“It is a situation most perplexing, Miss Lemon,” Hercule Poirot declared, twirling the ends of his immaculate moustache with grave precision.
“You remember the Mercury 13 investigation from a couple of years ago? The situation, I regret to say, remains most… unsatisfactory. There are inconsistencies, contradictions… and, how do you say, a distinct aroma of something not quite right.”
Miss Lemon looked up, intrigued. “You mean to investigate, Hercule?”
“Mais oui. We must time travel to Lewes. My good friend the Doctor will be lending us his TARDIS. We shall take… how you call it… an Air B’n’B and observe. I suspect, beneath the surface of this charming town, there are forces at work that do not wish to be seen.”
“Oh, I love Lewes, Hercule,” Miss Lemon replied brightly. “What a treat.”
Poirot paused, lowering his voice.
“Let us only hope, mademoiselle, that we are not… how do they say… beaten up for being DFLs.”
“DFL?” Miss Lemon frowned.
“Oui, mon ami. The great scourge of the town—Down From Londoners. Feared. Resented. Possibly overcharged for artisan coffee.”
At the Pan: “Mon Dieu,” Poirot muttered, glancing at his notes, “another most dismal 5–0 thrashing at home… and still one must queue an eternity for a glass of absinthe. There is, I think, a pattern here. A most troubling pattern.”
He straightened his tie.
“Come, Miss Lemon. The game, as they say in this country, is most certainly afoot.”
Later, seated in the Lansdown Arms, they stuck out like a pair of complete eccentrics, two figures who looked as though they had taken a wrong turn on the way to a particularly niche fancy dress party.
Miss Lemon glanced around. “I do believe, Hercule, we are being stared at.”
Poirot sipped delicately. “Naturally. Genius, mademoiselle, is rarely understood… particularly when it orders absinthe in Lewes.”
He leaned in, lowering his voice.
“What we know so far, Miss Lemon, is that this club has been run like a merde show for years. For ten years, the fans—the owners, do not forget, have been told all manner of bull merde.”
Miss Lemon nodded briskly, notebook ready.
“‘We are still in discussions with various parties,’” Poirot continued, rolling his eyes ever so slightly. “Again and again. Like a stuck 78 rpm record, repeating the same tired refrain.”
He tapped the table for emphasis.
“And when an interested party did arrive? They messed it up. Then—magnifique!—they managed to sabotage an internal investment idea as well.”
Poirot sat back, steepling his fingers.
“Truly remarkable. How do you say… incompetence of the highest order.”
He paused, then added quietly:
“But incompetence alone, Miss Lemon, is rarely the full story.”
Tomorrow I meet someone who has some information, maybe we can start to piece together the crazy puzzle.
By tomorrow Miss Lemon had a stinking hangover.
She had, the night before, got herself thoroughly lashed, and, as Poirot noted with quiet but unmistakable disapproval, entangled, and so it was not until midday that she finally staggered into Heaven is a Percolator.
Poirot surveyed the room with suspicion.
“An establishment most… pretentious, would you not say, Miss Lemon?”
He paused, eyeing her dark glasses.
“And why, I ask, are you wearing sunglasses indoors?”
Miss Lemon winced. “Operational necessity, Hercule.”
“Ah,” Poirot nodded. “Then the operation has clearly been… extensive.”
He leaned forward, lowering his voice.
“It is most curious, Miss Lemon. Last year, the club went, how do you say, on the scrounge. A most urgent appeal for funds to see them through the summer. A very large sum is required. Over £100,000, perhaps.”
Miss Lemon scribbled, slowly and painfully.
“And yet,” Poirot continued, raising a finger, “in the accounts we see a single donation. £90,000.”
He let that sit.
“The club claims that normal turnover and sponsorship covered the season’s expenses. So I ask you, did they raise sufficient funds at all? Or were they, in truth, rescued by one individual?”
Miss Lemon gave a faint nod, immediately regretting it.
Poirot pressed on, eyes narrowing.
“And this individual… this benefactor… who writes a cheque for £90,000 to support a failing enterprise, do they do so out of pure generosity?”
