Poirot Project: The Theft of the Royal Ruby (review)

This post is part of my 2016 Poirot Project. You can read the full story of why I’m doing this in my Introduction post. The previous post was a review of ‘The Mystery of the Spanish Chest’.

Beware: Here be Spoilers

The eighth episode of the third series of Agatha Christie’s Poirot was first broadcast on 24th February 1991. It was based on the short story of the same name (aka ‘The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding’), which was first published in the collection entitled The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding in 1960. In its turn, this story was based on a shorter story of the same name (aka ‘Christmas Adventure’), which was first published in The Sketch in December 1923.

It’s pretty cool to be writing about this story in the run-up to Christmas, as it’s the first of two Christmas Poirot stories, so it feels seasonally appropriate. As well as this, ‘The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding’ is one of my favourite examples of how seemingly minor details shift from an earlier Sketch story to a longer piece by Christie to an ITV adaptation, giving subtle little comments on the changing context of their creation.

Let’s begin with the earliest version of the story…

‘The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding’ was the penultimate story in the second series of ‘The Grey Cells of M. Poirot’ published in The Sketch in 1923 (and it’ll be a long time before I get to the very last one in the series… you’ll have to watch this space for ‘The Lemesurier Inheritance’). The 1923 version of this story isn’t included in The Complete Short Stories, but it is in While the Light Lasts (under the title ‘Christmas Adventure’), so that’s the version I’m using.

‘The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding’ differs from the other stories published as ‘The Grey Cells of M. Poirot’ (first and second series) in one very important respect: it isn’t narrated by Hastings. In fact, Hastings isn’t in the story at all, as he has emigrated to South America.

Now, readers of Christie’s novels would already know this, as Murder on the Links was published earlier in 1923; however, the short stories in The Sketch had studiously avoided any reference to Hastings’s marriage up until this point. A week before ‘The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding’ was published, ‘The Double Clue’ was the story of the week, in which it’s business as usual for the dynamic duo (albeit with a certain Russian countess appearing as a distraction). Prior to that, it was ‘The Cornish Mystery’, which gives no clue at all that anything has changed in the men’s relationship. So, ‘The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding’ comes a little bit out of the blue, as it’s the very first time we’ve seen Poirot without Hastings.

The story opens with Poirot staying at an old country house for Christmas. We’re introduced to Miss Endicott – an elderly spinster – and a gaggle of ‘young people’ who are visiting the house for Christmas. It’s snowing – ‘[r]eal Christmas weather’, as one of the boys describes it – and the party are looking forward to a traditional English Christmas.

The first hint of intrigue comes very early on in the story, when Poirot is handed a note by the butler: ‘Don’t eat any plum-pudding,’ the anonymous missive reads.

This is immediately followed by the next hint of intrigue (and bear in mind that we still don’t have a clue why Poirot is visiting this house for Christmas): Poirot notices one of younger visitors – Evelyn Haworth – sitting alone, looking pensive and fiddling with her engagement ring. Poirot attempts to question the young woman on the cause of her sadness, and the way he gets her to open up is by revealing that he is also sad. It’s very moving and, again, comes completely out of the blue after ‘The Double Clue’:

‘No, you are not happy. Me, too, I am not very happy. Shall we confide in each other? See you, I have the big sorrow because a friend of mine, a friend of many years, has gone away across the sea to the South America. Sometimes, when we were together, this friend made me impatient, his stupidity enraged me; but now he is gone, I can remember only his good qualities.’

Don’t worry, Hercule. He’ll be back again very soon! (Seriously… ‘The Unexpected Guest’ was published in The Sketch on 2nd January 1924, and this story begins with Hastings arriving at the white cliffs of Dover, impatient to see his old friend again.)

Okay… so that’s Poirot’s sadness, but what about Evelyn’s?

Evelyn is engaged to a man named Oscar Levering, but she is really in love with Roger Endicott (eldest nephew of Old Miss Endicott). Victims of circumstance, Evelyn and Roger were unable to start a relationship and, while Roger was away working in Australia, Oscar befriended Evelyn and helped out her family financially. As the young woman felt very much in his debt, Evelyn accepted a marriage proposal from Oscar – but now Roger’s back, and she’s struggling with her feelings.

Poirot understands. Of course.

After this slightly melancholic interlude, we cut back to the Christmas fun. The young people are building a snowman that looks like Poirot and wondering how to make the most of having a famous detective staying in the house. They decide to stage a fake murder as a prank, to see how Poirot will react. It’s all going to be such jolly fun.

Roger Endicott isn’t so sure though… he has an important question that is surely shared by the reader at this point:

‘“I was just wondering,” he said quietly. […] “Wondering what M. Poirot was doing down here at all.”’

So this is the set-up to the mystery – albeit a rather unusual one. The snow fun is then interrupted by the gong, signalling both Christmas dinner and the beginning of the story’s action:

‘It was a real old-fashioned Christmas dinner. At one end of the table was the Squire, red-faced and jovial; his sister faced him at the other. M. Poirot, in honour of the occasion, had donned a red waistcoat, and his plumpness, and the way he carried his head on one side, reminded one irresistibly of a robin redbreast.’

A gigantic Christmas pudding is brought it, and slices are served still flaming. Despite having received his anonymous note, Poirot decides to risk eating his slice. But it’s the Squire who finds something untoward – there’s a lump of red glass in his piece. Poirot discreetly pockets this.

Now, I could go through the rest of the plot in this much detail, but that would take all day. And what I want to focus on is the transformation that the story goes through to get from ‘The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding’ (a 1923 short story that is mostly concerned with Christmas pudding, snowmen and children’s games) to ‘The Theft of the Royal Ruby’ (a 1991 TV episode that is mostly concerned with hunting down a jewel thief and retrieving an Egyptian prince’s ruby). All three versions are recognizably the same story, but there’s a shift in emphasis from one to the next that’s quite interesting. And it all revolves around puddings and rubies…

After the ‘red glass’ is discovered, the 1923 story plays out with the children staging their fake murder mystery (but with a macabre twist added by Poirot himself), the ‘glass’ being purloined by Oscar Levering during the course of the charade, and then Poirot offering a lengthy explanation of his presence in the house (and the backstory to the events that have transpired).

The 1923 story is about the theft of a royal ruby – Poirot explains that he has secured an invitation from Mr Endicott because he is tracking down a thief who, with the help of her brother, managed to relieve an unnamed European aristocrat of a valuable stone – but this narrative is utterly overshadowed by the ‘Christmas Adventure’ part of the story. The revelation that Oscar Levering and his sister are the jewel thieves is almost secondary to the happy reconciliation of Evelyn Haworth and Roger Endicott, and much of the story is taken up in describing the murder mystery charade staged by the younger guests. This is hardly surprising, as the note at the end of the story in While the Light Lasts explains that Christie’s inspiration for ‘The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding’ came from memories of childhood Christmases spent at Victorian Gothic Abney Hall in Stockport, which she described as ‘a wonderful house to have Christmas in as a child’, and which she used to explore with the other visiting children. It’s easy to imagine, then, that she originally envisaged this story as being about the children’s ‘Christmas Adventure’, in which a real-life detective comes to stay one snowy Christmas and reveals the exciting story of a stolen ruby hidden in a gigantic Christmas pudding.

So… what becomes of this story in 1960? Where did Christie take it when she decided to expand it?

Well… this is a much more complicated expansion than we saw with ‘The Mystery of the Spanish Chest’. The bare bones of the plot are the same, but there are significant differences in the set-up, the significance of the ruby, and the version of Christmas being presented.

Firstly, the 1960 story begins with Poirot being asked – almost instructed – to travel to Kings Lacey (the name of the country house) by a Mr Jesmond. We are told up front that Poirot is to undertake this journey in order to track down a stolen ruby – and so the theft part is immediately foregrounded over the Christmas part.

The importance of the ruby is expanded here as well, and it’s given a political significance that it lacked in the earlier story. In the 1923 version, the unnamed aristocrat was worried that the theft would cause a scandal that would threaten his marriage to a European princess. Here, though, there are even deeper ramifications.

