Part 2
Agatha walked with her husband, Archibald, around the grounds of their home with the Collie-Golden Labrador cross, Millicent. It was a nice day for a walk. Sunny. They didn't always get that. And if they did, it didn't last."Good grief! Did you leave the groceries in ...?" Agatha stopped in her tracks. Millicent was a good distance off, but as long as the dog could hear her owners, she was content to walk at a confident stride.
"I brought the groceries and supplies into the house. I put the eggs and other perishables into the ice box. Your writing supplies are on the kitchen table." Agatha's husband informed her as they started walking again. "While we're on the topic, what were you doing, staring into the fireplace? Drop something?"
"I was...trying to decide if I wanted to get some dusting done and something fell in. A trinket. Nothing to get concerned about." She verbally waved off the issue, while, at the same time, wondering to herself if she had just been daydreaming. As much as her imagined guest sought to assure her that she was not dreaming, in the clear light of day and the fresh air in her lungs, it was difficult to take the scene in the house seriously. Too much caffeine, perhaps. Whatever it was, it wasn't real. It couldn't be. That personal revelation put Agatha on an emotional roller-coaster ride; careening between euphoria and desperation. If the 'dream' was, in fact, genuine, then Poirot no longer existed for the masses. He never had. Simultaneously, the author found the concept both freeing and terrifying.
On the assumption that the events of half an hour ago or so hadn't actually occurred, and she was still stuck with the fastidious little ...creep, Agatha groaned silently at the idea of having to carry on with the book. In almost the same instance, however, she sighed with relief. At least she still had her meal ticket.
~~~~~
The next morning, Agatha woke to the four walls of her old bedroom. The accommodations belonging to the house she had before her literary career permitted her to earn a living from home. Checking her bedside clock, she saw that it was five-fifteen. There was still an hour before she properly needed to get up and make breakfast and then head off to the nearest hospital with her credentials, in search of work.
On the pillow beside her, Archie slept on; taking no notice of the vacant place next to him.
Passing the mirrored door of the wardrobe, Agatha was pleasantly surprised by the face that looked back at her. The woman was young. The same age as the woman, with whom she'd made her bargain.
It WAS real. If the sight of the old bedroom wasn't enough to convince her, the face in the mirror proved it beyond any doubt. She got the time back. She could begin her career again. All the youth and opportunity, minus the encumbrance .
But first, life. Agatha had to get to work. She'd begin the process of building or re-building her literary career as soon as she got her nursing job and put some savings in the bank. In that time, she would hopefully find a new story idea. A new series? No. She'd been down that route and the very thought of going there again made her cringe.
Within the first month of her new nursing job, the monotony of the routine had Agatha desperate to get back to writing. But write WHAT? No doubt, inspiration would present itself when she least expected it. The sooner the better.
Keeping young Aggie's counsel at the forefront of her mind, Agatha shopped for a typewriter and supplies, for she truly was beginning from the beginning. The house she'd left her supplies in didn't exist because Poirot didn't exist, and it was his stories that had paid for the building of the more affluent home.
All the same, it would be nice to be able to afford her new home without having to depend on someone who was minus a single virtue.
All the same, it would be nice to be able to afford her new home without having to depend on someone who was minus a single virtue.
One day, after work, Agatha decided to meander over to a book store to purchase some literary inspiration. She bought a romance novel and a mystery by Mark Elyot . He was coming up in the world. And from what she recalled reading about him, Mr. Elyot loved working with his Harding Maxwell, American detective in Ireland.
"Some fellas had all the luck." Agatha mumbled to herself.
"Some fellas had all the luck." Agatha mumbled to herself.
Giving the mystery/ crime section another pass, it suddenly dawned on Agatha that she didn't see a single one of her Poirot novels. Not one. Plenty of Sherlock Holmes stories. Even while she was browsing, a few of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's detective mysteries were purchased by someone who looked to be a teenager, and the other, if she heard right, was a literary instructor. It stung.
