On Stealing Hercule Poirot's Tree

Recently, my wife gave me a new set of colored pencils, and a new sketch book in which to use them.

These pencils offered softer lead than my old set, and more color choices. I took them with me to my wife's doctor's office last week, and while she went inside, I sat in the car. I was fascinated by a tree directly in front of me, one with no green leaves on it, and the bark cracking and falling off. I sketched the outline of it with my mechanical pencil, in as much detail as I could, then started a color chart with my new pencils.

This week, as I drove my wife to the doctor's, I hoped I could get the same parking spot. As I pulled in the driveway, I saw the space was free, and happily pulled into it. Then my wife said "They took your tree," and I looked up.

They had! They had cut down my tree!

The thing is, they actually stole Hercule Poirot's tree, as I had planned on inserting him into the picture this time. I also discovered something else. All the bark of my tree had been shades of gray (just like Poirot's little grey cells), and I didn't have a single gray in my new set. Not a one! So, by using my mechanical pencil, as well as black, white, and brown, I colored in the tree as best I could. Then I set to work on drawing Hercule Poirot.

Bon!

As these new colored pencils had softer lead, they laid down color more quickly. But they also seemed to have more trouble doing so uniformly. Obviously, I've got a lot of learning to do with my new pencil set. Still, I feel pretty good about Hercule Poirot. I suppose my tree will have to do, as it was the best I could make it with the colors on hand. In any case, the famous detective seems to have discovered the scene of a violent crime. I wonder if he'll discover any valuable clues to help him solve his case.

Or maybe the police requisitioned the tree as evidence. That's possible, right?

Dragon Dave

Inspired By Agatha Christie's Mysterious Affair At Styles

A couple days ago, my wife and I took her car into the dealership to get serviced. The showroom has comfortable upholstered chairs, great ambient lighting, and the staff occasionally bake up cookies for waiting customers. So while taking the occasional bite from a hot chocolate chip cookie, I took out my writing pad.

I haven't decided whether or not to start a blog devoted just to Agatha Christie. But as we're planning on visiting her hometown of Torquay during this year's visit to England, I've read three of her novels, as well as a book about her life. This drawing is based on my recollection of The Mysterious Affair at Styles, her first novel based on Belgian super sleuth Hercule Poirot. 

Afterward, my wife and I dug out our DVD and watched the dramatization of Agatha Christie's story. The viewing gave me some ideas on how to finish off my sketch. Depending on what I decide to do with my Agatha Christie posts, I suppose I'll post the finished version (somewhere) for you to see.

Sometimes a sketch doesn't live up to my preconceptions. I hope I like this one when it's done.

Dragon Dave

Torquay, Fawlty Towers & Agatha Christie

The first time I heard of Torquay, I was watching Fawlty Towers. Basil & Sybil Fawlty were trying something new in their boutique hotel. "Gourmet Night" was to set Torquay alight, giving cultured residents and visitors another opportunity to mix, mingle, and sample epicurean delights. Instead, like all Basil's plans, the first and only event collapsed in catastrophic fashion.

Still, as I watched "Gourmet Night," and the other eleven episodes of Fawlty Towers, I wondered what Torquay was like. While never making serious plans, I thought: "If I ever travel to England, that's a city I could visit."

Well, why not?

As I've since learned, no part of the famous sitcom was actually filmed in Torquay. According to recent reports, the hotel it was based on, Gleneagleas, has closed and may not reopen. But as my wife and I make this year's plans to visit England, Torquay is on our itinerary. This time, it has nothing to do with Fawlty Towers, and everything to do with Agatha Christie.

I can't say I fell in love with Agatha Christie's stories, although I did read her novel Ten Little Indians in my teens. But the TV series based on her works, particularly that of Hercule Poirot, have become favorite viewing in our household. The TV series led me to her stories, and I've recently enjoyed the first two Poirot novels. Both kept me awake hours after I laid down in bed at night, and made me want to read more of her page-turning prose. 

Agatha Christie was born in Torquay. Although she left it numerous times, the seaside English town always drew her back. Eventually, she bought a home there, Greenway, which she visited each summer. While she existed in other places, Torquay was the place she felt she really came alive. We look forward to our visit to Torquay this year, and seeing the surroundings that formed and inspired her. 