The ruby belongs to a ‘young potentate-to-be’, whose country has been ‘passing through a period of restlessness and discontent’. The prince’s father is described as ‘persistently Eastern’, and the young prince has faced widespread disapproval of his ‘Western’ follies. He is now betrothed to a young woman who has been ‘careful to display no Western influence’, but who will, according to Jesmond and the prince, be a progressive reformer once she is married and her husband inherits the throne. (In case you’d missed it, Western=progressive for the purposes of the story.) If it is discovered that the prince lost the ruby (which was to be a wedding gift) during a night out in London with an English girl, the scandal will destroy all the royal couple’s plans to enact widespread developments in education and democracy throughout their country. This is a far cry from the trinket lost by a rich man in the 1923 story. As we are told:

‘The ruby was something more than a ruby, it was a historical possession of great significance, and the circumstances of its disappearance were such that any undue publicity about them might result in the most serious political consequences.’

All this before we even get a whiff of plum pudding!

Poirot eventually relents and travels to Kings Lacey, where he meets Colonel and Mrs Lacey (replacing Squire Endicott and his sister), and their gaggle of ‘young people’. Evelyn Haworth is replaced by Sarah, the Laceys’ granddaughter, who has taken up with Desmond Lee-Wortley (a man with ‘a very unsavoury reputation’). Mrs Lacey would much rather see her granddaughter marry David Welwyn, a family friend, but Sarah is completely infatuated with Desmond.

So, the emphasis here is slightly different as well. Sarah is less a victim of circumstance than a headstrong young woman who is trying to break from her family’s traditions and make her own life; Desmond is more obviously a wrong ’un than Oscar Levering, and Poirot is being actively encouraged to steer the young woman away from him (as opposed to in the 1923 story where the detective simply takes it upon himself to do a bit of festive matchmaking).

Finally, after all this, we get our two additional plot points that were so central to the earlier story: the kids decide to stage their fake murder play, and Poirot receives an anonymous note (this time reading, ‘Don’t eat none of the plum pudding. One as wishes you well.’)

Again, I’m in serious danger of running away with the details of this one. You can always read the stories yourself if you want to find out more. What really interests me (given that I’m writing this post on the 22nd December) is the way that Christmas has changed in the years between the two stories being written.

In the 1923 story, there’s a sense that the Endicotts’ Christmas is a little bit dated, but nevertheless there’s a feeling of continuity with the past. The celebrations are done in the way they’ve always been done, and there some nice little moments where characters reminisce about Christmases past. Miss Endicott, in particular, offers a charming little story about Christmas puddings that really sets the scene:

‘Christmas puddings ought to be made a long time before Christmas. Why, I remember when I was a child, I thought the last Collect before Advent – “Stir up, O Lord, we beseech Thee…” – referred in some way to stirring up the Christmas puddings!”

In the expanded version, this type of old-fashioned Christmas is being replaced by more modern celebrations. Mrs Lacey explains that their festivities are very old-fashioned, and that most people now prefer to go out to a hotel and dance on Christmas Day. Social changes are also reflected in the differences between the stories. In the earlier version, the Endicotts’ household comprises a number of live-in servants, including a cook and butler. But in 1960, the Laceys find it a little harder to run a manor house:

‘Of course, one cannot expect to be looked after and waited upon as one used to be. Different people come in from the village. Two women in the morning, another two to cook lunch and wash it up, and different ones again in the evening. There are plenty of people who want to come and work for a few hours a day. Of course for Christmas we are very lucky. My dear Mrs Ross always comes in every Christmas. She is a wonderful cook, really first-class. She retired about ten years ago, but she comes in to help in an emergency.’

The Laceys’ butler, Peverell, also comes out of retirement for the festive season, so that the family can keep up a pretence of continuity with the past.

At the heart of all of this change is the Christmas pudding, and even that isn’t completely immune. It’s still the flaming centrepiece of a lavish festive dinner, but there are little reminders here and there that the times they are a changin’. There’s no sixpence in this pudding, for instance, because the coins aren’t made of pure silver anymore (instead, there’s a bachelor’s button, a thimble and a ring – as well as the unexpected ‘red glass’). When Poirot visits the kitchen to pay his compliments to Mrs Ross (and subtly get a bit of information), he questions whether the pudding was homemade or shop-bought – surely such a thing wouldn’t have crossed his mind in 1923. At least the retired cook provides a little link to the past, as she delivers the same anecdote about the ‘Stir up, O Lord’ Collect that Miss Endicott gave in the earlier story (though there’s absolutely no doubt in Mrs Ross’s mind that this was a signal to start stirring up the Christmas puddings).

So… what we have here are two rather different Christmases and two very different rubies. The result is a pair of stories that, while similar in overall plot, differ greatly in their tone and emphasis. The first is a cosy Christmas tale of make-believe and excitement; the second is a story of political intrigue that invades the fragile peace of a decaying way of life.

Time to throw a third version of the story into the mix…

‘The Theft of the Royal Ruby’ was directed by Andrew Grieve and adapted by Anthony Horowitz and Clive Exton. Generally speaking, it follows the 1960 version of the story, with its emphasis firmly placed on the political ramifications of the jewel theft, with the Christmas part of the adventure simply forming a rather charming backdrop.

In this version, the ruby is the possession of Prince Farouk of Egypt (played by Tariq Alibai). It’s stolen in the opening sequence by a woman named Iris Moffat (who we don’t see), after the prince takes her out for a night on the town. Prince Farouk is a much more dissolute and obnoxious young man than his literary counterpart – he is much more concerned about his own position than about educational reforms or democracy – but the ruby now comes to represent East-West relations in a way that has implications for control of the Suez Canal. As Poirot is told, Prince Farouk succeeding the throne is ‘imperative to British interests’ and getting the stone back must be his primary focus.

Poirot’s stay at Kings Lacey is once again orchestrated by Jesmond (played by David Howey), but there is a more direct connection between the family and the theft in the adaptation. Colonel Lacey (Frederick Treves) is a prominent archaeologist who is close friends with the prince’s father and, prior to the theft, the prince had been a visitor at Kings Lacey where he’d shown the ruby off. (This is, of course, a bit of a problem, as Colonel Lacey doesn’t recognize the stone when he discovers it in his plum pudding – just one of the ways that the adaptation is a little disappointing.)

As in the previous two versions, Poirot wangles an invitation to visit the family at Christmas in order to track down the jewel thieves. In a way, given that it’s set in 1935, the adaptation’s version of Christmas should be closer to the 1923 story than the 1960 one.

And it kind of is… there’s no more talk of Christmas dinner in a hotel, and Mrs Ross (played by Susan Field) is back to being a live-in cook, part of a household of servants. There aren’t any conversations about how the Laceys’ traditions are relics of the past, and everything is pretty much presented as ‘standard’ for the festive season.

However, although the characters need no introduction to a traditional Christmas, viewers in the 1990s might need a couple of pointers. Most importantly, they might need some information about why Mrs Ross makes two Christmas puddings (and, of course, this is utterly integral to the plot, so it couldn’t just be dropped from the adaptation).

In the 1923 version, there’s no explanation given for the two puddings – it’s just the way things are done. In the 1960 version, Mrs Ross makes four Christmas puddings (two large ones for family gatherings at Christmas and New Year, and two smaller ones for Colonel and Mrs Lacey when the family are absent). Although she explains this to Poirot, it’s all very matter-of-fact, as though this is a totally normal thing for a cook to do. But in the 1991 version, the existence of multiple puddings is explained very carefully, as though there’s an assumption the audience might not be familiar with the practice. (The ‘Stir up, O Lord’ story is also gone – presumably it was considered to be a little too cryptic for the hip cats of 1991. Sigh. Some of us still observe Stir Up Sunday, you know.)

Okay, so I mentioned above that there were a few disappointments in the episode. The main one for me is the TV version of Kings Lacey – it’s just not right at all.

As I said, the Endicotts’ house in the 1923 story was probably inspired by the Victorian splendour of Abney Hall. In the 1960 version, Kings Lacey is even older – it dates back to the fourteenth century, and the thought of its draughty old corridors fills Poirot with an abject horror. Jesmond seeks to put the detective’s mind at rest by informing him that, for all its medieval history, the manor house has ‘oil-fired central heating’ and ‘a splendid hot water system’.

