Now and Forever Chapter 1 ~As It Happened~

~Chapter 1~

  ~As it Happened~

     It started with the murder of Paul Deroulard.

    Murder? Death by Chocolate?  The Inquest into the death of the chief politician of Belgium was ruled an accident, to the loud rebuke of his cousin; Virginie Mesnard .  There was more to it! There HAD to be.
To that end, she procured the investigative talents of a young police officer,  Hercule Poirot, who, while he was on holidays, agreed to look into the matter; conceding that he would have to report back what he discovered.  In the time it took Monsieur Poirot  reach and divulge the difficult conclusion; that Madame Deroulard had killed her son by poisoned chocolate,  the detective was in the conflicted place of having fallen in love with the woman who'd hired him. Still, he told Miss Mesnard and Madame Deroulard how the murder had transpired and why.
Standing over the coffee table that contained the box of chocolates, and the mismatched cover, Poirot summed up all he had learned and how he made his final determination,
"The death of Paul Deroulard, it has been, for me, the source of much consternation. Not only do I discover that  Monsieur Deroulard killed his wife;  a crime that was hushed up as an accidental fall down the stairs,  but, from the perspective deeply personal,  he actively sought to undermine the very foundation of our society and expected to use our government to carry out said atrocity. Our moral code. The faith that keeps our nation strong, it would be undone if M. Paul had his way.
I realize that, as an officer of the law, I need to keep separate my personal views . But then, how can I?  I live here. I would see the ...the chaos which would be sure to result if our moral fiber, it was undone by M. Deroulard's actions.  I have heard, by your statements, Madame, that you share these convictions.  And so deeply held are they that you acted, both as a citizen and a Catholic most devout.  And so, Madame, you did purchase a box of chocolates which your son so enjoyed as an after-dinner treat, and you poisoned them.  This much, it is understood, THAT Monsieur Paul Deroulard was poisoned.  I only concluded the WHO when I saw the mismatched box cover. At first, I thought such action was the ploy of the chocolatier, to catch the eye.  But no other box in the shop did match what was seen here."
          "Could the box have been specifically purchased that way? One color scheme for the box, and another for the cover?"  Virginie asked.
          Poirot was struck by the fact that the woman's question was not put to him in an attitude of defensiveness, but with genuine curiosity. And so he considered.  "I suppose it is possible, Mademoiselle.  And I even put to the seller of the chocolates that very question.  He told me that boxes and covers are a unit. I could not ...how is it said...mix and match? The seller, he also explained about sizes and such, but it just got to be confusing.  So, upon further investigation I learned that the boxes were, as suspected, from different companies.  Madame mistakenly placed one cover over the wrong box and..."
    He was stopped in mid-sentence by the old woman, who, with calmness of voice and mind, insisted, "It was no mistake, M. Poirot.  My eyes are not as strong as they once were. And, I suspect that perhaps, even if I was in possession of full visual faculties, I may well have made the same mistake in a rush. Though, as I was preparing the chocolates, I wasn't panicking. I kept my mind and hand steady.  I HATED what I was about to do, but my son was beyond reason! No one could talk to him. Not me. Not his wife! No one! Paul was right and that was it. He would have dragged this country to the very gates of HELL, M. Poirot,  before conceding that he MIGHT have been mistaken! I could not let him do it!  Bad enough that I saw what he did to his wife, and let him get away with it! My conscience has not given me much rest over that.  And so....  I was certain he was going to go through with his insidious plot to rid our nation of its religious and moral heritage under whatever guise he cared to call it, I knew I had to act!  The consequences of said actions will be my penance for not speaking up, when I knew what he had done with his wife, to quiet her."
     Having said her peace, Madame Deroulard sat in her chair, in the front room of her home; awaiting the justice that was sure to come.  She seemed utterly defeated and felt as old as her years. While, when she spoke, there was strength in her words, as from a young woman like her niece. Officer Poirot, too, seemed at a loss for words for a moment. How could he let justice hide? This woman had committed a crime. She had committed murder. And not just against anyone, but her own son!  On the other hand...was this merely murder?  How much worse would have been visited upon Belgium if she had not done what she did?
Sighing his resignation to the choice, Poirot spoke up;  "Madame Deroulard,  Mademoiselle Mesnard, I do not believe any good would come of making these findings part of the public record.  The inquest report will stand.  As it is, I have not made my superiors happy by attempting to, as my Chief has said, 'dredge up'  what is buried and I don't suppose he would listen to me anyway. In addition, if I press the issue, I may put in jeopardy years of work. That, I do not want to do.   And so, what I have told you here, it will stay here."
Both women wore expressions of mingled surprise and gratitude.
"Monsieur. Poirot,"  Virginie addressed the man she had hired to find her cousin's killer. "are you quite certain of this?  You have gone to so much time and effort. And on your own time, no less. I feel bad for taking you away from what I'm sure was a well deserved vacation."
"You needed to know,  Mademoiselle.  You have the heart for justice.  How could I refuse such an call for help?"