I've dallied with the idea of making a second blog, one devoted solely to Agatha Christie, and linking it with Dragon Cache. There I could post my plans, my thoughts, my reflections on Agatha Christie as we prepare for this year's journey. Of course, I could also share that portion of our England journey on that site. It's an idea; I haven't made up my mind yet. If I do so, I'll post the link on the upper right hand corner of this blog, right below Pocket Dalek, so you can easily find it.

Still, I can't help but marvel. Decades after Fawlty Towers made me wonder about Torquay, I'm finally traveling there, and doing so because of Agatha Christie's Poirot. The TV series has lasted for far longer than two seasons and a mere twelve episodes, and I've come to love even more than Fawlty Towers. Doesn't that seem just a little amazing? 

Dragon Dave

Kevin J Anderson on Fighting For Others' Rights

You never know who you'll encounter
when you're with Dan Chambeaux.

In his novel Death Warmed Over, Kevin J Anderson introduces us to Dan Chambeaux. Unlike some other fictional detectives, such as Hercule Poirot and Thomas Magnum (of Magnum P.I.), Dan doesn't spend the novel pursuing a single mystery, nor does he limit himself to two cases. Instead, he juggles a number of mysteries, and with his partner Robin Deyer, helps protect the rights of additional worthy parties. But then, he's not a normal private investigator. He was shot in the head, buried in a cemetery, and then clawed his way out of the ground to continue his firm's investigation. He didn't even take a day off to relax and get used to his new status as a zombie. That's how dedicated Dan Chambeaux is to solving mysteries and fighting for other people's rights.

When I previously mentioned Dan, I had only read a quarter of Death Warmed Over. I wrote because I was enjoying his first novel so much, and also wanted to alert you to a limited time offer from the publisher to download the ebook for free. Suffice it to say that I never stopped enjoying Dan's first adventure. I admire his sense of purpose, dedication to his clients, drive to solve cases, and concern for others. If I was a zombie, I'd want to be just like Dan.*

Dan's got a lot on his plate in this first novel. In addition to the cases I mentioned in Kevin J Anderson on Zombies and Ghosts, there's Hope Saldana. Someone's vandalized Hope and Salvation, the mission she operates in the Undead Quarter. She's a member of the living who helps those who have trouble adapting to their new undead status. Dan knows she can't afford to pay him, but he's determined to find out who's broken her doors, windows, and furniture. Then there's Miranda Jekyll, whose husband Harvey is trying to divorce her. Harvey may run Jekyll Lifestyle Products and Necroceuticals, a successful company that caters to the undead, but he wants to cut Miranda off without a penny. He insists that their prenuptial agreement is null and void, as his wife is no longer the same person she used to be. Well, he's got a point: Miranda recently become a werewolf. Still, Dan and Robin see the injustice of the situation, and agree to fight on her behalf.

Consider the plight of Ramen Ho-Tep, a resident of the Metropolitan Natural History Museum. He spent his life ruling Egypt until he was bitten by a tsetse fly. Museum officials consider him their property, but the mummy sees his condition as akin to the slaves over whom he used to rule, and demands emancipation. Or there's Mavis and Alma Wannovich, two local witches who ran afoul of a spell book they recently purchased. An accident turned Alma into a pig (or to be strictly accurate, a sow). The sisters blame the accident on a misspelling, but the publisher insists the book was intended merely for entertainment purposes. And then there's...well, why don't I let you discover them on their own? They all represent problems that would naturally afflict a community after a supernatural event ushers the deceased, mythological creatures, and even garden gnomes into existence. In fact, the rich mix of residents in Dan's Undead Quarter makes the current New Orleans seem colorless in comparison.

Remember, in addition to everything on his plate, Dan's also trying to solving his own murder, and the murder of his former girlfriend, who now works as the firm's secretary. Sheyenne may be a poltergeist now, but he still cares for her. Even if he can't touch her.

