Poirot and the Case of the Christmas Goodies (as discovered in the Agatha Christie Archives)

Published on: 14th December 2022

At this time of year, it is of course, as Hercule Poirot would suggest, de rigueur to offer some little token of affection in the spirit of the Christmas Season. Given the immense exertion that my characters endure on my behalf I have chosen, what I consider to be, gifts and delights worthy of their labours. After all, what is Boxing Day without something to relish?

Speaking of relish . . . I begin my list with a small favour for the various mudlarks, paperboys and pickpockets without whom there could be no red herrings, no hearsay to befuddle us in our efforts at solving the case. A simple jar of Tiptree Piccalilli will do nicely for them. Wilkin & Sons Ltd. have a royal warrant, so I daresay this is probably more than they deserve. And it will play nicely with eel pie, I< daresay.

Now on to those for whom we must curry a bit more favor: the valets and Lady’s maids. Because they work quite long hours, awaiting the return of aristocratic playboys and heiresses deep into the night, I have for them the most fortifying of British gifts: tea. For the gentlemen, a new enterprise in the form of Rare Tea Co. The delightful proprietress, Henrietta Lowell, has created a special brew for the Royal Air Force. If it’s good enough for our boys at war, it’s good enough for men who wash collars.

Now, for the Lady’s Maids, you’ve got to stick with tradition and give them Fortnum & Mason’s Royal Blend. Lady’s Maids are by nature a bitter lot, it has to be said, but I am delighted to report that there’s no bitterness in this fortifying cuppa.

On to our main characters: let us begin with our cherished secretary, Miss Felicity Lemon. Filing, making tisanes and running Mr. Poirot’s health regimen with nary a word of complaint, she is due a new hat. Indeed, I would like to suggest that fine purveyer of toppers on St. James’, Lock & Co., as they’ve been flinging hats at the finest heads since the mid-eighteenth century. For country walks, she might find a distinguished Bakerboy serves her well. But, Londoner that she is, I fear that only elegance and drama will endear me to Miss Lemon, therefore I will make arrangements for a veiled pillbox at Rachel Trevor Morgan. On the dear side, so I thank providence that the books are selling well.

Now, I regret that Mr. Hastings’ hopes for the new Lagonda V12 will have to be dashed. He is forever smashing up his cars and my book royalties simply do not run to Italian racing machines. Oh, Mr. Mallowan reminds me they are British. Hard cheese anyway, Arthur. Proper kit for the grouse hunt is the best I’ll do.

Send the man along to Cordings on Piccadilly to be fitted for the khaki shooting vest and persuade the clerk to include a hip flask when he prepares the delivery. Cordings, you realize, has been providing the whatsit to murder birds since 1839, so it ought to suffice for dear old Hastings. He’s moving on to the Argentine soon anyway, and has no need for a motor car.

Inspector Japp: deerskin gloves to replace the ghastly knitted confections of his wife. Turnbull and Asser are, naturally, far too good for a policeman but there ’tis. A time to every purpose, and all that. Besides, the dear man has been such a help to the estimable Mr. P.

And of course, Monsieur Hercule Poirot, the star and the sine quo non. For him, a demi-kilo of chocolates most excellent from Charbonnel et Walker will be most welcome. What you ask, only chocolate for the world’s greatest detective? No dressing gown? No fine crème de menthe? What must be understood about M. Poirot is the tact, the understatement, the finesse. To embarrass him with de trop would be unseemly. And, if you saw his salary, you would quite agree.

Lastly, you may enquire: what about our killers and murderesses? Do they not deserve some consideration for bringing us their crimes with such devotion? To this I say, yes. But what you fail to remember, dear Reader, is that they have all been hanged. And a very happy Christmas to you.

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As unearthed by
Suzanne Meyers

Instagram: @iamsuzannem or @3.6.9.magic