So which house did the programme-makers choose to represent this glorious old medieval/Victorian manor house?

That’s right… Joldwynds, the 1932 modernist house built by Oliver Hill, which previously appeared in the ITV series as the home of the eponymous businessman in ‘The Disappearance of Mr Davenheim’.

It’s just all wrong! This is nothing like Abney Hall, and nothing like the Kings Lacey of Christie’s later story. It sets a completely different tone – goodbye Gothic Christmas adventures, hello well-travelled archaeologist with impeccably modern tastes – and further downplays the festive focus of the 1923 story. It’s not even snowing, for goodness sake! When Poirot is led to the scene of the kids’ staged mystery, the body of young Bridget (Alessia Gwyther) is lying in a sandpit rather than a snow flurry.

Although the changes don’t sit well with me, Poirot seems a lot happier at this version of Kings Lacey. He nods in approval when he sees the house, and immediately settles in to charming Colonel Lacey by showing him how to correctly serve a mango. (‘The fellow’s an absolute marvel with a mango!’)

But one thing that confuses me… given that the setting has been altered so dramatically, why does Jesmond still use the presence of central heating as a selling-point to persuade Poirot to take up the case? I’ve never understood why this line was kept in the adaptation, given that there’s now no reason for Poirot to assume the house will be lacking in mod-cons. Ah well… perhaps this is a mystery I’m not meant to understand.

Despite all this, though, all three versions of the story have one very important thing in common. Whether it’s the story of a country house Christmas, of a cunning jewel theft, or of a potential international incident, ‘The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding’ is always a story of Poirot flying solo. None of the regular recurring characters appear in any of the versions.

In Christie’s short stories, the absence of the ‘gang’ isn’t explained. Aside from the melancholy comment on Hastings’s absence in the 1923 story, there’s simply no mention of any of the detective’s associates. Obviously, for the TV version, we need a bit more of a clue as to why Poirot is looking forward to Christmas on his own (with a demi-kilo of fine chocolates for company), so we’re informed briefly that Hastings has gone to Scotland (why? no clue!) and Miss Lemon is visiting an aunt in Torquay (because Miss Lemon only has family who live on the coast… Folkestone, Frinton, Torquay… do no Lemons live in-land?) This isn’t the only early episode in which the gang are entirely absent – ‘Triangle at Rhodes’ also has Poirot on his lonesome – but it’s still quite an unusual occurrence. And it’s in this that the TV episode comes closest to capturing the tone of the odd little story from 1923, in which Poirot is seen without his sidekick for the very first time.

Alright… time to finish up now… but before I go, just one more thing. (Oh wait, that’s Columbo, isn’t it?)

There is one other little detail that changes from one version of the story to the next. It’s nothing to do with the ruby or the Christmas pudding, and it doesn’t seem to be anything to do with the changing social context (perhaps it’s more to do with the author’s changing age and attitude towards young working women?). It intrigues me though…

I want to talk about Annie…

In all three versions of the story, Annie is the housemaid who is revealed to have written the anonymous note warning Poirot away from the plum pudding. At the end of each story, we are told that Annie overheard Oscar/Desmond discussing Poirot with his ‘sister’ and telling her that he would put ‘it’ into the Christmas pudding mix. Annie believes that ‘it’ is poison, and that the dastardly pair are planning to do away with the detective. Once the truth comes out, Poirot thanks the young woman for her attempt to protect him.

In the TV version, this is quite a simple scene. Poirot looks stern as Annie (played by Siobhan Garahy) confesses, but melts into the twinkly gentleman we know and love: ‘You have the gratitude most sincere of Hercule Poirot,’ he tells the relieved young woman with a kindly smile.

His gratitude is even more sincere in Christie’s 1960 story. After Annie tells her tale, the detective surveys her ‘gravely’, and then we get the following little exchange:

‘“You see too many sensational films, I think, Annie,” he said at last, “or perhaps it is the television that affects you? But the important thing is that you have the good heart and a certain amount of ingenuity. When I return to London I will send you a present.”
“Oh thank you, sir. Thank you very much, sir.”
“What would you like, Annie, as a present?”
“Anything I like, sir? Could I have anything I like?”
“Within reason,” said Hercule Poirot prudently, “yes.”
“Oh sir, could I have a vanity box? A real posh slap-up vanity box like the one Mr Lee-Wortley’s sister, wot wasn’t his sister, had?”
“Yes,” said Poirot, “yes I think that could be managed.”’

While this is very sweet, and make the detective seem even more personable than the TV version, it’s nothing compared to the wonderfully bizarre display of gratitude with which the 1923 story ends. Once again, Annie reveals herself to be the author of the note, and once again Poirot takes his time before responding to her. This time, however, he knows exactly what gift he wants to give the maid:

‘“You read too many novelettes, Annie,” he said at last. “But you have a good heart, and a certain amount of intelligence. When I return to London I will send you an excellent book upon le ménage, also Lives of the Saints, and a work upon the economic position of woman.”’

Merry Christmas, Annie!

Okay… so this festive post turned into a ridiculously long essay. You’ll be glad to know the next two episodes are a little bit more straightforward. Onwards to ‘The Affair at the Victory Ball’…

Poirot Project: The Mystery of the Spanish Chest (review)

This post is part of my 2016 Poirot Project. You can read the full story of why I’m doing this in my Introduction post. The previous post was a review of ‘The Double Clue’.

Beware: Here be Spoilers

The seventh episode of the third series of Agatha Christie’s Poirot was first broadcast on 17th February 1991. It was based (ostensibly) on the short story of the same name (first published in The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding collection in 1960), which in turn was based on the shorter short story ‘The Mystery of the Baghdad Chest’ (first published in The Strand in 1932). ‘The Mystery of the Baghdad Chest’ isn’t included in The Complete Short Stories, but it is in While the Light Lasts, and so that’s the version I’m using for this post.

‘The Mystery of the Baghdad Chest’ is narrated by Hastings, and although it was written nine years after Murder on the Links, it appears to be set during the time the two associates were working together. There’s no mention of George in the story – and he pops up as Poirot’s valet as soon as Hastings is married off – and there’s no mention of the South American ranch or Dulcie/Bella. The story was published the same year as Peril at End House, which makes quite a lot of Hastings’s return to England to see his old friend (The ABC Murders does something similar), but none of that is present in this short story. In this way, it works along the same lines as ‘Double Sin’ (published in 1928), in that it simply transports us back to the heyday of the dynamic duo as though their relationship never changed.

And we’re on very familiar territory for the story’s opening, as it begins with Hastings’s beloved Perusal of the Morning News:

‘The words made a catchy headline, and I said as much to my friend, Hercule Poirot.’

‘The Mystery of the Baghdad Chest’ is a short, compact story, and so we’re thrown straight into the case from the off. The story Hastings is reading is a report of the murder of Mr Clayton, whose body was discovered hidden in the eponymous ‘Baghdad Chest’ at the home of his friend Major Rich.

Hastings summarizes the central puzzle. Edward and Marguerita Clayton were due to spend the evening with Major Rich, but Mr Clayton was unexpectedly called away to Scotland on business. The victim called at his friend’s house to give his apologies, but Major Rich wasn’t in. Clayton waited for some time, but then (according to Rich’s valet) must have let himself out when Rich didn’t return. Later that evening, the house party went ahead: Mrs Clayton attended, along with Mr and Mrs Spence and Major Curtiss. The next morning, Rich’s valet found the body of Mr Clayton – who’d been stabbed through the heart – hidden in a chest in the sitting-room. The assumption is that Rich murdered him, hid the body, then ghoulishly partied in the very same room.

Poirot isn’t convinced.

It is – like so many of Christie’s short stories – a neat little puzzle. The clues are well-placed, and all the information is there if you know what you’re looking at. There’s also a couple of red herrings, though these are more to do with characterization – we’re constantly being distracted from the real underlying motivations, and occasionally deceived about the sort of people we’re dealing with. This is pretty much classic Christie, as so many of her stories encourage us to trust the wrong people, and her character red herrings are always more numerous than her spot of candle grease/empty dispatch case tricks.

