Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/513678.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Poirot_-_Agatha_Christie
  Relationship:
      Arthur_Hastings/Hercule_Poirot
  Character:
      Arthur_Hastings, Hercule_Poirot
  Additional Tags:
      Established_Relationship, Killer!Hastings, Suicide
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-09-16 Words: 11038
****** Sleeping Dogs ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     "An action in anger will always come back in an incarnation more
     terrible than its beginning."
Notes
     This is my attempt at a serious killer!Hastings fic. Some parts of
     this I'm really not happy with, and I'd really appreciate some con
     crit on this. :3
Every murderer in the papers has a piece on their childhood, on how they began
to kill. The press try to find details about them that show the beginnings of
their descent into murder – maybe the killer used to pull wings off flies, or
cut little girls' pigtails when they weren't looking. Anything they could glean
from their past would be used as a brick in the wall separating us from them.
If I were ever caught, I don't know what the papers would glean from my past –
when I was younger, I wanted to be a doctor. I wanted to help people. The
neighbours always said I was the nicest boy in the village, always helping with
chores and looking after animals. And look what happened to him. I became one
of them. A murderer.
Of course, I don't see it as murder. More like... divine punishment, served by
a mortal. I never killed an innocent man – the ones I killed had all sinned in
a way most terrible.
The first death at my hands was that of Robert Cotswald, a young rat-like boy
at school. He used to bully the girls something terrible, always pulling their
hair, or dragging them down the playing field by their skirts. The other boys
thought it was funny, thought he was just doing it for a laugh, but I could see
what effect he had on the girls, who would always cower away from him whenever
he came within twenty feet.
We grew older, and still Robert persisted on chasing the younger girls. The
boys still thought it was funny, but there was something sinister that grew
with Robert's obsession, a shadowy tumour that simply grew darker and darker as
he grew.
It came to a head one afternoon in autumn. I was to walk my youngest sister
Josephine from school, and I was waiting with a group of the boys by the gate,
one of which was Robert. She met me around five minutes after we had arrived at
the gates, and we could all see she was avoiding the gaze of one boy in
particular – Robert. It was understandable – Robert had already pulled her hair
once, and she had witnessed him do it to countless other girls. The only reason
Robert had not done it more often on Josephine was because I had told him not
to.
Robert, noticing her avoidance, did something quite uncharacteristic of him. He
knelt down and spoke to Josephine nicely, not touching her hair or anything.
Josephine was quiet at first, but she relaxed after a while, and came out from
behind my legs where she'd been hiding. The other boys hung around, obviously
bored of this new side to Robert.
After some time, Robert asked her whether she'd like to see something special.
It was just behind that wall over there, he said. Josephine, being the trusting
person she is, agreed to go, and even took his hand when he offered it. The
boys followed Robert and Josephine as they walked away, but when I went to
follow, Robert stopped me with a wave of his hand.
"Stay here Arthur, she'll be back in a minute..."
Even then, I knew something was wrong. I should've fought harder to go with
her. Perhaps it would not have happened if I were there.
But that was the past. There is no point regretting.
I waited patiently at the gate for them to return, but after an hour where by
it had started to get dark, I began to worry terribly. I went to the wall, but
no-one was there, besides Josephine.
I called to her, but it was as if she couldn't her me. I approached her slowly,
and gently lay a hand on her arm. She jerked away as if burned, gazing at me
with tear filled eyes, full of incomprehension.
She did not recognise me.
In that moment, I felt nothing but fury and hate towards Robert Cotswald and
his gang of boys. I didn't know what they had done to my sister, but they were
going to remember it for a long time once I was through with them.
I left my sister by the wall and went to find the boys. I couldn't find any of
them. They had all ran off. He was by the river bank, skipping stones and
whistling. Whistling. How could a man whistle after scaring a girl so violently
that she could not recognise her own brother? The anger burned white-hot in my
gut as I sneaked up behind the unsuspecting boy.
I knew Robert couldn't swim.
At that moment, I didn't care.
I pushed him in anyway.
His death was ruled as accidental. My home town went into mourning, creating a
memorial by the river in his name. They filled it with flowers, mostly fuchsias
since those were the most common around these parts. I never went to see it.
The memorial reminded me of the terrible event that happened to my sister.
Even to this day, fuchsias make me sick.
From then on... well, it was a habit I couldn't break. My sister was eventually
moved to a mental institution, where she died. I was not there when she died -
I was doing my duty in the war. But even after her death, I continued hunt the
men that had caused her harm. It had taken ten years, and yet I still had a few
names to cross off. I had a list of them, you see, with descriptions and names
and known locations. Slowly, the list of eleven had slowly dwindled down to
three.
There were few boys left now, and they were far harder to rat out. I had not
killed a man in several months. I was quite surprised – but then again I had
gotten myself a job as secretary to a politician, and therefore many nights
that I would've spent researching and finding the boys, I was either in my flat
working, or running an errand. I wasn't the most organized of secretaries, but
my employer kept me on as I was trustworthy and always willing to run errands
for him. I loved to travel, and had learnt how to drive a motorcycle especially
for it.
I was on an errand right now as a matter of fact. It had led me to a country
inn, somewhat off the beaten track. My employer had asked me to hand deliver a
package to someone – it was far faster to get me to deliver it on my motorcycle
than send it by evening post. Even in such weather as it was today – not only
was it dark, it was also starting to snow. Even in my leather riding gear, I
could still feel the bite of winter.
I didn't know who I was giving it to – the name on the front of the parcel
looked foreign, and I couldn't possibly pronounce it without making a fool of
myself. I just hoped that I'd recognise the man when I arrived.
The inn was near empty when I arrived. The man seemed not to have arrived yet.
Unless he had reserved a room, which was unlikely, but...
I checked with landlord, who told me that someone by the name on my package had
reserved a room, but was out for the night. He also taught me how to properly
pronounce the name, which was helpful. After buying a drink, I went back and
sat in one of the bar's many chairs and waited for the man to arrive, idly
warming myself by the fire.
He didn't take long. The clock on the wall had just struck nine when a man came
through the door, wrapped in a thick overcoat and several scarves, sweeping
snow from his shoulders. He was short man in stature, who's tailored overcoat
fitted his form nicely. Even swaddled in scarves, he looked well off and well
groomed. Everything up to his curved moustache was combed into symmetrical
perfection.
