"In a Fix"
It's time for another unhinged fanfic choice based on the actor I'm currently obsessed with! Description of the story/characters under the cut.
Content: Embarrassment about hiccups
Whether they've read/watched them or not, a lot of people are probably familiar with Agätha Chrístie's Hércule Poírot mysteries. This is still an unhinged fanfic choice, though, because Poírot himself isn't the main character of this fic. Instead, I'm writing about Inspector Crome, a one-off character that my actor played in an audio drama adaptation of a Poírot mystery called The ABC Mürders. In that story, Crome has the classic "Officer Who's Annoyed about Having to Work with the Famous Detective" role, but while he has a definite chip on his shoulder and argues a lot with Poírot about how to conduct the case, he comes around to a grudging respect for Poírot by the end and says he wants to work together again. So my fic imagines that they've been investigating cases together for several months now. Crome has mellowed further toward Poírot but can still be cranky/defensive about things.
Here are the characters (only Poírot has an image since, again, this was for an audio drama):
Inspector Crome - The youngest inspector at Scotland Yard. Intelligent and hardworking, but he can be set in his ways and has to be coaxed to think outside the box. He has a more working-class background than most men at the Yard, and he regularly deals with classist insinuations that maybe he didn't deserve his promotion. So while his pride can be in the way of his work, it's largely because he always feels like he has to prove himself.
Hércule Poírot - Famous Belgian detective. He's ostensibly retired now, but he can't give up investigating entirely, and he sometimes consults with the Yard on their cases. In my fic, Crome is now his preferred inspector to work with--even though there can still be friction between them, Crome knows Poírot better than most inspectors at the Yard, so Poírot feels comfortable with him.
Superintendent Stone - The head of Scotland Yard. Contributes a lot to Crome's need to prove himself, especially when he unfavorably compares Crome to Poírot.
And with that, here's the fic!
Eight days into the investigation, they had yet to catch Mary Ryland’s killer. Inspector Crome had favored the boyfriend at first, but that hadn’t panned out. Now, he and Poírot both suspected Arthur Bridges, the poor girl’s piano instructor. However, they’d not yet found the proof they needed to bring him in for good. Either the music teacher was more cunning than Crome had anticipated, or this was leading to another dead end and they’d have to start again.
Given what an important family the Rylands were, Superintendent Stone was getting impatient. He’d called Crome and Poírot into Scotland Yard to bring him up to speed on the facts of the case. “In other words,” Poírot had remarked drolly, “to poke at our progress and ask why we’ve not solved it yet.”
“Yeah, just about,” Crome had replied, forcing a smile as his stomach had clenched with a brief fit of nerves. Stone was a good man and a fine superintendent, but he had a way of making Crome constantly feel like he was back in school doing exams—like he was always on the verge of washing out and one misstep would send him tumbling down.
And if that happened? Crome could just imagine the chatter, all the snatches of conversations that would fade out as he walked by.
Good of the superintendent to give him a go—not his fault some people just aren’t cut out for it.
I always knew the Mabel Homer case was a fluke.
Glad to see him back in his proper place. Oh, he’s capable, maybe, but he’s just not “our sort.”
Of course, these days, it was comments about how Crome was riding Poírot’s coattails, scraping by on the famous detective’s talent and not his own. Let them talk—Crome didn’t care. (Well, he tried not to care.) Anyone at the Yard would be wise to listen to Poírot’s insights, and working with him was making Crome a better inspector: sharpening his reasoning, honing the sort of questions that yielded results, cooling his urge to hold tight to his first suspect when the evidence wasn’t bearing out.
He reminded himself that all those things mattered more than the comments, and some days, he even got to the point where they didn’t bother him.
But this morning, it was all about Mary Ryland. “What about that Palmer chap?” Superintendent Stone was asking. “I thought they’d been seen quarreling the day before the murder.”
“They had,” Crome explained, “but—”
“And he has no alibi,” the super added.
“Right—” Crome conceded.
“Nathaniel Palmer could not have killed Mary Ryland,” Poírot broke in smoothly, “not in this way. The medical examiner’s report shows that Miss Ryland was struck by someone much taller than Mr. Palmer.”
