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A Collection of Crossovers by vvj5 [Reviews - 19]  Chapter or Story Author's Notes: A drabble that got rather out of hand and turned into this bit of nonsense: Three and Jo encounter Hercule Poirot. | |
“However, the vital clue lay in the coded message,” said Hercule Poirot, standing at the centre of the room in the Old Grange, everyone watching him, “thus proving that the murderer was not as the good inspector supposed, Mademoiselle Anne, but was in fact Sir Alexander himself. But what of the butler, you ask? Aha, that was nothing but what you call the red herring!”
The elegant, befrilled stranger stood. “Impressive reasoning, my dear fellow, but not entirely correct.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The ‘code’ was a message in Gallifreyan to the Arkalians and Sir Alexander a mere copy — besides the original was only ever the Master in disguise. I seriously doubt there ever was such a person. Plucky young Anne here destroyed the signal, deflecting the battlefleet; then the facsimile of Sir Alexander killed the unfortunate butler.”
“You were almost right,” said Jo comfortingly. “About the murderer, anyway.”
Poirot glared. “Sir. What jest is this?”
“No need to get so worked up, my dear chap. I merely happen to have one or two advantages over you. I’m sure you’d have worked it out eventually.”
The great detective struggled for words. “You, sir, are a charlatan!”
“Nothing of the kind,” said the Doctor. “If you won’t pay attention to someone with considerably more experience than you in these matters, then I’m afraid to inform you that you are the charlatan. I’ve no time for people who simply won’t listen!”
*
“Doctor,” said Jo. “You spoiled his fun, you know.”
“Well, the man’s clearly too egotistical for his own good — touchy, too.”
“You shouldn’t have said that about his moustache.”
“I don’t see how it was possible to ignore it. I thought the Brigadier’s was quite bad enough, but his — it makes him look quite ridiculous, like a cross between a walrus and a penguin. Vanity is something I have no patience with.”
Jo nodded solemnly, all the while eyeing his velvet jacket, frilled cuffs and cape and reflecting on the performance that had quite eclipsed that of the great Hercule Poirot.
“Come along, we’d better get you back to your own time. I’m dreadfully sorry about the Master spoiling our little trip like that.”
She shrugged, ever the philosopher. “Couldn’t be helped, Doctor.”
“I do wish he’d find something better to do,” he sighed.
Jo smiled up at him and put her arm through his. “Come on, then, back home!”
The Doctor winced. “Must you?”
“Well, back to UNIT, then. The Brigadier will be very cross if he finds we’ve gone off without telling him.”
“Let him. I don’t run around at his beck and call. You know, Jo, there must be something about men with moustaches — probably interferes with the brain. They all seem to have unreasonably high opinions of themselves!”
“It’s shocking,” agreed Jo, so wide-eyed and obviously teasing him that he had to smile.
*
They disappeared into the TARDIS while behind them the renowned detective gathered up the shred of his reputation and proved himself equal to the effort as ever.
But that uncivilised comment about his moustache -. The facial hair in question bristled at the memory. That ignorant remark would not be forgiven in a hurry! When a man failed to appreciate such a work of art there was no hope for him, none at all.
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