Poirot Project: Double Sin (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 Disappearance of Mr Davenheim’.

Beware: Here be Spoilers

The seventh episode of the second series of Agatha Christie’s Poirot was first broadcast on 11th February 1990. It was based on the short story of the same name (aka ‘By Road or Rail’), which was first published in the Sunday Dispatch in 1928.

In my last post, I talked a bit about Poirot and Hastings’s living arrangements in the early short stories. This domestic set-up changes after The Murder on the Links (1923), which signals the end of the cosy ‘shared rooms’ of the Sketch short stories; by The Big Four (1927) and Peril at End House (1932), Hastings is ensconced in his ranch in Argentina with his wife, only popping back occasionally to meet up with his old friend. In the scheme of Poirot and Hastings’s friendship, ‘Double Sin’ takes place during this time – Poirot is now living alone in ‘rooms’ (he’s not yet moved into his swanky serviced apartment), and Hastings is living elsewhere. The story begins with Hastings arriving at Poirot’s lodgings:

‘I had called in at my friend Poirot’s rooms to find him sadly overworked. So much had he become the rage that every rich woman who had mislaid a bracelet or lost a pet kitten rushed to secure the services of the great Hercule Poirot. My little friend was a strange mixture of Flemish thrift and artistic fervour. He accepted many cases in which he had little interest owing to the first instinct being predominant.’

There are a couple of things that interest me about this introduction. Firstly, this story is set during the height of Poirot’s fame as a private detective, despite the fact it was published after The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (1926) and his first failed ‘retirement’ from detective work. The rich women with missing bracelets returns to an idea from one of the earlier short stories, ‘The Adventure of the Western Star’ (the adaptation of which will appear later in this series), that Poirot became quite fashionable for a time. Secondly, although Hastings clearly no longer shares rooms with Poirot, there’s no mention of his wife or his ranch anywhere in the story. In fact, there’s a little moment where Poirot behaves as though Hastings is still single (and Hastings responds as though he is still single):

‘“You were observing the pretty young lady who booked No. 5, the next seat to ours. Ah! Yes, my friend, I saw you. […]”
“Really, Poirot,” I said, blushing.
“Auburn hair – always the auburn hair!”’

I’m not sure if this little exchange means that the story is set earlier than it was published – though this wouldn’t really make sense as Hastings lived with Poirot right up until his bachelordom ended. Instead, I like to think of it as an indication that the two men find it easy to slip back into their old ways, even after Hastings has got married and moved away. If you remove the first sentence, ‘Double Sin’ could very easily be one of the 1923 Sketch stories.

Hastings arrives at his ‘overworked’ friend’s rooms and is quickly told that Poirot has promised to undertake some work for ‘Joseph Aarons, the theatrical agent’. Aarons doesn’t actually appear in the short story, but he appeared in the novels The Murder on the Links, The Mystery of the Blue Train and The Big Four. So, if you’re reading Christie’s stories in the order in which they were published, this character’s name will be familiar. Of course, I’m rereading them in the order ITV chose to adapt them, so have to keep referring to texts I’ve not got to yet in order to remind myself of who appears where. Had I not already read Links, Blue Train and Big Four, the name of Joseph Aarons would mean nothing. In this case – as with other minor recurring characters in Christie’s texts – it doesn’t really matter whether the reader is familiar with Joseph Aarons or not. Hastings makes this clear in his narration, when Poirot asks him if he calls the theatrical agent: ‘I assented after a moment’s thought. Poirot’s friends are so many and so varied, and range from dustmen to dukes.’ As is often the case, Hastings is acting as a stand-in for the reader; we don’t need to worry about the details, all that matters is that Aarons is one of the detective’s many random friends. His role within the story is clear without any knowledge of his backstory: all you need to know is that it is a letter from Aarons that has compelled Poirot to temporarily leave his cases in London and travel to Charlock Bay in Devon.

As travelling to Charlock Bay by train is somewhat difficult, Hastings books the two men on a Speedy Cars ‘motor coach’ – much to Poirot’s chagrin. On board the coach, they meet a young woman named Mary Durrant, who is carrying a collection of valuable miniatures that are to be sold to an American dealer (Mr J. Baker Wood). Also travelling with them is a man who is ‘trying to grow a moustache and as yet the result is poor’. Hastings is quite taken by the flame-haired Miss Durrant; Poirot is intrigued by the man with the ‘indeterminate moustache’.

At Ebermouth, the coach stops for lunch, and the man with the indeterminate moustache (Norton Kane) removes his suitcase from the coach and leaves the party. Later in the day, when they arrive at Charlock Bay, Miss Durrant discovers that her suitcase has been forced and the miniatures stolen. Poirot is fascinated, and promises to help the distraught young woman.

Just in case the reader is still labouring under the illusion that the ‘business’ with Joseph Aarons is going to play any part in the plot, Hastings summarily dismisses this:

‘We lunched with Joseph Aarons, and after lunch, Poirot announced to me that he had settled the theatrical agent’s problem satisfactorily, and that we could return to Ebermouth as soon as we liked.’

