As Long As I Hold the String

by nimrudivory

Summary:

When Hastings's friend Lord Alan Sarton has to drop out of their planned excursion to Wimbledon to visit his sick mother, Hastings takes Poirot with him instead. He expects a peaceful day watching tennis, but Poirot has a knack of finding crime wherever he goes.

Notes:

Not 100% canon-compliant.
I do not own these characters and make no profit from them (other than the perennial pleasure of their company).

Chapter 1: Chapter One

"Eh bien, Hastings, if we are to have a distinguished guest for breakfast, it is not the least trouble in the world to make an omelette aux fines herbes. You and your friend Lord Alan have a long day planned, you must not go hungry."

"Oh well, if you're sure it's not too much trouble . . . "

"Non, non, mon ami." My friend Hercule Poirot bustled around the little kitchen of our flat, one eye constantly on his beloved omelette pan, which our charlady was strictly forbidden to touch.

Glancing out the window, the little man said, "I fancy that is our guest now, since none of our neighbours are in the habit of driving a Bugatti." I raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing. Poirot claimed to know little of automobiles, but I fancied he had picked up some of my expertise on the subject. "By the time you have brought our guest upstairs the omelette will be ready."

I did as he suggested, and our guest appeared to be appreciative--at least, he put out his plate for a second helping while continuing to talk. Alan Sarton had been a chatterbox in our schooldays and that at least had not changed. He was eagerly expounding on the tennis matches he and I expected to see that day at Wimbledon, and Poirot was nodding with every appearance of interest.

"But it sounds most engaging, what you describe, Lord Alan. Almost I wish I could go with you today."

"If only I'd known, old chap!' Alan frowned. "Dash it, it's probably too late to try to get another ticket, what a pity."

"Next year, perhaps, " Poirot said quickly. "And when you return tonight we will dine at La Maison Jacques--"

"Excuse me, Monsieur Poirot." Miss Lemon, who had opened the office while we sat over the breakfast table, put her head around the door. "His Lordship's valet is on the telephone."

Alan sprang to his feet. "I hope you don't mind, Poirot, I told Lacey I was coming here. This morning--excuse me for a moment, chaps."

Our guest looked distinctly downcast on his return. "I say, I'm terribly sorry, Hastings, I have to jump ship and leave you in the lurch. Lacey was in a bit of a state. Mother was taken ill last night, poor old thing, and the doc thought it best to send for an ambulance and take her to St Malachy's."

We both expressed sympathy for the poor afflicted lady as Alan rummaged though his pockets.

"Here, Hastings, you take the tickets--" he thrust an envelope into my hand. "Oh, and Poirot can go with you!" He brightened at the thought, for Alan was a genuinely kind soul who enjoyed giving little treats to others.

Despite Poirot's protests that he had affairs to attend to, he was not allowed to refuse. Alan’s enthusiasm carried all before him. Pausing only long enough for Poirot to assume the light overcoat without which he could not entrust himself to the bright June morning, he and I were soon on our way to Wimbledon to watch tennis, while Lord Alan rushed to the hospital. Since St Malachy’s was close to our flat, he insisted that I take the car. I put up only a token protest, for it was not often I had the opportunity to drive a Bugatti Type 38. It is a lovely motor, and I fancied that we two cut quite a dash as we proceeded at a leisurely pace to the hallowed precincts of the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club. It would do Poirot the world of good, I thought, to have a day out in the sunshine, and with my tactful assistance, I had every expectation that he would be taking a keen interest in the Championships by the time we returned.

Chapter 2

Summary:

As Captain Hastings shows his friend Poirot around the grounds of the All-England Club and they find their way onto Centre Court for the first match on the schedule, Hastings is looking forward to a peaceful day of tennis. But will he really get a holiday from crime?

Notes:

Late update is late--real life came and stomped on my writing time. But I wanted to get this chapter up before play began at Wimbledon, which will be in about eight hours. Next update will be quicker, I hope. Play on, gentlemen!

We had a smooth ride through the suburbs to the village of Wimbledon. As I turned the Bugatti onto Church Road, Poirot leaned forward in astonishment at the sight that met our eyes.

“But, Hastings, should we not stop the auto? All these people standing and staring--it appears that there has been an accident—“

“Nothing to worry about, Poirot. That’s just the queue. See, they’re moving along now.” It was an orderly line that shuffled along the pavement, clutching their campstools and cases containing provisions for the day, but I slowed the automobile’s pace to a crawl, in case anyone should be jostled into the road. “By Jove, it is a long queue today—I wonder if they’ll all be admitted? Be a shame if anyone had to be turned away on a glorious day like this.”