"Mr Poirot! There's a man to see you!" The landlord called out, leaning over
the bar and pointing in my direction. Mr Poirot nodded in his direction, before
turning towards me. Between the brim of his hat and the swathes of scarves,
there lay a pair of brilliant green eyes that glittered with a strange warmth.
I felt a few butterflies flutter in my stomach at the sight of them, and my
heartbeat seemed to quicken.
"A parcel for you, Mr Poirot." I said, holding it aloft, my mouth feeling a
little dry. "From my employer."
Poirot nodded and approached me, unravelling his many scarves as he did so.
Each scarf he unwound showed another tantalising detail of his body – first
dimples, then a warm smile, then a pale neck... I felt my body grow warm as
layer after layer were discarded.
I was so engrossed in this showing that I almost missed the man holding out his
hand to receive the package. I blushed and handed it to him, our fingers
sliding together as he took it from me. My fingers tingled as I returned them
to my lap.
"Merci." Poirot murmured, carefully opening one end and peered into it.
Whatever it was made his face light up in happiness – an expression that I
found I rather liked on him.
"Monsieur, would you mind taking a letter back to your employer?" he asked,
closing the envelope and slipping it inside his overcoat.
"No, I wouldn't mind at all." I replied, smiling up at him. He smiled and
nodded in that funny little way of his.
"I have all the writing equipment upstairs. You may join me, if you wish." He
smiled, his lips hinting at something other than writing. Or maybe that was my
imagination running wild.
I rose, and followed him up to his room. I felt a thrill for being invited me
up to his personal quarters. I admired him from behind as he climbed the
stairs, looking him up and down appreciatively until we reached the door of his
room. He pulled it open, and ushered me in.
His room was as neat as a pin. Everything was folded neatly and was perfectly
parallel to the objects next to it. There wasn't a trickle of dust on the
floor, nor any dirt to speak of. The bed in the middle of the room was made
without even a tiny crease, and the shoes that sat near the base of the bed
were polished within an inch of their lives. Even the pens on the desk were
straight and shiny. I feared even to sit down lest I disturb the perfect order
of the room.
"Do sit down, monsieur." he said as he crossed the room to the small desk in
the corner. I sat in the armchair next to him, still marvelling at the
immaculate room. He chose a gold pen from the ones neatly lined on his desk,
took a sheet of paper from one of the drawers, and started to write. I watched
him as he wrote, his broad hands making elegant motions across the paper. I
marvelled at the fact that such strong hands could create such beautiful marks
on the paper - his handwriting was small and neat, each letter was perfectly in
proportion to the next.
I hadn't realised I had been staring until I noticed he was looking at me
curiously. With a start, I met his eyes, then looked away, feeling my cheeks
turning crimson. I felt his eyes on the side of my face, and I pretended to be
exceptionally interested in the pattern of the curtains. I heard a slight
exhale of breath, and turned to see what it was - Poirot was no longer looking
at me, but was looking back at his lip, a smile playing at his lips.
"What?" I asked softly, curious as to what had amused him so. He looked back up
at me, his eyes glinting with good humour.
"Ce n'est rien." he replied. I didn't think it was nothing, but before I could
voice my discontentment, Poirot carried on speaking. "If I remember rightly,
monsieur, I do not believe you told me your name."
"Oh! Hastings. Captain Arthur Hastings."
"Captain? You were in the army?"
"Yes. Fought the war from start to finish."
"You must be a brave man, Captain." I blushed at his words, and looked at my
feet, pleased but suddenly .very shy. Poirot let out a low chuckle at my
expense.
"Would you kindly retrieve les enveloppesfrom the window sill? They are in the
silver box." he asked, relieving some of my discomfort. I did as he asked,
sliding the box from the sill into his waiting palm. My hands slid across his
broad fingers as I passed to him, and quite unconsciously I took his hand and
gently folded his fingers around the envelope box. I heard his breath catch,
and I looked up at him, suddenly quite aware that this might not be what the
gentleman in front of me wanted, but Poirot was smiling warmly at me, and I had
the feeling that I had done something right for once.
Poirot placed the box on the desk, freeing his hands from me for a moment, but
instead of sorting out his letter, he turned back to me. He took my hands in
his own, and I marvelled at the warmth that they seemed to radiate. We entwined
our fingers, his fingertips sliding over my palms, sending shivers up and down
my spine. I smiled shyly at Poirot, and he smiled back, the green, catlike eyes
softened with affection.
I do not know who made the fist move, but I soon found my forehead resting
against his, our breaths mingling in the small space between our mouths. I
turned my head a little and brushed my lips against his. I felt his lips curve
beneath mine, and as I pulled away a little, he pressed forward and kissed me
properly.
I couldn't help but relax and smile as we kissed. Poirot was a wonderful
kisser, kissing me firmly, but with a hint of tenderness. The stiffness of his
moustache created a pleasant sensation on my upper lip as Poirot took my lower
lip and lightly sucked on it, causing every nerve in my body to tingle in
pleasure. I pulled Poirot closer to me, delighting in his quiet hum as he
happily got out of his seat and half sat on my lap. Poirot tangled his hand in
my tie, using it to pull me closer and kiss me harder.
As our kisses grew more and more heated, a sudden knock came at the door.
Poirot seemed intent on ignoring it, instead moving on to kiss and suck on my
ears. When the knock came again, this time more persistent, I sighed, and
gently pushed him from my lap.
"You'd better get that." I said, disappointed that whomever was at the door had
to pick this particular moment to visit.
"We shall continue soon, mon capitaine." Poirot replied, seeing my dejectedness
and kissing me gently. He then slid from my knee and dusted himself down,
before answering the door. He spoke with the visitor for only a few seconds,
but when he shut the door and came towards me, he seemed put out by something.
"Who was it? What's wrong?" I immediately asked, worried that something bad had
happened.
"It was the landlord." Poirot replied, taking one of my hands in his. "Your
employer has called. Due to la neige, he has sent a car to collect you. He does
not feel that it will be safe to drive back on your motorcycle."
"How long until the car arrives?"
"Two hours."
I sighed, but I decided that there was no point complaining about something I
couldnt change. Instead, I tugged on the hand Poirot held in his own, pulling
him closer to me. My arms went around his waist and Poirot, getting the idea,
sat back on my lap, properly this time. I leant forward and kissed him slowly,
feeling the little man slowly relax in my arms. I broke the kiss, but did not
move away.