While she knew, in her head, that Poirot had been un-created, seeing, or more to the point, NOT seeing the evidence before her eyes was a different matter. Especially considering the still-popular sales of the detective she'd wanted to, at least, compete with, if not beat. It was a jolt; knowing that she had un-created her first hope of being able to have her name mentioned in the same breath with Doyle.
While she knew, in her head, that Poirot had been un-created, seeing, or more to the point, NOT seeing the evidence before her eyes was a different matter. Especially considering the still-popular sales of the detective she'd wanted to, at least, compete with, if not beat. It was a jolt; knowing that she had un-created her first hope of being able to have her name mentioned in the same breath with Doyle.
Had she done the right thing?
Yes. YES! She HAD to get rid of Poirot. The HATRED she had for him was driving her mad! It had gotten to the point where she was actually dreaming of conspiring with HITLER to bomb BELGIUM into the ground!
Oh, sure, that might've saved the Jews from the worst of ze Fuhrer's tirades, but it made no sense that she would want millions of Belgians murdered for the atrocities of one fictional Belgian.
Oh, sure, that might've saved the Jews from the worst of ze Fuhrer's tirades, but it made no sense that she would want millions of Belgians murdered for the atrocities of one fictional Belgian.
On the bus ride home, stories circulated Agatha's mind with the frenzy of a hive of active bees. Old stories mixed and mingled with other old stories and new ideas for those stories. By the time Agatha disembarked at her stop, a whole new idea began formulating. Before she started dinner, Agatha took her notebook out of her purse, opened to the first page and wrote with a pencil; Poirot as VILLAIN.
Over the dinner of ham steak and mashed potatoes, Agatha informed her husband, "I'm going to give the writing hobby a go one more time."
"Think you can do better than ol' Parker Pyne?" Archibald Christie chased a forkful of ham steak and potatoes and green beans with a swig of ice water. How amazing that even her husband had forgotten about Poirot.
"I hope so. Mr. Pyne was a good fellow. On the other hand, writing for him was about as exciting as watching grass grow. I have another idea for a VILLAIN who is initially mistaken for a hero. After I finish the dishes, I'll start working on..."
"I can take care of the ..." her husband volunteered.
"No, hon. It's all right. Sometimes, writers think best when they're doing other things." Agatha chewed on a fork full of food and sipped from her water glass.
Archie Christie didn't quibble about it. Doing dishes wasn't high on his list of things he wanted to do.
"I can take care of the ..." her husband volunteered.
"No, hon. It's all right. Sometimes, writers think best when they're doing other things." Agatha chewed on a fork full of food and sipped from her water glass.
Archie Christie didn't quibble about it. Doing dishes wasn't high on his list of things he wanted to do.
By the time she had finished the dishes and settled into her easy chair in the living room, a full-fledged idea had formed itself and Agatha's writing hand couldn't work fast enough to get down all the ideas that were coming.
By the time she got the main points down, the theme of her original series had undergone some drastic, albeit wholly satisfying transformations.
First, Hastings and Japp would team up to take on the diabolical ex-detective, who decided to subvert law and order rather than working for it. This could segue, all going well, to Miss Lemon having a central part to play or maybe her own novel or two. No more than five.
Agatha chuckled at herself for her previous insistence that she wouldn't write another series. Her problem, she conceded, was how she went about it before. She had not set parameters, and so she was able to be....bullied by her agent and publisher, into writing more than she wanted to. Now, the borders were definitely set. Now all that was left to do was come up with a title. No worries. After nearly filling a legal pad with random thoughts and more focused ideas and plans, the title was sure to come to her.
Reading over the pages, Agatha felt herself begin to doze off. She was awakened by a pounding at the door. Three harsh poundings that startled her out the sleep that was coming. Immediately she discovered two things. The door that was being banged on wasn't hers. Her door was made of hard wood. She recognized the sound of her door when it was being knocked on. The sound she heard came from hard steel. The second reality that hit her, straight off, was that she wasn't in her living room. The banging forced her awake, but the chair she sat in was not her easy chair, with its high back, that she could have rested her head against. But that wasn't how she woke up. Rather, she had to lift her head from her folded arms, which were on a steel square table. Underneath her arms was the legal pad. The only familiar thing she could lay claim to.
