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“Monsieur Bridge, he was your…” Poirot hesitated, his eyes shifting from the man on the other side of the sitting room to an otherwise nondescript spot on the wall beyond. He blinked, refocusing on their guest. “You were… Forgive me, the precise phrase, it eludes Poirot.” He glanced at Hastings. Rarely did Poirot find any difficulty in getting his point across – particularly when he wanted information. A potential client usually found themselves walking out of the door having shared rather more of their life story than they’d planned, upon entering. Poirot looked again at the large man sitting uncomfortably on the armchair by the door.
“I say, you were at Eton together, weren’t you?”
Poirot blinked, Hastings’ voice cutting through his thoughts. He was about to open his mouth to amend the damage when, to his utter astonishment, the colonel smiled. “That’s right, we were – though I was a few years older, of course.”
Hastings nodded, blonde hair bouncing endearingly. “I thought I remembered! I was up when Bridge was a senior, you know.”
The colonel had, by now, entirely defrosted, and offered a handshake to Hastings that had his entire arm aching.
“He spoke of you, I ought to have put two and two together, but as Poirot here will tell you, I’m pretty likely to get five when I do.” Hastings gave a self-deprecating grin and the colonel laughed. “I’m glad to know you were close,” he replied, and there was a look in his eye that Poirot felt uncertain how to place.
Hastings was nodding, more seriously. “Not so close,” he replied, and their guest gave a half-smile. “You wrote to him, I recall? He used to hide the letters under the loose floorboard beneath the dresser.”
Poirot cleared his throat. The discussion was getting away from him. A handful of questions were asked further and answered, and then the colonel took his leave. Hastings clasped his shoulder, as he made for the door, and their guest nodded.
Then he was gone.
Poirot looked at Hastings.
“Hastings, why did you feel the need to reminisce about the—how is it? The old school?”
Hastings looked baffled, but shrugged and replied, “You wanted to ask.”
Poirot sighed. “Hastings, Poirot desired to know something far more delicate than the boyhood escapades!”
“Yes. They were lovers.”
Poirot choked on air. He stared at Hastings. Quiet, polite, law-abiding Hastings, who had once blushed scarlet at the suggestion of a suspender in a lady’s bedroom. Hastings, who had calmly returned to his seat and was reaching for the day’s paper.
“And how do you come to this knowledge, mon ami?”
Hastings looked up and frowned. “Well, you know.” Poirot was silent. Hastings hesitated. “He told us.”
Poirot sat down. He steepled his fingers and peered over them at his friend. Was it possible? How did Hastings come to know this secret code, which had clearly communicated to him some hidden information unknown even to Poirot? How casually he had employed it, right in front of his friend!
“Tell Poirot.”
Hastings looked a little put out. “Really, old thing, it isn’t done to come out with these things. They were at Eton together, that’s all. Some chaps never grow out of it.” There was more silence. Hastings was beginning to wonder whether this was not in fact a test, and whether Poirot really did not, in fact, know what Eton meant. “It was the same when I was there. School full of boys, all discovering… matters. Twelve to a dorm, I mean, really, what do they expect? It’s traditional, nothing to it. Generations of chaps have done it.”
He chanced a look at Poirot.
“I say, are you quite all right?” Poirot was looking positively lost.
“This is why you asked?”
Hastings nodded. “Well, yes. You were about to put it to him straight. He would never have given himself away at that. But he knows, you see. Knows I was there too. Nothing to be lost in admitting what we both already knew.” Hastings looked to Poirot and shrugged. “Bridge used to read me his letters. We shared a room.”
Poirot stood suddenly. “Hastings, your English customs, they are…” He made a face. “Poirot, he has never in his life encountered such a system for education. A system so… comprehensive!”
Hastings couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Come now, Poirot. Every great man in this country was the same at fifteen. Twelve to a dorm and all the happier for it. Now. I am going to read the cricket results. I expect we’ll be going to the colonel’s club this evening.”
Hastings settled down with his newspaper. It was a rare feeling, knowing more than Poirot, but a warming one. Perhaps next time, he would reveal more of his own experiences. Perhaps he hadn’t been so close with Bridge, but there were eleven others in his own dorm, after all.
Poirot marched out of the living room, and Hastings watched him go, a fondness in his smile. And one, right here, he hoped, who might prove something more than a roommate.