oak coffee table with what appeared to be embedded place mats.
Over coffee, Henry Elkins gave a complete description of the accident that claimed his wife's life. He cleared his throat a couple of times and had to set his coffee cup down when his hands began to shake. "We got into an arguement; Rhoda and I, and she stormed out of our bedroom."
Henry Elkins was a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties. He was a man of means and reputation. Poirot recognized him from the newspaper headline photos, and was no longer impressed with titles and influence. With Japp it was the same. Jennings, on the other hand, was still impressed with the mansion, though he seemed less impressed with the the man, himself.
Between sips of his coffee, Japp asked questions, took notes and watched the esteemed counselor. Posture. Mood. The calm way he responded to Poirot's questions and his own.
"I will be taking....," Counselor Elkins took a steadying breath, as if he needed it. "a week off. I need to make..uh... funeral preparations and ..uh, well, I just want to take a few days to...um..."
"Mourn?" Jennings filled in the blank.
Elkins nodded, with his head hung low. Raising it, slowly, Counselor Henry Elkins smiled sadly at the men sitting on the other side of the ornate coffee table. "It's all very straight forward, gentlemen. However, as it's already been said, I want no hint of scandal. Search for what you need to find and report back to who needs to know."
Henry Elkins stood up, prompting Poirot and Jennings to set their coffee cups on the coffee table. Japp only flipped the front page of his notebook closed as he stood up. He'd barely sipped his coffee. "Now, if you will, excuse me, gentlemen, this is a house of mourning and I need time to be alone with family." He nodded to Celia. "Would you be willing to show these good men to the door. I have....arrangements to make."
Celia only nodded and lead the investigators back to the entrance, with door opened in a less-than-subtle hint that their presence in the home was no longer welcome.
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