"We'd better make the best of these two hours." I murmured against his lips, my
hands slipping lower onto his backside, letting him know exactly what I wanted.
Poirot laughed softly, then pulled me forward by my tie to kiss me. I smiled as
he took control, him pushing me into the back of the seat as he devoured my
mouth. We only pulled away for air, but even those pauses were brief, as Poirot
would move on to kiss and bite another part of my body. His hands were roaming
my torso, undoing every button they could reach. I did the same to his shirt,
and soon we were both shirtless, pressing our naked torsos together as closely
as possible.
Poirot's hands moved down to my navel, his fingers tugging and rubbing in ways
that sent shivers of pleasure up my spine. My own hands slid down his bare
chest, fingers dancing across his nipples. Poirot moaned quietly in my ear as I
rolled the hard nubs between my fingers, and I smiled against his neck, pleased
that I could elicit such a response from him. His own hands hand now left my
navel, and were flirting with the buckle of my trousers. I thrust my hips
lightly, his hands brushing my hardness as I did so. The touch was what my body
had been aching for, and I arched my back in pleasure.
"Please..." I murmured, my body yearning for more of that touch. Poirot smiled
at me, and acceded to my plead. He undid the buckle with a deft flick of his
hand. He slowly pulled my trousers and pants down, and I revelled in the
attention he was giving the skin that was slowly being revealed under my
trousers. I kicked my remaining clothes from around my ankles, and lay back in
the chair, watching Poirot with half lidded eyes. His eyes were roaming my
naked body, desire and lust setting the green irises alight with a fire that
warmed my entire body.
Wanting to see more of his body, I lent forward and started to trail kisses
down his chest - starting at his neck, then going further down, stopping for a
moment to suck his nipples back to hard peaks. Poirot let me do this for a
while, but pushed me back into the chair once I had reached his navel. I pouted
up at him, but he merely smiled at me and kissed my cheek.
"Take yourself in hand, mon ange." he whispered in my ear, and I complied,
moaning at the delightfully husky tone his voice had taken. He sucked and
licked at my ear as I stroked myself, his breath creating delicious heat
against the sensitive my free hand, I tugged at his belt, what I wanted plainly
in my body language. I felt him grin against my cheek, before removing himself
from me.
Poirot put his hand to his belt, but instead of taking it off straight away, he
began to unbuckle it slowly, the catch clipping the sides of each of the belt
loops as he pulled it away. I watched, mesmerized as inch by inch, his skin was
carefully unveiled from the prison of his trousers. My hand moved a little
faster along my shaft as he stripped, each inch of flesh a pleasure to see.
When his trousers had been discarded, his hands moved to the waistband of his
pants. I watched him as he slid his thumbs down behind the waistband,
tightening the front of them and allowing me a delicious view of his own
member, from which I could see he desired me as much as I desired him.
His sensual act had driven me mad with lust and impatience. I could barely wait
for him to pull his briefs from his legs, and they were barely free from his
ankles before I was up on my feet and kissing him again, devouring his mouth
with my own. I pulled ourselves closer, and as our groins brushed against each
other, we both hissed in pleasure.
Taking me by the hand, Poirot pulled me to the bed. He lay me down upon it,
before lying next to me and taking my hardness in his broad hand. I moaned,
trying to be quiet but needing to say something. My own hand crept down to his
own member and I took him in my hand, feeling a spike of desire as Poirot threw
his head back, his mouth silently forming and 'o'. I stroked him in tandem to
his own strokes on my shaft, starting slow but gradually speeding up until we
were both panting, our hands moving at a frenzied pace. Poirot's eyes were so
filled with desire that they were almost black. I gazed into them, feeling
myself fall closer and closer to the edge.
Perhaps he could see how close I was in my eyes, as he smiled a little, and
twisted his palm so that his thumb now slid across the slit of my shaft. The
pleasure this brought sent me spiralling over the edge, my back arching and my
head falling back of its on volition as I came. I felt Poirot follow me soon
after, his member quivering in my hand as he cried out, muffling his yell by
turning into my shoulder. I coaxed more and more pleasure from him until he was
spent and exhausted. I smiled gently at his content expression, and he kissed
me in reply, pulling me to his side. I happily curled up next to him, resting
my head against his shoulder.
That was where we stayed for the reminder of the time we had left. Sometimes
Poirot would talk to me about something, and I would reply, but mostly we were
silent, memorizing each others bodies and sounds and feeling, as if it were our
last night in the world. But in a way, it was. It was our first and last night
in a world where we could be together. Soon enough I would go back to my job,
and he would go back to chasing criminals, and perhaps he would forget about
me, amongst the hustle and bustle of everyday life, but I would not forget
about him.
A call from downstairs alerted us to the fact that I would soon have to leave.
I sighed, entwining my fingers with his one last time. Poirot turned his hand
so he could return the gesture, squeezing my hand gently.
"It is time, Arthur. You should get dressed." he said after a little while, his
voice sad and a little lost. He loosened his arms around me and went to move
away, but I held him where he was with my arms.
"I don't want to go." I murmured, pulling him closer. I felt stupid saying it,
but he seemed to appreciate it, kissing me on the forehead.
"Nor I, mon cher." he replied quietly. "But perhaps..."
"Perhaps what?"
"Perhaps you... You may feel it too soon-"
"Too soon for what?"
"Perhaps... you would not be adverse to living with me?"
I goggled at him. Was he being serious? From the slight nervousness I could see
in his cat-like eyes seemed to tell me that yes, he was serious. He felt as I
did to him. He was asking me to live with him, to spend my life with him. He
loved me. I loved him. All those silly little scenarios I had imagined with
him, sitting together and reading the paper, walks in the park together, dinner
with just the two of us... I could have it all. All I had to do was accept.
Could it be this easy? Could I leave all that I've done behind me? He was a
detective. I couldn't carry on taking out my sister's tormentors if I stayed
with him. Could I forgive and forget all those who had wronged others?
If I wanted a chance with this fantastic man, I would have to.
I smiled my most winsome smile up at him.
"I could never be adverse to that."
Perhaps it is time to let sleeping dogs lie once and for all.
===============================================================================
Several years later, and we were still together. We had weathered many storms
together, from being found out by Inspector Japp (and, by extension, Miss
Lemon) to my constant use of the bathroom as a dark room. But we had worked
through them, and we had ended up closer than ever.