She browsed the white pages as the door opened and a woman walked in, dressed in the uniform of a female prison guard. Agatha recognized the woman right away and went to pinch arms to wake herself. That was when she realized she wasn't wearing her own clothes, but a plain grey prison dress.
Another dream. She recalled herself beginning to doze before being awakened by the harsh banging on the door. YES! This really was a dream!
"What's going on?" Christie asked the familiar-looking guard who was no longer her younger self, but instead old and bitter. In the space of a month? Who ages that fast?
"I would have thought it would be obvious to you, Mrs. Christie. You're in jail, awaiting your punishment."
"Punishment? For what?"
The once-young 'Aggie' shook her head in annoyance. "Correct me where I'm wrong, Mrs. Christie, but did I not spell out that Poirot was NOT to be brought back? You violated the terms of our contract. The punishment for which is hanging."
Agatha just about flew out of her chair; knocking it over. It hit the floor with a bang. "HANGING!? For what?!"
"For the murder of every character in every completed Poirot novel. "
Christie's laugh was shrill. "You can't hang me for murdering fictional characters!"
The woman's expression could have given an iceberg frostbite. "Sure I can. How many times, AGATHA? How MANY TIMES did I ask you to make sure of what you were doing, and that you could NOT attempt to bring Hercule Poirot back once his existence had been cancelled out?"
"I assumed you meant that I would not be able to, not that I wasn't permitted to."
"As I recall, the exact words of your answer were; 'WHY WOULD I WANT TO?' "
"But I found a way! I found the way to bring him back as a VILLAIN. That way, Japp and Hastings could bring him down, eventually and I wouldn't be stuck with him."
" 'Stuck with him?' I freed you of him! I obliterated the man from existence. From anyone else's memory but yours. That choice was yours. You even checked a book store and couldn't find a single Poirot novel and you were actually disappointed not to find one. Why was that, Agatha? Was it that you missed Poirot or because that EGO of yours wasn't being catered to."
"How did you know I checked the books store?" Stupid question. Or was it? She wasn't sure what to believe at the moment.
"Because I was the one who obliterated him. He was not even remembered by your husband. Am I right?"
Christie thought and concurred. "He mentioned Parker Payne when I told him that I was going to give my writing another go. Nothing about Poirot. Though, now that I think about it, it makes sense. How would he know about a character who didn't exist at the time when I would have begun writing 'Mysterious Affair at Styles' ."
She righted the chair, if only to give herself something to do. For the first time Christie noticed her hands. She was no longer the young woman she'd been when she was allotted her second chance. In fact, she was the same age as the woman she was looking at. Older than she was when she started work on The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.
"Which means you were well aware that I was able to do what I said I'd do."
Christie had to concede that bizarre fact.
"And yet," the woman said, as she circled the table. "you chose to ignore my instruction, in order to bring back a character who spat hateful adjectives about and whom you WISHED you could rid yourself of. WHY, Agatha? Mind telling me that?" The woman stopped walked and glared at Christie.
"Why what?"
"WHY were you so desperate to get rid of Poirot? I mean WHAT, exactly, did the man do that was so awful that he deserved the caustic disdain to which he was routinely subjected by you? Did he rape your daughter? Kill your husband? Run over your dog?!"
You wanted him undone, Agatha! You asked me, at least three times, if I was sure I could make it happen."
"And YOU," the guard spoke the word with crystal clarity, as she circled the table and chair. "You burned your handwritten manuscript by way of a signature. That action was as good as a LEGAL statement, Mrs. Christie, and YOU violated it by bringing back a character that you wanted done-away-with because, for whatever bizarre reason, you loathed Hercule Poirot. What I want to know...what I NEED to know is; Why? WHY?! " Planting her hands on what appeared to be a fragile card table, the guard leaned to meet Christie's gaze. "WHAT did he DO?! Explain this to me, madame, because I am at a complete loss!!!"
