by Anne Hart
Which is why, in Mrs McGinty’s Dead,1 Poirot seized the opportunity to investigate a most unlikely case, the murder of a charwoman.
It all began with a visit from Superintendent Spence of the Kilchester Police, a friend from Taken at the Flood. Sipping a beer thoughtfully provided by George, the Superintendent confided his unease over a recent case – the death of an old woman in the village of Broadhinny. All evidence of the murder had pointed towards Mrs McGinty’s unprepossessing lodger, a man named James Bentley. Duly arrested, Bentley had been brought to trial:
‘The case came on at the Assizes. Yesterday. Open and shut case. The jury were only out twenty minutes this morning. Verdict: Guilty. Condemned to death.’
Poirot nodded.
‘And then, after the verdict, you got in a train and came to London and came here to see me. Why?’
Superintendent Spence was looking into his beer glass. He ran his finger slowly round and round the rim.
‘Because,’ he said, ‘I don’t think he did it …’
‘Supposing,’ queried Poirot, ‘that after all, he did kill her?’
‘In that case I’d be only too thankful to be convinced of it,’ replied Spence. Poirot gazed upon him with affection. This was far more interesting than oil companies. ‘Voilà, everything is settled,’ he declared. ‘I precipitate myself upon the business.’
Bored he admittedly may have been, but it says much for Poirot, who could, after all, have remained in his comfortable flat in London ministered to by George and Miss Lemon, that he took up the cold scent of this obscure and profitless case and pursued it as vigorously as if he had been a far younger detective with everything to prove. Moreover, in Broadhinny Poirot emerged upon a postwar landscape of great discomfort – a village of housing shortages and suspicious newcomers, set upon a tortuously long hill. Up and down this hill Poirot trudged in his tight patent leather shoes. Who was this funny little foreign man? And why was he asking all these questions about a murder already solved? As for the victim, Mrs McGinty, the village’s sole regret seemed to be that her violent death had deprived Broadhinny of its one reliable char.
To complete this gloomy scene, the only place to stay in the village was Long Meadows, a beautiful but decrepit country house whose likeable owners, the Summerhayes, gamely tried to make ends meet by taking in paying guests. Of their misguided efforts Poirot could only say:
‘The cooking of Madame Summerhayes, it is beyond description. It is not cooking at all. And the draughts, the cold winds, the upset stomachs of the cats, the long hairs of the dogs, the broken legs of the chairs, the terrible, terrible bed in which I sleep’ – he shut his eyes in remembrance of agonies – ‘the tepid water in the bathroom, the holes in the stair carpet, and the coffee – words cannot describe to you the fluid which they serve to you as coffee.’
In all this there was one consolation for Poirot, the visit to Broadhinny at the same time as himself of the famous mystery writer, Ariadne Oliver. Some fifteen years before, her enthusiastic presence had greatly enlivened events in Cards on the Table:
Mrs Ariadne Oliver was extremly well known as one of the foremost writers of detective and other sensational stories. She wrote chatty (if not particularly grammatical) articles on The Tendency of the Criminal; Famous Crimes Passionnels; Murder for Love v. Murder for Gain. She was also a hotheaded feminist, and when any murder of importance was occupying space in the Press there was sure to be an interview with Mrs Oliver, and it was mentioned that Mrs Oliver had said, ‘Now if a woman were the head of Scotland Yard!’ She was an earnest believer in woman’s intuition.
For the rest she was an agreeable woman of middle age, handsome in a rather untidy fashion with fine eyes, substantial shoulders and a large quantity of rebellious grey hair with which she was continually experimenting.
Upon reacquaintance, Mrs Oliver proved as entertaining and helpful as ever. To her a depressed Poirot explained his case:
‘An elderly charwoman who was robbed and murdered five months ago. You may have read about it. Mrs McGinty. A young man was convicted and sentenced to death –’
‘And he didn’t do it, but you know who did, and you’re going to prove it,’ said Mrs Oliver rapidly. ‘Splendid.’
‘You go too fast,’ said Poirot with a sigh. ‘I do not yet know who did it – and from there it will be a long way to prove it.’