The life of a private detective has always been hazardous, and as zombies are no more immortal than the living, the obstacles he faces while pursuing his cases puts his continuing existence at risk. As Dan has always juggled cases, he's got no lack of people with motives to kill him. Sheyenne may believe that Ivory, a vampire lounge singer, slipped her a dose of toadstool poison, but given that Dan started dating her shortly before that, the list of potential suspects and reasons for her death are longer than his own. Still, nothing will stop Dan from heeding the call of justice, whether or not he's getting paid to solve the case or protect the person.

In a world plagued by injustices, I tip my hat to all private investigators everywhere. They especially deserve our praise and respect if, like Hercule Poirot, Magnum P.I., and Dan Chambeaux, they work hard to assist those in need, regardless of their clients' appearance, socio-economic status, or extraordinary biochemistry.

Dragon Dave

*I'd rather not be a zombie, all things considered. At least not until I've lived a long, full life. You know, a good hundred years or so. Then I can die, and reawaken as a zombie if some unexplained event like The Big Uneasy happens. If I meet someone like police Officer Toby McGoohan, whom Dan refers to as McGoo, his BHF, or his Best Human Friend, I might even take up a career as a private detective. Who knows what the future holds? I'd just visit an embalmer to keep looking and feeling my best. Then, when my body needed special attention, I could book an appointment with my local taxidermist. Doesn't that sound better than making hefty payments for health insurance and prescription drugs? 

Mummies, Yetis, and Zombies, Oh My!

Part of the reason I fell in love with “The Mummy” and “The Mummy Returns” was because the films crossed Agatha Christie with Indiana Jones.  Like many of her generation, the treasures waiting to be unearthed in Egypt fascinated Christie.  She traveled there, helped out at various excavations, and eventually met her future archeologist husband, Sir Max Mallowan.  Not only did she set stories and novels there, many of them featuring her famous detective Hercules Poirot, but she also wrote a novel set in Egypt 2000 B.C.  Now take her obsession with all things Egyptian, add the supernatural powers the ancient Egyptians believed their tombs had, combine this with two characters, the gunfighter Rick O’Connell, and the archeologist Evelyn Carnahan (who together combine the two essential aspects of Indiana Jones), and you’ve got the fast-paced action and historical depth of the first two Mummy movies.

In the third movie, “The Mummy: Curse of the Dragon Emperor,” Rick and Evelyn travel to China, where their son Alex has unearthed the famed Terracotta warriors, as well as the tomb of the Dragon Emperor, who united all China under his despotic rule in the second century B.C.  Although Rick and Evelyn try to prevent this, the Dragon Emperor returns to life, and calls on his Terracotta warriors to rise up and help him rule China once more.  Through the aid of their friend Yi Zuan from Shangri La, who calls up the bodies of those who died building the Great Wall, Rick, Evelyn, and Alex O’Connell lead the zombies against the Terracotta warriors.  After a mighty battle, their zombies defeat his Terracotta warriors, and they vanquish the Dragon Emperor.

What fascinated me most about the third mummy movie was not the Dragon Emperor, who is a different kind of mummy from Imhotep in the first two films.  Nor was it the Terracotta warriors, as I’ve used lots of terracotta pots in my garden over the years, and hence wouldn’t select them for any army I commanded.  It wasn’t even the zombies, even though zombies are always dangerous, and some of the most famous people in history, from Jane Austin to President Lincoln, have had to battle them.  No, it was the Yetis that helped the O’Connells in the Himilayas that most intrigued me.  I’ve always loved stories about Yetis, as well as their friends, the Abominable Snowmen.  So a few years ago, after I watched the third Mummy move, I decided to climb Everest, and see if I could find a Yeti.

Traveling there was expensive and arduous.  Funding my expedition, and climbing the famous mountain, proved even more so.  Along the way, I stopped off at a Yeti museum, to study their history and culture, and make sure I was prepared to initiate contact.  

Eventually, I found a small family of them in a cave. After I made my intentions clear, they welcomed me inside.  We shared many days together, regaling each other with stories of our past, our culture, and our hobbies.  Then it was time to leave, as the yaks had run out of food, and stopped producing milk and butter my Sherpa porters needed to keep healthy.  I felt a sense of satisfaction as I descended the famous mountain.  For I had met the Yetis, and discovered that underneath all their hair, they were not so different from me after all.