I couldn't imagine life without the funny little man who held my heart. Once
upon a time I was happy to be alone, to avenge my sister's death, to float
through life in such a fashion that I never left much of an impression anywhere
or on anyone. I was in a dark place then, but that one chance meeting in the
inn had changed me. It may sound cliché, but it was true. Where would I have
been without him? In gaol? On a murder spree? Dead? I would never return to my
old life again, now that I knew how it felt to be on the straight and narrow,
on the path that wasn't overhung with the parasitic growths of anger and
violence.
This afternoon was like any other - I was writing letters on the coffee table,
while Poirot looked through some case notes of something Japp had brought him
earlier. The flat was silent save for the scratching of pens, but after a while
I slowly came to the realization that someone was watching me. I looked up at
Poirot, and caught him looking away quickly, smiling fondly.
"What is it?" I asked, wondering what on earth I had done now to inadvertently
entertain him.
"Votre langue, Hastings." Poirot replied, smiling at me. "It is like the dog's
when you concentrate."
"My tongue? Dogs?" I struggled to understand his words. "Do you mean to say I
stick my tongue out when I'm concentrating?"
"Mais oui, mon cher. C'est très doux, but it has been distracting me."
"Sorry. How long have I been doing it for?"
"At this moment? Five minutes. But you have been doing it for several years
now."
"Years?" I gaped at him. "I been doing this for years without noticing?"
"You did not know?"
"No..." I paused, trying to remember a time where I had become aware of my
wandering tongue. "When did you first notice?"
"Back when we first met. You remember I was writing a letter to your previous
employer?"
"Yes."
"You were concentrating on me, and I noticed it then."
"So that's why you were smiling!"
"Oui." Poirot smiled indulgently at me, and I laughed, happy that one of my own
little life mysteries had been solved.
"I wish you would've told me though." I said once I had calmed down.
"Mon ami, I had thought you had known. My apologies for not telling you."
I smiled at him, before going back to my letter writing, now self-conscious of
my tongue. Often enough I'd become so engrossed in my writing that I didn't
realize my tongue was out, and would rectify that as soon as I noticed it. I
could feel Poirot's growing amusement at my predicament, and so I gave up
writing with annoyance, throwing the pen on the table with more force than was
necessary. Poirot rose an eyebrow at my actions, and I childishly pouted at
him. He grinned and, with a shake of his head, turned back to his work.
"What are you working on today?" I asked, getting up to look over his shoulder
as he worked.
"An old case, mon ami. You may have heard of it. See-" He pushed the paper
towards me so we could both read it. I scanned it briefly, but found nothing
very interesting. Not that I usually did find anything interesting in drab
police write-ups, but...
"All I can glean from this, Poirot, is that you're working on an old case." I
said, after finishing the page.
"Ah! But you see, you have missed what is of great importance." Poirot replied,
adjusting his pince-nez and pointing at a certain paragraph on the page. "You
see, this is a case from 1903, in the town of Arundel, near your home town of
Tortington, n'est pas?"
"Oh yes," I replied, feeling a quiet sense of unease. "I used to go to school
in Arundel. Lovely little place. What's the crime you're looking at? Theft?
Blackmail?"
"Non, mon ami. Murder."
I felt my skin grow cold as his words brought back what I had so desperately
tried to forget. It had been sixteen years since I last killed a man. These
past years with Poirot had changed me - what I had once considered divine
punishment now horrified me to the point that I buried my past so far back that
I could barely remember it. One of the few things I did remember was that my
first murder, that of Robert Cotswald, occurred in Arundel Grammar School For
Boys. I hoped that it wasn't the one Poirot was examining.
Whilst I was lost in my thoughts, Poirot had been carrying on regardless.
"Sorry Poirot," I interrupted. "I got lost in my thoughts. Could you say that
again?"
Poirot looked at me in annoyance, but he seemed to see some change in my face
due to my thoughts, as his expression softed and he took my hand in his. He
could probably see the fear in my face, in the chill of my skin. I hoped he had
drawn the wrong conclusion about what I feared.
"This murder, the murder of a schoolboy called Robert Cotswald, took place
inArundel Grammar School for Boys. At the time it had been considered an
accident, but Inspector Japp has discovered a link between this death, and
several others that took place in the ten years following. He believes that-
Hastings?"
"Yes?" I replied, a little too quickly.
"What is wrong, mon ange?" Poirot said softly, squeezing my hand. As Poirot had
been speaking, the fear I had felt before had started to increase tenfold,
clawing up the sides of my stomach like a parasitic growth. I was sure if there
was anyone who could connect the dots it would be Poirot. And then what?
"I was just remembering." I replied. I did not want him to know what I was
thinking, yet I could not lie to him. I wasn't a good liar at all - Poirot
often made fun of me on that point - and he would've seen straight through an
outright fabrication. However, Poirot seemed to buy my short answer, and he
simply kissed my palm in a comforting gesture. I resisted the urge to squirm.
"My apologies, mon cher. I did forget you may have witnessed the repercussions
of the murder. Did you know Monsieur Cotswald?"
"I did." I decided to omit the fact that we had been friends for a while. "He
was very popular. There was not a boy in the school who did not like him. Are
you sure it wasn't accidental? I can't see anyonekilling him."
"Unfortunately, I am exceptionally sure. There are certain facts that do not
fit, and certain facts that fit too well. Perhaps there was not a boy who did
not like him, but perhaps there was a girl who found him repulsive, or a boy
who was jealous of him."
"I shouldn't think so. My experience of Robert were quite pleasant."
"Did you know him well?" I hesitated at his question. If I said I did know him
well, Poirot would surely grill me on the boy, and would be suspicious if (more
like when) I failed to mention a detail of great importance, one that would
surely end in my arrest. If I said I did not, Poirot would be suspicious if he
found out I'd lied, but there was a huge scope to get away with it. As long as
Poirot dropped back to the original verdict of accidental, I would be
satisfied. I did not want to frame anyone, after all.
I took a deep breath, and steeled myself to lie realistically.
"No. I didn't know him well at all."
===============================================================================
(Not from Hastings' personal narrative.)