But as always, the pleasure of reading ‘The Mystery of the Baghdad Chest’ doesn’t just come from the attempt to solve the puzzle. The nature of the investigation is also a big part of the fun. And, again, we’re on pretty familiar ground with this one.

We have moments of dazzling arrogance from Poirot, undercut by classic Hastings snark:

‘“The talents I possess – I would salute them in another. As it happens, in my own particular line, there is no one to touch me. C’est dommage! As it is, I admit freely and without hypocrisy that I am a great man. I have the order, the method and the psychology in an unusual degree. I am, in fact, Hercule Poirot! Why should I turn red and stammer and mutter into my chin that really I am very stupid? It would not be true.”
“There is certainly only one Hercule Poirot,” I agreed – not without a spice of malice of which, fortunately, Poirot remained oblivious.’

We have moments where Poirot announces the simplicity of the case, only to be met by his friend’s bafflement (which is probably echoing the reader’s sentiments at that point in the story):

‘“To me it is very plain, and I only need one point to clear up the matter for good and all.”
“It’s no good,” I said. “I’m not there.”
“But make an effort, Hastings. Make an effort.”

We see Poirot charming – and being charmed by – women of different ages and personalities. He purrs like a cat at the way one of his ‘most ardent admirers’, Lady Chatterton, fusses over him at a party, and he soothes Mrs Clayton with his sympathy and discretion, urging her to confide in him as she might her ‘Father Confessor’. (Of course, all this just backs up a point I made in the last post I wrote: Poirot really has no room in his life for an Irene Adler.) (Another aside: I love Poirot’s assertion, which is retained in the 1960 version of the story, that there are only three people a woman should ever trust – her detective, her priest and her hairdresser.)

And, finally, we see the boys get a little help from their friends, as a well-timed call to good old Japp of the Yard gives Poirot the background info needed to wrap the case up.

All in all, ‘The Mystery of the Baghdad Chest’ has everything you could ask of a Poirot story, and I’m really rather fond of it.

For Christie fans, there’s a nice like (perhaps) in-joke in the story. After Hastings has finished his Perusal of the Morning News, he comments that the circumstances of Clayton’s murder would make a good play. Poirot replies that the idea of a party going ahead while there’s a dead man hidden in the room has ‘been done’. But Poirot has a wry little caveat to his assertion:

‘“But console yourself, Hastings,” he added kindly. “Because a theme has been used once, there is no reason why it should not be used again.”’

Indeed, Agatha. Indeed.

Speaking of which… let’s turn to ‘The Mystery of the Spanish Chest’…

Sometimes called a ‘novella’, but certainly a longer short story, ‘Spanish Chest’ is an expanded version of ‘Baghdad Chest’, which was first published in 1960. I’ve written about a couple of other short stories that Christie expanded into longer versions (‘The Market Basing Mystery’/‘Murder in the Mews’ and ‘The Submarine Plans’/‘The Incredible Theft’), and the next post I’ll be writing will also be about one of these expanded stories (‘The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding’, aka ‘The Theft of the Royal Ruby’). In many ways, ‘The Mystery of the Spanish Chest’ is one of the more straightforward expansions, as the puzzle and characterization is pretty much kept intact from the earlier version.

In this version of the story – which is told in third person – it is Poirot who discovers the story of the murder in the morning newspapers (more on that in a moment). The outline of the case is almost identical to that found in ‘Baghdad Chest’. The Claytons (now given new first names and ages – Arnold (55) and Margharita (‘some years younger’) – were due to attend a party at the home of Major Charles Rich (48), but Mr Clayton was unexpectedly called away to Scotland on business. He called at Rich’s house to leave his apologies (the later version of the story adds a line to explain that the telephone line ‘seemed to be out of order’, as it’s vitally important – but somewhat incongruous in 1960 – that Clayton goes to give his apologies in person), but Rich wasn’t at home. According to Rich’s manservant, William Burgess (unknown age), Clayton waited for a short time but must have let himself out at some point. The house party goes ahead, with Mrs Clayton, Mr Jeremy Spence, Mrs Linda Spence and Commander McLaren (the man formerly known as Major Curtiss) in attendance. The following morning, Burgess discovers the body of Mr Clayton in Rich’s Spanish chest – it had been there the whole time the group were partying.

Much of Poirot’s investigation follows the same pattern as that in the 1932 story, though the expanded version allows for more detail of his interviews. In particular, we get to see him talking to Mr and Mrs Spence, which increases the confusion around character and motivation that was a part of the original story. There’s also a little more interaction between Poirot and Burgess than there was with Burgoyne (the 1932 valet), which continues this.

Ultimately, though, it’s the differences, rather than the similarities, that are most entertaining in comparing the two stories. There are some cute little details that have been changed to reflect the shift from the 30s to the 60s – in ‘Baghdad Chest’, Rich’s guests dance to music on the ‘phonograph’, but in ‘Spanish Chest’, Rich has got himself ‘two stereophonic record players’ for use at parties; oddly, a party in 1960 is imagined to be a teeny bit more restrained (or the author is a teeny bit older), as the guests leave Rich’s house at 11.45pm in ‘Spanish Chest’, but ‘a little after midnight’ in ‘Baghdad Chest’.

While these details are nice – and I’ll talk a bit more about this sort of detail when I come to ‘The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding’ – they don’t really count as notable changes to this story. They’re pretty much eclipsed by the complete change in the ‘gang’ who are involved in the investigation – and the very funny way in which this change is handled.

As ‘Spanish Chest’ is a later Poirot story, Hastings is now absent on a more permanent basis, and George is part of the furniture. (Poirot’s valet isn’t present for this investigation, but he is mentioned as he’s a part of the detective’s household.) Japp is also not included, as he – unlike Poirot – had the luxury of retiring from crime-fighting at a normal age.

But Poirot is teamed up with an associate and a policeman for ‘Spanish Chest’ – it’s just not the dream team he would have liked…

Representing Scotland Yard, we have the recurring character of Inspector Miller. Poirot has worked with Miller before and, in ‘The Lost Mine’, he memorably described him as ‘a man altogether different from our friend Japp, conceited, ill-mannered and quite insufferable’. Here, Poirot manages to muddle along with the anti-Japp, but there’s still no love lost between the two men:

‘Inspector Miller, who was in charge of the Clayton case, was not one of Poirot’s favourites. He was not, however, hostile on this occasion, merely contemptuous.’

If the switch from Japp to Miller is frustrating for Poirot, it’s nothing compared to the replacement Hastings he’s saddled with. That’s right… Poirot has to deal with the semi-robotic Miss Lemon as he tackles ‘The Mystery of the Spanish Chest’. The story begins with some nice descriptions of Miss Lemon to further cement the picture of the hyper-efficient secretary that has its roots in Christie’s Parker Pyne stories:

‘At first sight Miss Lemon seemed to be composed entirely of angles – thus satisfying Poirot’s demand for symmetry.’

and:

‘But Miss Lemon he had never considered as a woman. She was a human machine – an instrument of precision.’*

As I’ve said, in the absence of his friend, it falls to Poirot to Peruse the Morning News. He reads out the details of the Clayton case to Miss Lemon, but she’s singularly uninterested. This makes the detective rather sad:

‘Ah, thought Poirot. How my dear friend, Hastings, would have enjoyed this! What romantic flights of imagination he would have had. What ineptitudes he would have uttered! Ah, ce cher Hastings, at this moment, today, I miss him… Instead –
He sighed and looked at Miss Lemon.’

Awww…

While this is cute for the Poirot and Hastings bromance, it’s also funny for readers familiar with ‘Baghdad Chest’, because we know what ‘flights of imagination’ Hastings had (he wanted to write a play about the case, for God’s sake). Poirot comments a few times on how he imagines his friend would have responded to the case, and we smile because we know that’s just what did happen in the 1932 version.

As Poirot tries (and fails) to get Miss Lemon to step up as a substitute Hastings, he finds himself becoming more and more enthusiastic about the Clayton case. Not only does he Peruse the Morning News, but he also waxes lyrical about the romance that underpins the story of Arnold and Margharita Clayton (particularly the latter). The irony isn’t lost on Poirot:

‘He had been so severe with ce cher Hastings on this point, and now here he was, behaving much as his friend might have done, obsessed with beautiful women, crimes of passion, jealousy, hatred and all the other romantic causes of murder!’

