There had been some minor annoyances with the unpacking of the files and the mail, notably an invite to a show by Carlotta Adams, but these were swept aside when Mister Poirot tore open a telegram. "It is from the good Captain Hastings," he said aloud, his tone one of mingled surprise and pleasure.
It had been a year since he left, a year in which I told myself I didn't love him, in which I'd told myself repeatedly he was gone forever and I had to move on, that I would move on, that I had moved on. A year in which I'd lied, because when Poirot mentioned his name I felt my heart ache uselessly. "All the way from Argentina?" I asked. My voice was a little unsteady with the hint of a gasp, but it didn't matter; Mister Poirot had known that I loved the captain before I'd really admitted it to myself.
"Non, non, non, Miss Lemon; from Paris. He writes that he is in transit from Buenos Aires to London, and the aeroplane, it arrives in-," he pulled out his pocket watch, "just one hour from now." His voice had been steadily rising in excitement and as he got to his feet I saw his eyes were gleaming with a spark that had been absent for far too long. "Quick, Miss Lemon, we must make haste."
"Do you want me to come with you?" I asked in some surprise.
He paused, considering my words. "Oui, Miss Lemon. Or do you prefer not to see mon cher Hastings?"
I hesitated, but it was really no choice at all. "Just let me get my coat."
It wasn't until we were almost at the airport that I managed to ask the question that I'd been probing in my mind like a sore tooth. "What about his wife?"
"Well of course she will be with him." Mister Poirot said confidently. He rested a hand briefly on my arm. "Courage, mon cher Miss Lemon." He murmured and I managed to smile.
I couldn't help but smile again when he hurried out of the taxi and moved quickly to the desk asking for information. He made a quick "Tcha!" of disgust at the news that the plane had already landed and asked if a Captain Hastings had been aboard. I glanced around and felt the breath catch in my throat at the sight of the familiar tall figure. "Mister Poirot – there he is now."
Poirot strode forward, calling out his name. "Hastings!"
He turned, and then I saw his face split into the smile I remembered so well. "Poirot! My dear chap!" He met Poirot's advance and shook his hand warmly, submitting to Poirot's embrace with the best grace an Englishman could muster.
"Mon cher Hastings; it was beyond all my expectations to see you again so soon."
I could feel myself smiling like a fool. "Welcome home, Captain Hastings."
"Miss Lemon." Still smiling, he moved as though to embrace me. Once I would've welcomed it but now, conscious of the gold wedding band shining bright on his left hand, I shrunk away from it, shaking his hand instead.
Poirot gestured to the cases stacked on a porter's trolley. "All these baggages?"
"Well, they're all mine."
"You intend then to remain for some time?" Poirot asked.
"Well – er, yes." I saw something flicker in his eyes as he spoke, something not like him.
Poirot's gaze went beyond him. "And – Madam Hastings?"
For the first time his happy expression slipped, and I saw the emotion I'd seen flicker in his eyes earlier was an unhappiness so intense, so unlike him I felt sympathy rise in me instinctively. I glanced at Mister Poirot. He had noticed – there was the slightest hint of a frown tugging at his brows. Our eyes met briefly. "Come, mes amies, let us see if we can find somewhere that sells here the tisanes and English tea." He said firmly.
Over tea, tisane and cakes the whole story came out – how they'd struggled to make the ranch a going concern. Everything had been going well, he said (given his comments about how hard Bella found it to adjust to the life I doubted it, but held my tongue), until he'd invested in a bogus railway company and had lost everything he'd put in. "And that was when Bella decided enough was enough, really." He concluded.
"She left you?" I asked quietly.
"Oh no. We talked about it, and eventually agreed to admit we'd made a mistake and bow out gracefully."
I met Mister Poirot's eyes across the table, saw his fingers flex briefly as he gripped his mug in a rare moment of anger and knew he'd heard the same note in Captain Hastings' voice as I had: for all he might try to portray it as an amicable split I could guess it had been a far more unpleasant affair, and from the deep unhappiness in his eyes I could imagine some pretty hurtful things had been said and felt my temper rise. Captain Hastings was one of the most amicable people I'd ever met. In all the time I'd worked with them, I'd never once seen him lose his temper – his occasional flicker of annoyance was the closest thing to it I'd ever seen, and Mister Poirot was enough to try anyone's temper at times. Even if their marriage hadn't worked out, she needn't have been savage about it.
"So what will you do now, mon ami?" Poirot asked. "Will you return to South America?"
"No. Bella's stayed on to sell the ranch. I'll look for a flat here. If I can afford London prices." He almost sighed at the end of his words.