‘Men are so slow,’ said Mrs Oliver disparagingly. ‘I’ll soon tell you who did it. Someone down here, I suppose? Give me a day or two to look round, and I’ll spot the murderer.’
It took more than a day or two, and several disconcerting incidents (Mrs Oliver was to be first on the scene of a second murder, and someone would attempt to push Poirot under a train) but in the end, amid great excitement, the real murderer of Mrs McGinty was unmasked.
‘And,’ said Poirot as he prepared for his return to the comforts of Whitehaven Mansions, ‘I have given Mrs Summerhayes a cookery book and I have also taught her personally how to make an omelette.’
The following year, in After the Funeral,2 Poirot was persuaded to take on a major case by an old friend, Mr Entwhistle, the shrewd senior partner of an eminent legal firm.
They dined first, before coming to business:
The efficient George materialized with some Pâté de Foie Gras accompanied by hot toast in a napkin.
‘We will have our Pâté by the fire,’ said Poirot. ‘Afterwards we will move to the table.’
It was an hour and a half later that Mr Entwhistle stretched himself comfortably out in his chair and sighed a contented sigh.
‘You certainly know how to do yourself well, Poirot. Trust a Frenchman.’
‘I am a Belgian. But the rest of your remark applies. At my age the chief pleasure, almost the only pleasure that still remains, is the pleasure of the table. Mercifully I have an excellent stomach.’
‘Ah,’ murmured Mr Entwhistle.
They had dined off a Sole Véronique, followed by Escalope de Veau Milanaise, proceeding to Poire Flambée with ice cream.
The replete Mr Entwhistle then made his request. ‘I know you don’t take cases any more, but I ask you to take this one,’ he said, and plunged into a description of the very sort of problem Poirot had so enjoyed in the past – the death of a patriarch in a fine old country house, followed by violent events in the family circle.
In coming to grips with the mysteries of Enderby Hall and the various branches of the Abernethie family, Poirot resorted to the talents of the remarkable Mr Goby, a private investigator he employed increasingly as the years went by. He had first come across Mr Goby twenty-five years before in The Mystery of the Blue Train. At that time it had been said: ‘Give him twenty-four hours and he would lay the private life of the Archbishop of Canterbury bare for you’, and in the intervening years nothing had changed:
At the flick of Mr Goby’s double-jointed thumb, hundreds of patient questioning plodding men and women, old and young, of all apparent stations in life, were despatched to question, and probe, and achieve results.
For his part, Poirot insinuated himself into Enderby Hall under the guise of a United Nations official:
‘I intend,’ added Hercule Poirot, ‘to purchase a country mansion for foreign refugees. I represent U.N.A.R.C.O.’
‘And what’s U.N.A.R.C.O.?’
‘United Nations Aid for Refugee Centres Old Age.’
To Timothy Abernethie, a choleric member of the older generation, it was perfectly clear who was responsible for all these murders and changes:
‘It all began with that damned Labour Government,’ said Timothy. ‘Sending the whole Country to blazes. And the Government we’ve got now is no better. Mealy-mouthed milk-and-water socialists! Look at the state we’re in! Can’t get a decent gardener, can’t get servants – poor Maude here has to work herself to a shadow messing about in the kitchen – (by the way I think a custard pudding would go well with the sole tonight my dear – and perhaps a little clear soup first?)’
Said the horrified Miss Lemon:
‘I can’t think how – at least, I can. It’s because of my sister.’
‘Your sister?’
Another shock. Poirot had never conceived of Miss Lemon’s having a sister. Or, for that matter, having a father, mother or even grandparents. Miss Lemon, somehow, was so completely machine-made – a precision instrument, so to speak – that to think of her having affections, or anxieties, or family worries, seemed quite ludicrous.
Encouraged by sympathetic nods and helpful clucking noises, Miss Lemon became a mere mortal and found herself confiding her worries to Hercule Poirot. Her widowed sister, she explained, held the post of Matron in a hostel for students, and in this hostel all sorts of things had mysteriously disappeared.
Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute and a half.