Ultimately, then, what we have here is a story where Poirot, Hastings and Japp investigate a case, which is then expanded into a story where Poirot, Miss Lemon and Miller investigate exactly the same case, and Poirot grouses about how the original team was better.

Time to have a look at how this was translated onto the screen…

The TV adaptation of ‘The Mystery of the Spanish Chest’ was directed by Andrew Grieve and written by Anthony Horowitz. The episode’s title follows Christie’s later version of the story, but there are a number of details that reveal a familiarity with ‘Baghdad Chest’ as well. There are also a few changes made that deviate from both versions of the story.

Happily, Poirot finds himself surrounded by his preferred team in this version – he’s investigating with Hastings and Japp again. While this is, of course, due to the format and chronology of the TV show, it also aligns the episode with the 1932 version of the story. Interestingly, this is one of several early episodes of the ITV series that doesn’t include Pauline Moran as Miss Lemon. Again, this isn’t particularly unusual for the show, but it does make things feel more ‘Baghdad Chest’ than ‘Spanish Chest’.

It also appears that some other characters have reverted to the 1932 version: Commander McLaren is back to being Major Curtiss (played by John McEnery) and William Burgess is once again called Burgoyne (played by Peter Copley). Mr Clayton (Malcolm Sinclair) loses his ‘Spanish Chest’ name of Arnold, and is now once again called Edward, and Mrs Clayton (Caroline Langrishe) is called Marguerite, which is closer to Marguerita (Christie’s 1932 spelling) than Margharita (1960).

Interestingly, the Spences – who are key characters in the 1960 version but only mentioned very briefly in the 1932 story – are completely removed from the 1991 adaptation. On the other hand, Lady Chatterton – whose role is pivotal in both versions of the story – gets plenty of screen-time (performed by Antonia Pemberton) – we even get to see Poirot attempting to dance with her (beat that, Rossakoff).

So really, although this episode is called ‘The Mystery of the Spanish Chest’, it’s actually an adaptation of ‘The Mystery of the Baghdad Chest’. And this makes it quite unusual in the ITV series, as it’s more usual to find the later, longer stories being used as the source for episodes.

That said, the episode does make some slight changes to ‘Baghdad Chest’ of its own. The first – and perhaps most dramatic – is the way in which Poirot is brought into the investigation. In fact, this time, Poirot is drawn into the case before the murder has happened. He’s approached by Lady Chatterton prior to Clayton’s murder, because she’s worried about Marguerite. Lady Chatterton believes that her friend might be in some danger and wants the great detective to keep an eye on things.

This leads to Poirot accompanying Lady Chatterton to a party at the home of Major Rich (played by Pip Torrens, in the first of his two appearances on the show). This party is no longer the intimate little get-together of ‘Baghdad Chest’, but rather a lively society do with a fair number of guests.

I have mixed feelings about the change of party in the adaptation. On the one hand, it removes the claustrophobic intimacy of the gathering in Christie’s story, and so weakens the unsettling feeling you get when you discover Clayton’s body was in the room the whole time. On the other hand, though, it’s kind of good having Poirot attend the party, as there’s a bit of intrigue in having the detective Charlestonning away, oblivious to the corpse a few feet away. (And I did like seeing Poirot dance…)

I’m much clearer in my feelings towards some of the other changes that are made in the episode – and these are symptomatic of a general nudge that happens throughout the series. Some things are just made a bit too obvious for my liking.

As with other episodes (e.g. ‘The Adventure of the Clapham Cook’), we’re treated to a little opening vignette that sets the ‘intrigue’ up. Here, it’s a sepia-toned sequence in which two men duel over a woman… but the significance of the duel in ‘Baghdad Chest’ was never meant to be highlighted so heavy-handedly. It’s mentioned in a seemingly throwaway comment that Poirot stores away, but the reader may easily miss (until its relevance is explained at the end, of course).

Elsewhere, we have Poirot expressing his dislike of Major Curtiss (he calls him ‘unpleasant’ from the start), which brings the character to our attention much more sharply than it was in ‘Baghdad Chest’. Curtiss also confronts Major Rich before the party, further setting up an antagonism that’s actually downplayed in Christie’s story. And – the worst offender, in my eyes – we actually see Clayton having a drink with Curtiss before he visits Rich’s house. It’s clear that Clayton is planning something, and that Curtiss is egging him on, and this reveals that their conversation wasn’t a straightforward drink between friends (something that is obscured in the short story). I really thought that this last example came pretty close to giving the game away, but my husband (who hadn’t read the short story) assures me that he didn’t twig what was going on. Maybe I’m just oversensitive to these details.

So I’m coming to the end of this post now, but there’s one other bit of the episode that it would be remiss of me not to mention. This is a ‘boys only’ investigation, and while this is in-keeping with the original short story, in the context of the show it does mean there’s a bit of a Miss Lemon-shaped hole that has to be explained.

It seems Poirot’s secretary has taken a break to visit her sister in Frinton. While this isn’t really very important, it does allow us a few little glimpses into how the boys cope in her absence. As expected, Hastings messes up her filing system… again.

For Japp fans, there’s also a rather sweet moment where Japp is troubled by a typewriter. He’s been told he has to tighten up on his paperwork, but struggles to work the blasted machine. He asks his old friend if he knows anything about typewriters (though why he thinks he would, I’ve got no idea), but Poirot simply shrugs and says that Miss Lemon handles that sort of thing. But, unfortunately for Japp, Miss Lemon is in Frinton and so can’t help him.

On that note, time to wrap up. ‘The Mystery of the Spanish Chest’ is a decent and fairly faithful adaptation of an enjoyable short story. It’s just not an adaptation of ‘The Mystery of the Spanish Chest’.

Ooh… one final thing… continuing my rundown of Poirot’s funky accessories, this episode features a rather natty little pocket ashtray that Poirot takes to parties. I love it.

The next episode is ‘The Theft of the Royal Ruby’…


* Given my last post – about ‘The Double Clue’ [http://shewolf-manchester.blogspot.co.uk/2016/12/poirot-project-double-clue-review.html] – it’s maybe worth noting that Poirot’s assessment of Miss Lemon is part of an odd little musing on the detective’s ‘continental preference for curves’ on women. During this, he remembers ‘a certain Russian countess’, but dismisses the memory as a ‘folly of earlier days’. More proof, perhaps, that Vera Rossakoff is not Poirot’s Irene Adler, but rather just a woman he once thought was ‘lush’.

Poirot Project Update

So... in 2016 I set out to rewatch every episode of ITV's Agatha Christie's Poirot, rereading the original stories as I went along. The reason behind this is that I've struggled to watch Curtain, even though I've read the book several times. I thought that by being completist, I might finally be able to watch the finale of David Suchet's portrayal of Poirot (rather than switching it off after 30 seconds, which is the most I've managed so far).

In my usual style, though, I've been way more completist than I really needed to be. And so some of my posts have drifted into quite long pieces musing on Christie's creations, the context of the stories and their adaptations, and my memories of watching the episodes for the first time. This - along with the fact that 2016 has been exhaustingly hectic - has resulted in me most definitely not watching every episode. In fact, I've only made it through the first 3 series!

Since it's coming up to the end of the year, and I'm definitely not going to get to the end of the series in 2016, this is a little recap of the posts I've already written for my little project...

There's my Introduction post to get started (which includes a few more of the personal reasons for doing this). And then the episode-by-episode posts...

Series 1

The Adventure of the Clapham Cook
Murder in the Mews
The Adventure of Johnnie Waverly
Four and Twenty Blackbirds
The Third Floor Flat
Triangle at Rhodes
Problem at Sea
The Incredible Theft
The King of Clubs
The Dream

Series 2

Peril at End House
The Veiled Lady
The Lost Mine
The Cornish Mystery
The Disappearance of Mr Davenheim
Double Sin
The Adventure of the Cheap Flat
The Kidnapped Prime Minister
The Adventure of the Western Star

Feature Length Episode

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

Series 3

How Does Your Garden Grow?
The Million Dollar Bond Robbery
The Plymouth Express
Wasp's Nest
The Tragedy at Marsdon Manor
The Double Clue
The Mystery of the Spanish Chest
The Theft of the Royal Ruby
The Affair at the Victory Ball
The Mystery of Hunter's Lodge

Other Posts

As I just can't help digressing, I've posted some other miscellaneous musings while I've been working my way through the episodes...