Still, I wish I’d met the family of Yetis that helped the O’Connells defeat the Dragon Emperor’s human soldiers in the third movie.  Those Yetis were true athletes, capable of fantastic feats of physical prowess.  One even kicked a Chinese soldier over the gate of the mountain temple complex, and then with clenched fists, raised both hands over his head to celebrate his field goal.  Those Yetis probably get good TV reception up on Mount Everest.  I wonder if they’re rooting for the 49ers or the Ravens in the Superbowl, and if they ordered enough chicken wings for today's game?

Dragon Dave

Hercule Poirot at the Royal Albert Hall

I cannot say that I was ever a great singer.  I would guess that, had I pursued such a career, my voice would rank in the lower echelons of the talented.  This is not to say that I have not starred in numerous productions.  Growing up, I played the lead in a musical called “Sam,” based on the story of the Good Samaritan.  I played the poor traveler who gets beaten up by robbers.  Much to the director’s ire, I insisted upon putting up quite a fight before falling on the stage.  But then again, as my the director was my mother, she knew what I was like when she cast me, right?  

Later, in my teens, I played the lead in “Psalty’s Christmas Calamity,” a children’s production.  I had to wear a life-sized songbook made out of foam, and have my hair spray-painted blue.  It was great fun to dance and sing on stage with the kids, even if the production was performed in our small church.

In college, I tried out for several music groups, and enjoyed singing with Male Chorale for three years.  The director always demanded the best from us.  Yet unlike other directors, he recognized that most of us were not music majors.  He cut us the slack to just be ourselves, even if our antics got him called up before the hierarchy more than once.  (Okay, on a regular basis).  Those Spring Break tours were special.  Heck, we practiced together every day during the week.  Each moment together was special!

The Royal Albert Hall,
as seen from across the street at
the Prince Albert Memorial.

The Royal Albert Hall was built in 1871, and forms the functional part of the Albert Memorial.  Like the latter, it was built to commemorate Prince Albert’s desire to enlighten his citizens through a cultivation of the arts.  Many important musicians and groups have performed there, from Andrew Lloyd Webber to Led Zeppelin to Adele.  Great artists such as these rely on more than just the quality of their voices.  They have to master their instruments.  They have to create songs that resonate with their audience.  They must adopt a style that defines them, one so unique that they emerge from all the other up-and-coming artists crying out for the public’s attention.  Whether I could have found something truly special within myself, I’ll never know, for I never pursued music as a career.  

It didn’t occur while we were in London, but later during our vacation, as we flipped channels one evening in our apartment at a former English Manor, we came across a Hercule Poirot mystery.  In the show, Poirot stands atop the Albert Memorial next to another man, someone who may be his helper in solving the mystery, or may be a suspect.  The two men stare down at the Royal Albert Hall as they talk.  Even thought we had left London behind, we could not help but smile as we watched them stand next to the impressive carvings, and the gold leaf-covered statue of Prince Albert.  We had stood there (albeit on the other side of that intricate brown and gold fence).  We had stared down at that concert hall, and appreciated its unique design and decoration.  

While I sing far less than I used to, I occasionally sing a special in church.  Today, as it happens, I’m singing in my mother’s church: not because I’m a great singer, but because I know that doing so will mean a lot to her.  I cannot imagine a circumstance in which I would ever be invited to sing in the Royal Albert Hall.  But that’s okay.  For no matter how glorious the venue, what matters is that I give of my best in all that I do, and that I seek to enrich the lives of others.  Ultimately, that’s what all art should be about, don’t you agree?

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers out there, and to all those who seek to make this day special for those whom they love.

Related Dragon Cache entries

Where State and Church are One: Part 1

Audrey, Richard, and the Unknown Constable

My Uncle, Hercule Poirot

Hercule Poirot meets the Romans

London's treasures await

On the morning of our third day in London, as we left Hercule Poirot's home in Whitehaven Mansions, my strength began to ebb.  I work out regularly at the gym, do my best to stay lean, fit, and healthy, and take walks around my neighborhood when the mood strikes and my schedule allows.  It had been a long time since I had felt exhausted by merely walking around.  But clearly my long walk yesterday around London, on top of our first evening’s stroll to such sights as Westminster Abbey, the Houses of Parliament, and Whitehall, were taking their toll.  I slowed down, not out of breath but lagging in energy, and, with muscles burning and joints crying foul, walked the few blocks to my next destination.