The clock had only just hit six o'clock when Poirot rapped on the door of
Number 56 Leeways Flat. The flat was not special in itself - in fact, it was
precisely the same as every other numbered Leeways Flat. What made it
interesting to Poirot was its sole occupant. For you see, the man who resided
there was one of the three remaining friends of the now-deceased Robert
Cotswald. After much trawling through old files and school reports, and several
phone calls, Poirot had tracked him down, found his telephone number and
address, and had arranged a meeting as soon as possible.
From what Poirot had gathered, there were eleven boys in Robert's friendship
group, including Robert. Eight of whom were dead, two were currently at war,
and the last was in the flat behind the door in front of him. He did worry that
this man may be the next victim of the murderer, but then again the chances of
that weren't high - the murderer seemed to have been inactive for the last
sixteen years.
The door in front of him swung open. A thin, bearded man was stood in the
doorway, his body so tall he had to stoop to look through the door.
"Monsieur John Davies?"
"That's me, yes." the man replied nervously, his fingers twirling the end of
his beard in agitation.
"My name is Hercule Poirot."
"Oh! You're the man who wanted to speak to me."
"Oui."
"Well, come in, come in! I'm sorry, I won't be able to offer tea - I haven't
had the chance to buy a new box..."
"Pas du tout." Poirot followed Davies through the hallway into a dimly lit
living area. It was just him who would be interviewing the man - Hastings had
not accompanied him on this trip. It was odd, since Hastings was usually raring
to go, wanting to help out in cases in any way he could. This time, however...
A shudder went through him. The look of fear Hastings had on his face when he
was recounting the case details was not one he wished to see again. Although
Poirot suspected Hastings knew more than he let on, the fearful expression he
had worn was no lie, and for this reason, Poirot had let Hastings stay at home.
He loved his "partner in crime", as Japp sometimes referred to him, and hated
to see him hurt in any way.
He did not wish for this interview to remind Hastings of his past.
"What did you want to know?" Davies had returned from the kitchen with two mugs
of coffee. Poirot accepted one with a thankful nod.
"I wished to know of the history between you and Robert Cotswald."
"There's not much to tell, really..." John said, idly stirring his coffee.
"Robert and I were schoolmates. We used to hang around with all the other boys
by the river. We all used to keep an eye on Robert when we were there - we all
knew he couldn't swim. Despite that, Robert was one of the best skippers in
town - definitely the best out of us twelve boys, at least-"
"Pardon me," Poirot interrupted, looking up curiously. "You say there were
twelve of you?"
"Yes. Twelve."
"From what information I have gathered, I have only found evidence of eleven of
you."
"Hmm, that is odd..." John mused on the problem for a little while, before
hitting on an answer. "Oh! You might have missed out Arthur - he left school a
year earlier than us other boys."
"Arthur..." Poirot ran through a list in his head, then admitted yes, there was
no Arthur there. Except for Hastings, but he had said he did not know Robert
well at all. There was something Poirot was starting to find something quite
disconcerting, although he could not put his finger on exactly what.
"What was his last name, this Arthur?"
"Oh, um... Hastings, I think." He took a completive sip from his mug. "Yes,
Hastings. Arthur Hastings."
Poirot started. Surely this could not be the Arthur Hastings he had come to
know and love? But he had said he had not known Robert. And yet... Had Hastings
lied to him? Poirot felt a stir of anger and betrayal stir in his gut, but he
quashed it - this was not the time for anger.
"Could you describe this man for me?"
"Hmm... Quite tall, blonde... He was quite athletic. Used to play cricket. From
what I can remember, he did have a rather odd habit..."
"And this was?" Poirot was clinging onto this as his last hope that this Arthur
Hastings was not the one he knew. The descriptions were sounding more and more
like him, but Poirot knew Hastings' habits inside out. He would know instantly
if this was the Arthur Hastings he knew. He hoped it wasn't.
Unfortunately for him, John's next words crushed his hope.
"Arthur had a habit of sticking his tongue out when he was concentrating."
===============================================================================
(Back to Hastings' personal narrative.)
I was napping on the settee when Poirot returned. Miss Lemon had left some time
ago, making me some tea before she left, the cup of which I had left on the
coffee table. The snap of the front door awoke me from a vaguely unsettled and
most unpleasant slumber, where I kept dreaming of losing Poirot in a myriad of
different ways. I had not gone with Poirot to interview John, as I feared John
would remember who I was, and then the game would be up.
"Poirot?" I called out. He did not reply, but I heard him hanging up his hat
and coat. This was strange - Poirot almost always answered him when he came
indoors. I felt a slight stir of fear in the pit of my stomach. This did not
bode well.
I listened to his slow methodical footsteps as he walked down the hallway. As
the living room door swung open, I opened my mouth to say something, but the
words died in my throat. Poirot face was blank, but the chill of fury was
simply radiating from him. He ignored me at first, walking over to his desk and
setting a few things down on it.
"Hastings." His voice was like ice. I mentally shivered from it's chill.
"Yes?"
"This morning, you told me that you did not know Monsieur Cotswald well, yes?"
"Yes..."
"Today, I went to speak to Monsieur John Davies. Do you know Monsieur Davies,
Hastings?"
"I knew him, yes."
"He told me something très intéressant."
"Did he?"
"Oui." Poirot turned and looked at me, a frown on his face and his eyes burning
like fire. I avoided his gaze.
"You see, Hastings, Monsieur Davies told me that you knew Monsieur Cotswald
very well. You lied to me."
I looked down at my feet. The secret was out. It hadn't even lasted a day.
Poirot was angry, and rightly so. I was ashamed that I had tried to mislead
him, and I was upset that he was hurt by my deception.
"I'm sorry." It was inadequate. I knew it was. But still I had to try.
"Why? Why are you apologizing? Why did you lie to me? To your friend?" Poirot's
voice was still ice cold, but other emotions were leaking into his fury -
betrayal and hurt. I hung my head, shamed that it was me who was hurting him
so.
"I was a coward and an idiot, Poirot. Back then, I did something terrible... It
would cost what we had!"
"But why Hastings?! What was so terrible that you had to hide it from me?!"
"I cannot say. Please, Poirot, do not make me!"
"I musthave the truth, Hastings! How can I bring the murderer to justice
otherwise-"
"Poirot, you don't understand!"
"What do I not understand?"
"You don't understand that I-" I stopped myself before I said too much. I
didn't want to hurt him any more with what I did. I couldn't lose him. Not now,
not ever.
"Just leave it, Poirot. Please. Just forget it."