Christie pulled back from the guard who was just about shouting into her face. Stranger, though, was the over-all appearance of the female prison matron. Even from the brief time the women had been in the room together, the once agreeable granter of Agatha's fondest wish was turning into a an unholy terror right in front of her. Her entire personality was going from cold officiality to deeply nasty.
"Why are you yelling at me?" Agatha posed the question insisted. "To listen to you, one would think I've been nothing but a grief to bear."
Now leaning against the wall, facing her prisoner, Aggie replied, arms folded against her uniformed chest. "To me, you are as Poirot was to you; a capital nuisance. The difference, Agatha, was that you had a choice. In your ...creating of the character, you could have taken Poirot in a direction that would have been at least TOLERABLE to you. After all, we have at least some idea of the facets of people's personalities we can put up with, and what we can't. For me, I cannot abide it when people drum their fingers on tables. Drives me bonkers!
And while writing characters has to include genuine traits, pleasant and otherwise, whatever aggravated you about Mr. Poirot was your own doing, by commission or omission. Trying to bring him back from literary oblivion, regardless of your purpose for doing so, was in clear violation of our contract as well as good old common sense."
"Now that you mention it," Agatha said with a sense of realization. "you keep going on about this 'contract' of ours. I can see how breaking it might get me sued and cost me some money, but how would breaking a literary contract forfeit me my life?"
A knock at the door interrupted the conversation, though Aggie did drop a hint before she answered the banging before it came again.
"How many run-of-the mill literary contracts grant any author their fondest dream, Mrs. Christie? Particularly when that dream means the non-creation of a character. Do you know of any other publisher or literary agent who could or would even WANT to make such a wish come true?"
"Not on this planet. Sounds like something that would be wished for in a fantasy novel or movie."
Aggie nodded in agreement; smiling as the female warden entered the room. "Exactly, Mrs. Christie. And, uh," Aggie stopped to clear her throat. "who do you suppose would be the granter of such a desperately-hoped for wish in that sort of novel or film?"
"The pair of you discussing literature?" the red-headed woman inquired.
"In a way." Aggie replied with a smirk in Agatha's direction.
"Well, I hope that discussion is over because our prisoner has an appointment with a rope."
The cold way the warden made the statement scared Agatha. Then, glancing at the professionally attired woman , Agatha noticed something familiar about the woman she'd never met before. Almost instantly, it clicked in. Down to the shoes , the description of this woman fit the physical profile of Poirot's secretary, Felicity Lemon.
Agatha Christie giggled and sighed with relief at the same time. This was most assuredly a dream. A bizarre vision , on the level of the 'dreams' Ebenezzer Scrooge had, of the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future, where he was SURE he was living in those situations, even when he wasn't. Such had to be the case now.
"You're taking your predicament rather well, Mrs. Christie." the warden noticed the smile on the prisoner's lips.
Christie shrugged, quite nonchalant. "There's nothing I can do, Mrs. Moran. I committed a crime, I need to pay for it." She added, "On the other hand, things will work out for the best. I'll wake from this travesty just before the floor falls out from under me. I'll scream, wake my husband, tell him about the dream and then get on with the rest of my life."
Warden Moran side-nodded at her prisoner while speaking to the guard. "What's the deal with this one?"
Aggie chuckled, "She's convinced herself that all of this is a dream. Figment of her imagination. She dozed off in her chair and she's certain she'll wake up before the drop."
"Of course it's a dream!" Agatha declared, taking a long cleansing breath before starting from the first day. The written diatribe against Poirot and Aggie's showing up, for all intents and purposes, to grant the implied wish.
"Then I supposedly break the contract, by bringing back the loathsome creature , in order to turn him into a villain. Next thing I know, I'm in this dull grey room with its meager furnishings , waiting to be hanged for mass murder!
