|Poirot's most dangerous enemy.|
For starters, I won't support a so-called novelists who does not stand up for his/her character. It's the novelist who creates the character, with all the personality traits; strengths and weaknesses any human (even in the best of us) possesses.
To create a character with quirks, eccentricities, foibles that you can't tolerate in a regular person for five minutes, is STUPID. It makes working with said character just about impossible because said author can't tolerate how the character says a particular word or hums during meals ...or symmetrically organizes mantle-piece ornaments...a characteristic the novelist gave that person. A characteristic in a character is given, it doesn't magically just appear, anymore than a character magically appears on paper. The writer has to pick up a pen and apply ink to paper (or digital type to a document page) and make that character happen. The literary version of sperm and egg. They don't meet accidentally either. Something has to have happened to bring the two elements together.
Unfortunately, how those two elements come together is, very often, the result of irresponsible 'activity' on the part of the male and female involved. Said irresponsible behavior often winds up crippling the life of a child, who is told, his or her entire life, that their mother never wanted kids; as if the child's to blame for his or her existence. I know that feeling, personally. By the same token, Poirot was spoken of, by his creator, like the child she didn't want.
When he was away, I would write to him, and send him story clippings I'd written and he'd write back; telling me of his adventures. I could be the journalist I'd always wanted to be because I'd have someone who told me I could be. When he FINALLY retired, he'd write his stories in books that I would type up.
I would marry, because I'd be able to trust my judgement as well as the opinion of someone, who, I knew, wanted the best for me. But I would never be far from him. Maybe even under the same roof.... apartment building so he could call on me when he needed help.
His memorial service would be attended by many he'd helped over the years, and his good friends. Tears. laughs.Memories. Among the eulogies and presentations would be a recitation of the poem; The City FourSquare / Land of Fadeless Day which I would like Miss Lemon to read. I'm not sure I'd get through it. I'm not sure she would. Maybe we'd read it in turn.
How odd, that the very person Agatha Christie cared so little for was trusted by so many others. Norma Resterick (The Third Girl) felt safer in the home of a perfect stranger than in her family mansion. Katherine Grey trusted the eccentric detective enough to let him be her body guard, her Avuncular, and, well...viewers. Thanks to the screenwriter(s) of The Big Four, Poirot got a decent funeral, which, I think was done as much for fans as for the story.
'Detestable' ? Lady Christie? I think NOT!