"Je ne peux pas." Poirot's voice had grown quiet, but it's sharpness still
stung me. "I cannot let a murderer walk free-"
"You'd surely hate me if you knew what I did. I cannot stand to lose you-"
"C'est un peu tard pour ça."
His words were like a punch to the gut. I froze on the spot, my emotions
overwhelming me. Anguish, hurt, fear, panic... Everything came crashing upon my
head. I felt as if the ground beneath me had vanished. All that I had feared
had come to realisation. I had never felt closer to hysteria than I had now,
yet I held on to the final strand of sanity that was weathering my inner
turmoil.
I looked at Poirot, and his beautiful green eyes – those damnable green eyes! -
told me everything. There was anger and betrayal in their depths, fury mixed
with an undeniable sense of despair. Those eyes were begging me to tell he
truth, yet they harboured a fear of what I could say. There was no going back
after this, I realised. Even if I lied again, he would not let me back into his
life.
I had nothing to lose now. I had to tell him.
"It was me, Hercule. I pushed Billy into the river. I killed them all."
===============================================================================
I never thought there was anything worse than doing gaol time. How could
anything be as terrible as being trapped in the confines of four walls with the
eyes of society peering into every crevice of your life? I did not think so.
Gaol time could kill a man faster than a speeding bullet. I had seen men
degenerate into mere shadows after only a few weeks behind bars. The loss of
regard by your peers, the loneliness of cell life, the ache of missing the ones
you care about... It all drives you mad in the end.
Of course, this was before tonight. Before all this. I had found something
worse. I wished that I hadn't. I really wish I hadn't. For you see, my hell was
not in the confines of a prison cell, but on the banks of the river Thames.
Society was not staring at my life with a upturned nose and upper-ground morals
- in fact, society knew nothing at all. It knew nothing of pain I felt, the
feeling of being trapped when cut loose from the binds of someone else.
The man who I had loved, been loved by, and still loved, had kicked me to the
curb.
Before he had did so, Poirot and I spoke over brandy. Almost like old times,
when we would sit together, and I would talk of my journeys, and he of his
cases and clients. But this was different. There was no cozy warmth of home,
only the bitter remnants of what had once been the heart I cherished most. The
heart I still cherished, and the one I so carelessly broke.
Poirot had asked of what I did and, more importantly, why. I suppose he was
trying to reconcile the Hastings who had loved him with such passion, and the
Hastings who had cold-bloodedly killed eight men. I knew it was impossible to
reconcile the two. I had tried before. The man then and the man now were two
different people. Poirot had changed me for the better, and the only thing I
could do with the past was bury it.
"Why do you not kill me?" he had asked at one stage. He was not looking at me
any more - he hadn't looked at me since my confession. He was simply looking
out the window, down at the lamp-lit streets that were, for once, deserted. In
ways, this made it easier for me to speak. It did not make the pain in my chest
any less, however.
"You didn't harm my sister." I replied, a little confused as to what he was
getting at.
"That is true." Poirot acknowledged my reply with a twitch of his head. "But I
now have your confession, and co-incidental evidence from your classmates. I
have evidence enough to put you behind bars. Surely it would be worth your
while for you to murder me, so that you go free."
I gaped at his turned back. He expected me to kill him. He thought that I, the
man who had lain in his bed, kissed him in the morning, held him after a
tiresome day, held his hand in darkened theatres, kissed his cheek after
holidays, could kill him. What little worth I had of myself drained away as I
realised at this point in time, it was likely that Poirot feared me. I did not
feel a stab of dark pleasure at the thought, like most murderers did - I felt a
sickening wave of horror wash over me, crashing down in the pit of my stomach
and knotting in my gut.
"I could never hurt you, Hercule." I replied slowly, the knot in my gut
tightening as I saw Poirot flinch at my use of his first name. "When I killed
those men, I was a vengeful, wicked man. I did not differ between right and
wrong - I wanted justice when the law let me down-"
"That is what they said on the train."
"What train?"
"The train."
"Ah." The train was the Orient Express - a train Poirot took when he came to
visit me on one of my sojourns to the continent. I did not know what had
happened, but I knew it had affected Poirot in ways I could not understand.
Poirot had only told me the bare bones of the affair, and after that, we never
spoke of it again.
"What makes you different, Hastings?" He asked this so quietly I almost missed
it. "What makes you different from those thirteen people on the train?"
I couldn't reply to that, so I continued with my previous narrative. "I can't
kill you, Hercule. I can't kill anyone anymore. When I met you in that inn, the
first time we met, you changed me. I fell in love with you. In the brief space
of time between meeting you and moving in with you, my last days as a single
man, I realised what my life was. My life was dark and lonely, compared to the
few hours of bliss we shared."
"I thought I was happy, killing those men, avenging my sister. But that was all
my life had ever been. Avenging her gave me satisfaction, but it was an all-
consuming obsession. I had no time for cups of tea, or afternoons in the park -
I had to find these men. When you gave me the chance to live a life on the
straight and narrow, a life of love and caring and good, I realised I had made
a mistake.
"I love you, Hercule. I can't kill you, or anyone else now. I love you too much
to see you hurt. If I could change the past, I would. I would reverse the
killings, I'd change everything and anything if it meant I didn't hurt you."
"But you cannot change the past."
"No." I sighed. "No, I can't. I can only move on."
For the first time that evening, Poirot turned to me and looked directly into
my eyes, searching to see if I was sincere. I looked right back at him,
drinking in all the details of those emerald eyes, whose shine had been
dampened by what had been done. What I had done.
Poirot seemed to sense the sincerity in my tear-filled gaze. His face softened,
but he looked troubled. He turned back to the street.
A little while after then, he asked me to leave the flat. Just so he could
think, he told me. He'd find me when he had made a decision. He needn't have
told me. I wouldn't have questioned his request anyway. I felt it inevitable
that I would leave. Who wouldn't ask their partner to leave after discovering
them to be an eight-time murderer?
I felt blank as I wandered the streets of London, as if I did not exist
anymore. The bright street lights leered at me as I walked beneath them, as if
scolding me for my actions. I simply looked down at my feet and walked on. I
did not need society to criticise me - I was already criticizing myself.
Criticizing myself for not coming clean earlier, for lying, for harming the one
person I valued most in the world. I had lost him, the man I had fought so hard
to keep.
I turned a corner and found myself face to face with a bright, jovial pub. The
men who were lounging against the wall looked so care free, so at peace...