Whatever the problem was, the detective managed to solve it over one lunch date, leaving us in no doubt that a) Poirot can work pretty fast when he needs to, and b) this was really all just an excuse for Poirot and Hastings to go on a coach trip. Sure enough, there’s no more mention of this problem, and Poirot devotes his attention for the rest of the story on the mystery of the missing miniatures.

Like the other earlier Poirot short stories, the puzzle is wrapped up quickly and neatly by the great detective. The solution is a satisfying one, but what really makes this story for me is Poirot’s explanation of how/why he was so interested in the case. At the end of the story, he offers several insights, which are so perfectly Poirot you can’t help but smile.

On ruling out Norton Kane as a serious suspect, Poirot says: ‘With that moustache? A criminal is either clean shaven or he has a proper moustache that can be removed at will.’ While this is partly a continuation of what seems to be a small obsession with Kane’s moustache on the part of our fastidious dandy, what Poirot says makes complete sense. We’ve been told several times that Kane’s ‘indeterminate moustache’ simply draws attention to the man – not very handy for a jewel thief. It’s interesting that the TV adaptation of ‘Double Sin’ followed ‘The Disappearance of Mr Davenheim’, as dramatic and removable facial hair is central to the disappearing act in that story.

On explaining how Mary Durrant attempted to use the two men in her nefarious scheme, Poirot (with characteristic snark) explains:

‘Mademoiselle Mary has only to find a couple of mugs who will be sympathetic to her charm and champion beauty in distress. But one of the mugs was no mug – he was Hercule Poirot!’

For once, the implications of this don’t go over Hastings’s head, who grumpily thinks to himself: ‘I hardly like the inference.’ But Poirot’s cheeky little comment does remind us that Mary Durrant isn’t the first pretty girl to think she can play Poirot for a mug (that would be Lady Millicent Castle Vaughan – aka Gertie – in ‘The Veiled Lady’), and she won’t be the last (Nick Buckley is just around the corner). Poirot will be approached and befriended by a number of young women in his career – and he’ll always be sympathetic to their charms and a champion in their distress – but because of the likes of Millicent and Mary, we never really know whether we should trust any of them.

Finally, in a hasty attempt to retract his implied insult, Poirot claims that the other ‘mug’ was actually J. Baker Wood, and that the detective felt a strong need to help the hapless American: ‘we visitors, Hastings, must stand together. Me, I am all for the visitors!’ This isn’t a sentiment that Poirot always expresses directly, but there are other stories in which he forms an unspoken bond as a result of shared ‘foreignness’ (e.g. with Mrs Vanderlyn’s French maid in ‘The Incredible Theft’). Significantly, though, it’s rare for Poirot to express this sense of solidarity with Americans; more usually, when confronted by someone from the US, the Belgian aligns himself with his fellow Europeans (the English) against the transatlantic ‘other’. Perhaps it’s the fact that J. Baker Wood has been duped by two (apparently) quintessential English women that provokes his statement.

The TV adaptation of ‘Double Sin’ was directed by Richard Spence and written by Clive Exton. With the exception of the double-length series opener, all the other episodes so far in this series have been adaptations of Sketch short stories (i.e. the 1923 series of stories in which Poirot and Hastings live together). As I’ve said ‘Double Sin’ is a later post-Links story, but because it’s so similar in style to the 1923 stories, Exton hasn’t had to do too much to make it follow on from ‘The Disappearance of Mr Davenheim’ and the rest of the series. Hastings doesn’t need to be added, as he was already there as narrator; the story is set when the two men are sharing a flat in London so Miss Lemon fits right in; Inspector Japp, as usual, can replace ‘the police inspector in charge of the case’… except actually that’s not what happens here (but more on that in a moment).

The episode begins with Poirot in a bad mood. The two friends are visiting a park, and Poirot is in a funk. He wants to retire and complains to Hastings that his career is over. This is a departure from the ‘overworked’ Poirot of the short story, but it continues a theme that runs throughout this series of the TV show.

It’s Poirot’s bad mood, rather than a communication from Aarons, that prompts the men to go on a little trip – though it’s up north, rather than down south, that they head here. They travel to Whitcombe (a fictional Lancashire town, actually filmed in Morecambe). Soon after they arrive, Hastings discovers that their old friend Japp is in town – the policeman is doing a ‘North Country’ lecture tour – what a coincidence!

As Poirot doesn’t seem interested in attending his friend’s lecture, Hastings suggests they take a ‘Speedy Tours’ coach to Windermere. Here, they meet Mary Durrant (played by Caroline Milmoe) and Norton Kane (the man with the indeterminate moustache) (played by Adam Kotz) and, as in the short story, Hastings is charmed by the young woman, while Poirot is curious about the young man. There is a small detail removed from the short story, which is a shame. In Christie’s text, Poirot orchestrates the seating arrangements with a delightful tact that goes straight over his companion’s head:

‘Poirot, rather maliciously, I thought, assigned me the outside place as “I had the mania for the fresh air” and himself occupied the seat next to our fair neighbour [Mary Durrant]. Presently, however, he made amends. The man in seat 6 was a noisy fellow, inclined to be facetious and boisterous, and Poirot asked the girl in a low voice if she would like to change seats with him.’