"M. Poirot,"  Madame Deroulard said, extending a hand in gratitude, staring up at him, even if all her fading eyes could see was a blur with what looked to be a smile.  "I will say a special prayer for you tonight. You have done more good than you can imagine.  You see, my days are not long.  I am not certain. God, alone,  knows.  Regardless,  for not having to be put through the rigors of a trial, deserved though it may be,  I owe you at least half an hour on these knees."  Madame Deroulard patted one leg.
Hercule Poirot smiled,  took the old woman's hand, and bowed to it. "How about an HOUR while sitting up in your bed, hmm?   Le Bon Dieu, He sees the heart, and He understands the affliction of the body. Our Savior's sufferings make that point."
Madame Deroulard smiled,  "Indeed, Monsieur.  It is to humanity's collective good that His justice is given with mercy."
The old woman slowly rose from her chair and Poirot handed the woman her cane. "After all of the excitement of this day, I am in need of a rest. Virginie, dear, please assist me. I feel a bit wobbly right now. Nerves, I shouldn't wonder."
"Of course." Virginie rose to assist her aunt from the front room to the stairs that lead to the bedroom. Poirot followed them to the foot of the stairs and then bid the women farewell.
"I will take my leave.."    Poirot tipped his officer's cap by way of a parting salute.
"Please, Monsieur  Poirot. If you could wait til I come back down. It shouldn't be long," Virginie requested. Glad when he acquiesced.
Watching Virginie escort her ailing aunt up the stairs to her room,  Hercule Poirot insisted to himself that he would, one day,  summon the courage to ask Virginie Mesnard to be his wife; believing in his heart of hearts that he would regret it for the rest of his life if he didn't.  Had he known what the old woman was discussing with her niece, in her room, he would breathe a little easier.
Settling the woman down in a chair, Virginie turned down the patchwork quilt before she escorted her aunt to the bed.
"There is a good man, downstairs, my girl. You'd be wise to ...oh...perhaps, let him escort you to a concert or dinner, should he be smart enough to ask. Men are an odd lot unto themselves, but I have a good sense about ...certain things,"  the woman hinted, none-too-subtly.  "I may be just about blind, dear girl, but I'm not stone blind yet! Nor am I deaf.  Hercule Poirot is a good man. And, should he be smart enough to ask you to marry him, you say yes, or I will!"
"On my behalf?"  Virginie asked, amazed at how quickly her aunt escalated the relationship; from dinner and/or a concert to a marriage proposal.
"On my own!"  the woman teased as she settled under the blanket. "Oh, dear girl, we have so much to talk about.  But all of it will wait til you see your man off to work. Now GO!" she waved the girl off in a manner of mock gruffness. "I'm fine as I am."
Kissing her aunt on the cheek, Virginie closed the door to the bedroom slowly behind her; watching to make sure the woman was safe in bed, so's not to fall. Also, she was taught the rudeness of slamming doors. "Her man?"  Virginie blushed at the recollection of what her aunt said, and found herself hoping.
In the front room,  Virginie found M. Poirot organizing the side table and desk. The chocolates, at the center of the controversy, were now in a wicker trash basket at the side of the desk.
"Do you do windows?"  she teased.
Poirot turned with a start. "Oh Mademoiselle, I do apologize! I...that is, when I am nervous or anxious about something, I need something to do with my hands and so...I organize. I think I get it from my mother."
Virginie surveyed the room.  "I should get so anxious. This place could stand a good going over. Anyway, what have you to be anxious about?  You have done much good for this family today. I am MORE than thankful. Madame will sleep well tonight...unless she sleeps too long this afternoon." Virginie stopped herself. "Now I'm nervous and anxious and I'm not sure why."   But she knew.
His mouth dry, Poirot uncharacteristically stammered with a request, "Wi..with your permission, I would like to take you to a concert tomorrow,  Madame..."
"Please call me Virginie, Hercule.  If I'm going to go to a concert with you, then we are officially friends at least".
Poirot nodded; feeling the butterflies in his stomach fly away one by one.  He had taken the first step and Virginie accepted.  "Very well, Virginie. May I pick you up at Four-thirty and we can dine first?  The concert, it begins at seven, but I do not like to be late for anything. That habit, I believe, is from mon Pere, my father. Good man, but the odd duck. So says mother."
"I do hope to get to meet your parents. You speak of them with great affection."
A cloud passed over his vivid eyes, "Alas, they are no longer with us."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought...I mean, by the way you spoke of them, in the present tense..."
"A habit of mine I need to fix. It's just..."  he he trailed off.
Virginie smiled, "It's okay. I understand. Fine then. Four-Thirty it is." she added quickly, agreeing to the time, if only to distance them both from the awkwardness.
At the door, Poirot inquired, "Do you like Italian food?  There is a little place a brief ways from the concert hall. We can dine there, unless..."
"I LOVE Italian food, even if my waistline rebels against it,"   Virginie replied. Poirot wanted to say something about how beautiful she was, in more than appearance, but he didn't trust himself to speak, for fear of versing those sentiments in the wrong way.  As confident as he usually was, in his manners, Hercule Poirot felt utterly bewildered around this woman.
"Then we can walk home after the concert,"  Poirot recommended. if it does not rain. Until then, Ma.... Virginie."  Poirot took her hand and bowed to it, with respect.
"Until tomorrow, Hercule,"   Virginie  said with a smile, as their eyes met briefly.
Somehow, he let go of her hand, made his way out the door and down the steps of the house and back to the police headquarters.  But how he would get through the hours between then and four-thirty tomorrow afternoon, he had no idea.