Hastings wondered how they did it. Surely they had problems in their lives - a
jealous partner, trouble at work, perhaps even a sick relative - and yet they
could somehow forget it all for one night. How could they forget and not he?
Why could he not forget what he did for one night, for one night of freedom?
I fell back into bleak contemplation as I walked past the pub. I kept my head
studiously down to avoid looking at its occupants in envy of their
obliviousness to their problems. Envy would not help here. I could not forget.
"Arthur? Arthur Hastings!" Someone was calling me from the pub. I didn't turn
around. I didn't recognize the voice, nor did I particularly want to stop at
the pub, lest my envy take over my mind. But the man who was calling me had
different ideas, and within five seconds of trying to ignore him, I found
myself forcibly turned around and facing a red-haired man with a rather
magnificent beard.
"Arthur!"
"John? John!" I stared at the man. How could I not remember John? John Davies
was part of a pair at school. He and his twin David were inseperable. Quiet and
unassuming, they hung around with the boys because they feared venturing out on
their own. I rather liked them, back in our day, although their collective lack
of backbone infuriated me. Whereas I once wanted John dead, I now felt a vague
indifference towards him now, no anger nor urge to kill, nor anything else,
really. He obviously still felt something, seeing as he had greeted me in such
high spirits.
I wondered if he would still greet me in such jovial spirits if he had known
what I'd done to his twin.
"It's wonderful to see you again, after all these years!" John was saying as he
shook my hand. "Come in, have a drink-"
"Sorry John, I haven't the time right now." I half-lied, retrieving my hand
from his death grip. "Need to be somewhere."
"Oh... Maybe some other time, then?"
"Maybe." I faked a smile. John seemed to notice that it didn't quite reach my
eyes, but he didn't say a word. It was only when I had turned to walk again
that he spoke again.
"Arthur?"
"Yes?" I said, not turning around to face him. John seemed to hesitate, before
ploughing on.
"I'm sorry about Josephine."
I froze, then turned to face him in utter disbelief. John was looking at his
feet, toeing a loose stone on the road. Did I really hear what I thought I
heard?
"What?"
"I'm sorry about what we did to Josephine. It was pointless. It was cruel. I
should've done something, somethingto stop Robert, but I didn't. It's one of
the worse decisions of my life. I went to her funeral, you know. Josephine's.
All the boys did. At least, those who hadn't died. I brought flowers for her.
Said they were from you and me both, seeing as you couldn't be there. I still
visit her from time to time now - keep her grave tidy and all..." He trailed
off, flushing a little.
"I... didn't know. Thank you."
John smiled at me, and nodded. "Well, you'd better get going. I'll see you
soon." With a wave of his hand, he vanished into the pub. I stared at his
retreating back.
What had I done?
===============================================================================
After a few hours on the street, Poirot had finally decided to come and find
me. I was half expecting him not to come out and get me - it had started to
snow, and I knew how much Poirot detested the cold. But, by some miracle, he
had come to put me out of my misery and tell me what he had decided. I was
walking down a path by the river when I spotted him going over the bridge
ahead. I called out to him, and he turned and nodded at me. I waited a little
while whilst he climbed down the steps of the bridge onto the path. When he
came to a halt in front of me, we both stepped into the shadows, as if some
silent communication had taken place between us. We both gazed at each other as
he came to a halt in front of each other, each waiting for the other to do
something. Poirot was the first to back down, tearing his gaze from me, and
looking out over the river. He remained silent. I let the silence drag on,
until finally I could no longer wait.
"What have you decided?" I finally asked quietly. Poirot was silent for a
while, staring out across the river.
"I will not turn you in to the police." he finally said. I felt no relief at
his words - it was not gaol I feared any more. Poirot seemed to know this, but
it seemed he did not want to discuss it yet.
"However, if another detective were to examine the evidence," he continued. "I
will be powerless to help you. I trust that you will not continue to seek
revenge-"
"I won't. Trust me."
"I did so once before. Look what did happen then." I didn't reply, thinking of
how I could prove that my word was genuine. Although I felt disappointed at
Poirot's lack of trust in me, I knew why it was so.
"I saw him again, you know. John." Poirot looked at me, curious as to why I was
telling him this. This was my way of showing him he could trust me. "Just now.
In that pub, just over there. We spoke of things. I found out that they had all
gone to her funeral to pay their respects. All the boys, bar those who were
dead. They knew they were wrong. They had apologized and made up for it. They
had moved on. When I was seeking revenge, they were falling in love, making a
family, actually living. I didn't want to kill them. I don't think I ever did,
to be honest. I just wanted something."
"It is natural. You loved your sister-"
"I'm not sure about that now. John cared more about Josephine than I ever did,
and he only met her once. Perhaps I loved her, but I don't think I really cared
for her. I can see that now. He brought flowers for the grave and said they
were from me too, because I was off fighting in France at the time. He keeps
her grave tidy and all. I don't even know where she's buried."
"I'm not even sure if I wanted justice, or if I was just angry. Either way, I
don't feel either way any more. I'm just... sad. But, you see, this sadness
doesn't drive me to kill men. I don't want anything to do with my past,
Hercule. I won't harm anyone else."
Poirot laid a comforting hand on my arm, and didn't say a word. I don't think
he knew how to answer me. I didn't know how to answer myself. I simply lay my
hand on his, and stood in the quiet evening air, drawing comfort from the man.
It may be the last time I did so.
A little time later, Poirot took his hand from mine and stepped away. I felt
its loss as if one of my own hands had gone with him, but I did not make a
sound. Instead I asked him the question that was on my mind.
"What will happen to... us?"
Poirot sighed, and rubbed his temples. He suddenly looked very old, far too
old, far older than his fifty years, and much frailer. I wanted to reach out to
him, but I hadn't a clue how receptive he'd be. I instead tried to convey
comfort with my eyes, which didn't really work as Poirot wasn't looking at me
again.
"I..." Poirot hesitated, seemingly battling an inner demon. "I cannot see you
again, Arthur."
And that was it. That was all he said. It was over. The one thing I had taken
comfort in, been proud of, been happy with, was gone. I had ruined the one
thing I cherished. But I understood why Poirot had chosen what he had. He had a
moral battle on his hand. He was the jury who were to decide the fate of a man
who had killed eight men, but had tried to atone for his sins. He had acquitted
me of my crimes, but at great moral cost. He loved me, but my presence in his
life would only remind him of the one time he was without morals, the one time
he let his heart rule his head. If I stayed, I would only be a torment.