Is it just me? or does it seem like this might have been Poirot’s plan all along? (Though, is it not also a little odd that Poirot appears to matchmaking his married friend, while Hastings’s poor wife waits patiently on the ranch?)

The TV episode omits this little detail – though it would have made more sense within their chronology! – and simply has Hastings sitting next to Mary from the start.

The disappearance of the miniatures is revealed in a similar way to in the short story, and Norton Kane is once again framed as the main suspect. The TV episode gives more attention to the poorly-moustachioed man, making him seem even more suspicious than in the source text, but adds an expanded backstory to explain his bizarre behaviour. I suppose it should also be noted that the miniatures themselves are also slightly elevated here: they’re now Napoleonic and have increased in value from £500 to £1500.

It’s the investigation that is most altered in the adaptation. As Poirot is insistent he is ‘retired’, he refuses to accept the case. It falls to Hastings to take on the mantle of detective, as he does in other episodes in the series (‘The Disappearance of Mr Davenheim’ and ‘The Adventure of the Western Star’). This leads to some comical moments, as Hastings puts his theories to the local policemen (played by David Hargreaves and Gerard Horan) and is shot down by the common-sensical northerners, and then is given a series of subtle hints by Poirot, despite the fact that the detective is ‘not investigating’. I particularly like Hasting’s attempts to look after his little grey cells through diet and sleep, and his joyous exclamations when he wakes up with (what he believes is) the solution: ‘It must have been the haddock! I feel wonderful!’

Poirot, though, remains in his funk. He takes no enjoyment in his friend’s investigations, and refuses to accompany Hastings on the case. We discover why in due course: when Hastings goes to bed early to let the haddock do its work, Poirot sneaks out of the hotel to attend Japp’s lecture.

This is a lovely moment. Up until this point, we’ve been led to believe that Poirot is simply jealous that Japp has been asked to do a lecture tour – and this is probably partly the case. But as Poirot listens to Japp discussing private detectives, it becomes clear that Poirot is actually worried that the policeman will either slight his abilities, or else leave them out entirely. I’ve always felt that this isn’t just about Poirot’s ego – throughout the series, the friendship between the men is emphasized, and I’ve always felt that part of Poirot’s worry comes from the fear that his friend might say something mean.

His fears are unfounded, of course. Japp sings Poirot’s praises to the rafters, speaking of his pleasure and gratitude at being able to work alongside the little Belgian detective. David Suchet plays Poirot’s response to this beautifully, allowing a series of emotions to play over his face that take us from his initial surprise, through his touching affection, and back to his characteristic pride. At one point, you can even see the tiny hint of a tear in his eye.

The three men come together to wrap the case up and confront the thief at the end of the episode. Japp and Poirot light-heartedly tease Hastings for barking up completely the wrong tree; however, the tables are then turned when Hastings discovers a newspaper clipping in Poirot’s wallet – it seems he knew about Japp’s lecture all along, and that was the reason for his sudden desire to see the Lake District. Now it’s Hastings’s turn to rib his friend – and Japp laughs along. It’s quite charming, really.

So… while the boys are on their jollies in the Lake District, what’s Miss Lemon up to?

Poirot’s secretary isn’t in the short story, and it seems there’s no place for her on the TV version of the Speedy Tours coach either. Instead, she gets her own (rather odd) little story. After being confronted by some kids doing penny-for-the-guy, Miss Lemon is flustered and loses her keys. This means she can’t leave the flat until she finds them – and she can’t find them until she employs the ‘order and method’ espoused by her employer.

While this little vignette is a bit superfluous, there are a couple of nice bits. George Little is back as Dicker – hooray! – in his last (physical) appearance in the series. It’s Dicker’s longest scene, as well, and we get a slight sense of him as a character as well.

When poor Miss Lemon is forced to sleep in her office, as she can’t leave Mr Poirot’s flat unlocked, she has a very weird dream. In an evocative mist, the faces of Poirot and Hastings float towards her, speaking snatches of characteristic dialogue – only Hastings’s voice comes out of Poirot’s mouth, and vice versa. It’s bit trippy, but I kind of like it.

To finish, some miscellaneous thoughts…

I’m afraid I don’t like the TV version of Miss Penn (played by Elspet Gray). In the short story, Mary’s aunt is a sweet little old lady with ‘pink-and-white skin’ and ‘a cape of priceless old lace’. This exterior ensures that Hastings (and, perhaps, the reader) never suspects that Miss Penn might be the ‘masculine woman’ who sold the ‘stolen’ miniatures to J. Baker Wood.

In the TV episode, Miss Penn uses a wheelchair, and this serves as the reason Hastings doesn’t suspect her. However, she does seem like she could disguise herself as a ‘masculine woman’. Even in the chair, her height is apparent, and she’s been divested of the frilly, lacy, pink-and-white innocence of her literary counterpart. (As soon as my husband Rob saw her – bearing in mind he’d never seen a single episode until I started this project – he pointed at the screen and shouted ‘It was her!’) Turns out a fake wheelchair is a much weaker disguise than simply ‘being a little old lady’.

