Poirot's Chronicles - Hercule

*****

A great many people have undertaken to portray Agatha Christie's Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, but in my opinion, none has done it as well as David Suchet, star of ITW productions of Poirot. It is his image that I use as my visual and those of Hugh Fraser (Captain Hastings), Pauline Moran (Miss Lemon) and Philip Jackson (Chief Inspector Japp). ENJOY! *****

Everyone stood stock still in the room, all eyes trained on the woman who was rapidly crumpling to the floor, the knife in her hand clanging as it bounced on the floor, harmlessly pinwheeling towards its intended victim. Poirot briefly glanced down at it, flicked it away with flip of his foot then returned his gaze to the woman standing in the doorway. The old maid, Glynnis, slowly lowered the smoking weapon, her shaking hands losing their grip and causing the barrel to swing lazily. Japp moved forward, quickly snatching the gun from her hands, then stepped over to the body of Sister Lilia, checking for a pulse.

"She's dead."

A wail went up from Florence Wilmouth who leaped from the chair, throwing herself at the dead nun's side and pulling her lifeless body into an embrace. "You killed her!"

"She was going to 'urt mister Poirot. I couldn't let that 'appen." Glynnis smiled through her tears. "Not as nice as 'e's been to the lot of us."

"Glynnis, where's Joceline?"

"Miss Tarrant? She's 'ere?"

"I know where she is." Wesley Wilmouth stood, clearly shaken by the death but showing the mettle that he'd been born with. "Mum had told me that the South wing was being re-decorated. There's no better place on this estate to keep a hostage."

"Please. Show me."

Wilmouth turned toward the opposite door, passing by his weeping mother who grabbed at his pants leg, leaving a bloody smudge there. "Wesley, darling, please understand."

"I do understand." The young man said evenly. "I'm going to see my mother."

Poirot flexed his cheek muscle and gave a curt nod to Japp, who quickly instructed his men to arrest the duke and duchess. Lord Wilmouth strode briskly down the hall, up two short flights of stairs and down a long hallway, the end of which opened into the South wing. When Wesley tried the door, he found it locked.

"Knock it down!"

Three officers ran to carry out Japp's directive and within minutes, the ornate French doors lay in splinters on the floor and with Hastings' help, Poirot tramped over the shards of wood, his heart pounding in his chest.

Joceline Tarrant lay on the expansive bed, her face puffy and streaked with tears, her arms and legs tied to the bedposts. Poirot raced to the bedside, carefully removing the scarf from her mouth and pressing his lips against her chapped ones. "Lina. Lina, wake up. Wake up, my love."

Poirot ignored the shocked look on Japp's face, instead concentrating on the small tic in her cheek and the long black lashes that slowly fluttered open. Her eyes crossed, then focused on his face, filling with tears. "Hercule."

"Do not speak. Poirot is here to take you home."

Joceline tried to smile but the pain that racked her limbs was too much. "Yes, Hercule. Please take me home."

* * * * *

Four months later

"Do you have the flowers, Hastings?"

"Yes, Poirot."

"

Bon

. Do you have the chocolates, Hastings?"

"Yes, Poirot."

"

Bon

. Do you have the ... "

"Yes, Poirot. I have everything. Relax!"

Poirot straightened his bow tie for the twentieth time and checked to see that his shoes were still properly shined and that the crease in his pants was still razor-sharp. "I cannot relax, Hastings. She is coming home."

"I know this but it won't help her if you've suffered an attack while waiting for her." Poirot huffed. "Now, calm down. Here comes the train now."

The locomotive trundled into the station in a cloud of wispy smoke and squealing brakes and almost immediately, a huge crowd flooded the platform, bearing banners and hand-painted signs that welcomed the renowned Joceline Tarrant back home. Poirot and Hastings stood near the doors, watching the festivities in disbelief.

