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ophelia95ae4 's review for:
Evil Under The Sun
by Agatha Christie
Oh c'mon, Agatha.
How about you just skip this one and read the fanfic epilogue I just wrote to make myself feel better about this whole mess?
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3 years later
Poirot does not know what makes him pay attention. It is definitely not the hair. The dead woman had hair made of fire, whilst the one in front of him has dark mahogany hair – sleek bobbed and healthy looking. Maybe it is the way she holds herself, the curve of her mouth or how the air seems to shimmer around her. But he’s almost sure. No, he is sure that it cannot be anybody but her.
‘Madame Marshall?’
Arlena Marshall turns unhurriedly towards the small man and regards him coolly. She doesn’t seem surprised, but merely expectant, as if she had been waiting for this moment for decades and he just happens to be late.
‘Hello, M. Poirot. Wasn’t the first half just marvellous? The lead actors are veterans, but I believe the young girl is the one to keep an eye on.’
‘But Madame, please, how is this possible? I have touched your cold skin, I studied and learnt about you like a much loved book, I solved your murder!’
The woman throws back her head and laughs deeply, a laugh that seems to come from the very core of her. She does not cover her mouth or hold her coat more securely around her shoulders. Poirot can perfectly see the long expanse of her throat, her strong chin and shiny teeth. ‘But for a dead woman’, Poirot thinks, ‘she still makes the loveliest corpse.’
‘You studied and learnt about me like a much loved book. How embarrassing. I must admit, M. Poirot, I expected more from you,’ the woman who was Arlena Marshall says.
He looks at her. At this Arlena Marshall who is so unlike Arlena Marshall in all the small ways that count and the same in all the big ones that do not. This undead woman looks at objects and people in a very direct manner. She looks as if she knows exactly the power of her rounded shoulders and her strong calves. This woman is unafraid of him, Hercule Poirot. And that, that is something he cannot stand.
Poirot draws himself up to his full 163cm and touches his perfect moustaches twice before launching into a speech worthy of his name.
‘But yes, Madame, you are an actress. One cannot forget. But can even someone of your obvious calibre maintain such an act? It must be so! But the clues, Madame, the clues. They did not lie! Your husband pitied you! And the women, poor little Linda, they all felt suffocated by your very presence. And of course, the criminals confessed! I, myself, extracted the admission of guilt from them. It all fitted together, like a beautiful puzzle, the black cat and the white tail!’
Two red ugly splotches have formed on the great detective’s cheeks. He does not think he has ever felt this way before. He does not think. He cannot.
Arlena-Not looks on at Poirot like he is a pupil and her a school mistress. She is not angry, just disappointed.
‘Words’, she says. ‘Everybody lies. Isn’t that something all you boy detectives say? Upstanding husbands lie, sensible women lie and even killers do so too.’
‘Money does not lie! You follow the course of the coin and you get the truth.’ With renewed energy, Poirot says. ‘So pray tell, Madame, what about your fortune, the most famous inheritance, robbed piece by piece by the greedy men who promised to love you?’
Again, she laughs, those teeth flashing at him like a dare. ‘There were never any men. Not real ones anyway. Of course, there was the occasional ‘Go get yourself something pretty’ pocket money, but a woman has to have hobbies. The money went away, piece by piece, in safe little pots, just waiting for me.’
‘And the leftover £1500?’ Poirot will find it, the gap in the logic and the world will go back to how it is supposed to be.
‘A token. A going away present if you will. Kenneth was always good to me, in his own way, to the best of his limited abilities. He saw what he wanted to see just like the rest of them.’ She does not seem saddened by this, merely resigned. ‘You think I was unaware, Monsieur? That I did not hear what people have been saying about me my whole life? What You have been saying about me? The actress; Scarlet woman; the Whore of Babylon; tall, beautiful and dumb; weakness for the flesh; savage, animalistic, creature; an empty vessel for everybody’s unwelcome desires. I am very much aware, Poirot. I knew at 12 when men my father’s age asked me if I had a boyfriend and I knew at 35 when I decided I had to die.’
The famous detective seems to shrink and flatten under her words; stringless. He finally looks like what he is: an old man, living on the past and struggling for relevance in the present.
‘But please, how did you do it? How did you fool me?’ Poirot says pitifully, his moustaches quivering. He needs to know. He needs this more than anything.
Arlena Stuart Marshall, deceased, looks at the little detective and feels nothing. She won long ago and this interaction, though much desired, was not needed.
‘Monsieur Poirot, you will never know. Enjoy the rest of the play.’