"Will you get anything from the sale of the ranch?" I asked.
"Possibly." He said rather vaguely, but his eyes slid away from mine, and I knew he wouldn't, and knew that he knew it - he'd let her have it as an apology for what he'd done. It would probably more than cover the money he'd lost, but it would be easy to make him feel guilty enough that he'd never even try to get his fair share of the money. I was angry at the callous way his wife seemed to have treated him and would have spoken my mind had it not been for the deeply unhappy look on his face that tugged at my heart.
Without thinking I put a hand on his arm. "Poor Captain Hastings." I said. "You need taking out of yourself. I know – why don't you take him to that show?" I asked Poirot.
"Show?" He looked puzzled.
"Carlotta Adams. It's on tonight and everyone says she's most amusing."
He wasn't keen, but it seemed Mister Poirot couldn't resist an unhappy Captain Hastings any more than I could, so he agreed.
And after that, they were too busy investigating a murder for Hastings to spend much time brooding over the failure of his marriage.
While I was sorry that his marriage hadn't worked, I had to admit to myself that I was happy he was back; sometimes seeing them both in the sitting room it felt almost as though we'd slipped back in time to before their trip to Deauville and Hastings' marriage. The only sore points were when I saw the unhappy expression cross his face and knew he was thinking about his marriage, or when I pointed out the flats I'd seen advertised in the papers – not that he ever said, but I realised that he wouldn't be able to find anything he wanted at a price he could afford, and that set him back on thinking of the money he'd lost. I wanted to tell him it wasn't his fault – sometimes people just had bad luck; thousands of people had lost their money in the financial crash in the 1920s, but I knew he wouldn't accept my words. He was too honourable and honest to take that as a comfort.
One morning I took the post in to find Mister Poirot sitting in his classic 'thinking' pose – eyes closed, fingertips pressed together and resting against his lower lip. "Here's your post, Mister Poirot." I placed it on his desk; he didn't respond, so I turned away. I caught Hastings' eye and gave him a slight shrug; he smiled – he was as familiar with Poirot's ways as I was. "And this arrived for you, Captain Hastings." I handed him a letter.
"For me? Thank you, Miss Lemon."
We might have spoken more, but at that moment the phone rang and I hurried back to my office. It was simply a routine enquiry, and after I'd dealt with them I got back to my typing.
After a while there was a tap on the door and Hastings looked into the room. "Sorry to bother you, Miss Lemon. Is that box that Poirot keeps his mementos in still here?"
Poirot's 'momentos' were an obscure collection of objects, not of any monetary value but all connected with various cases and valuable because of that. "It's in the top drawer of the bureau, Captain Hastings." I told him and shifted my gaze back to my typing.
A sharp bright 'clink' of sound drew my head up; Hastings was closing the drawer. He had an odd expression on his face as though he was trying to smile but couldn't remember how and was flexing his left hand as if it stung. I noticed the bright gleam of gold was gone – he'd removed his wedding ring; I could see the skin underneath was pale where he'd worn it every day under the hot Argentinian sun. "Well, there's not much point in wearing that anymore." He said; his tone matched his expression – trying for lightness but failing.
"Are you all right, Captain Hastings?" I asked.
The attempt at lightness drained out of him and he leaned back against the bureau, a bleak expression settling on his face. "Not really, Miss Lemon," he admitted. "That letter was the official degree nisi."
The papers for the first stage of his divorce.
"I am sorry." I said, and I meant it. If his wife had made him happy I would've grieved for myself but been happy for him; instead I felt a seething anger at the fact that he'd been treated so badly. Some instinct for fairness reminded me that I didn't know the ins and outs of his marriage, but it didn't matter; I knew him. He gave a nod in response but didn't say anything. "Are you going to contest it?" I asked.
He sighed. "No. I don't think there's any point. You can't make someone love you, can you?"
His words struck home harder than he'd ever realise. "No, Captain Hastings, you can't." I said quietly.
"We were happy at first, you know." He said quietly. "Or at least I thought we were. And then Bella said-" he stopped whatever he'd been about to say, and swallowed. "Well, never mind what she said." He sighed. What would you have done, Miss Lemon?" he asked. "If you were married to me-" at my startled look, he amended hastily, "-or not me, but someone who did what I did – what would you have done? Would you have divorced me?"
"I would've called you every kind of idiot under the sun." I told him. "And then I would've hugged you and told you it didn't matter."
He looked surprised at my words. "It would take more than that to get me to leave you, Captain Hastings." I said firmly.