The Museum of London is just that: a history of the city from prehistoric times until today.  London has existed far longer than any American city: it was founded as Londinium a few years after Christ’s death in the first century, following the invasion by the Roman emperor Claudius.  Yet tribes such as the Iceni and Celts inhabited the land long before that.  And London as we know it today did not spring into being overnight.  London was destroyed and rebuilt several times, before being abandoned and forgotten.  Eventually people found a reason to return, re-founded the city, and from there it grew, enveloping nearby towns and villages such as Westminster and Whitehall, until London became the sprawling metropolis we know today.

What interested me most was the city's Roman period.  After watching the vivid portrayal of life of the Empire in films such as “Gladiator,” in TV series such as “Rome,” “I, Claudius,” and the Doctor Who story “The Romans, in novels like “Roma Eterna” by Robert Silverberg and “Imperium” by Robert Harris, and from reading historic works by Suetonius, Cicero, and Pliny the Younger, I was curious to see how the Empire had influenced the development of civilization in England.  But as I dragged myself inside, my breathing fast, my mouth dry, and my concentration nonexistent, I knew I was in no shape to take in all that this museum had to offer.

Pay unto Caesar for your refreshments!

In the museum’s café, we refreshed ourselves with water, soda, and examples of some of the baked goods that England is famous for.  Even though it was earlier, we called this our “elevenses,” as the English call their midmorning break.  Then we braved the exhibits.

Award-winning and best-selling author Connie Willis once remarked that she loved it when something in one story led her to read another.  I’ll go farther than this: under fiction’s powerful influence you may find yourself hungering to read or watch stories in genres you might not otherwise seek out.  You may even find yourself braving difficult nonfiction that you ordinarily wouldn’t touch with the proverbial ten-foot pole.  I imagine that is the case for Connie Willis, as her time travel novels exhibit such attention to detail that she must enjoy studying history.  

I contemplate a new suit

Some might question the wisdom of spending my limited time in London inside a museum, but the time I spent there left an impression upon me.  For so much of what drew me to visit England was its fiction.  In addition to the great stories about contemporary life, some personalities are burned indelibly into my consciousness.  King Arthur and Merlin.  The Emporers Julius Caesar, Claudius, and Nero.  Elizabeth Bennett and Fitzwilliam Darcy.  Queen Victoria.  Doctor Who.  Winston Churchill.  Hercule Poirot.  Some might cut such a list in two, dividing it between Fiction and Fact.  But what we think we know about those who lived in the past is often enlivened by Fiction, and those who lived only in Fiction survive in our hearts because they bring the past so vividly to life.  Time and necessity bring these disparate partners together; love entwines them in our hearts.  To paraphrase Mr. Spock, I find the interrelationship between the two fascinating.

I left the Museum of London sated, invigorated, and hungering for more.

Related Dragon Cache entries

Where Church and State are One: Part 1

My Uncle, Hercule Poirot

Doctor Who, Ling, and the No-Win Situation

A New Guru

In Dr. Gregory Benford’s novel The Stars in Shroud, an exhausted Ling takes a break from his busy schedule to try “yet another cult.”  He still has no answer to the Quarm plague, that debilitating psychological disorder which causes its victims to withdraw from society.  Even though he is one of the few to have suffered its effects and emerged from his isolation to become a productive member of society again, he is not whole.  It has been so long since he has felt fulfilled.  His precious discipline of Sabal, which kept him in harmony with those around him and at peace with himself, is no longer available to him.  He drifts from day to day, lost in work, in sensation, and any comfort he can find on this strange planet of Veden that he has been sent to.  He does his best to ignore the fact that he is no closer to discovering the solution to the plague than he is to discovering a means of banishing the terrible emptiness that gnaws away at his inner being.