The episode makes up for its far-too-obvious Miss Penn with some stunning settings. Maybe it’s because I’m Cumbrian, but I’m glad the programme-makers switched the location to the Lakes (Poirot goes to Devon far too much). The Midland Hotel in Whitcombe is actually the Midland Hotel in Morecambe, and J. Baker Wood’s hotel is being played by the gorgeous mock-Gothic Wray Castle in Ambleside.

Also nice is a little exchange between Hastings and Miss Lemon at the beginning of the episode. After Poirot and Hastings return from the park, the detective continues to grumble. Miss Lemon comments sotto voce that her employer is acting very middle-aged, to which Hastings replies: ‘Well, he’s always been middle-aged. Have you seen that picture of him at his christening?’

Finally, there’s another detail that shows Clive Exton knew his source material well. In Christie’s short story, Poirot explains to Mary Durrant that he will discover the whereabouts of her miniatures:

‘Ah! But it is an idea that! You think I take the rabbits out of the hat? No, mademoiselle. Me, I am the opposite of a conjurer. The conjurer, he makes things disappear. Me, I make things that have disappeared, reappear.’

(That’s right… it’s another reference to conjuring!)

As the TV Poirot refuses the investigate, this little speech is cut from the adaptation. Instead, Poirot simply asks Mary if she knows who he is. She replies:

‘You’re not that conjuror, are you?’

After Poirot’s little hobby in the previous episode, she can be forgiven for making this mistake.

Time to move on though, as these reviews seem to be getting longer and longer. God knows how much I’ll be writing by the time I get to Curtain.

The next episode is ‘The Adventure of the Cheap Flat’

Poirot Project: The Disappearance of Mr Davenheim (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 Cornish Mystery’.

Beware: Here be Spoilers

The sixth episode of the second series of Agatha Christie’s Poirot was first broadcast on 4th February 1990, and it was based on the short story of the same name. ‘The Disappearance of Mr Davenheim’ was first published in The Sketch in March 1923.

As is usually the case with the early Poirot stories, ‘The Disappearance of Mr Davenheim’ is narrated by Hastings, and takes place during the time that Hastings and Poirot are living together in London. There is a little bit of confusion surrounding these living arrangements, but I think this comes down to a discrepancy in Hastings’s descriptions. In the first of the Poirot short stories – ‘The Affair at the Victory Ball’ – Hastings makes it clear that he is living with Poirot, but calls their accommodation ‘Poirot’s rooms’. In ‘The Adventure of the Clapham Cook’, he describes their arrangement as ‘sharing rooms’. However, in ‘The Adventure of the Western Star’, Hastings again calls their home ‘Poirot’s rooms’. The Mrs Hudson-esque landlady is sometimes called ‘the landlady’ (e.g. in ‘The Million Dollar Bond Robbery’) and sometimes ‘our landlady’ (e.g. in ‘The Cornish Mystery’ and ‘The Mystery of Hunter’s Lodge’).

This has led to some people questioning Hastings’s status – is he Poirot’s employee? (See the comments on this blog post, for instance). Hastings rarely mentions any alternative employment and, even if he did have a job, he spends so much time running round the country with Poirot, he’d surely have lost it by now. And yet, Hastings clearly isn’t independently wealthy, as he has worked in the past (for Lloyds) and occasionally worries about his overdraft (see ‘The Lost Mine’). So has Poirot put him on a retainer? Does this include board and lodgings? And does Hastings sometimes make himself a bit too comfortable and start thinking he’s a guest, rather than staff?

I don’t think so. Although we don’t get a clear sense of Hastings’s background in Christie’s texts, we can tell a lot from his friends, especially John Cavendish in The Mysterious Affair at Styles. Assuming Hastings and Cavendish are from similar backgrounds – and adding the revelation that he attended Eton (Dumb Witness) and the fact that, though he was working in insurance before the war, Hastings was a captain by 1916 – we can make an informed guess as to Hastings’s family background. He’s comfortably upper middle class, well-bred and well-educated, but with no land or title to inherit.

So why does Hastings have to worry about his bank balance? Again, we could compare him to John Cavendish – and also to Charles Arundell in Dumb Witness (who is made into an old friend of Hastings in the TV adaptation of the novel) – concluding that, even if Hastings ever did have an income/inheritance from his family, he may well have spent it at some point in the past (perhaps on one of his ‘doubtful’ speculations), leaving him as one of Christie’s many upper middle class men with absolutely no head for personal finance. While this might suggest Hastings needs an income from Poirot to avoid being completely destitute, I think he’s probably scraping by on an army pension (after all, he was wounded at the Front in 1916, and this wound was bad enough to ensure he didn’t see any more active service) and his other occasional bits of employment. Hastings takes lodgings with Poirot because he can’t afford to take his own flat – and, no doubt, because both men are glad of the company – but he is definitely the ‘lodger’ in ‘Poirot’s rooms’, rather than an employee. My own personal theory is that, while Poirot and Hastings generally refer to the premises as ‘shared rooms’, Hastings isn’t always able to pay his friend any rent. This would explain why he often sees it as ‘Poirot’s’ (and also why Poirot is occasionally a bit exasperated about his friend’s spending habits, and, in Peril at End House, he assumes Hastings’s wife is the one who manages the ranch in Argentina). It’s a mark of the men’s friendship that they are comfortable enough with this arrangement to call the London accommodation ‘our rooms’, and the woman who shows guests in ‘our landlady’. No matter who is actually paying the rent in these early stories, Poirot and Hastings live together in amiable domesticity.