I didn't realise I was crying until the tears had started to drip from my chin.
I wiped them away, but there was no point, they just fell again and again. I
did not sob, or sniffle, I just let my tears fall silently down my face, wiping
them away from time to time. I could've pretended that Poirot was too busy not
looking at me to notice my plight, but then a hand came to my elbow, a
handkerchief in its palm as an offering. I accepted it graciously, wiping away
my tears, surreptitiously breathing in the scent that it held that was so
distinctively Poirot's.
As my tears dried, I wondered what I would do with myself now. I considered
myself married to Poirot. He was my life. I knew it was dangerous to be so
dependant on someone, but I could not help myself. Poirot had brought me out of
the darkest patch of my life, and had given me the happiest years of my life. I
would not return to murder, that was for sure. But I had no life outside of
Poirot. I hadn't a job, a flat, many friends... I couldn't imagine my life
without the man. I lived for Poirot.
Why should I live without him if that meant I had nothing to live for?
Poirot was gazing at me worriedly from my side. I gave him a small smile and
handed him his handkerchief back. He folded it, and slipped back into his
pockets.
"Do you have somewhere to stay for the night?" he asked?
"Don't worry, I won't be needing one." I replied, turning away from him.
"Hastings?" He sounded confused. I refused to turn around. I began to walk
away.
"Here's all my hopes that you have all the best. God knows I won't need them
any more."
"Hastings, qu'est que c'est-" Poirot's voice was starting to drift into his
native French - a sure sign he was getting upset. I felt my resolve weaken. I
wasn't ready for this. I had to get out of here.
"I'm sorry this is how we'll end, but-"
"Hastings, dites-moi que vous ne signifiez pas cela-" Poirot took my shoulders
and turned me back to face him. The green of his eyes where dulled by grief and
confusion, and I hated how it was me who caused this concoction of emotions.
But I knew what would happen once me and Poirot parted ways. I would not move
on. I would not live even a half life. I had no choice.
Poirot seemed to sense what I was thinking, and his hands moved up to cup my
cheeks - something he had come into the habit of doing whenever I needed
comfort. I instinctively leaned into the touch.
"Ne parle pas comme ça." he said quietly, his thumbs drawing circles on my
tear-stained cheeks.
"I'm sorry," I whispered back. "Mais c'est vrai."
"Hastings, please-" His voice broke, and he removed his hands from my face, and
turned away. To an untaught eye, he looked as if he had turned away from me in
fury. But I knew him better. I knew what the minute tremble in his shoulders
meant. I knew what he meant when he turned away from me like that.
Gently, I lay a hand on his shoulder, and turned him to face me. He made no
resistance, but he was refusing to look at me again, hiding his face under the
brim of his hat.
"Poirot, look at me. Please." Poirot resolutely kept looking down. I carefully
lay two fingers under his chin, and with a little coaxing, got him to look at
me. There were tears making their way down his face, getting caught in the dips
and curves of his face. I gently brushed a few away with my free hand.
"Poirot, don't cry. Please. There's no need." Poirot muttered 'pah' under his
breath, but it sounded like more of a sob than anything else. I gently stroked
his hair to try and calm him. This was hard enough already. "These past years,
the ones with you, have been the best I've ever experienced. I am so glad to
have met you, kissed you, married you. But we haveto move on. We have to
forget. I had to forget my past to get any peace of mind. You have to forget me
for yours. Forget me, Poirot, forget what I did, forget what we did together,
forget what we did together. It's the only way you'll be happy. Please, just
forget me-"
I was stopped in my pleading by Poirot's lips on my own. I was not sure who was
shaking more, me or him, but what I definitely did know was that I was crying
again, and he was too, and the last thing I wanted to do was let him go, let
usgo, but I knew I had to. He had to move on. His values, his morals, his sense
of justicewere what kept him sane, and I would only serve to remind him of the
few times he had ignored them. It would haunt him. I had to leave.
"Poirot..." I gently tried to push Poirot away, but he clung to me like a lost
child. "Hercule, please. You must move on. You must go."
"I do not wish to go."
I closed my eyes briefly. When I had said those words fifteen years ago, Poirot
had offered me a new life. Now it was Poirot who was saying those words, but I
had nothing to give him. There was nothing I could give him.
I merely kissed him again, slowly and searchingly, taking the time to
appreciate the sensations, the near-indescribable taste of Poirot and the
feelings of the kiss itself. Poirot kissed back as if this would be the last
time he kissed a man. I hoped it wasn't. I wanted him to move on. I wanted him
to be happy.
I broke the kiss and held him close, burying my face in his shoulder. I felt
Poirot tighten his grip on me in return, pressing his lips to my cheek. We held
each other for a time, swaying slightly in the breeze that had picked up.
Neither of us wanted to let go. But all too soon the night got darker, until it
was close to being too dark for Poirot to make his way home. Still, I held him
close and kissed his lips, one last time, before stepping back and letting him
go. Poirot let me slip out from his arms without fuss.
I took one last look at the man who held my heart, I memorised the curve of his
moustache, the broad hands, the cat-like eyes that showed everything and
nothing. I memorised the man who had kept me enthralled all these years. I
would not see him again. I turned away from him, and began to walk. But before
I could get anywhere, I felt a hand touch my arm, and Poirot murmured my name.
"Arthur?"
"Yes?"
Poirot seemed to struggle with himself for a while, but after time, he softly
whispered something to me.
"Je vous aime."
"I love you too." I replied quietly, giving him a sad, watery smile. "But it's
time for you to forget."
With that, I let him go, and vanished into the darkness.
===============================================================================
November 26th 1936
A TRAGIC ACCIDENT - TWO BODIES FOUND IN THE THAMES
Two bodies have been found in the River Thames as of 3 o' clock this morning.
The first was discovered near Warwick Crescent; the other a little further up
near Maida Avenue. The deaths are being treated as linked, although no police
spokesperson has stated whether the deaths will be treated as suspicious.
One of the bodies has been identified as Arthur Hastings, 41, associate of the
great detective Hercule Poirot. His relatives have been informed. His funeral
is an open ceremony, and has been scheduled for the 1st December, St Marylebone
Parish Church.
As this goes to press, the second body has not been identified.
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