To top it off, if that isn't balmy enough, I was just told by my guardian angel, AGGIE," the older-than-middle-aged author cast her accusing eye at the female guard. "that you are, quite literally, the devil in disguise. Just one problem with the whole scheme, ladies: real life does NOT work like this!
And so, you may take me to my punishment. I'll wake in time."
"Sure about that, Agatha?" The warden said with a smirk. "After all, as the saying goes, 'Truth is stranger than fiction.' "
The metal door banged again and the warden answered the knock and admitted a minister . He was a tall man. Slim. Kind looking. Equally, though, he had the sense of someone who could catch a parishioner in a lie.
Warden Moran introduced Agatha to the man who would be counselling her; giving her comfort and walk that last mile with her before they reached the place of execution.
"Mrs. Christie, this is Pastor Fraser."
"Pastor Fraser," Agatha nodded, looking at the man intently.
"Pardon the odd question, but is there a problem ? You seem to be...looking at me."
Agatha shook the mental cobwebs loose and apologized to the man standing before her. "Am I? So sorry. It's just that you do remind me of someone." And she realized who. Captain Arthur Hastings. Poirot's colleague.
More and more, Agatha was as certain as she was, of her own name, that she was dreaming. After all, if this was real, she wouldn't be hanging for the murder of fictional characters. What sane judge? What justice system of decent reputation would hang an author of novels for killing off characters on paper, not in physical fact?
On the other hand, WHY would she be dreaming of being hanged for such a thing?! Simply because dreams don't always make sense.
Another knock at that damn heavy door. Warden Moran opened it and only spoke to someone who left. The door was opened wide and the red-haired warden with her perfectly pressed uniform skirt and blouse, with matching dress coat waved Pastor Fraser, the guard and the prisoner through. "Time to go, Agatha."
"You see rather pleased about this, Warden." Christie noted.
"You made your decisions, Agatha, and now you're going to pay for them. How I feel doesn't come into the issue."
Flanked by Pastor Fraser on one side of her, the prison guard (a.k.a. her former fairy god mother, 'Aggie' on the other) , and lead by Warden Moran , The group made its way down a long hall before they took a right turn, and the last leg of the journey was guided by a line of yellow-ish gold paint down the middle of the floor.
At the end of that line was a room and Warden Moran knocked once before the room was opened by a tall man of medium build and a world-weary look about him. His mustache and accent were another evidence of why she shouldn't be afraid. Chief Inspector James Japp manned the lever that would hang her. Her perfect 'Out' . He wasn't always Poirot's strongest ally. Much like LaStrade and Holmes, the chief inspector and the Belgian detective were often on opposite sides of an issue, and not in the friendliest of ways. And Agatha always sided with Japp against Poirot. Had her new series been allowed to get written, she was almost certain it would be Japp who would be the one to take Poirot down.
"Not that you'll have much of a chance for long acquaintances," Warden Moran said. "but this is Officer Jackson. He'll be over-seeing the procedure. Making sure it's all properly and completely carried out."
"Much appreciated." Agatha replied without emotion.
"I don't appreciate sarcasm, madame." Officer Jackson said.
"Do you have any last requests?" Pastor Fraser asked the condemned woman. "Any scriptures you would like to hear?"
Christie shrugged. "Not especially. Just the routine bit. Whatever you usually do."The tall, slimm-ish man, who so reminded Agatha of Hastings, seemed comfortable with the well-worn text of Psalm 23 as Aggie stood and watched. The guard/granter of fond wishes/ devil in disguise didn't seem to care for the reading of Bible texts. Then again, said text was unlikely to do her won-prey any good. Christie got what she wanted and even then wasn't happy with it. Her EGO needed to be catered to and so she elected to do what she was told, in no uncertain terms, NOT to do. That Agatha still believed this to be a dream was not her former fairy god mother's problem anymore.
Once the noose was prepped for the new prisoner, Jackson took Christie by her right arm and lead her the square platform. His grip on her arm was hardly gentle. In fact, it pinched. Hard. Clamping her eyes shut, Agatha was certain she would wake up in her own bed.