After the rescue, Wesley Wilmouth had gone on TV, announcing to anyone who cared to hear that this beautiful black woman was his mother. The responses at first were disheartening. Bigots and racists alike spewed their hatred out but the strength that sustained mother also coursed through the son and Wesley persevered. Joceline accompanied him on each stop, wooing voters to their side with her sultry songs and her warm smiles and as a result of their hard work, Wesley won the seat. Now she was returning as she'd promised, to him, to a life with her man, Hercule Poirot.

"Wow! She's become rather popular, hasn't she?"

"Yes,

mon

ami

." Poirot put his best smile forward, observing the gigantic roar that erupted when the train door opened and Joceline stepped forward, a wide-brimmed beige hat adorned with a peacock feather sitting on her head. She raised a hand in acknowledgment and the roar swelled again when she unleashed her stunning smile upon the waiting crowd. He noticed that her eyes were searching the sea of faces and when she found him, her smile brightened, if that was possible.

"I think she's found us."

It took several minutes for the conductor and his staff to clear an aisle for her to reach the building and she happily threw herself into his arms, crying in sheer joy. "Oh, Hercule! I'm so glad to see you!"

"Not as happy as I am." He whispered softly, embracing her tightly. "I see you've brought some friends along."

Joceline laughed, throwing her head back and grinning at Hastings. "And I see you've brought one along yourself." She released Poirot to give Hastings a heartfelt squeeze. "Hello, Captain Hastings."

"Hello yourself!" Hastings handed her the roses and the chocolates. "Welcome home!"

"Can we get out of here?" Joceline shouted above the din. "I'd really like to go home."

"And where is home?" Poirot murmured, kissing her ear.

"Anywhere that you are, dear Hercule."

"

Bon

." He held out his arm, sighing when she slid hers through. "Then let us go."

* * * * *

Miss Lemon hoisted the last glass of champagne, her cheeks rosy and her arm around Chief Inspector Japp. "To Joceline and Hercule!"

A chorus of "Hear, hear!" went up and Poirot happily watched his friends drink to the lovely woman on his arm. Hastings leaned over with a wobble and planted a sloppy kiss on Joceline's cheek, drawing a beaming smile from her. Everyone drank deeply, then set the glasses down on the silver tray that Miss Lemon had brought.

"All right, everyone! Time to go!" She hefted the tray, herding Japp and Hastings toward the door. "I'm sure that Mr. Poirot would like some privacy." She grabbed Joceline's hand and led her into the kitchen, showing her a prepared tray of sliced cheese, cold cuts and fruit, along with two bottles of chilled champagne. "For later." Her conspiratorial smile was echoed by Joceline's and the two women hugged. "I'll expect you to repay the favor for me one day."

"I am completely in your debt."

Miss Lemon smiled. "Thank you for making him happy."

"Thank you for allowing me to do so."

"Miss Lemon?" Hastings' voice interrupted them and both returned to the outer hallway where Poirot waited, holding her coat up. Miss Lemon slid into the article of clothing, gave Poirot a quick kiss on the cheek and left with Japp and Hastings.

"You are blessed with kind friends, Hercule."

"

Oui

." Poirot locked the door and extinguished the lights, maneuvering her towards the back room, adjacent to the bedroom. Joceline gasped when she saw what he'd done there. "But I am doubly blessed when it comes to you."

"Oh, Hercule!" He had filled his den with white roses and creamy tapers that spread their warm glow across the room. A large bearskin rug rested in front of the fireplace and a bottle of champagne rested in a silver bucket, its shiny face partially frosted. It reminded her of ... "Our ball!"

Poirot smiled, clearly excited that she had remembered. The beauty of the love reflected in her eyes suddenly made him apprehensive and his entire body felt warm. "I didn't think that I could be any happier than I was that day, Lina. I, Hercule Poirot, was dancing around the room with the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen in my life," His eyes silvered with tears. "And that beautiful woman wanted me!" Poirot fought the urge to sob as his emotions threatened to get the best of him. He took a moment to compose himself. "

Mon cher

, I have lived my life strictly by the book and as a result, I have been a lonely man. I never gave a thought to having love in my life. I never thought that anyone would want to love a man like Hercule Poirot."