Really, he is just…lost.  But he allows his friend and assistant Majumbdahr to take him to the Lengen compound at the edge of the dark, forbidding jungle.  

After being welcomed by a man in cheap robes, Ling walks past poor farmers, across a clearing beaten clean by foot traffic, and into a tent divided into a maze of rooms.  In one such room, he, Majumbdahr, and other pilgrims sit lotus fashion.  Then a man enters clad in green robes: Ling can see nothing of the man’s face; only his eyes and mouth emerge from the hood, and these are cast in shadow.  The Lengen Master orders the ritual to commence.  Food is mixed with ceremony and precision.  Ling relaxes in the rhythm of the service, the comforting odors, even the feel of the napkins.  As Dr. Benford writes:

“Within a breadth of time I focused on the exercises.  My mind stilled.  I did not think of how surprising this was, of how my present state resembled something I had known in the past, but only achieved then by months of contemplation.  I didn’t consider any of these things.  I simply was.”

"I stand where the Wesley brothers once stood.
And Prayed.  And Preached.   And..."

On my recent trip to England, I came across this plaque as I walked away from Hercule Poirot’s apartment in Whitehaven Mansions.  In a country that celebrates so much history, it is hardly remarkable to find plaques denoting that a statesman once lived in this house, that a writer or poet once frequented this tea room or pub, or that two influential religious leaders such as the Wesley brothers once visited a particular church.  Nevertheless, seeing this plague brought a smile to my face.  

I grew up in the Nazarene denomination.  The sermons preached each Sunday owed much to John Wesley’s original teachings.  His brother Charles penned many of the hymns we sang.  Even if, at a certain point in my life, I found I could no longer find my spiritual center in that denomination and style of worship, I still look back on my spiritual heritage with fondness.  Seeing proof that John and Charles Wesley are still remembered and revered makes me glad.  Those whose efforts bring us in harmony with others, and at peace with ourselves, should never be forgotten.

When Ling’s former source of inspiration and fulfillment stopped working for him, he drifted in isolation for a time.  But he kept searching, and eventually found a new guru: the Lengen Master.  When the Nazarene Church stopped working for me, I felt just as empty as Ling.  Yet friends and loved ones encouraged me to seek another source of inspiration, which I eventually found in the Anglican Church.  Perhaps the void you seek to fill is not spiritual.  Maybe the job you once loved has become meaningless work.  Perhaps the types of art or entertainment you once adored now seem juvenile.  Whatever.  That which once served as a source of joy now leaves you feeling empty.  Such a loss is hard to endure.  Unaddressed, the void grows inside like a cancer, consuming you, telling you that life can no longer offer you any purpose or meaning.

If you feel lost, that you are just drifting through life, I hope you find what you need to provide your life with new direction.  Even if it seems the opposite of that which once fulfilled you.  For everyday we grow, change, and adapt to new circumstances.  Such maturation means that our needs likewise evolve.  Like the planet Veden, this world provides infinite possibilities for inspiration and fulfillment.  What you need may not be easily identifiable, but it is out there.  It must be!

Oh, and one last piece of advice.  Once you find a new source of joy, don’t regret the time and energies invested in your former source of fulfillment.  For it is still a part of who you are.  It led you to this place.  Even though it no longer serves as your primary source of inspiration, it still shapes and influences you.  

Every facet of your past adds to the rich makeup of your unique identity, and makes you special. 

Related Dragon Cache entries

The Invisible Enemy

The Well-Trodden Path

A Completely Different World

Hercule Poirot’s Compassion

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.

Now, if only I could stroll through the park!

Related Dragon Cache entries

Westminster Bridge in Color, and in Black and White

The Sausage that Brings Isolation Part 1

In Search of Greatness

Previous entries on Hercule Poirot in “The Third-Floor Flat”

Hercule Poirot’s Compassion

Hercule Poirot’s Family

Fun Internet Link:

The London Cabbie’s Green Tea Hut

Hercule Poirot’s Family

In the episode “The Third-Floor Flat” of the TV show “Agatha Christie’s Poirot,” Hercule Poirot suffers from a lingering cold.  His secretary, Miss Lemon, forces him to breathe in the vapors from a steaming bowl, with a towel covering his head, for a period of time that seems unendurable to Poirot.  He hungers for a case, something upon which to focus his “little grey cells.”  But, as with the preceding days, no appeals for help arrive via the mail or the front door.