Reading My First Poirot Novel - a guest post by Rob Shedwick
The Further Adventures of Miss Lemon
Agatha Christie Inspired Music by Digital Front

And finally, we decided to have a bit of a Poirot-themed trip after we watched 'The Disappearance of Mr Davenheim'. In June, we went to Surrey to visit Brooklands Museum - one of the brilliant locations used in the series. The first picture below is from the TV show, but the rest are from our visit (including the pic of a 1930s Lagonda!)

So I'm going to press on and start 2017 with The ABC Murders... I reckon I'm definitely going to get to Curtain by next Christmas...

Poirot Project: The Double Clue (review)

This post is part of my 2016 Poirot Project. You can read the full story of why I’m doing this in my Introduction post. The previous post was a review of ‘The Tragedy at Marsdon Manor’.

Beware: Here be Spoilers

The sixth episode of the third series of Agatha Christie’s Poirot was first broadcast on 10th February 1991. It was based on the short story of the same name, which was first published in The Sketch in December 1923.

I might as well get this out of the way… ‘The Double Clue’ isn’t one of my favourite short stories (I don’t hate it – I’m just a bit meh about it), and the adaptation really isn’t one of my favourite episodes either. And – if I wanted to get into an Agatha Christie fandom fight – I’d also say that I don’t really like the way this story has been elevated into a more significant moment in the Poirot canon than it actually is.

As I’ve been rereading Christie’s Sketch stories, I’ve become quite taken with the way she riffs off Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories in a rather affectionate homage-y sort of way. So, ‘The Veiled Lady’ references ‘The Speckled Band’; ‘The Lost Mine’ and ‘The Disappearance of Mr Davenheim’ make little nods to ‘The Man with the Twisted Lip’; and ‘The Adventure of the Cheap Flat’ is a playful take on ‘The Red-Headed League’. Given this, it was probably only a matter of time before Christie turned her cheeky gaze on ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’ – the first of Doyle’s Holmes short stories.

And so we have ‘The Double Clue’, and Poirot’s version of Irene Adler.

In case it needs any introduction, Doyle’s story sees Holmes consulted by a member of the Bohemian royal family, who has become entangled with the retired opera singer and ‘well-known adventuress’ Irene Adler. The Grand Duke is now being blackmailed by Adler, and he needs Holmes’s help to retrieve some incriminating letters and a photograph, so that she can’t publicize the eponymous scandal and prevent the Grand Duke’s forthcoming marriage to the King of Scandinavia’s daughter. It’s a big case, but Holmes seems to act as though it won’t pose any particular challenge.

But in that the great detective is sorely mistaken. Despite Holmes utilizing his apparently superhuman powers of disguise, Adler is always one step ahead of him, and he is unable to apprehend (or even unmask) the criminal that lies beneath the woman’s respectable exterior. The story ends with Adler writing to Holmes to reveal that she was onto him from the start, but to return the incriminating photograph nevertheless (she’s now married, and gives the excuse of loving her husband to explain why she’s dropping the blackmail plan). She tells him that she’s decided to leave the country before he can catch her, and wishes him a cordial (perhaps even affectionate) goodbye.

Holmes is so taken with the intelligence of the woman – apparently he’s impressed with the way she saw through his disguise – that he asks to keep the photograph of Adler as a souvenir. And that’s it. That’s all there is to the story. But, for some reason (which I’ll come back to shortly), both Holmes and Watson are determined to build this little interlude into the most significant interaction the detective has ever had with the opposite sex. Watson begins the story by saying that, for Holmes, Adler ‘eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex’, and he ends it by noting that this (rather underwhelming) case has completely changed Holmes’s perception of women:

‘He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late.’

Christie’s take on ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’ also sees a great detective running up against an ‘adventuress’. And it also ends with the adventuress heading off into the sunset. But ‘The Double Clue’ is not ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’, and (more importantly) Vera Rossakoff is not Irene Adler.

As with a few other Poirot stories, ‘The Double Clue’ sees Christie takes the basic outline of a Holmes story and transposes it into the fashionable world of the 1920s. Like his forebear, the detective is consulted at the beginning of the story – but by a ‘celebrity’, rather than a ‘hereditary king’. Marcus Hardman is a man who has ‘spent his money zealously in the pursuit of social pleasure’. Unfortunately, he has been relieved of some of this money/pleasure by a dastardly jewel thief. Loathe to call the police, Hardman has called upon the great Belgian detective (‘as a compromise’) in an attempt to retrieve the stolen jewellery.

The mystery should be a relatively straightforward one for Poirot. The jewels were stolen at a tea party the previous day. Among the guests were a South African millionaire named Johnston, Lady Runcorn, Bernard Parker and Countess Vera Rossakoff (‘a very charming Russian lady, a member of the old régime’). When the safe is examined, two clues are discovered: a man’s glove and a cigarette case engraved with the initials B.P.

‘The Double Clue’ isn’t as perplexing a mystery as many of the other Poirot stories, and it lacks the intricate clueing of much of Christie’s other writing. The central puzzle – the ‘double clue’ of the title – is a bit disappointing when compared with, say, the twin necklaces of ‘The Adventure of the Western Star’ or the disappearing bonds in ‘The Million Dollar Bond Robbery’. But that’s because this story isn’t just about the puzzle – it’s also about one of the suspects.

Although Hardman tells us that Vera Rossakoff is a ‘charming’ lady, Hastings (our narrator) comes to a different conclusion. He is quite taken aback by the woman’s appearance:

‘Without the least warning the door flew open, and a whirlwind in human form invaded our privacy, bringing with her a swirl of sables (it was as cold as only an English June day can be) and a hat rampant with slaughtered ospreys. Countess Vera Rossakoff was a somewhat disturbing personality.’

Rossakoff bombards the men with a passionate defence of Bernard Parker – who is currently the chief suspect – before sweeping out of the room, insisting that she will clear the man’s name. Poirot says very little during this interaction, and offers Hastings (and the reader) little insight into his assessment of the Russian countess, save that he believes she is genuinely Russian.

However, when you read the story for a second time, you realize that Poirot has twigged a lot more about Rossakoff than he’s letting on. Just a few paragraphs after his first meeting with the countess, Poirot is found studying the Russian alphabet. When you know the story’s ending, you know that this is the point where Poirot has worked out the meaning of the cigarette case’s engraving, and so has a good idea who the culprit is.

So, ‘The Double Clue’, on the face of it, bears little resemblance to ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’. The set-up, development and solution of the mystery are nothing like that found in Doyle’s story. Instead, the similarity lies in the eventual fate of the female culprit, and in the detective’s lingering admiration for her at the end of the case.

When Poirot has satisfied himself that Rossakoff is the jewel thief, he takes an unusual step. Rather than pushing for her apprehension – which he could no doubt do, as he’s had people arrested on far flimsier evidence and could always fake a séance if he wanted to make her confess – he speaks to the woman confidentially, and offers to let her escape if she hands back the jewels. It’s a rather nice little exchange, in which Poirot and Rossakoff are politeness personified, but utterly unambiguous about what has happened.

Rossakoff hands back the jewels, pays Poirot a compliment, and announces that she will be leaving London. In return, Poirot makes a neat little bow and hands back the cigarette case without comment. Immediately after this, Poirot expresses his admiration of the woman to Hastings:

‘“What a woman!” cried Poirot enthusiastically as we descended the stairs. “Mon Dieu, quelle femme! Not a word of argument – of protestation, of bluff! One quick glance, and she had sized up the position correctly. I tell you, Hastings, a woman who can accept defeat like that – with a careless smile – will go far! She is dangerous, she has the nerves of steel; she –” He tripped heavily.’