When one is sleeping, a good pinch or a start was always enough to wake them up if the dream got too scary.
But she wasn't waking up. In fact, her eyes opened in time to see and feel the canvass bag being pulled over her head and face; cloaking her in darkness.
The grip of the thick rope around her neck was the final proof of what people had been trying to tell her all along. She wasn't dreaming.
She had no time to give voice to the scream that was happening in her head when the lever was pulled.Hercule Poirot's foremost enemy was dead.
Agatha just about flew out of her chair; knocking it over. It hit the floor with a bang. "HANGING!? For what?!"
"For the murder of every character in every completed Poirot novel. "
Christie's laugh was shrill. "You can't hang me for murdering fictional characters!"
The woman's expression could have given an iceberg frostbite. "Sure I can. How many times, AGATHA? How MANY TIMES did I ask you to make sure of what you were doing, and that you could NOT attempt to bring Hercule Poirot back once his existence had been cancelled out?"
"I assumed you meant that I would not be able to, not that I wasn't permitted to."
"As I recall, the exact words of your answer were; 'WHY WOULD I WANT TO?' "
"But I found a way! I found the way to bring him back as a VILLAIN. That way, Japp and Hastings could bring him down, eventually and I wouldn't be stuck with him."
" 'Stuck with him?' I freed you of him! I obliterated the man from existence. From anyone else's memory but yours. That choice was yours. You even checked a book store and couldn't find a single Poirot novel and you were actually disappointed not to find one. Why was that, Agatha? Was it that you missed Poirot or because that EGO of yours wasn't being catered to."
"How did you know I checked the books store?" Stupid question. Or was it? She wasn't sure what to believe at the moment.
"Because I was the one who obliterated him. He was not even remembered by your husband. Am I right?"
Christie thought and concurred. "He mentioned Parker Payne when I told him that I was going to give my writing another go. Nothing about Poirot. Though, now that I think about it, it makes sense. How would he know about a character who didn't exist at the time when I would have begun writing 'Mysterious Affair at Styles' ."
She righted the chair, if only to give herself something to do. For the first time Christie noticed her hands. She was no longer the young woman she'd been when she was allotted her second chance. In fact, she was the same age as the woman she was looking at. Older than she was when she started work on The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.
"Which means you were well aware that I was able to do what I said I'd do."
Christie had to concede that bizarre fact.
"And yet," the woman said, as she circled the table. "you chose to ignore my instruction, in order to bring back a character who spat hateful adjectives about and whom you WISHED you could rid yourself of. WHY, Agatha? Mind telling me that?" The woman stopped walked and glared at Christie.
"Why what?"
"WHY were you so desperate to get rid of Poirot? I mean WHAT, exactly, did the man do that was so awful that he deserved the caustic disdain to which he was routinely subjected by you? Did he rape your daughter? Kill your husband? Run over your dog?!"
You wanted him undone, Agatha! You asked me, at least three times, if I was sure I could make it happen."
"And YOU," the guard spoke the word with crystal clarity, as she circled the table and chair. "You burned your handwritten manuscript by way of a signature. That action was as good as a LEGAL statement, Mrs. Christie, and YOU violated it by bringing back a character that you wanted done-away-with because, for whatever bizarre reason, you loathed Hercule Poirot. What I want to know...what I NEED to know is; Why? WHY?! " Planting her hands on what appeared to be a fragile card table, the guard leaned to meet Christie's gaze. "WHAT did he DO?! Explain this to me, madame, because I am at a complete loss!!!"
Christie pulled back from the guard who was just about shouting into her face. Stranger, though, was the over-all appearance of the female prison matron. Even from the brief time the women had been in the room together, the once agreeable granter of Agatha's fondest wish was turning into a an unholy terror right in front of her. Her entire personality was going from cold officiality to deeply nasty.
"Why are you yelling at me?" Agatha posed the question insisted. "To listen to you, one would think I've been nothing but a grief to bear."