He gave me a faint smile, and I saw some of the bleakness in his eyes lighten. "Thanks, Miss Lemon." He said. His slight smile turned rueful. "Maybe I should have looked for a woman with your strength of character rather than simply falling for a girl because I thought she had pretty eyes or sang nicely."
I could feel myself going white at his words, the blood draining out of my face. Maybe you should have. I love you, Captain Hastings, and it hurts so much. I practically had to bite my lip to prevent myself saying the words.
He saw my expression and misunderstood. "Oh, good lord, I'm sorry, Miss Lemon. I didn't mean-" he began, sounding horrified and embarrassed in equal measure.
I shook my head. "It's alright, Captain Hastings. You just startled me."
"Well, quite. After all, I imagine I'd drive you to distraction." He said awkwardly.
I managed to smile as I stood up and collected the letters that needed Mister Poirot's signature. "Sometimes you do." I agreed. "But only sometimes."
The end of the case. Jane Wilkinson has been arrested for the murder of her husband, and the Duke of Merton sent a substantial cheque in thanks. Mister Poirot, in one of his remarkable bursts of generosity, had requested he made the cheque out to Captain Hastings as it was one of his remarks - something about 'the other way around' – that enabled him to solve the case and after some good-natured teasing from Poirot, Japp and myself about investing in a railway he's agreed to put it away in a bank. It will enable him to buy a flat and continue working with Poirot. I'm just glad he's staying, both selfishly for myself and also because I think working with Poirot will help him get over any feelings of failure.
The telephone called me back to my office, and I left the three of them to the champagne. I could hear the soft murmur of voices outside and was half-aware that it was Hastings seeing Japp to the door. My work took up most of my attention so it was a while before I realised I was no longer alone and looked up to see him hovering in the doorway. "Is something wrong, Captain Hastings?" I asked politely.
"I'm not sure, Miss Lemon." He stepped into my office proper and shut the door behind him before sauntering a couple of steps forward, hands characteristically in pockets. For some reason I felt decidedly uncomfortable, like a cornered animal, and had to fight a sudden idiotic urge to escape.
"I've been thinking, Miss Lemon," he said quietly, and while I'm nowhere near as sharp as Poirot is-,"
"No one is." I said drily and we shared a smile; we were both aware of Poirot's intelligence, and his own awareness of it.
"Well, I like to think I'm not a complete fool," he continued, "and I've noticed that whenever I mentioned my marriage or divorce you seemed to react adversely, particularly when I asked you to imagine being married to me."
"I didn't mean-" I began and he held up a hand.
"Please, let me finish." He said, and I fell silent. "I thought at first maybe you found the idea of being married to someone like me appalling, but you never acted as though you found me repellent before; I always thought we got on very well."
I wanted to speak, but couldn't think of anything to say. We had been friends, surely if I made an effort we could be again. The next time he met a woman (as he surely would) I'd be able to deal with it.
"Then that thing Poirot said about things the other way around." He said. "I began to wonder if, instead of being appalled it was because it was something you wanted. Or at least, something you could imagine yourself wanting." He was flushing slightly as he spoke; he wasn't a conceited man.
I could feel myself blushing a horrified red – how had he managed to work it out all by himself? "If I'm wrong, I hope you'll forgive me." He continued. Before I could think to ask what he meant, he took the step that separated us, touched my cheek lightly with his fingertips and kissed me.
I'd dreamt of this moment, and even though it was only the slightest brushing of lips I felt it shooting down every nerve and my blood surged up in eager response, sending a glow of warmth through me. Oh yes… I thought helplessly.
After a long moment that was nevertheless far too short he pulled back slightly. "Well I haven't had my face slapped yet." He said lightly. He was almost smiling, and the warm affection in his gaze was enough to make me catch my breath.
"Captain Hastings-" I began unsteadily.
"Arthur," he corrected, "unless you're about to tell me things have to stay on a strictly business footing between us."
"Arthur." I said softly, relishing the sound of his name on my lips. Almost marvelling at my behaviour, I reached out to curl a hand around the back of his neck and stood up on tiptoe to touch my mouth to his.
I thought I heard him murmur "Felicity," before his lips touched mine, his arms going around my waist and I smiled against his mouth, knowing that there was no need for words; because, really, what was there to say just then but 'I love you'?
Poirot set his half-empty glass down on the table. Champagne was all very well when celebrating, but left on his own now the detective preferred a tisane. He moved to the window of Miss Lemon's office to request she make one, and his eyebrows rose at the sight of his secretary in his friend's arms.
He smiled and moved away to give then the illusion of privacy. He picked up his glass and raised it in a silent toast. "Well done, mon ami," he murmured, "for once you have solved the mystery by yourself!"