And that’s where we find them at the beginning of ‘The Disappearance of Mr Davenheim’:

‘Poirot and I were expecting our old friend Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard to tea. We were sitting round the tea-table awaiting his arrival. Poirot had just finished carefully straightening the cup and saucers which our landlady was in the habit of throwing, rather than placing, on the table.’ [That’s because she’s your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.]

I love this opening – it reminds me of ‘The Market Basing Mystery’, as we get to see the three men hanging out as friends and not just because there’s a mystery afoot.

Of course, there is a mystery afoot. Japp’s just got back from talking to Inspector Miller (possibly the same Miller who appears in ‘The Lost Mine’ as well as some other stories) about a perplexing case: a wealthy financier named Davenheim has apparently disappeared into thin air. Japp is convinced that Miller will discover clues to Davenheim’s disappearance (‘he won’t overlook a footprint, or a cigar-ash, or a crumb’), but Poirot disdains this method of investigation. He insists that all that is needed to solve a case like this is ‘the little grey cells’. Japp finds this amusing, and bets Poirot a fiver that he can’t solve the case without leaving his room – Poirot, of course, accepts the challenge.

Poirot investigates this case simply by examining the details as narrated by Japp; part of their agreement is that the policeman will bring ‘any fresh developments’ that arise. At one point, Poirot specifically asks for information to be gathered (he wants to know if Mr Davenheim shared a bedroom with his wife), but otherwise he relies solely on the story that Japp tells. Japp’s updates on the case are a rather neat way of presenting the puzzle to the reader, as we’re encouraged to search for the significance Poirot has found in the ‘little details’ in order to come up with a plausible solution. Christie will use the technique of having Poirot listen to stories told by multiple unreliable narrators and work out the truth behind them in Five Little Pigs and Elephants Can Remember, but, for now, we just have the (reliable) Japp to fill us in.

Naturally, Poirot is able to solve the case of the disappearing financier (with a solution that isn’t completely unlike Arthur Conan Doyle’s ‘The Man with the Twisted Lip’, a story that also has something in common with Christie’s ‘The Lost Mine’). Still treating the case as something of a game between himself and Japp, Poirot doesn’t immediately reveal the solution, but rather sends Japp a cryptic telegram: ‘Advise you to withdraw any money deposited with firm in question.’ When the news breaks the next day of the ‘sensational failure’ of Davenheim’s bank, ‘the door flew open and Japp rushed in’, determined to find out ‘how the blazes’ Poirot could have known.

The mystery is a nice cerebral little puzzle, designed to make the reader flex their little grey cells or to make them feel like Japp at the end, but what really makes the story is the interaction between the three friends – and the little details of Poirot’s character that are thrown into sharp relief by the lack of other characters (Poirot only talks to Japp and Hastings in the story). My personal highlights are: Japp being bemused by Poirot’s question about the shared bedroom (‘Poor old fellow! War’s been too much for him!’); Poirot lamenting the lack of uniformity in eggs (‘What symmetry can there be on the breakfast table?’), before ‘gently collect[ing] every fragment of shell from his plate, plac[ing] them in the egg-cup, and revers[ing] the empty egg-shell on top of them’; and Japp’s sending a fiver to Poirot via registered mail. Poirot’s response to his victory is really quite lovely:

‘Ah, sacré! But what shall I do with it? I have much remorse! Ce pauvre Japp! Ah, an idea! We will have a little dinner, we three! That consoles me. It was really too easy. I am ashamed. I, who would not rob a child – mille tonnerres! Mon ami, what have you, that you laugh so heartily?’

The TV adaptation of ‘The Disappearance of Mr Davenheim’ was directed by Andrew Grieve and written by David Renwick. It begins in a similar fashion to the Series 1 episodes ‘The Adventure of the Clapham Cook’ and ‘Four and Twenty Blackbirds’, in that we get a dramatic little vignette that introduces us to the central premise of the story. Here, we see Matthew Davenheim (Kenneth Colley) preparing for a meeting with Gerald Lowen (Tony Mathews). Davenheim leaves the house to meet Lowen from the station, walks into the fog… and never comes back.

We then cut to our three friends hanging out together. However, they’re not simply having tea as in the short story, they’ve gone out to a magic show. I’ve mentioned the relationship between stage magic and Golden Age detective fiction in a previous post, but here the connection is made absolutely explicit – Poirot watches, then explains, the conjuring tricks performed on stage, while his friends seem happy to be swept along by the illusion. When they return to Poirot’s flat for a nightcap, Japp tells Poirot he knows of a disappearing trick that the detective won’t be able to explain, and, as in the short story, the two men make a bet. (As a side note: Japp is apparently less of a gambler than Hastings, as he only bets a fiver. In the adaptation of ‘The Third Floor Flat’, Hastings is willing to bet twice that much that Poirot will work out the ending of a play. No wonder he can’t afford his own rooms!)

