User:MacMania/UnMysteries:The Murder on the Rinks
A Quoirot Mystery.
Foreword: In this novel, Hagatha Christie continues the saga of that eternal British partnership between Belgian detective Hercule Quoirot and English gentleman and lovable buffoon Captain Bastings. Set after The Mysterious Affair at the World War Two Convention, the book revolves mainly around the murder of Mr Paul Peugeot, a wealthy man who is found murdered in the coolest way possible. An underlying romantic sub-plot unravels between Bastings and a complete stranger that he meets on a train ride, in a poorly disguised attempt to enable Bastings marrying and moving to Argentina and thus out of the series.
A best-seller upon its publication in 1923, it was followed by Quoirot Investigates, or QI, a collection of short stories in which Quoirot fails to definitively solve any of the cases, but gets points for providing highly interesting answers. These stories as well as this novel were all adapted later for ITV, much to the annoyance of the broadcaster of the rival series The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, which was ITV.
Chapter 1: We Lead up to the Murder[edit | edit source]
I believe that a well-known anecdote exists to the effect that an artist as a young man, determined to rivet the attention of even the most blasé of his editors, wrote the following first line of a novel:
"riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs."
This was, of course, to make the commencement of his novel as confusing and circular as the conclusion of it. It is, however, completely unrelated to the rest of the case I am about to detail to you, and there is only the very slight coincidence that the book involves some castle-like building and its environs.
What I must address first and foremost, of course, is whatever manner in which I and Quoirot survived our brush with death in our previous case of the World War Two Convention murder. You will be disappointed to know that the last three sentences were an outright lie.
After that particular case, I proceeded to travel to Paris to transact some business. On my way back, however, I had the strangest encounter with a young woman. This young woman, unlike previous young women I had met, actually conversed with me. Granted, I asked her to marry me and she cursed at me, but nevertheless this was progress in my social life.
I assumed Quoirot would like to know about this, and I was getting ready to mention this encounter when I saw Quoirot sorting out his mail.
"Miss Lime," I asked Quoirot's secretary, "don't you normally sort Quoirot's mail?"
"I do," replied the ever-charming Miss Lime. "I give him all the inquiries. He just sorts out all of the cases of missing cats."
"Ah, Bastings, mon ami," said Quoirot. "It is lamentable, these rubbish inquiries! Quoirot handles only matters of grave importance, not these trifles!"
"Why, Quoirot? Do you have something against kittens?"
"Non, Bastings." Quoirot glared defensively at me, before returning to the pile of mail. "I merely have my quarrels against these self-important requests. Murders are les choses les plus importantes, n'est-ce pas? They require your utmost attention, your little grey cells—"
Quoirot halted. His eyes were frozen on a letter he had just opened up. Evidently this was a murder case or something that would turn into a murder case by the time of Quoirot's arrival at the scene.
Nevertheless I played along and asked, "What is it, Quoirot?"
"Mon ami, it appears we have an urgent case on our hands. We must leave for Luton at once."
"Luton?"
"Oui."
"Are you sure, Quoirot? What could possibly go wrong in a town like Luton?"
"Mais le lettre, mon ami!"
Quoirot finally showed me the letter, which only said:
- For the love of Pete, get here before someone kills me!
"Well," I admitted, "it does seem somewhat pressing."
"Quoirot," I asked as I practised reckless driving in my Lagonda, "why does it have to be Luton, of all places?"
"Could you detail ce que tu veux dire, Bastings?"
"I mean to complain that this case is not in Paris, or Calais, or even Cardiff."
"Bastings, we cannot expect to always be in famous towns. Là, it is far more difficult to make things up."
We entered a roundabout, and after some confusion on which street we had to exit to, we found ourselves en route to a massive manor in the middle of Luton.
"Quoirot, you never told me who our client was."
"Ah, Bastings, you do not recognise the residence?"
"No, I don't. Wait a minute—that's Weasley House!"
"Précisement."
"The residence of the obscenely rich millionaire Paul Peugeot, then?"
"The very same, Bastings."
"Bastings, I would rather wish that you not say that."
We came to the gate of Weasley House, and an ominous feeling set in for both of us. Perhaps it was the prominent black draping in front of the house, or the general state of disarray, but for some inexplicable reason, I had the feeling that Peugeot was already dead.
Chapter 2: We Discover the Murder[edit | edit source]
We were met at the front of Weasley House by Mrs Peugeot, a charming, beautifully dressed old lady. We showed Mr Peugeot's letter, and Quoirot and I were led to the back of the house. There was a humongous ice rink, completely deserted save for a few workers chipping away at the ice.
"Of course, the rink isn't quite finished yet," said Mrs Peugeot. "But it didn't stop this from happening."
Mrs Peugeot led us to where the workers were. As we got closer, we saw that the workers were cutting out a block of the ice. We got to the scene just in time to see the block being pulled out.
There was a corpse embedded in the ice.
"Good Lord!" I exclaimed. Quoirot glared at me, before resuming his observations.
"But madame," Quoirot inquired, "ice in these rinks are typically no thicker than three centimetres, n'est-ce pas?"
"Why yes," replied Mrs Peugeot. "I don't know how that block of ice could possibly have fit in with the rest of the ice rink."
"But it is obvious, madame. For that patch of ice, the murderer simply dug further into the ground and filled the gaps with more ice."
"Oh," said Mrs Peugeot. "Yes. Of course. Certainly."
"Mrs Peugeot," I chimed in, "when did you discover this had happened?"
"I was there," replied Mrs Peugeot. "Two masked men suddenly ambushed me and my husband. The next thing we know, we're dragged out to this ice rink, and just as they're about to kill us, I'm in my bed. I get up and out to the ice rink, and suddenly there's my husband, in the ice."
"Madame," Quoirot noted, "is it not possible that your two masked men were apparitions in a dream of yours?"
"Yes. Yes, yes it is."
Quickly attempting to move to a different subject, Mrs Peugeot proposed that we have tea in the manor. We both agreed this would be an excellent idea that would allow us to go through some loose exposition on the victim's family.
"Monsieur," said Quoirot, addressing Mr Granger, Weasley House's chief butler, "how did Mr Peugeot typically spend his days?"