"Hercule ... "

"No, Lina. Please." He took a deep breath and was encouraged by the gentle squeeze of her hands on his. "Let me finish. It's ...it's important."

"All right." Joceline blinked her tears away, her heart thumping in her chest as she came to the realization that something special was happening here. She let her tone of voice and the words she spoke soothe his nerves as tenderly as her fingertips on his face. "Go on, Hercule."

His past flew through his mind: the dead eyes of murdered women, the angry eyes of conniving females and the coquettish glances of flirtatious women floated like wayward logs in his stream of consciousness, reminding him of his constant fear of commitment, of the possibility that a female could do that to him. That and their subtle rejection had served to convince him that marital bliss was not in the cards for him. But now ... "I am not a handsome man, Lina." He laughed at his own expense. "I have always known that but I hoped that maybe one day, I would find a woman that was interested in my little gray cells." He paused, looking at her. "And then I met you."

Joceline smiled, her dark brown eyes overflowing and releasing tears that he kissed away. "Hercule."

"From the very start, you overlooked my less-than-tantalizing looks and instead, focused on my emotions, bringing out a part of Hercule Poirot that even Poirot didn't know existed. You've taken every part of me and made me into a whole man." He slowly dropped to one knee, trying to avoid her tearing eyes but unable to draw himself from their luminous beauty. "My dear, wonderful Lina, you would make me the happiest man in the world if you would do me the great honor of becoming my wife." He fished a blue velvet box out of the pocket of his smoking jacket and held it up to her. "Please."

"Oh, Hercule!" Joceline dropped to her knees, bursting into tears and embracing him. "I never thought ... I never hoped ... "

"Oh, but you had to, my darling!" Poirot pulled back, a genuine smile on his lips. "After making love to you, did you think that I could continue to live without you?" His heart swelled at the look of disbelief in her eyes. "Lina, you own every inch of this Belgian, heart, body and soul." His lips moved to within inches of hers. "You need only say the words to make it forever."

"Oh, yes, Hercule," Joceline couldn't stop her tears from falling. "Yes, I'll be your wife."

* * * * *

It was the event of the season. Invitations went out eight months after the engagement announcement, requesting several of London's upper crust to attend, including Winston Churchill and some of his political contemporaries.

Captain Hastings, Miss Lemon and Chief Inspector Japp were also asked to attend and held prominent places in the ceremony. Poirot had asked his friend, Hastings, to perform the duties of Best Man and Japp walked the eminent detective down the aisle, sword held high in ultimate respect and deposited him at his appointed spot. Miss Lemon served as her maid of honor while the international star Josephine Baker serenaded the awaiting audience.

Poirot forgot to breathe when she walked down the aisle, his bouquet of calla lilies and white lavender sprigs clutched in her gloved hands. As she approached, he raised the veil, gazing into the deep brown eyes that threatened to hold him captive and smiled as she gave a lily a small kiss. His pulse raced, his ears rung and in no time at all, the minister was telling him that he could kiss his bride. He doffed his hat, leaned forward and to the cheers and whistles of the audience, he claimed his bride with a kiss from his heart.

The reception lasted well into the early hours of the morning and Poirot and Joceline found themselves in his decorated apartment, sharing yet another glass of champagne and giggling over Poirot's ill-made attempt to carry her over the threshold. She watched his face light up in merriment, clearly remembering the seriousness written on his features when they first met in the café. He seemed like such a different person now.

And it's all because of me.

Without thinking, she reached out and ran a finger along his wet bottom lip, instantly drawing his solemn attention.

"No." She whispered. "Don't stop smiling, Hercule. You're so ... beautiful when you smile."

"I cannot smile when you take my breath away, Lina."

"Then perhaps I should remedy that." She picked up a black olive, broke it in half and plastered it under her nose. His eyes twinkled and he snorted as one side started sliding downward and the giggling began anew. "I love you, Hercule." Joceline said softly. "Promise that you'll always laugh for me."

"I promise."

"Good." She pressed a slow, soft kiss to his cheek, her voice husky with passion. "Then it's time to make me your wife."

