Archive of Our Own ^beta

"I shall certainly die this time."

My face fell; my friend, however, continued pushing his lunch around the plate as if nothing had happened. The perfectly fine chicken, of which I had already polished off a hearty serving, was getting lamentably cold.

"Pass the salt, mon ami," he sighed, and appeared to derive no pleasure from the way I willingly rushed to reach for the damn salt-shaker.

I acknowledge that, by any reasonable expectation, all these solemn murmurs should not have filled me with abject distress when coming from Poirot. After all, he was prone to exaggerating such things with terrible frequency. However, given just how faint and pale he had been these past days, I could certainly accept that he was suffering greatly, at least by his own estimation.

While I may not possess the world renown of Hercule Poirot, I would not call myself the most hapless sleuth in this household. And, having gathered much valuable experience from the past instances of ulcers, influenza, migraines and, most importantly, the associated doctor's visits, I could hardly suspect anything life-threatening this time.

And yet, seeing my friend curl his moustache with such distinct lack of gusto was unbearable.

After lunch, I once again suggested a walk, or a night at the theatre - anything to dispel this persistent gloom would do - but was refused just as thoroughly as when I had dared to mention a visit to the doctor the previous night. The most I could get out of him was a melodramatic 'Don't fuss, mon ami Hastings,' which, to be honest, only served to make me even more crestfallen. Poirot was intent on being morose.

Even Miss Lemon inferred his deplorable state, although he tried to conceal it from her with curt remarks and sighs that were far quieter than he permitted himself in my presence. Still, there was his lack of appetite and his marked disinterest when it came to the papers, which he only casually browsed through - even when there was a passing mention of him in a blind item about a daughter of one of his old clients getting married to some millionaire! Miss Lemon's keen intellect could not overlook it when Poirot barely touched the Society Gossip, opting to go to bed early instead.

"I am afraid Mr. Poirot is unwell, Captain Hastings," she said, packing up her things while I dutifully fiddled with the scissors: I had the good idea to clip the blind item from the paper, lest my friend have need of it later.

"I believe so, too, Miss Lemon. I suggested we call for the doctor, but he dismissed the idea, saying his grey cells can solve the puzzle of what ails him on their own."

Miss Lemon humphed in response so loudly that I snipped the article at an unfortunate angle.

"Quite so!" I hastened to agree. "But it seems that, this time, those famous grey cells have done nothing but instill him with dreadful pessimism, and for no discernible reason."

"Well, then, Captain Hastings," she said patiently, fastening her hat with a hat-pin. "In that case, someone should take the matter into their own hands. After all, a puzzle cannot be solved without all the pieces, and a diagnosis is a substantial one."

I hummed in agreement, thinking of my friend in bed, wrapped in his brocade house-coat and miserable, browsing a medical journal and muttering 'Précisément!' under his breath. This would-be reverie was interrupted by Miss Lemon's pointed cough. "Good-bye, Captain Hastings. I shall talk to you later."

Left alone, I stared at the mangled paper and the tiny clipping in my hand, struck by the true gravity of the situation. Two whole days of this malaise and chagrin from my friend! Indeed, any further delay was unconscionable! And who else was there to do it? I reached for the telephone, feeling a warm blush rise to my cheeks as I made the call to our doctor.

I rather fancied that there was nobody else fit to do anything of the sort on behalf of Hercule Poirot. It was quite agreeable.

The next day, I was thoroughly assured that the call was the most timely decision.

In the morning light, Poirot's face was pallid and showing signs of exhaustion. No wonder, since he had been prodding me to go fetch him a glass of water from the kitchen, or a book from the book-case, or any other thing no fewer than five times in the course of the night! I had to draw a line when he demanded a pen and writing paper at four o'clock in the morning: I had the awful suspicion that he had had the morbid idea to begin composing his last will and testament, and that was not a caprice I was willing to humour. And so, after much affronted huffing, Poirot had settled down just as the early sunlight was beginning to creep through the windows. I got out of bed shortly after; although only moderately refreshed, I was feeling determined and ready for battle, be it with illness or Poirot's obstinacy.

The good doctor, bless him, arrived five minutes later than promised, which gave me just enough time to finish helping Poirot change into a different set of red silk pajamas.

I was as succinct and detailed as possible when the doctor asked me for a list of Poirot's symptoms before the three of us, the doctor, Miss Lemon, and I, went to the bedroom. Naturally, it was quite upsetting when Poirot proceeded to recite even more of his worries. I could not believe I hadn't noticed those; after all, I am a very observant person.

But the sting eased off a little when the doctor confirmed what I had suspected all along: it was not a matter of life and death, thankfully. Poirot was merely run down, having taken on too much work recently - against my good advice, I might add - and was in need of a good old-fashioned vacation.

Upon hearing this, the combination of indignation and agitation immediately brought an almost healthy flush to Poirot's cheeks. The doctor, not to be cowered by his moods, nevertheless saw himself out promptly.

"Cheer up, Poirot," I said later, buoyed by the idea of the two of us getting out of London. "When have you last had a vacation? It will do you a lot of good."

By now Poirot was out of bed, attacking a plate of finger sandwiches as if they had personally offended him. Meanwhile, I was jotting down a list of potential destinations to suggest to Miss Lemon. I had to take matters into my own hands, didn't I?

"Two weeks of rest at the seaside, mon ami? It is life-threatening. I, the great Hercule Poirot, am likely to expire... of boredom!"

"Poirot," I murmured, smiling, "it is, as you say, two weeks. We shall be lucky if some dark mystery doesn't find you on the very first day, just begging to be solved."

(And, as it turned out, I was quite right.)