Although the central conceit of Poirot not being able to leave the flat is retained from the short story, there are some minor alterations. In the TV episode, Hastings is allowed to act as Poirot’s agent, leading to a couple of comical exchanges as Hastings and Japp cross over in their investigations. There’s no mention of Inspector Miller in the episode, and it’s Japp who leads the police enquiry and oversees the dragging of the lake. A boatman named Merritt (played by Richard Beale) becomes a key witness, and Billy Kellett (played by… well…) has a few more scenes and, on his first introduction, a drunken associate.

The character of Gerald Lowen is fleshed out in the TV episode. As well as being Davenheim’s business rival (embroiled in a feud that’s much more intense than in the short story), Lowen now has a side-line in racing cars – much to Hastings’s excitement. In a very enjoyable (though arguably superfluous) sequence, Hastings follows Lowen to Brooklands motor racing circuit. A slightly silly case of mistaken identity almost leads to Hastings being able to take Lowen’s Bugatti out for a spin, but sadly this dream doesn’t become a reality. There are plenty of shots of the Bugatti in action, however, as Pathé are on hand to shoot a newsreel about Lowen (as in ‘The Dream’, we are treated to a short Pathé Gazette to get us in the 1935 mood).

Now… all this larking about with boatmen and racing cars is fine for Japp and Hastings, but we mustn’t forget that poor old Poirot is stuck in his flat, with nothing to do but wait for his friends to return with information. And this is where the episode wanders off into its own territory.

Inspired by the magic show he attended, Poirot has got hold of a copy of The Boy’s Book of Conjuring and decides to spend the time teaching himself magic tricks. He makes handkerchiefs disappear, practices his prestidigitation, and (in his slickest move) tears up a newspaper and magically reassembles it in front of Miss Lemon’s delighted eyes. I love the way David Suchet performs this trick, as his hands move just like a magician’s, but I love his disappearing card trick more – deep in conversation with Miss Lemon, Poirot studies his book and plays around with a card, making it vanish and reappear, while apparently having no idea how he is actually doing it.

It’s certainly interesting that it’s in this episode that the detective becomes a (literal) conjuror. The episode was written by David Renwick, who would later go on to create Jonathan Creek – a show in which the detective is a magician.

Sadly, Poirot’s magic tricks aren’t quite enough to fill the long days, and Renwick adds an extra (notorious) flourish. For some reason – and I’ll admit, I’ve seen the episode numerous times and I’m still not totally sure of the reason – a parrot is delivered unexpectedly to Poirot’s flat. This does lead to a nice bit of Poirot-Hastings banter:

‘Do not fraternize with that creature. I am still training him.’
‘It’s only a parrot.’
‘I was talking to the parrot.’

But it also involves one of the more ridiculous bits of dialogue in the series, in which the parrot-delivery-man mispronounces Poirot, is corrected, and politely announces, ‘I’ve got a pwa-ro for Mr Poyrott.’

Parrots aside, this is a nice little episode based on a really enjoyable short story. The playful bet between Poirot and Japp is handled well, and I’m glad that Hastings got to go to Brooklands. The episode is also notable for involving one of the more successful disguises of the series.

A number of episodes will feature a character in disguise, but these are often fairly obvious (thick glasses are usual, as are heavily made up faces). ‘The Disappearance of Mr Davenheim’ avoids these typical tricks, and instead relies on careful camera work. Rewatching the episode once you know the solution, it’s striking how little of ‘Mr Davenheim’ we actually see – his face is never really in shot for very long. We see a lot more of ‘Billy Kellett’, but he doesn’t really seem to be in disguise, so it’s harder to connect him with the missing man.

One final gem and one final question then…

The gem: Davenheim’s house is being played by Joldwynds, a modernist house in Surrey, designed by Oliver Hill. This house will reappear in Series 3, in ‘The Theft of the Royal Ruby’.

The question: Why wasn’t Davenheim’s wife suspicious when he went to Buenos Aires (in the short story)/Johannesburg (in the TV adaptation) and didn’t contact her for three months? (Obviously, by the end, we know he was really in prison as ‘Billy Kellett’, but at the time she thought he was just on an extended overseas business trip.) Either they had a rotten marriage and she was glad of the break, or Davenheim had an associate ‘on the outside’ who was able to send fake letters or telegrams to his wife. Poirot didn’t twig about the accomplice, did he? Too busy talking to his parrot…

Next up: ‘Double Sin’

Poirot Project: The Cornish Mystery (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 Lost Mine’.

Beware: Here be Spoilers

The fifth episode of the second series of Agatha Christie’s Poirot was first broadcast on 28th January 1990. It was written by Clive Exton and directed by Edward Bennett. The episode was based on the short story of the same name, which was first published in The Sketch in November 1923.