Poirot pulled her into his arms, crushing her body to his as his mouth gently moved over hers, his tongue sweeping inside and intertwining with hers. She moaned with an answering shiver, her arms snaking around his neck and her fingers running through his short hair. He reveled in the feel of her hands on his body, sliding down his back and stroking his thighs, making his cock plump under her fingers. He arose from their place in front of the fire and guided her into his bedroom, as always, smiling at the dried flowers in a vase on his nightstand.

"Oh, you kept the flowers!" Poirot nodded and watched as she left the room and returned with a few sprigs of lavender and two large calla lilies from her bouquet, replacing the dead flowers. When she turned to him, he could not help but smile, drawing her into his arms to prevent her from seeing the tears in his eyes. "Thank you, Hercule."

Poirot could not respond. His heart was filled to overflowing and he made sure that Joceline felt it. His hands sought the zipper hidden in her dress and descended downward, spreading the fabric open and tugging it off her shoulders. Her dark chocolate-nippled breasts slowly emerged and he bent to suckle each, rolling his tongue around the bumpy flesh until spongy nubs emerged, making her tremble. He pulled the dress farther down until she lifted her hips and completely slid out of it, leaving gartered white fishnet-covered legs and a tiny pair of lace underpants.

She moved onto her back, opening her arms as he moved to lie on top of her, moaning into his mouth as his erection pressed anxiously against her pussy. "Please, Hercule, don't make me wait." Her hands traveled downward, fingers unbuttoning and pushing his pants off, then wrapping around his hard cock, rubbing lightly. "I want to feel you inside me, husband." Her endearment brought his eyes back to hers and she breathlessly watched them darken as his fingers looped in the panties, tugging them over her raised hips.

When she reached down to unhook the garters, he said, "No. Leave them," and proceeded to kiss his way down, across her stomach to her clean shaven snatch, purring happily. "Perfect." His whisper was quickly drowned by her cries of passion as he parted her already soaked lips and plunged his tongue inside her hole, laving upwards to tickle her button, then sliding down again. He loved the natural response of her body. There was no pretense or falsity; only pure, raw emotions that she eagerly shared.

I am so lucky!

Poirot arose, hastily pulled his shirt and pants completely off and knelt between her trembling legs.

"I now pronounce us ... " He moved up so that the pulsing purple head of his cock butted against her slick slit, then ever so gently, pressed inward, their hands intertwining. "Husband and wife."

Joceline closed her eyes, gasping at the sensation of being filled by him. "Oh, yes." She hissed, gazing into his fathomless eyes and shivering with the thrill of the unbridled lust she saw in the depths. Poirot kept moving forward until he was entirely sheathed in her warm, wet flesh and she brought her knees up, seating him even deeper. Oh, he felt so good!

And he's mine!

When he moved again, her breath left her in a long inhalation and gushed out when he slid back in. "Oh, yes, Hercule! Make me yours!"

The passion in her words sent flames skipping the length of his spine and he pinned her down, playfully nibbling her ears and neck while he found and set a steady rhythm, driving into her with a barely restrained ferocity that quickly had her screaming in orgasm. He gritted his teeth and steeled himself against the torturous rippling of her pussy walls, moving again only after she had calmed. A second, third and fourth orgasm came quickly for her and at the sound of his name on her lips, he allowed himself to cum, his cock swelling, then jerking as he deposited his seed in her leaking womb, shuddering with each ejaculation.

She threw her arms around him, welcoming his delicious weight as he recovered, mopping his brow with an edge of sheet and rubbing his back. Poirot slipped to the side, carrying her with him and wrapping his arms around her, his lips in her hair. A keen sense of contentment stole over him as she snuggled into the side of his body, her hand gently caressing his belly and he sighed deeply. After solving hundreds of mysteries and murders, he realized that he had solved the most important of all: the mystery of love.

Slipping into blissful sleep, his sated wife in his arms with her hand over his heart, he pressed a kiss to her swollen lips and gave her a squeeze. "I love you, Lina."

And Poirot left the world behind.