Did he wish to embroil himself in the troubles of Miss Lemon’s sister and the passions and grievances of a polyglot hostel? But it was very annoying and inconvenient to have Miss Lemon making mistakes in typing his letters. He told himself that if he were to embroil himself in the matter, that would be the reason. He did not admit to himself that he had been rather bored of late and that the very triviality of the business attracted him.
The very next day George was instructed to provide sandwiches and crumpets (square crumpets). Miss Lemon’s sister arrived for tea, and Poirot found himself gazing upon the following list:
Evening shoe (one of a new pair)
Bracelet (costume jewellery)
Diamond ring (found in plate of soup)
Powder compact
Lipstick
Stethoscope
Earrings
Cigarette lighter
Old flannel trousers
Electric light bulbs
Box of chocolates
Silk scarf (found cut to pieces)
Rucksack (ditto)
Boracic powder
Bath salts
Cookery book
All these had gone missing. Entranced, Poirot quivered like a retriever. ‘I congratulate you,’ he said to Mrs Hubbard, ‘on having such a unique and beautiful problem,’ and he plunged with gusto into a milieu of students, rucksacks and spaghetti and a case which, before it was over, was to see as many murders as the typing errors committed by Miss Lemon.
A country fête is chronicled in Dead Man’s Folly, published in 1956, and anyone who happened to be present on that spectacular afternoon must have talked about it for years.
For just half-a-crown this is what one got: the opening of the fête at two-thirty by a minor film star, the enticements of the fête itself, the right to roam at will through the grounds of Sir George Stubbs’s beautiful estate, the opportunity to take part in a murder hunt organized by the famous crime writer Ariadne Oliver, the possibility of being presented with a prize by the celebrated detective Hercule Poirot (‘Who is Hercule Poirot?’ asked one or two of the younger generation), and – and this is the awful part – the sight of the police arriving in the late afternoon to investigate a genuine murder in the boat-house.
What an afternoon! And, to add to it, Lady Stubbs, last seen wearing a coolie hat, and masses of diamonds, had completely disappeared.
Hercule Poirot finally caught the murderer, of course, and when he did he looked just like a cat that has lapped up a saucer of cream.
‘Actually,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘I’m thinking of turning it into a book. It would be a pity to waste it.’
In Cat Among the Pigeons, published in 1959, a most unlikely client turned up:
George, Hercule Poirot’s immaculate valet and manservant, opened the door and contemplated with some surprise a schoolgirl with a rather dirty face.
‘Can I see M. Hercule Poirot, please?’
George took just a shade longer than usual to reply. He found the caller unexpected.
‘M. Poirot does not see anyone without an appointment,’ he said.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t time to wait for that. I really must see him now. It is very urgent. It’s about some murders and a robbery and things like that.’
‘I will ascertain,’ said George, ‘if M. Poirot will see you.’
A few minutes later Julia Upjohn, seated in a very square armchair in a very tidy sitting-room, gazed expectantly upon a small elderly man with a kind expression and suspiciously black hair.
‘You bewilder me,’ said Poirot. ‘Where have all these exciting happenings taken place?’
‘At my school – Meadowbank.’
Ah, Julia’s school! Who could have imagined that Meadowbank, one of the most famous girls’ schools in England, would ever find itself in such terror and disorder – two of its mistresses murdered, a student princess kidnapped, and pupils evaporating as fast as their parents could send chauffeurs to fetch them?
When Poirot appeared on the scene, Julia in tow, there gracefully occurred the usual capitulation of the local police:
‘The idea is,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘that we try to pool our ideas and information. We are very glad to have you with us, M. Poirot,’ he added. ‘Inspector Kelsey remembers you well.’
In this case, besides working with the police, Poirot found himself in touch with two grey eminences – the fat and apparently ever sleepy Colonel Pikeaway, who ran a very secret service operation out of a hideaway in Bloomsbury, and Mr Robinson, who ran ‘a network all over the globe. We are, how shall I put it, the arrangers behind the scenes.’4
In the course of a high-powered race to solve the mysteries of Meadowbank School, Poirot did not lose his sense of perspective. When told by Julia that she had learned of his fame while visiting a friend of her mother’s in the village of Broadhinny, Poirot’s mind flew back to his sufferings at the Long Meadows guest home in Mrs McGinty’s Dead:
‘And the food? Did you enjoy the food?’
