The Dragon's Cache: My Uncle, Hercule Poirot

As I rode the London Underground this morning, I wondered if we had been wrong to select Florin Court as a worthy destination. As I walked London’s busy streets, my feet, legs, and entire body aching from the previous day’s explorations, I could not help wondering if my journey was pointless. Why travel out of one’s way merely to gaze upon the outside of a building once filmed by a TV crew, after all? Yet there was no sense in changing course now. For whether it made sense or not, whether I could justify or even explain to myself why I was doing this, I felt as if I was visiting an old friend, perhaps even a member of my family.

I was going to visit the home of my kindly old uncle, Hercule Poirot.

We linger on Poirot's doorstep.

In the early seasons of “Agatha Christie’s Poirot,” every time we see Poirot in the office of his fifth-floor flat, we are first shown the front of an apartment building bearing the lettering “Whitehaven Mansion.” Thus we feel grounded: Poirot lives here; this is where his friends and clients visit him. Through his meticulous craft, the actor David Suchet breathed life into the fictional literary detective. Certainly Hercule Poirot accorded everyone he met with understanding, kindness, and respect. Were I in trouble or distress, I knew he would not disregard me. Like a kindly old uncle, he seemed a person who would always feel for me, whatever my situation; he would always respect me, encourage me, and believe the best of me. Even if such a person dwells in a fictional realm, should we not honor such loyalty and affection?

Like literature, TV and film weave their magic. At the beginning of the episode “The Third-Floor Flat,” we see children playing in the park across the street from Whitehaven Mansion. Cars toot their horns as they thread their way through pedestrian and vehicular traffic. One of the green tea huts that cater to London cabbies is parked outside, and customers line up to purchase food and drink. Such a scene suggests that Poirot, while smart and financially well off, is still a man of the people. He does not hide himself away from others; he remains in the center of London.

The park before Whitehaven Mansion

To reach Florin Court, we had to walk down a narrow street that seemed little more than an alley. Vehicles were parked diagonally before it, leaving only a narrow space through which delivery vehicles and residents’ cars may pass. The park, while nicely manicured, was fenced around, and only residents possessed a key to the gates. The trees had grown tremendously in the last two decades since the TV show began filming: it was impossible to photograph the building from straight on. Unless we clambered over the wrought-iron fencing, we could not stroll through the small park. The building was there, albeit with different lettering over the front door. Everything else was different.

As we headed off to our next destination, I wondered whether the exertion and time involved in visiting Poirot’s home had been worth it. I could not say, definitively, that it was. Yet, I felt as though I had paid my respects to someone whom I loved and admired. For the building possessed Hercule Poirot’s elegance and style. I could imagine him living there, looking out of those curved-glass windows. At least now I would know the reality behind the TV crew’s historical recreations. When I watch such episodes as “The Third-Floor Flat” in the future, I know I will feel a little something special. For I have visited the home of someone I care about. I have dwelt with Poirot as he chatted with his friends, consulted with clients, and solved his cases in his Art Deco-style flat. While fictional, Whitehaven Mansion has become a place that I regard as home.