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.

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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. 

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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!

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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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