Poirot’s exclamation of ‘What a woman!’ undoubtedly recalls Holmes’s lifelong admiration of Irene Adler (‘she is always the woman’). But there’s a really important difference here… Holmes admires Adler because she got the better of him; Poirot admires Rossakoff because she recognizes that he got the better of her. And isn’t that just Poirot all over?

It could be argued that, far from Rossakoff being the woman, Poirot is actually the man in this story. After all, like Adler, it’s Poirot who is in the driving seat the whole time (even if his opponent doesn’t realize it), and it’s Poirot who reveals that he saw through a ‘disguise’ (his handing back Rossakoff’s cigarette case is a bit like Adler revealing that she knew all along that the clergyman was Holmes). And it’s Rossakoff – not Poirot – who suggests that her opponent stands almost alone of his gender:

‘It is a great compliment that I pay you there – there are very few men in the world whom I fear.’

The fact is that Poirot doesn’t need an Irene Adler – Rossakoff was never going to be the woman for Poirot, because (unlike Holmes) the little Belgian has got plenty of women. Throughout the run of Poirot stories, there will be so so many more female characters than in the Sherlock Holmes stories. I don’t actually know for sure how many female murderers there were in Doyle’s stories, but I can’t think of a single one off the top of my head.* Poirot is surrounded by female murderers, thieves, fraudsters and blackmailers – and he falls for the charms of several of them (Nick Buckley and Jane Wilkinson are the obvious ones, but he’s also very sympathetic to Jacqueline de Bellefort). But the shoe is sometimes on the other foot, and Rossakoff isn’t the first female jewel thief to look on Poirot with ‘affectionate awe’ – Gertie (in ‘The Veiled Lady’) thinks he’s a ‘nippy old devil’, and even hires him herself. As well as the bad girls, Poirot is also surrounded by slightly better behaved women. Two of his regular associates are women, and he reveals a number of friendships – both old and new – with women of different ages (e.g. he acts as ‘avuncular’ to young women like Katherine Grey, but is also rather protective of older women such as Emily Arundell). He also flirts cheekily with younger women in ‘The Triangle at Rhodes’ and ‘The Third Floor Flat’, waxes lyrical at the beauty of motherhood in ‘The Adventure of the Western Star’, and admires the professionalism of the female chemist in The Mysterious Affair at Styles. Never mind how good a jewel thief she is, Poirot simply hasn’t got room in his life for an Irene Adler.

There’s an interesting little comment at the beginning of ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’ that reveals something about the differences in how Holmes and Poirot relate to women (or, perhaps, how they relate to their ‘significant others’ Watson and Hastings). Doyle’s short story begins with Watson paying a call on Holmes after a period of separation. Watson explains this:

‘I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other.’

As the two men begin to talk, it’s quickly apparent that Holmes doesn’t have the slightest inclination to ask after Mrs Watson. He’s more interested in playing his usual parlour game of deducing odd little nuggets of information about his visitors (such as the fact that Watson has a clumsy parlourmaid) than talking about what’s going on in his friend’s life. So distant have the two men been that Holmes didn’t even know Watson was practicing medicine again. Compare this with Poirot and Hastings’s reunion in Peril at End House. Here, the pair have also been separated by the associate’s marriage. But Poirot and Hastings have been much further apart than Holmes and Watson (who both remained in London, just not in regular communication) – Hastings has moved to Argentina, where he runs a ranch with his wife Dulcie (or Bella, as Hastings can’t seem to remember her name). Nevertheless, it’s clear that, not only has Poirot kept in touch with his old friend, he is also acquainted with Mrs Hastings. In fact, he has a rather high opinion of her.

When Hastings rails at Poirot for questioning his intelligence, he asks whether or not he’d be able to run such a successful ranch if he was as stupid as Poirot continually implies. The detective shakes his head:

‘Do not enrage yourself, mon ami. You have made a great success of it – you and your wife.’

I think the implication here is pretty clear. Poirot has a high regard for Dulcie/Bella, as he believes she’s keeping Hastings on the straight-and-narrow. Holmes, on the other hand, seems monumentally uninterested in his friend’s marriage, and has no concern whatsoever for his old friend’s wife. For Doyle’s detective, there really is only one woman.

Anyway, time to move on to the TV adaptation of ‘The Double Clue’. But just one final point before I do…

Although the story and TV episode are naturally dominated by the introduction of Vera Rossakoff, it’s worth giving a little bit of attention to the presentation of two of the other characters – Marcus Hardman and Bernard Parker.

When Hastings and Poirot first meet Hardman, he is described as ‘a small man, delicately plump, with exquisitely manicured hands and a plaintive tenor voice’. The man describes the scene of the crime to the detective, and is then asked questions about the guests at his tea party. When they reach Parker, Hardman is evasive:

‘He is – er – he is a young fellow. Well, in fact, a young fellow I know.’

Now, it’s quickly explained that Hardman’s reluctance comes from the fact that Parker privately organizes the sale of heirlooms for upper class families who have fallen on hard times. His job is a sensitive one, and Hardman is hesitant to reveal such a role exists. However, there’s a lingering suggestion in the way Hardman introduced Parker, and this doesn’t go away when we meet the man himself. Hastings offers the following description of the ‘young fellow’:

‘We found him reclining on some cushions, clad in an amazing dressing-gown of purple and orange. I have seldom taken a greater dislike to anyone than I did to this particular young man with his white, effeminate face and affected lisping speech.’

Hardman and Parker are both described in terms of their effeminacy, and there is a question mark placed over their relationship to one another. While I wouldn’t go so far as to say these characters are coded as gay, there’s certainly something ‘other’ about them (particularly Parker) that Hastings finds distasteful. I’m not sure we’re supposed to imagine that Hardman and Parker are definitely in a relationship, but we’re certainly meant to be suspicious that this might be the case.

So now to the ITV adaptation…

The adaptation of ‘The Double Clue’ was written by Anthony Horowitz and directed by Andrew Piddington. On the whole, it’s a fairly faithful retelling of Christie’s story (plot-wise), with a few extra details thrown in to expand the story to fit the TV format.

The biggest alteration, in this respect, is the inclusion of Japp and Miss Lemon – but that’s to be expected from the early series. The addition of Japp alters the story’s set-up a bit, as the theft of Hardman’s jewellery is now part of a series of thefts that have baffled Scotland Yard. Japp is under pressure from his bosses to solve the case, and he enlists Poirot’s help to do so.

This alteration doesn’t really work, as Poirot is able to solve the case with remarkable ease (even for him). He very quickly ascertains that Rossakoff was the only guest present at all of the thefts, a fact which you’d think Japp would have picked up on at some point. There’s a rather clumsy suggestion that Rossakoff’s presence has been overlooked because the police are ‘too English’, but this doesn’t really hold water. In ‘How Does Your Garden Grow?’, the Russian woman was the first (and only) person anyone apart from Poirot suspected, so it seems strange that Japp would now assume a Russian countess was utterly beyond suspicion. Nevertheless, this explanation allows for Japp to be part of the gang for this episode, which is always welcome in my book.

Aside from this, the only major alteration to Christie’s puzzle comes from the revelation that Lady Runcorn’s maiden name was Beatrice Palmerston, which allows her to more obviously be in the frame for owning the cigarette case.

However, although the clues and puzzle are pretty much the same as in Christie’s short story, there are some quite dramatic alterations to tone in the adaptation. In particular, the two (possible) relationships that are hinted at in the short story undergo quite big changes in the TV episode. I’ll come to Poirot/Rossakoff in a moment, but first I want to look at Hardman/Parker.

The TV version of Hardman (played by David Lyon) is nothing like his literary counterpart. There is nothing of the effeminacy hinted at in the short story, and one would be hard-pressed to describe Lyon’s voice as a ‘plaintive tenor’. Rather than hosting an intimate little tea party, this version of Hardman throws a thoroughly respectable evening do, which is attended by a large number of people. And, while the TV Hardman is a little evasive about his relationship with Parker, this comes across more as dislike, rather than as embarrassment.

Parker, on the other hand, is even more exaggerated than the character in Christie’s story. In the adaptation, the ‘young fellow’ is transformed into a rather slimy – and undeniably camp – individual (played by David Bamber). While the literary character served an embarrassing, but necessary, function in high society, this Parker appears to have insinuated himself into fashionable circles by flirting with, and imposing on, the cash-strapped upper classes.