The short story is narrated by Hastings, and begins with a new client being shown into Poirot’s apartment. As happens in a few of these early stories, Hastings makes a passing reference to ‘our landlady’, indicating that, at this point in their story, he is living with Poirot. The landlady isn't given a name here, and (in the short stories) does little more than show guests in, but she’s clearly a descendant of Arthur Conan Doyle’s Mrs Hudson (I'm going to come back to her in later posts). Rereading these short stories in quick succession, I’m becoming more and more sensitive to the references to Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories, and I’m really enjoying the way Christie both pays homage to and lightly mocks her predecessor. I’ve lost count of the number of times someone is referred to as playing ‘Watson’ to Poirot, for instance. I suggested that two other stories in this series – ‘The Veiled Lady’ and ‘The Lost Mine’ – made playful reference to specific Sherlock Holmes stories. I’ll return to this in a later review; for now, we simply have Poirot and Hastings living in comfortable bachelorhood, as their landlady ushers in a series of visitors, just as Holmes and Watson did before them.

In this case, the visitor is a Mrs Pengelley. I really like Hastings’s introduction of this character, so I think it deserves to be quoted in full:

‘Many unlikely people came to consult Poirot, but to my mind, the woman who stood nervously just inside the door, fingering her feather neck-piece, was the most unlikely of all. She was so extraordinarily commonplace – a thin, faded woman of about fifty, dressed in a braided coat and skirt, some gold jewellery at her neck, and with her grey hair surmounted by a singularly unbecoming hat. In a country town you pass a hundred Mrs Pengelleys in the street every day.’

It’s part of the charm of Hercule that, while Hastings finds this visitor ‘unlikely’, the little Belgian detective finds her fascinating.

Mrs Pengelley has become convinced that her husband is trying to poison her. She explains that he has recently taken on a ‘yellow-haired hussy’ to work as his receptionist (Mr Pengelley is a dentist), and that there’s a suspicious bottle of weed-killer that the gardener can’t explain. Poor Mrs Pengelley has been suffering from stomach pain and sickness, but her doctor has written it off as gastritis. Poirot is hooked – the case interests him ‘enormously’.

Poirot and Hastings travel to Polgarwith to investigate… but they’re too late! By the time they reach Cornwall, their client is already dead. Poirot is furious (with himself, with the murderer, with all those who ignored Mrs Pengelley’s cries for help) and is determined to reveal the truth. In this, the story has some similarities with Dumb Witness: Poirot refuses to relinquish responsibility for a client he has failed to protect, and steps into the roles of avenger as well as detective. In fact, when he eventually confronts the murderer he makes this role clear: ‘I represent – not the law, but Mrs Pengelley.’

Poirot’s investigation in ‘The Cornish Mystery’ is interesting. There is no physical examination of the crime scene; the only physical ‘clue’ (the bottle of weed-killer) is ignored. Instead, Poirot works out the nature of the crime through an observation of human behaviour. He knows that Mr Pengelley is innocent, for instance, because only an innocent man would behave in such a guilty manner. In the final denouement, Poirot has to resort to tricking the murderer into a signing a confession as, he admits, they have ‘no shadow of proof against him’. This method of resolving the mystery is a far cry from Holmes-like ratiocination foreshadows the methods of another of Christie’s famous creations: ‘The Cornish Mystery’ actually feels like it could have been a case for Miss Marple.

The TV adaptation begins, like the short story, in Poirot’s flat. We join our detective in a somewhat glum mood (a state that recurs throughout this series), bemoaning a lack of interesting cases and complaining about boredom. Behind him, Hastings performs a series of yoga exercises designed to keep his pancreas healthy. This leads to a characteristically bonkers exchange, in which Poirot criticizes his friend’s love of curry and Hastings extols the health-giving benefits of rice. They are interrupted in their chit-chat by Miss Lemon, who tells them that Mrs Pengelley (played by Amanda Walker) would like to consult with Poirot, but she is too embarrassed to come into the flat.

The adaptation follows the short story fairly faithfully, with only a couple of additional plot elements added. Mrs Pengelley’s blustering doctor (played by Derek Benfield) still insists that the woman suffered from gastritis. Mr Pengelley (Jerome Willis) is still infatuated with his ‘yellow-haired hussy’ (Laura Girling) – though there is a brief comical exchange added in which Hastings has to explain the word ‘hussy’ to Poirot – and the maid (played by Tilly Vosburgh) still insists under oath that she saw her master hanging around the weed-killer. The question of Mrs Pengelley’s will is the most significant addition to the plot, with a will reading scene revealing possible motives for the murder. This doesn’t really alter the story, though, but rather underlines things that were implied in Christie’s text.

The final confrontation with the murderer is, in spirit, the same as in the short story; however, there are a couple of little alterations. Firstly, in the short story, Poirot talks to Radnor for a time and then produces a pre-written confession ‘with the suddenness of a conjuror’ (another reference to conjuring… and there will be more). In the adaptation, we have a scene in which Poirot casually chats to Radnor (played by John Bowler), all the while writing away at a desk. Radnor becomes increasingly ill-at-ease with this eccentric behaviour, until Poirot blows on the ink and presents the confession to be signed. I can’t decide whether this makes the confrontation more ominous or more humorous – I think it’s probably both.

