talking to them and
took pains to listen to what they had to say
with great intensity.
I believe that if you listen well, you are a
sympathetic person, and this was very much
what I wanted to show in my Poirot. There is
nothing better, to me, than someone who
has the patience to listen carefully, and give
what I call ‘good ear’. As my character note
number twenty-seven said of him, ‘An
excellent
listener.
Often disconcertingly
silent. Lets other people do the talking.’
Taking infinite care to listen and talk to
everyone, regardless of their class or status,
Poirot represents everyman – and he shows
it time after time throughout Dame Agatha’s
stories. He is not Sherlock Holmes,
dismissively lecturing a policeman or a
wealthy landowner about their foolishness.
Poirot cares about people too much for that.
He sympathises with them, and shows that
he does so, in story after story.
The more Poirot welcomes his fellow
characters,
the
more
the
audience
sympathise with him, and the more he
extends his gentle control over everything
around him, as if wrapping it all in his own
personal glow. I believe he is unique in
fictional detectives in that respect, because
he carefully welcomes everyone – be they
reader, viewer, or participant character –
into his drama. He then quietly explains
what it all means and, in doing so, he
becomes what one critic called ‘our dearest
friend’.
That was exactly what I was trying to do,
and so it was very satisfying when the critic
in question, Dany Margolies, put it into
words: ‘In large part it’s the contradictions
Suchet has given the character that make
him so appealing. Poirot dislikes so many
things, so craves perfection in his own life,
yet Suchet’s interpretation feels such deep
caring and empathy for humanity. He is
brilliant,
yet
can
communicate
with
everyone.’
That was my aim for the second series –
to make my Poirot a man you would
welcome to tea, who would not judge you,
but who would listen to you and help you if
you needed it. I think that began to emerge
in Peril at End House.
End House demonstrates Dame Agatha’s
skill as a storyteller, for she always does
something that neither the reader nor the
television audience ever quite expect. Like
an expert magician – a character she
frequently puts into her stories – she knows
how to compel her audience to concentrate
on one thing while she is working her spell
on something else that perhaps they ignore
or miss. She always knows her ending well
before the denouement – and it would
usually never have entered the audience’s
head.
I have to confess at once that, even
though I have become Poirot for millions of
people around the world, even I cannot
always work out the resolution to her
mysteries before she tells me. Dame Agatha
is too clever for me.
That is certainly true of Peril at End House,
which ends in a séance after the reading of
the fragile Miss Buckley’s will. Poirot reveals
the identity of the murderer with a real coup
de théâtre, but only after inviting Miss
Lemon to summon the spirit world. The true
identity of the killer is certainly not obvious
to the audience. They need Poirot to reveal
it. Then they can see the truth, but only after
they have been gently led towards it.
That makes the ending of the story all the
more powerful, when the killer describes
Poirot as a ‘silly little man’ before adding,
‘You don’t know anything,’ when it is only too
clear that he knows everything.
Peril at End House is such a fine mystery
that the actor and playwright Arnold Ridley,
author of The Ghost Train and star of BBC
Television’s Dad’s Army, adapted it for the
stage in 1940 with Francis L. Sullivan as
Poirot. It opened at the Vaudeville Theatre
in May 1940. Sadly it lasted for just twenty-
three performances, in spite of receiving
some positive reviews from the critics.
Perhaps the
took pains to listen to what they had to say
with great intensity.
I believe that if you listen well, you are a
sympathetic person, and this was very much
what I wanted to show in my Poirot. There is
nothing better, to me, than someone who
has the patience to listen carefully, and give
what I call ‘good ear’. As my character note
number twenty-seven said of him, ‘An
excellent
listener.
Often disconcertingly
silent. Lets other people do the talking.’
Taking infinite care to listen and talk to
everyone, regardless of their class or status,
Poirot represents everyman – and he shows
it time after time throughout Dame Agatha’s
stories. He is not Sherlock Holmes,
dismissively lecturing a policeman or a
wealthy landowner about their foolishness.
Poirot cares about people too much for that.
He sympathises with them, and shows that
he does so, in story after story.
The more Poirot welcomes his fellow
characters,
the
more
the
audience
sympathise with him, and the more he
extends his gentle control over everything
around him, as if wrapping it all in his own
personal glow. I believe he is unique in
fictional detectives in that respect, because
he carefully welcomes everyone – be they
reader, viewer, or participant character –
into his drama. He then quietly explains
what it all means and, in doing so, he
becomes what one critic called ‘our dearest
friend’.
That was exactly what I was trying to do,
and so it was very satisfying when the critic
in question, Dany Margolies, put it into
words: ‘In large part it’s the contradictions
Suchet has given the character that make
him so appealing. Poirot dislikes so many
things, so craves perfection in his own life,
yet Suchet’s interpretation feels such deep
caring and empathy for humanity. He is
brilliant,
yet
can
communicate
with
everyone.’
That was my aim for the second series –
to make my Poirot a man you would
welcome to tea, who would not judge you,
but who would listen to you and help you if
you needed it. I think that began to emerge
in Peril at End House.
End House demonstrates Dame Agatha’s
skill as a storyteller, for she always does
something that neither the reader nor the
television audience ever quite expect. Like
an expert magician – a character she
frequently puts into her stories – she knows
how to compel her audience to concentrate
on one thing while she is working her spell
on something else that perhaps they ignore
or miss. She always knows her ending well
before the denouement – and it would
usually never have entered the audience’s
head.
I have to confess at once that, even
though I have become Poirot for millions of
people around the world, even I cannot
always work out the resolution to her
mysteries before she tells me. Dame Agatha
is too clever for me.
That is certainly true of Peril at End House,
which ends in a séance after the reading of
the fragile Miss Buckley’s will. Poirot reveals
the identity of the murderer with a real coup
de théâtre, but only after inviting Miss
Lemon to summon the spirit world. The true
identity of the killer is certainly not obvious
to the audience. They need Poirot to reveal
it. Then they can see the truth, but only after
they have been gently led towards it.
That makes the ending of the story all the
more powerful, when the killer describes
Poirot as a ‘silly little man’ before adding,
‘You don’t know anything,’ when it is only too
clear that he knows everything.
Peril at End House is such a fine mystery
that the actor and playwright Arnold Ridley,
author of The Ghost Train and star of BBC
Television’s Dad’s Army, adapted it for the
stage in 1940 with Francis L. Sullivan as
Poirot. It opened at the Vaudeville Theatre
in May 1940. Sadly it lasted for just twenty-
three performances, in spite of receiving
some positive reviews from the critics.
Perhaps the
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