Happy Liqueur Day!
Oct. 17th, 2023 01:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stonepicnicking_okapiYesterday (16 Oct) was Liqueur Day, which made me think of Poirot so I wrote a short very angsty thing about Hastings grieving after the death of Poirot. I also remembered a nice short story by Catherine Aird called "Steady as She Goes" in which a woman is poisoned in a cocktail and the liqueurs form part of the clue (It's part of the Injury Time collection).
Do you like any liqueurs? Creme de menthe, amaretto, grenadine, etcetera.
Arthur Hastings slipped out of the memorial service as soon as it ended with none of the other persons in attendance any the wiser.
His friend was no more. The great Hercule Poirot was no more. It seemed incredible.
Perhaps it was.
Hastings was still harbouring some irrational suspicion that it was all a hoax, a mistake, a scheme even though he had found Poirot himself, even though he knew the whole of the horrible circumstances which had provoked the act.
The why of it ceased to matter. His friend was gone.
Hastings did not know where his feet were taking him. They seemed to be moving with some haste towards an unknown destination. He passed a restaurant with a large front window. Then he stopped and looked inside. It was empty. The wrong hour. In truth, he could not remember the last time he had eaten. He’d had no appetite for days. He still didn’t…
Nevertheless, his feet took him inside.
The person that greeted him seemed to understand his need better than he did. There was a warm salutation, reassurance that it was not too early, and an efficient tour toward a small table very aptly situated. One could watch the world beyond the window if one wished; one could also turn one’s attention toward the interior dining area.
Really, Hastings had no appetite for either view or nourishment.
Some sort of soup. Maybe an omelet.
He looked at the place setting before him and made a cursory attempt to make the cutlery, plates, glasses, and other accoutrement, just so. He thought about hens and oval eggs and smiled.
Then the same jovial man who’d greeted Hastings brought the menu and tactfully left him to peruse it at his leisure.
Hastings let his eyes fall on the options—and almost gasped.
Oh.
Oh.
The man returned, and Hastings made his request.
There was some kind of soup. And then some kind of omelet.
And then…
And then, Arthur Hastings had a tiny ridiculous glass of sirop de cassis.
It was disgusting. He loathed every sip. It tasted like medicine, sickeningly sweet medicine. He had no idea how anyone could find pleasure in the taste.
And before he even knew what was happening, there was a wetness dripping onto the linen covering the table.
The restaurateur quietly lowered the shade of the window, and Hastings wept for his loss.
Do you like any liqueurs? Creme de menthe, amaretto, grenadine, etcetera.
Arthur Hastings slipped out of the memorial service as soon as it ended with none of the other persons in attendance any the wiser.
His friend was no more. The great Hercule Poirot was no more. It seemed incredible.
Perhaps it was.
Hastings was still harbouring some irrational suspicion that it was all a hoax, a mistake, a scheme even though he had found Poirot himself, even though he knew the whole of the horrible circumstances which had provoked the act.
The why of it ceased to matter. His friend was gone.
Hastings did not know where his feet were taking him. They seemed to be moving with some haste towards an unknown destination. He passed a restaurant with a large front window. Then he stopped and looked inside. It was empty. The wrong hour. In truth, he could not remember the last time he had eaten. He’d had no appetite for days. He still didn’t…
Nevertheless, his feet took him inside.
The person that greeted him seemed to understand his need better than he did. There was a warm salutation, reassurance that it was not too early, and an efficient tour toward a small table very aptly situated. One could watch the world beyond the window if one wished; one could also turn one’s attention toward the interior dining area.
Really, Hastings had no appetite for either view or nourishment.
Some sort of soup. Maybe an omelet.
He looked at the place setting before him and made a cursory attempt to make the cutlery, plates, glasses, and other accoutrement, just so. He thought about hens and oval eggs and smiled.
Then the same jovial man who’d greeted Hastings brought the menu and tactfully left him to peruse it at his leisure.
Hastings let his eyes fall on the options—and almost gasped.
Oh.
Oh.
The man returned, and Hastings made his request.
There was some kind of soup. And then some kind of omelet.
And then…
And then, Arthur Hastings had a tiny ridiculous glass of sirop de cassis.
It was disgusting. He loathed every sip. It tasted like medicine, sickeningly sweet medicine. He had no idea how anyone could find pleasure in the taste.
And before he even knew what was happening, there was a wetness dripping onto the linen covering the table.
The restaurateur quietly lowered the shade of the window, and Hastings wept for his loss.