“He’s got asthma as well,” Crome put in. “It’s not likely he could’ve worked up the exertion you’d need for an attack like that.”
“Hmmm,” Stone murmured. “I don’t have to tell you about the tongue-lashing we’re getting in the press over all this.”
“No, sir,” Crome said, holding back a slight grimace.
“Mary Ryland was 19,” the superintendent went on. “Well-connected family, bright girl. She had her whole future ahead of her.”
“We know,” Crome admitted. As he shifted in his chair, he hiccupped, a quiet “*hllp!*” in the back of his throat. He cleared his throat self-consciously, but neither the super nor Poírot seemed to take any notice.
“I know Walter Ryland,” Stone said. “We’ve gone to the same club for years.”
With a quiet nod, Crome hiccupped again. He felt his head and shoulders give a small jerk, but it was completely silent this time.
“I didn’t know Mary well, of course, but it’s a terrible blow to the family…”
“*hmmph!*” Oh, hell—not now. This was the last thing Crome needed. Trying to be discreet, he crossed his arms and rubbed his mouth like he was in thought. Hopefully, it would keep Superintendent Stone from noticing that he was holding his breath.
The super was still speaking. “What I’m saying is that this is personal,” Stone told Crome and Poírot. “As both of you well know, the full resources of Scotland Yard are behind this case. I expect results on this.”
“Of course, superintendent,” Poírot replied. “I promise, we will not fail you.”
“Is that right?” Stone asked, giving Crome a stern look.
Nothing for it—Crome let his breath out. “Yes, sir-*rrk!*”
Dammit! He muffled the hiccup as well as he could behind his hand.
Crome’s only small spot of luck was that Stone seemed too preoccupied to notice. “Right then, this music teacher,” the superintendent urged. “Tell me everything you’ve got so far.”
Oh, god. Crome swallowed another silent hiccup. “Er, right,” he mumbled.
On the one hand, he knew it was an accomplishment to be the youngest inspector at Scotland Yard, and Crome was rightly proud of that. But in situations like this when he was summoned by the superintendent, the other inspectors ribbed him like he’d been called to the head teacher’s office. If word got out that he’d laid out the case while hiccupping like a bloody schoolboy, he’d never live it down.
And the super? What would he make of it? Probably read it as proof that Crome wasn’t taking the case seriously—maybe even that he was making light of it—even though the hiccups were something Crome very clearly couldn’t control.
But as Crome prepared to embarrass himself, letting out a slow exhale through his nose and muffling a “*hmmph!*” behind his tightly-closed mouth, Poírot said, “Yes, superintendent. Let us begin with what we know so far of Arthur Bridges’s movements on the day of the murder.”
With a flood of relief, Crome sank back into his chair. Finally, Poírot’s love for the sound of his own voice was working in his favor. While the detective described the timeline they’d been piecing together, Crome crossed his arms, as if he could keep the hiccups inside by holding on tight to them. He pressed his knuckles against his mouth.
All told, he made a decent job of it. Crome managed to keep most of the hiccups silent, and any audible ones that escaped were limited to a muffled “*hllk!*” or “*mmph!*”, as well as the occasional hitch that sounded more than anything like an odd inhalation through his nose.
Try as he might, he couldn’t hide the way they were making his body jerk, but fortunately, Stone was listening closely enough to Poírot that he didn’t seem to be paying any mind to Crome’s predicament. It helped that the detective had gotten out of his chair and was pacing round the room as he talked, occasionally stopping to pick up an object on the superintendent’s desk or examine one of the photographs on the wall.
All the while, he kept talking. As much as Crome had come to respect the aging sleuth, he did think Poírot could be quite the old showboat, but today, it was music to his ears. “*llp!*” he hiccupped, the quiet noise easily hidden beneath Poírot’s detailed observations.
The detective paused, turning to Stone’s secretary sitting in the corner of the room. As Poírot murmured something to her, Edith nodded briskly. She rose to her feet and slipped out of the room.