The other change in the confrontation scene comes when Radnor is warned about the two men who are watching the room. In Christie’s story, it is Poirot who draws attention to the men, warning Radnor that they will apprehend him if given the right signal. When Radnor signs the confession, Poirot asks Hastings to move the blind, to signal that Radnor is to be allowed to pass. Afterwards, Poirot explains to an oblivious Hastings that ‘those two loafers that I noticed outside came in very useful’. The episode flips this last detail – while it’s still Poirot who presents the ‘twenty-four hour head start’ deal to Radnor, it’s Hastings who points out the two men surveilling the room. After Radnor leaves, Poirot asks about the men and Hastings replies, ‘I haven’t the foggiest idea. I just saw them standing there when we came in.’ I like this change, as it reminds me of the séance in Peril at End House. He might not always be the sharpest, but Hastings can be relied on to improvise if necessary.

Miss Lemon and Japp are, of course, added to the story. In addition to replacing the unnamed ‘Mrs Hudson’ character from the short story, Miss Lemon gets a nice comical scene in which she reads the I Ching for Hastings (Poirot’s hexagram is, apparently, ‘modesty’). This continues the theme of Hastings’s fascination with the East that runs throughout the episode, but also shows off Miss Lemon’s interest in spiritual matters. This is a sharp departure from the character’s presentation in Christie’s fiction – where she is described as a ‘machine’, rather than a person – but it’s something that will be developed further in future episodes. (Can I just also say, there’s another big departure from Christie’s fiction here… look at this picture… Pauline Moran is gorgeous as Miss Lemon, which is not how Christie imagined the character at all.)

Like in other adaptations, Japp steps in to the role filled by an anonymous police inspector in the source text. This is done quite neatly – there’s no attempt to shoehorn him in to the early stages of Poirot’s investigation, but he makes an appearance when (months after her death) Mrs Pengelley’s body is exhumed and an official murder investigation is launched. Japp is called in to oversee this investigation (because, apparently, he has the biggest patch of any Scotland Yard detective ever).

Japp is convinced that Mr Pengelley is guilty, and produces some of the evidence that sees the hapless dentist put on trial for murder. The policeman treats Poirot’s objections with a sort of light-hearted condescension, treating his friend like a harmless eccentric until the very last moment. In return, Poirot keeps Japp in the dark about his suspicions, even to the point of trying to make a quick getaway before Japp discovers that Pengelley’s trial has been dramatically halted. For fans of the ‘gang’, the final moments of the episode – when Japp is told about Radnor’s confession – is a real treat.

Before this, though, we get another little Japp scene – and it’s always nice to see the policeman enjoying a little trip to the seaside. While he availed himself of a stick of rock last time he visited Cornwall, this time Japp takes a fancy to a Cornish pasty. I love watching Japp wandering around the market, lost in the simple joy of things you don’t see in Peckham.

Unlike in some of the other episodes in this series, there’s very little direct reference to the 1935 setting. Hastings reads a story in the newspaper about ‘Herr Hitler’s speech’, but there are no more details about this to allow us to pin it down to a specific date. However, there is a weird little detail that reminds us we’re stuck in an odd time warp: Mrs Pengelley dies in July (the date is clear on the coffin plate during the exhumation scene), and her husband’s trial takes place in the run-up to the August Bank Holiday. Given that the events of ‘The Veiled Lady’ took place in July (the reason given as to why Lavington could be sure no one would use the logs for a fire), time is moving rather slowly in Poirot’s world. Of course, it’s possible that Mrs Pengelley calls on Poirot immediately after the events of ‘The Veiled Lady’ – but if that was the case, why is Poirot so bored at the beginning of the episode? He seems more like a man who hasn’t had a good case in ages. I’ve got a feeling that this is going to be a long year.

Finally… Christie’s short story has a couple of moments where Poirot’s foreignness is played up, but neither of these are included in the adaptation. The first comes when the detective contemplates another night in an English inn:

‘A return to the inn, and a night of horror upon one of your English provincial beds, mon ami. It is a thing to make pity, the cheap English bed!’

This isn’t something I’ve seen Poirot complain about before, but he can be a bit inconsistent with his criticisms of England (cf. the extremity of his aversion to a full English breakfast and to the countryside). I like this though – Poirot has something of a love-hate relationship with his adopted home. When he’s feeling grumpy (or when Hastings is being too English), every little thing irritates him. At other times, he is much happier to indulge in the various provincial pleasures his adventures offer.

And if Poirot doesn’t always love England, then England doesn’t always love him back. A number of Christie’s stories draw attention to the suspicion Poirot’s Belgian ways provoke in (usually provincial) English people. In ‘The Cornish Mystery’, it’s the detective’s choice of beverage that raises eyebrows. When Radnor is summoned to the inn, Hastings is charged with the drink order:

‘I ordered two whiskies and sodas and a cup of chocolate. The last order caused consternation, and I much doubted whether it would ever put in an appearance.’

Clearly feeling that the good innkeepers of Cornwall deserved vindication, the programme-makers drop this scene from the adaptation. But watch carefully… when Poirot and Hastings are first shown in their lodgings, Poirot is clearly enjoying a nice cup of hot chocolate. Obviously, in the TV version of Polgarwith, his request caused much less consternation.

All in all, a lovely little short story transformed into an enjoyable TV episode. I still believe it could’ve been a Miss Marple story – but that’s the beauty of Poirot. He’s one part Holmes, but the other part Marple. It’s why we love him.

Next up: ‘The Disappearance of Mr Davenheim’