‘Well, it was a bit peculiar sometimes,’ Julia admitted.
‘Peculiar, yes, indeed.’
‘But Aunt Maureen makes smashing omelettes.’
‘She makes smashing omelettes.’ Poirot’s voice was happy.
He sighed.
‘Then Hercule Poirot has not lived in vain,’ he said. ‘It was I who taught your Aunt Maureen to make an omelette.’
Cat Among the Pigeons, Poirot’s last case of the 1950s,5 found him briskly at work and seemingly oblivious to old age, but The Clocks, published in 1963, presents a different picture.
In a prim Victorian crescent in a seaside town, Colin Lamb, a young undercover agent, stumbles on a murder. Discussing the case with Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Crowdean Police, Colin suggests consulting a specialist:
‘A private detective – a friend of my dad’s – and a friend of mine. This fantastic business of yours will be just down his street. He’ll love it – it will cheer him up. I’ve an idea he needs cheering up.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Hercule Poirot.’
‘I’ve heard of him. I thought he was dead.’
‘He’s not dead. But I have a feeling he’s bored. That’s worse.’6
Before ushering Colin into Poirot’s sitting-room, George murmured discreetly into his ear, ‘I think, sir, that sometimes he gets a little depressed’ – and it was indeed a bit sad to find the great Hercule Poirot whiling away his time reading detective novels:
‘Then we will take the Adventures of Arsène Lupin,’ Poirot went on. ‘How fantastic; how unreal. And yet what vitality there is in them, what vigour, what life! They are preposterous, but they have panache. There is humour, too.’
He laid down the Adventures of Arsène Lupin and picked up another book. ‘And here is The Mystery of the Yellow Room. That – ah, that is r
eally a classic! I approve of it from start to finish. Such a logical approach!’
But oh for a real problem!
He sighed. ‘But problems, mon cher, are not so easy to come by. It is true that last Thursday one presented itself to me. The unwarranted appearance of three pieces of dried orange peel in my umbrella stand. How did they come there? How could they have come there? I do not eat oranges myself. Georges would never put old pieces of orange peel in the umbrella stand. Nor is a visitor likely to bring with him three pieces of orange peel. Yes, it was quite a problem.’
‘And you solved it?’
‘I solved it,’ said Poirot.
He spoke with more melancholy than pride.
‘It was not in the end very interesting.’
It was clearly time for a more substantial case. Recounting the strange events at Wilbraham Crescent – the discovery of an unknown man stabbed to death in a sitting-room mysteriously filled with clocks – Colin demanded a solution. ‘I’ve given you the facts,’ he said to Poirot, ‘and now I want the answer.’
‘Just like that, hein?’ said Poirot and in due course, patiently peeling away the ‘fantastic trappings’ of the crime, he found it. Everyone was delighted.
It is an interesting and endearing fact about the elderly Poirot that while people like George and Colin Lamb were being kind and concerned and a bit condescending about his lack of anything more to do than read old whodunits, Poirot was, in fact, researching and writing a very solid book. On the first page of Third Girl, published in 1966, we are treated to a picture of satisfaction in a job well done:
He had finished his Magnum Opus, an analysis of great writers of detective fiction. He had dared to speak scathingly of Edgar Allan Poe, he had complained of the lack of method or order in the romantic outpourings of Wilkie Collins, had lauded to the skies two American authors who were practically unknown, and had in various other ways given honour where honour was due and sternly withheld it where he considered it was not. He had seen the volume through the press, had looked upon the results and, apart from a really incredible number of printer’s errors, pronounced that it was good. He had enjoyed this literary achievement and enjoyed snorting with disgust as he flung a book across the floor (though always remembering to rise, pick it up and dispose of it tidily in the waste-paper basket) and had enjoyed appreciatively nodding his head on the rare occasions when such approval was justified.