And with those words, the crowd swallows her up and she does not look back.
How about you just skip this one and read the fanfic epilogue I just wrote to make myself feel better about this whole mess?
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
3 years later
Poirot does not know what makes him pay attention. It is definitely not the hair. The dead woman had hair made of fire, whilst the one in front of him has dark mahogany hair – sleek bobbed and healthy looking. Maybe it is the way she holds herself, the curve of her mouth or how the air seems to shimmer around her. But he’s almost sure. No, he is sure that it cannot be anybody but her.
‘Madame Marshall?’
Arlena Marshall turns unhurriedly towards the small man and regards him coolly. She doesn’t seem surprised, but merely expectant, as if she had been waiting for this moment for decades and he just happens to be late.
‘Hello, M. Poirot. Wasn’t the first half just marvellous? The lead actors are veterans, but I believe the young girl is the one to keep an eye on.’
‘But Madame, please, how is this possible? I have touched your cold skin, I studied and learnt about you like a much loved book, I solved your murder!’
The woman throws back her head and laughs deeply, a laugh that seems to come from the very core of her. She does not cover her mouth or hold her coat more securely around her shoulders. Poirot can perfectly see the long expanse of her throat, her strong chin and shiny teeth. ‘But for a dead woman’, Poirot thinks, ‘she still makes the loveliest corpse.’
‘You studied and learnt about me like a much loved book. How embarrassing. I must admit, M. Poirot, I expected more from you,’ the woman who was Arlena Marshall says.
He looks at her. At this Arlena Marshall who is so unlike Arlena Marshall in all the small ways that count and the same in all the big ones that do not. This undead woman looks at objects and people in a very direct manner. She looks as if she knows exactly the power of her rounded shoulders and her strong calves. This woman is unafraid of him, Hercule Poirot. And that, that is something he cannot stand.
Poirot draws himself up to his full 163cm and touches his perfect moustaches twice before launching into a speech worthy of his name.
‘But yes, Madame, you are an actress. One cannot forget. But can even someone of your obvious calibre maintain such an act? It must be so! But the clues, Madame, the clues. They did not lie! Your husband pitied you! And the women, poor little Linda, they all felt suffocated by your very presence. And of course, the criminals confessed! I, myself, extracted the admission of guilt from them. It all fitted together, like a beautiful puzzle, the black cat and the white tail!’
Two red ugly splotches have formed on the great detective’s cheeks. He does not think he has ever felt this way before. He does not think. He cannot.
Arlena-Not looks on at Poirot like he is a pupil and her a school mistress. She is not angry, just disappointed.
‘Words’, she says. ‘Everybody lies. Isn’t that something all you boy detectives say? Upstanding husbands lie, sensible women lie and even killers do so too.’
‘Money does not lie! You follow the course of the coin and you get the truth.’ With renewed energy, Poirot says. ‘So pray tell, Madame, what about your fortune, the most famous inheritance, robbed piece by piece by the greedy men who promised to love you?’
Again, she laughs, those teeth flashing at him like a dare. ‘There were never any men. Not real ones anyway. Of course, there was the occasional ‘Go get yourself something pretty’ pocket money, but a woman has to have hobbies. The money went away, piece by piece, in safe little pots, just waiting for me.’
‘And the leftover £1500?’ Poirot will find it, the gap in the logic and the world will go back to how it is supposed to be.
‘A token. A going away present if you will. Kenneth was always good to me, in his own way, to the best of his limited abilities. He saw what he wanted to see just like the rest of them.’ She does not seem saddened by this, merely resigned. ‘You think I was unaware, Monsieur? That I did not hear what people have been saying about me my whole life? What You have been saying about me? The actress; Scarlet woman; the Whore of Babylon; tall, beautiful and dumb; weakness for the flesh; savage, animalistic, creature; an empty vessel for everybody’s unwelcome desires. I am very much aware, Poirot. I knew at 12 when men my father’s age asked me if I had a boyfriend and I knew at 35 when I decided I had to die.’
The famous detective seems to shrink and flatten under her words; stringless. He finally looks like what he is: an old man, living on the past and struggling for relevance in the present.
‘But please, how did you do it? How did you fool me?’ Poirot says pitifully, his moustaches quivering. He needs to know. He needs this more than anything.
Arlena Stuart Marshall, deceased, looks at the little detective and feels nothing. She won long ago and this interaction, though much desired, was not needed.
‘Monsieur Poirot, you will never know. Enjoy the rest of the play.’
And with those words, the crowd swallows her up and she does not look back.