ACP - "In Time" - spook_me 2008
Title - In Time
Author - Sealgirl in
seal_girl .
Fandom - Agatha Christie’s Poirot
Characters - Cpt Arthur Hastings, Hercule Poirot, Chief Inspector James Japp
Prompt - #96 WC#1 (Time); Spook-Me Prompt - “Ghost”
Word Count - 1243
Rating - G
Summary - Poirot receives a most perplexing letter.
A/N - Written for the lj comm.
spook_me , October 2008.
Continuity - n/a
Table - n/a
In Time
Hesitantly, I continued to read out loud the words of the murderer, both Japp and Poirot silent as I did so.
‘“… so I hope that these words will satisfactorily rectify the situation. Perhaps, in time you will come to understand. I could not go on living in that fashion and death was my last resort. I am sorry, but it’s the truth.” And it’s signed Jonathon Forester.’
I lowered the letter, seeing the confusion on Poirot’s face. Chief Inspector Japp stood next to him, shaking his head. The room was quiet as we contemplated the words of the man.
‘And it’s definitely his writing?’ I asked Japp.
‘Oh, yes,’ said the Chief Inspector confidently. ‘His fingerprints and all. No doubt about it’s authenticity. Not for a moment.’
‘Well, I’ll be!’ I said, shaking my head in disbelief.
‘It’s a right turn up for the books, and no mistaking it!’ said Japp with a sigh. ‘Chief Constable’s furious. The whole building was in uproar. I mean, who’d have thought he’d have done them all in! Except you, obviously, Poirot!’
Poirot still said nothing, not even to disagree with the Chief Inspector. He kept staring into space in a manner most unlike himself.
‘Well,’ I asked, ‘what are you going to do now?’
‘Nothing much for it, Captain Hastings,’ he replied. ‘A signed confession sealed it. Westcombe’s already been released. I though I should get myself over here right away and let you know. So, if there’s nothing else, I’ll be saying goodnight.’ He looked at Poirot, and my friend gave a distracted nod.
I accompanied Japp to the door, and let him out. When I returned, Poirot hadn’t moved. I picked up Forester’s letter once more.
‘I say, Poirot, are you all right?’
At last, he looked up, but his expression was one of great sadness.
‘I do not understand it, Hastings,’ he said. ‘The little grey cells, they have failed.’
‘Don’t say that!’ I said. ‘You succeeded! You weren’t to know that something like this was going to show up out of the blue.’
‘Ah, but Hastings, did I not say only yesterday that he had indeed committed these crimes and there was no way for us to prove it? And then this letter it arrives, and so in character for Monsieur Forester. He was a noble man with many flaws. But noble still, even if the crime he committed was murder.’
I nodded. There was silence for a few moments, and I struggled to understand what Poirot found so objectionable about this new turn of events.
‘And now, this letter appears,’ mused Poirot.
‘I know, it’s damnably good timing,’ I said. ‘And they’ve let young Westcombe out now too. Such a relief for him and his girl.’
Poirot nodded, though not with any great enthusiasm.
‘But that’s what you wanted all along, Poirot,’ I continued. ‘Really I don’t see what’s wrong.’
‘Do you not?’
‘Well, no!’
‘Westcombe was arrested for these three murders though I, Poirot, and only Poirot, was convinced of his innocence. But there was no way to prove it, and every where we turned, did it not seem hopeless?’
‘Well yes, but…’
‘And now, a letter, signed by the guilty man, appears in the nick of the time! Of the author, there is in no doubt. The other evidence, it can be explained, did not I myself show them? But this letter, Hastings… this letter is something quite different, and quite unexpected.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘I know it was a bit of a surprise, but I don’t see why you are so concerned about it.’
Poirot frowned at me.
‘It has always been my belief, and I think this letter is the proof, that Monsieur Forester had no wish to see someone else hang for his mistake. He was not to comprehend the unfortunate turn of events that occurred after his crime and after his suicide. And certainelment, the last thing he would wish is for Westocombe to hang, that is not in the nature of Monsieur Forester.’
‘So we come back to the letter. That’s what it was for, obviously.’
‘Indeed, Hastings.’ Poirot picked up the letter and looked at it. ‘It brings us back to this letter.’
‘There were many things about this case that intrigued me, Hastings, not least the mal chance that brought Westcombe to be at the house at that particular time. And the evidence, it was stacked against him. And not even Poirot could convince the police that he was not guilty, for there was no proof! That letter, it was an answer to my prayers.’
‘Then shouldn’t you be happy about it?’ I asked. ‘The case is solved, and you’ve saved an innocent man from the hangman’s noose. Not bad for a day’s work.’
‘But Hastings, the letter, it is dated after the murders.’
That threw me for a moment.
‘Maybe he got the date wrong,’ I suggested.
‘And the postmark too, is after the murders.’
I frowned.
‘Um, well, maybe it could have been delayed. Or lost.’
‘And it is addressed to me.’ He held up his hand. ‘There was no way Monsieur Forester could have known that I would have become involved with this case. It was only the bad fortune of Monsieur Westcombe that engaged my interest.’
‘Well, what are you saying?’ I asked. ‘That somehow Forester contrived to get this letter sent late to you?’
‘And why did he have to send a letter at all,’ Poirot asked, his voice rising in agitation as he spoke. ‘Why did he not leave a note, or post it to the police? But more importantly Hastings, there is no way that he could have known that Monsieur Westcombe was going to be there!’
I thought about that for a few moments.
‘Poirot, what you’re saying doesn’t make sense,’ I said eventually.
Poirot pointed at the letter.
‘This document exonerates Westcombe for the murders; however, it does so in such a way that only the murder could have known. But the murderer was already dead when the need for such a letter arose!’
I shook my head, not seeing quite what Poirot was driving at.
‘But Forester had to have written it before he died.’ I said. ‘There is not other explanation. Unless you believe in ghosts.’
Poirot looked at me, his eyebrows raised in a questioning look.
‘You can’t be serious Poirot,’ I said. ‘You can’t really think that!’
He gave a little shrug and looked away. Then he placed the letter carefully back down on the table in front of him.
‘Nevertheless, Hastings, that is the only explanations that fits all the facts.’
‘But the police,’ I said. ‘Surely they should be told.’
‘They would already know, if they used their little grey cells!’ retorted Poirot. ‘But now they are saved from an expensive and potentially damaging trial. And Justice, she is done.’
‘But…’ I spluttered. ‘But you can’t just leave it at that! What are you…?’
He lifted his hand abruptly.
‘I shall do nothing,’ Poirot replied. ‘The case, it is closed. The guilty are known, and the innocent are free. Is that not the way of Justice, mon ami?’
‘But the letter?’
Slowly, Poirot folded it back in three and replaced it in its envelope. He left it in the middle of his desk and walked out with barely a goodnight to me.
But early the next morning when I arrived, the letter was gone.