Edith was equal parts efficient and inconspicuous—she always was—and in the quiet of this brief interlude, a “*hmmph!*” worked its way out of Crome. He bit back a cringe as the superintendent looked his way. “Something to add, inspector?”
“No, sir,” Crome replied quickly, then clamped his mouth shut again. Once he’d quieted the next hiccup that made his head snap back, he hastily added, “I know not to interrupt Poiro-- when he’s on a roll.”
Crome could feel a flush spreading up his neck, and he forced himself not to grimace. Although that last hiccup was entirely silent, it had put a slight hitch in his speech.
“I’m afraid the inspector is quite correct,” Poírot remarked with easy good humor. “I do love a good…eh, what is the word for it in English? When an actor is onstage, making a speech to the audience?”
“Soliloquy?” the super offered.
“Ah, precisely,” Poírot said. “Inspector Crome is kind enough to let me go on. So with that, I shall resume my soliloquy. Now that we have examined Mr. Bridges’s whereabouts on the fourth of September, let us turn to motive. What could have driven him to kill a promising pupil like Mary Ryland…?”
As Poírot continued, Crome let himself relax the tiniest bit. He still felt self-conscious and tense, but at least he could take solace in the detective drawing all the attention in the room. Crome muffled an “*rrk!*” behind his knuckles, wishing he could just get the damn hiccups to stop already. Not even Poírot could talk forever, and anyway, it wouldn’t look good if he sat there twiddling his thumbs while Poírot explained everything—it really would look like Crome was just riding his coattails then.
Edith ducked quietly back into the room, and Crome felt a pang of envy as she handed Poírot a tall glass of water.” “Merci, mademoiselle,” Poírot said with a polite nod of his head. “I understand this theory may seem implausible to you, Superintendent Stone. After all, Mr. Bridges is quite respected for his skill as a teacher! How could he have been showing an inappropriate level of attention to one of his students? However, what we have found may surprise you…”
Crome winced as a hard silent hiccup stuck in his throat. Water—that’s what he really needed. Poírot wasn’t even drinking his, just idly holding the glass while he talked. Crome glanced at Edith, who’d settled back into her chair by the corner. He wouldn’t want to risk asking aloud for her to fetch another glass. Maybe he could slip her a note? But Crome was on the wrong side of the room for that. He’d have to get up and step round Poírot to get over to her, and he didn’t want to do anything that would draw Stone’s eye back to him. Miserably, he held in another “*mmph!*”
“Furthermore, I am most intrigued by the small gift box that was swept away with the rubbish from the drawing room after the party that evening,” Poírot continued. As he spoke, he wandered in Crome’s direction. “No one in the household knew of any such gift, or what the box had contained. This was the same room where Miss Ryland had her music lesson with Mr. Bridges, only a few hours before the party. Could it have been a gift to her from him?”
Poírot was standing in front of Crome now, between him and Superintendent Stone. Without so much as a glance at Crome, the detective suddenly pressed the glass of water into his hand. Startled, Crome looked at Poírot in surprise, and he only just remembered to clench his mouth shut against the strong “*hpp!*” that slipped out of him.
“I confess, I find it most curious,” Poírot admitted. “What was the gift, and why does there seem to be no trace of it? What became of it? I believe these discoveries could prove an enormous help in our investigation.”
Crome looked down at the water. Poírot knew. Of course he did—he’d probably spotted straightaway that Crome had gotten the hiccups and was in a fix. Crome felt a rush of embarrassment at having been caught out, but it was outweighed by his gratefulness for the water.
So as Poírot meandered to the opposite end of the room, drawing the super’s attention along with him, Crome got straight to work. He waited for his next muffled “*hllk!*” to pass, then began to take small sips of water without stopping. By the time he reached the bottom of the glass, he was bursting for breath, but Crome made himself exhale slowly, warily keeping his lips pressed together while he waited.
So far, so good. Crome drew a slow breath in and out through his nose, then another—no hiccups. It looked like the bloody things were finally gone.