Now leaning against the wall, facing her prisoner, Aggie replied, arms folded against her uniformed chest. "To me, you are as Poirot was to you; a capital nuisance. The difference, Agatha, was that you had a choice. In your ...creating of the character, you could have taken Poirot in a direction that would have been at least TOLERABLE to you. After all, we have at least some idea of the facets of people's personalities we can put up with, and what we can't. For me, I cannot abide it when people drum their fingers on tables. Drives me bonkers!
And while writing characters has to include genuine traits, pleasant and otherwise, whatever aggravated you about Mr. Poirot was your own doing, by commission or omission. Trying to bring him back from literary oblivion, regardless of your purpose for doing so, was in clear violation of our contract as well as good old common sense."
"Now that you mention it," Agatha said with a sense of realization. "you keep going on about this 'contract' of ours. I can see how breaking it might get me sued and cost me some money, but how would breaking a literary contract forfeit me my life?"
A knock at the door interrupted the conversation, though Aggie did drop a hint before she answered the banging before it came again.
"How many run-of-the mill literary contracts grant any author their fondest dream, Mrs. Christie? Particularly when that dream means the non-creation of a character. Do you know of any other publisher or literary agent who could or would even WANT to make such a wish come true?"
"Not on this planet. Sounds like something that would be wished for in a fantasy novel or movie."
Aggie nodded in agreement; smiling as the female warden entered the room. "Exactly, Mrs. Christie. And, uh," Aggie stopped to clear her throat. "who do you suppose would be the granter of such a desperately-hoped for wish in that sort of novel or film?"
"The pair of you discussing literature?" the red-headed woman inquired.
"In a way." Aggie replied with a smirk in Agatha's direction.
"Well, I hope that discussion is over because our prisoner has an appointment with a rope."
The cold way the warden made the statement scared Agatha. Then, glancing at the professionally attired woman , Agatha noticed something familiar about the woman she'd never met before. Almost instantly, it clicked in. Down to the shoes , the description of this woman fit the physical profile of Poirot's secretary, Felicity Lemon.
Agatha Christie giggled and sighed with relief at the same time. This was most assuredly a dream. A bizarre vision , on the level of the 'dreams' Ebenezzer Scrooge had, of the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future, where he was SURE he was living in those situations, even when he wasn't. Such had to be the case now.
"You're taking your predicament rather well, Mrs. Christie." the warden noticed the smile on the prisoner's lips.
Christie shrugged, quite nonchalant. "There's nothing I can do, Mrs. Moran. I committed a crime, I need to pay for it." She added, "On the other hand, things will work out for the best. I'll wake from this travesty just before the floor falls out from under me. I'll scream, wake my husband, tell him about the dream and then get on with the rest of my life."
Warden Moran side-nodded at her prisoner while speaking to the guard. "What's the deal with this one?"
Aggie chuckled, "She's convinced herself that all of this is a dream. Figment of her imagination. She dozed off in her chair and she's certain she'll wake up before the drop."
"Of course it's a dream!" Agatha declared, taking a long cleansing breath before starting from the first day. The written diatribe against Poirot and Aggie's showing up, for all intents and purposes, to grant the implied wish.
"Then I supposedly break the contract, by bringing back the loathsome creature , in order to turn him into a villain. Next thing I know, I'm in this dull grey room with its meager furnishings , waiting to be hanged for mass murder!
To top it off, if that isn't balmy enough, I was just told by my guardian angel, AGGIE," the older-than-middle-aged author cast her accusing eye at the female guard. "that you are, quite literally, the devil in disguise. Just one problem with the whole scheme, ladies: real life does NOT work like this!
And so, you may take me to my punishment. I'll wake in time."
"Sure about that, Agatha?" The warden said with a smirk. "After all, as the saying goes, 'Truth is stranger than fiction.' "
The metal door banged again and the warden answered the knock and admitted a minister . He was a tall man. Slim. Kind looking. Equally, though, he had the sense of someone who could catch a parishioner in a lie.