When Hastings visits Parker at home, he finds him much the same as in Christie’s short story. However, there’s an interesting moment in the TV episode that suggests that this version of the character is more clearly meant to be read as gay. The episode has an additional clue – the discovery of a piece of embroidery marked with the initials ‘B.P.’ – due to the enhanced confusion over who owns the cigarette case. Hastings confronts Parker and asks if this has anything to do with him. Parker says he has no idea what Hastings is talking about, and questions the implications of his being asked if he’s ever done any embroidery. But the way Bamber delivers his lines here is highly suggestive. He demurs and giggles at the question, lowers his eyes, and then looks searchingly at Hastings as if trying to work out a subtext. Parker seems flirtatious, but also curious. It’s like he’s trying to work out whether or not Hastings is speaking to him in code: ‘Are you asking if I’m gay? Do you want me to be gay? Are you gay?’

The uneasy outcome of this is that, while Christie’s 1923 text hinted at the possibility of a gay relationship (albeit not a particularly solid one, given that Hardman is more than happy when he believes Parker is the jewel thief), the 1991 adaptation is uncomfortable with this, and replaces it with a rather unpleasant effete man who flirts with both women (to slime his way into society) and men (when he thinks they’re possible conquests). By removing any effeminacy in the presentation of Hardman, the adaptation makes Parker seem more like a predatory weirdo than a (slightly dodgy) ‘young fellow’. It’s sad to think that the hint in Christie’s story that Hardman is worried his boyfriend has stolen his jewels needed to be played down for TV in the 1990s.

And as the homosexual relationship is erased, a heterosexual one springs up to fill its place. Sigh.

As I’ve said, Poirot’s admiration of Rossakoff in Christie’s short story is the result of her behaviour after he has identified her as the thief. Unfortunately, this wasn’t enough for the ITV adaptation – instead, it appears someone thought it was time for Poirot to get a girlfriend.

The TV Rossakoff (played here by Kika Markham) is a very different kettle of fish to the character in Christie’s short story. Rather than bursting into the story swathed in fur and feathers, this countess arrives with an air of mystery and romance. We see her leaving a train, surrounded by shadows; we see her sitting at a window gazing wistfully at rain; we see her approach Poirot with grace, elegance and – of course – a hint of tragedy.

Poirot, in turn, is utterly charmed from the first moment he meets Rossakoff. He is visibly infatuated as he bows over her hand and mutters ‘Enchanté, madame,’ and he continues this rather awed approach each time he sees her.

Poirot and Rossakoff start going on dates together. Specifically, they visit an art gallery (filmed in Senate House, a location also used in ‘The Veiled Lady’) and flirt with an over-the-top repressed politeness. He winces when she calls him ‘Hercule’, but they each reveal a little of their souls as they point out art with which they feel a connection. They speak of feeling exiled from their countries, and walk arm-in-arm.

It’s completely rubbish, and it’s the reason I don’t like this episode.

Never mind that Poirot appears to have forgotten the investigation entirely at this point – even though his friend’s job is on the line – he seems to have forgotten all the values and morals that have underpinned his character from the start. While Poirot always has a soft spot for people displaced from their homeland, there’s nothing in any of the stories to suggest that he’d find a jewel thief who lifts necklaces from posh people’s parties any other than dull. Admittedly, Poirot does occasionally let criminals get away (or ‘escape the noose’ if the crime is murder) if he believes they aren’t really ‘bad’ people, but there’s no justification at all for Rossakoff’s thefts, other than that she wanted some nice stuff. So the fact that Poirot just lets her get away with it leaves us with the suggestion that he simply fancies her too much to see her arrested – and that’s not Poirot at all.

That’s right – he just lets her get away with it. And not in the brief ‘I’ve got no evidence, so if you give me the jewels we’ll say no more about it’ way he does in the short story. Oh no. Here, the detective lies to his friends to protect the countess, invents a story about a mysterious tramp, hires a man to play the tramp (which results in Hastings being shot at by the actor Poirot has employed), goes on a romantic picnic with the real thief, retrieves the jewels, puts the blame for the cigarette case on Lady Runcorn (inventing a spurious story about the innocent woman wanting to sell it to Hardman), and then hires two detectives (Redfern and Blake) to watch over Rossakoff as she makes her getaway. It’s a far cry from him simply telling Rossakoff to hurry up and give him the necklace, because he’s got a taxi waiting.

Poirot’s final comments on/to Rossakoff in each of the different versions reveal how much of a shift has occurred in their relationship. In the TV episode, he is clearly heartbroken by the impossibility of their being together. After the case has been ‘resolved’, Poirot and Rossakoff take tea at the railway station and say their goodbyes Brief Encounter style. Poirot admits to the affection and admiration he feels for the woman, but adds (with a note of tragedy) that they are opposites:

‘You must continue your work, and I must continue mine. But not in the same country.’

Wait… what? Did Poirot just say that she must continue nicking rich people’s necklaces? How bizarre.

By contrast, Christie’s version of the story has the detective more impressed by the woman’s boldness in defeat. He enthusiastically gushes to Hastings about Rossakoff’s audacious acceptance of the outcome, and the way she didn’t flinch when he confronted her:

‘A remarkable woman. I have a feeling, my friend – a very decided feeling – I shall meet her again. Where, I wonder?’

I like this ending better.

To finish up, I want to say something about the way the other characters respond to Poirot getting a girlfriend. Because this doesn’t sit well with Hastings and Miss Lemon, who are thrown together for most of the episode as a result of their friend’s strange behaviour (in fact, a couple of the interviews that are conducted by Poirot and Hastings in the story are carried out by Hastings and Miss Lemon in the adaptation). Neither of them seem able to understand what is going on.

There’s something quite sweet about the way Hastings and Miss Lemon mourn the potential loss of their friend, but also something a bit uncomfortable. Hastings’s reaction – he is utterly baffled and bereft – is in-keeping with the men’s relationship in both the TV show and Christie’s fiction. I’ll be coming on to the ‘The Theft of the Royal Ruby’ soon, but there’s a bit in the 1923 version of that story where Poirot confesses his heartbreak at Hastings’s marriage in a similar tone to the way Hastings’s responds to Poirot’s relationship here. I also quite like the way Hastings becomes rather protective of his friend, determining to complete the investigation and (if necessary) reveal that Rossakoff has been lying.

But Miss Lemon’s reaction is a bit less cute. Her utter distress at the thought of Poirot getting a girlfriend is a bit… well, a bit much. We know how fond of the little Belgian she is, but it borders on downright jealousy here. In one conversation, as she takes a sombre tea with Hastings, she actually seems to be choking down tears as she blurts out: ‘I don’t want to talk about it!’ Never mind that this is a million miles away from the ‘perfect machine’ Miss Lemon of Christie’s fiction, it seems to cross a line in the presentation of the TV character – Miss Lemon doesn’t fancy Poirot, and it’s weird to see her behaving as though she does.

As you can see, this episode irritates me a bit. I much prefer the affectionate fun of Christie’s short story than the doleful ‘star-crossed lovers’ nonsense of the TV version. The 1923 version really reads like a playful take on a Sherlock Holmes story, particularly when it’s read in context of the other Sketch stories. But the TV version removes this playfulness and turns it into something rather melodramatic. I suppose one consolation is that this is definitely not the worst presentation of Poirot’s relationship with Rossakoff in the ITV series – as the detective predicted in Christie’s story, he would run into her again. But it’s going to be a while before I get to that…

One final thing before I finish… it would be remiss of me not to point out that Christie would recycle one half of the story’s ‘double clue’ in a later, much more famous Poirot story. Using the Russian alphabet to decipher a monogram? To paraphrase Poirot:

‘I have a feeling, my friend – a very decided feeling – I shall see that again. Where, I wonder?’

Next up… it’s ‘The Mystery of the Spanish Chest’.


* Thank you to Ian Preston, who just reminded me on Twitter that there is a female killer in ‘The Adventure of the Second Stain’. I’m sure there are a couple of others as well, but I can’t remember them.