The Mailbox outside Poirot's flat in Whitehaven Mansion

When he braves the walk from his apartment building to the mailbox, he wears a hat and coat, with the collar turned up to shelter his breathing.  His friend, Captain Hastings, arrives in a car he has just returned to perfect working order.  He declares that Poirot is in a bad way, and invites him out to the theater tonight.  When Poirot declares that he is at death’s door, and that a murder-mystery play is hardly sufficient to revive his little grey cells, Hastings suggests a wager: If Poirot can guess the villain before the final act, the Captain will pay him ten pounds.  

During the intermission, Poirot concludes that the only person capable of poisoning the sherry, and therefore murdering the woman, was the butler.  As he and Hastings talk, Poirot notices his beautiful young neighbor Patricia from the flat below him.  Then they return to the play, in which a police inspector reveals that the murderer was not, in fact, the butler.

Poirot returns to Whitehaven Mansion

In Poirot’s flat in Whitehaven Mansion, he argues that the playwright did not give them all the facts.  He also muses that his little grey cells have failed him.  Perhaps his failure to correctly interpret the playwright’s clues means that his best days as a detective are behind him, and he should retire.  Just then, he hears a strange creaking.  He opens the coal hatch in his kitchen, looks down the chute, and sees the two men who accompanied Patricia and her friend to the theatre hauling themselves up using the rope-and-pulley system.  It appears that Patricia has lost the key to her fourth-floor front door.  Unfortunately, the men miscalculate, and enter the third-floor instead, where they discover the body of Ernestine Grant.

As he walks up the steps of Whitehaven Mansions, Chief Inspector Japp warns his men that this is where the famous Hercule Poirot lives.  Despite his fondness for the Belgian, he knows that the detective will question his findings.  Indeed, when Japp determines that the killer was named John Fraser, and Poirot asks if he can visit the third-floor flat once more, Japp tells him that there is nothing to investigate this time.  But at the pleading in the Belgian’s eyes, Japp gives in, knowing that in handing Poirot the key, he risks the man overturning his conclusions.

When Ms. Lemon tells me of Poirot's
cold, I agree to visit another time.

By the end of the story, Poirot determines that the murderer is Patricia’s fiancé Donovan, who attempts to flee the building.  Hastings proves instrumental in catching the fiend, but in the process, his beautiful car sustains great damage.  (Poirot graciously pays Hastings his ten pounds for losing their bet, which the Captain can put toward repairs).  Far from being upset at being proved wrong, Japp seems proud of Poirot for solving the crime.  And the next day, when Ms. Lemon brings Poirot a steaming bowl and a towel, Poirot tells her that such ministrations are no longer necessary.  For, with his friends’ help, he has solved a mystery, and prevented a murderer from escaping justice.  This success has buoyed not only his belief in his own abilities, but banished all physical ailments.

The TV dramatization focuses just as much upon Poirot’s personal difficulties, and upon the role his friends play in helping him through them, as it does upon the plot of the murdered woman.  In so doing, Poirot becomes a real person.  In repeatedly showing how Poirot helps his friends, and how they in turn help him, we sees the little Belgian as so much more than just another detective who unravels the most complex puzzles.  He is someone who cares for others, and hence someone whom we can care about.  

Whether they belong to the police, function as private consultants, or work in some other capacity, Literature and TV are replete with characters who spend their lives solving puzzles.  Most will be forgotten; a few endure.  But for me, the diminutive Belgian detective stands head and shoulders above all others.  As this story demonstrates, he cares about those who are hurt by the actions of the heartless.  Perhaps that is why Ms. Lemon and Captain Hastings care for him and treat him like a member of their family.  Perhaps that is why production of “Agatha Christie’s Poirot,” begun in 1989, continues to the present day.  

Perhaps that is why Agatha Christie is the top-selling author in the English language of all time.  

“Agatha Christie’s Poirot” is available on DVD from the BBC.

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