Warden Moran introduced Agatha to the man who would be counselling her; giving her comfort and walk that last mile with her before they reached the place of execution.
"Mrs. Christie, this is Pastor Fraser."
"Pastor Fraser," Agatha nodded, looking at the man intently.
"Pardon the odd question, but is there a problem ? You seem to be...looking at me."
Agatha shook the mental cobwebs loose and apologized to the man standing before her. "Am I? So sorry. It's just that you do remind me of someone." And she realized who. Captain Arthur Hastings. Poirot's colleague.
More and more, Agatha was as certain as she was, of her own name, that she was dreaming. After all, if this was real, she wouldn't be hanging for the murder of fictional characters. What sane judge? What justice system of decent reputation would hang an author of novels for killing off characters on paper, not in physical fact?
On the other hand, WHY would she be dreaming of being hanged for such a thing?! Simply because dreams don't always make sense.
Another knock at that damn heavy door. Warden Moran opened it and only spoke to someone who left. The door was opened wide and the red-haired warden with her perfectly pressed uniform skirt and blouse, with matching dress coat waved Pastor Fraser, the guard and the prisoner through. "Time to go, Agatha."
"You see rather pleased about this, Warden." Christie noted.
"You made your decisions, Agatha, and now you're going to pay for them. How I feel doesn't come into the issue."
Flanked by Pastor Fraser on one side of her, the prison guard (a.k.a. her former fairy god mother, 'Aggie' on the other) , and lead by Warden Moran , The group made its way down a long hall before they took a right turn, and the last leg of the journey was guided by a line of yellow-ish gold paint down the middle of the floor.
At the end of that line was a room and Warden Moran knocked once before the room was opened by a tall man of medium build and a world-weary look about him. His mustache and accent were another evidence of why she shouldn't be afraid. Chief Inspector James Japp manned the lever that would hang her. Her perfect 'Out' . He wasn't always Poirot's strongest ally. Much like LaStrade and Holmes, the chief inspector and the Belgian detective were often on opposite sides of an issue, and not in the friendliest of ways. And Agatha always sided with Japp against Poirot. Had her new series been allowed to get written, she was almost certain it would be Japp who would be the one to take Poirot down.
"Not that you'll have much of a chance for long acquaintances," Warden Moran said. "but this is Officer Jackson. He'll be over-seeing the procedure. Making sure it's all properly and completely carried out."
"Much appreciated." Agatha replied without emotion.
"I don't appreciate sarcasm, madame." Officer Jackson said.
"Do you have any last requests?" Pastor Fraser asked the condemned woman. "Any scriptures you would like to hear?"
Christie shrugged. "Not especially. Just the routine bit. Whatever you usually do."The tall, slimm-ish man, who so reminded Agatha of Hastings, seemed comfortable with the well-worn text of Psalm 23 as Aggie stood and watched. The guard/granter of fond wishes/ devil in disguise didn't seem to care for the reading of Bible texts. Then again, said text was unlikely to do her won-prey any good. Christie got what she wanted and even then wasn't happy with it. Her EGO needed to be catered to and so she elected to do what she was told, in no uncertain terms, NOT to do. That Agatha still believed this to be a dream was not her former fairy god mother's problem anymore.
Once the noose was prepped for the new prisoner, Jackson took Christie by her right arm and lead her the square platform. His grip on her arm was hardly gentle. In fact, it pinched. Hard. Clamping her eyes shut, Agatha was certain she would wake up in her own bed.
When one is sleeping, a good pinch or a start was always enough to wake them up if the dream got too scary.
But she wasn't waking up. In fact, her eyes opened in time to see and feel the canvass bag being pulled over her head and face; cloaking her in darkness.
The grip of the thick rope around her neck was the final proof of what people had been trying to tell her all along. She wasn't dreaming.
She had no time to give voice to the scream that was happening in her head when the lever was pulled.Hercule Poirot's foremost enemy was dead.
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