“This is everything we know,” Poírot explained to Stone. “As you can see, superintendent, there is much we’ve already determined, but there are crucial pieces of the puzzle still missing.” He raised his eyebrows to Crome in a silent question, his gaze flitting for a moment to the empty glass. Crome gave a sheepish nod.
“Inspector, would you care to go over our unanswered questions?” Poírot suggested casually. “I know you’ve been keeping an account of them.”
So that was it. Poírot’s showboating hadn’t merely worked out in Crome’s favor this time. It had been on his behalf, the old detective taking the reins to hold Stone’s attention and save Crome from having to speak until he’d had a chance to deal with the hiccups.
Crome stifled a sigh—every time he thought he’d given the sleuth sufficient credit, Poírot had to go and up the stakes once more. It could be infuriating at times, but it was damn impressive too, and in this instance, Crome was hardly in a position to complain.
“Right, yeah,” he said, nodding again. A bit awkwardly, he set down the glass, then flipped his notepad open to his running list of questions. “Erm, Poírot already mentioned the empty gift box in the drawing room. That’s top of our list. It was just the right size for jewelry, and if we’re right that it came from Arthur Bridges, that would be, er, quite an intimate gift for a young woman from her piano teacher…”
The hiccups had really rattled Crome, but now that they were gone, his earlier worries about being called before the super felt much more manageable. Consulting his case notes, he found it was easy enough to take Stone through the gaps that he and Poírot still needed to fill in the investigation: the gift box, that span of nearly an hour where Bridges’s whereabouts were unaccounted for, the figure one of the servants had heard going out the back door a little after 9:00 pm, and so on.
Before he knew it, the superintendent was shaking both of their hands, saying, “Keep up the good work. I want the devil brought to justice.”
Feeling more confident now, Crome looked Stone in the eye as he nodded. “We’ll see it done, sir.”
“Now if you’ll excuse us, superintendent, we have a busy day ahead of us,” Poírot added. “We’ll be sure to keep you informed of any breaks in the case.”
“Call anytime, day or night,” the super replied, walking with them to the door. “I want to know the moment you get our man.”
“You’ll be the first to know,” Crome promised.
When he and Poírot stepped into the hall, Crome let out a deep breath, as if he was exhaling the last of his nerves from his body. “Thanks for the hand, Poírot,” he conceded in a low voice. “With, er, with the water—and everything.”
“Ah, think nothing of it,” Poírot said with an indifferent wave of his hand. “They are an odd little affliction: more inconvenient than harmful, but if they appear at the wrong time? They can be most troublesome.”
“Yeah, you’re telling me,” Crome mumbled. He slipped his notepad back into his trouser pocket and smoothed down his suit, ready to put the awkward business behind him. “I was thinking. You know how we were wanting to meet some of Bridges’s other students, feel out if he’d tried anything funny with someone else? Well, didn’t Mrs. Ryland say they were gonna be doing a recital in Mary’s honor?”
“Yes, tomorrow evening,” Poírot noted. “A fine idea, inspector. We’ll have an opportunity to observe how the other young ladies behave in his presence, identify those who might have useful information for us.”
Right,” Crome replied. He frowned in thought. “Would they talk to us, though? About something, you know, delicate?” Even under normal circumstances, interviews weren’t his strongest suit, and while Poírot had a way of charming information out of people, Crome wasn’t so sure of the sleuth’s ability to handle this one.
And Poírot, it seemed, agreed. “Mmm, a fair point,” he murmured. “Perhaps we could invite your friend Constable Lewis to accompany us? After all, she is a young lady herself, and if any of the students have something discreet to reveal about Arthur Bridges, they may feel more comfortable opening up to her.”
As usual, Crome had come up with an idea and Poírot had topped it. Sometimes that could needle at him, but he couldn’t argue about it today. Not when Poírot had saved Crome’s backside with the super and then did him the courtesy of not harping on it. Not when they needed to solve this case and any good idea was a welcome one.
“But come,” Poírot urged. “That is tomorrow evening, and there is much to do before then. We have work to do, inspector. On y va!”
Nodding, Crome fell in line beside the detective. “That we do,” he said as they strode down the hall together.