I half-expected Poirot to make some jesting comment about the Briton’s passion for standing patiently in long lines, but he was silent and, as I glanced over at him for a moment, I thought he looked melancholy. An absurd fancy struck me: was this patient procession putting my companion in mind of the distressful scenes he must have witnessed in his native country during the War as the Belgian folk fled before the conquering army? Even to me, his closest friend, Poirot rarely spoke of those dark days. He would sometimes talk about this or that intriguing case from his career in the police force, but not of the home and friends he had lost to the German invasion. The little man had found first a refuge and then a home in England. Never in those years had Poirot returned to his native land or even spoken about the possibility of doing so. Only Miss Lemon and I were aware of the cheques written to the worthy causes that had tried to relieve the sad plight of many Belgian refugees, even in earlier years when Poirot could not command the handsome fees for taking private cases that he now enjoyed.

Then, as we neared the gates, I saw my friend smile at the antics of an excited young lad jumping up and down and distracting his father who was rummaging in his pocket for the shillings needed for entrance, and I put aside morbid thoughts. The sun was shining, not something one could always be sure of during Wimbledon fortnight, and we had the prospect of a wonderful day out.

“Once I’ve parked the car, Poirot, we shall have time to walk—er, stroll around the grounds of the club before the first match.” Poirot was not a fervent fan of long walks but I thought he would enjoy watching the mixture of working folk and society’s brightest diamonds that can be seen promenading every year during “The Fortnight.”

Once we had seen the Bugatti safely stowed away, we waked over to the main entrance, I handed our tickets to the custodian at the wrought-iron gate and we stepped inside the Club.
“The oldest tennis tournament in history, is it not so, mon ami?” Poirot looked around the gravel paths leading to the courts with what he no doubt considered to be suitable solemnity.

“Exactly right, but we’re not exactly on hallowed turf here, I’m afraid. The All-England Club actually only moved here to this spot from the old grounds on Worple Road five years ago. The old club was just too small for the mobs of people who wanted to come and see Suzanne Lenglen.”

“Ah, Mademoiselle Lenglen! Of her I have heard, Hastings. A sportswoman of the most consummate ability.” We stepped back to let pass two bustling matrons in fur-trimmed coats rather too warm for the day. “And also famous for her chic,” Poirot added, tactfully refraining from making any unkind comparisons with the ladies hurrying towards Centre Court.

“Yes, indeed—although, to be fair, it was Miss Lenglen’s play that most of the fans came to see, not just her short skirts. Her footwork was astonishing, and I’ve never seen a female with a deadlier serve.” We paused to watch two players practicing on one of the small outer courts. “A better serve than either of those two chaps, as a matter of fact,” I added in a whisper.

“It is a pity we shall not see the divine Suzanne today.” Poirot took his watch from his pocket and consulted it. “But speaking of the day’s play, should we not be proceeding towards our seats, Hastings?”

“We’ve a few minutes in hand, but yes, we should start to move in. People do take a deucedly long time to settle in their seats sometimes. This way, Poirot.” I led us down a side path and we joined the steady flow of spectators making their way through the gates of Centre Court.

“It should be a jolly good match. This English chap, Pratt, is supposed to be not half bad, but of course he’ll be up against it today. Bill Tilden is a master of the game—if he’s in form, we should see some fine play.”

As Poirot and I settled ourselves in the row of seats, I drank in the sight of the fresh green lawn, as yet unsullied by the marks of rubber soles. The ball boys were already in position and the umpire was ready in his high wooden seat. I sat back and prepared to enjoy a peaceful holiday from crime.

Notes:

Hastings and Poirot are attending the Championships in 1927 at their relatively new home in Church Road, Wimbledon. The Frenchwoman Suzanne Lenglen won 31 major titles, including six Wimbledon singles trophies. Her dashing and dominant style of play as well as her flamboyant personality made Lenglen the first female tennis star and one of the internationally famous female athletes. This 1925 photograph shows her strolling the grounds with French player Rene Lacoste http://www.tennis.com.au/photos/2012/06/29/friday-10-to-1-wimbledon-fashions. Even Poirot, who is not exactly a tennis expert, is familiar with her career and her nickname "The Divine One." However, in 1926 she turned professional and did not compete at 1927’s Wimbledon, which was then restricted to amateurs.
American William Tilden II, nicknamed “Big Bill,” had won the Men’s Singles at Wimbledon in 1920 and 1921. Like Suzanne Lenglen, he is considered to be one of the greatest players in the history of the game. The Wimbledon website has archived the results of all matches, but I have been unable to find orders of plays for specific days in 1927. It’s reasonable to assume that Tilden, the no. 2 seed, would have played his first-round match on Centre Court. His opponent was G.A. Pratt of Great Britain.

Notes:

St Malachy's is an imaginary London hospital, located close to Poirot and Hastings's flat. Wimbledon is a village that today forms part of the London suburbs. The All England Lawn and Tennis Club is located at Church Road, Wimbledon, where they have hosted an annual tournament since 1877. The Championships, Wimbledon, is the world's oldest tennis tournament and is considered to be the most prestigious of the four Major championships, often called the Grand Slams. The house of Bugatti produced some of the fastest and most beautiful racing cars of the early 20th century. The Type 38 was produced in 1926 and 1927. It may be a a little OOC for Poirot to venture out in such a speedy roadster, but he trusts Hastings!