He paused.
“Or do they expect influence?”
Miss Lemon swallowed.
Poirot’s tone hardened.
“Because what follows is most instructive. Shortly thereafter, the club declares that the women’s team must be opened up to investment. That the very structure of fan ownership must be… adjusted.”
He tapped the table.
“A coincidence? Perhaps. But I do not believe in coincidences, Miss Lemon. Only in patterns.”
He leaned closer.
“And here is where the matter becomes, how do you say… offensive.”
Miss Lemon blinked.
“This is a club that proclaims itself fan-owned. A club that lectures others on transparency. On accountability. On doing things the right way.”
Poirot spread his hands slowly.
“And yet—what do we see?”
“Secrecy. Omission. Evasion.”
“No clarity on who this investor is.”
“No clarity on what they want.”
“No clarity on what has already been agreed.”
He shook his head.
“The owners, the supporters, are left entirely in the dark. They are expected to applaud, to trust, to accept… without being told the truth.”
He leaned back, voice now cold.
“That is not transparency, Miss Lemon.”
“That is not accountability.”
“That is the very opposite.”
Miss Lemon murmured something that may have been agreement, or may have been a request for water.
Poirot continued, relentless.
“They speak of a ‘preferred investor.’ They say this individual aligns with the club’s values.”
He allowed himself a thin smile.
“But those values are transparency and accountability… so this investor is the least suitable person imaginable.”
He paused for effect.
“Because what we see instead is maybe a relationship built on secrecy, influence, and quiet control. We assume that , it may well not be the case, but if the owners are not told, they know no better”
He tapped his temple.
“The little grey cells tell me this: the principles of the club have not merely been bent…”
He leaned in.
“They have been shafted.”
Miss Lemon flinched slightly.
“And the owners?” Poirot continued. “The fans, the members, the people who are told they own this club?”
He shrugged.
“They too, I fear, have been shafted. I like that word.”
A long silence followed.
Miss Lemon, hungover, overwhelmed, and now thoroughly disillusioned, slumped in her chair—hovering somewhere between consciousness and collapse.
Poirot sighed softly.
“A tragedy, Miss Lemon.”
He glanced around the café.
“A tragedy… served with oat milk.”
“And so,” Poirot continued, steepling his fingers as Miss Lemon visibly deteriorated before him, “the club tells its supporters at the end of last year that it will go bust without investment.”
He paused.
“And yet, miraculously, it does not.”
Miss Lemon groaned faintly.
“Presumably,” Poirot went on, “this mysterious investor continues to bankroll the club. He is now tied in. He is bailing the club out. And if the club collapses, he loses his money.”
Poirot raised an eyebrow.
“So I ask you, Miss Lemon… n’est-ce pas? When the club speaks of a ‘preferred investor’… is it not simply the case that he is the only investor?”
He allowed the thought to linger.
“Because he is already committed. Already exposed. Already… how do you say… in too deep.”
Miss Lemon’s pen slipped from her hand.
Poirot continued, undeterred.
“We must also ask why the club has been so… quiet. Five months of near silence regarding this ‘imminent’ investment.”
He waved a hand dismissively.
“Yes, yes, there is always something. A war here, a delay there. But these explanations do not account for the many months prior, when the same silence prevailed.”
He leaned forward, eyes glinting.
“My grey cells are rarely wrong, Miss Lemon… but is it possible, just possible, that this investor is not the solution at all?”
He lowered his voice.
“That he or she is merely keeping the club afloat… while searching for someone else. A partner. A consortium. Someone with the deeper pockets he or she themself does not possess, or is unwilling to open.”
Poirot tapped the table gently.
“You see the problem? If that is the case, then this grand ‘new arrangement’ may not be progressing… because there is no one willing to commit the serious money required. Is this why this drags on?”
He sat back.
“In which case, our investor is not the end of the story…”
A pause.
“…but a middleman.”
Miss Lemon’s head now rested fully on the table.
Poirot carried on regardless.
“I believe, when this mystery finally unravels, we will find that the club has been kept alive by an individual attempting to assemble something larger—a consortium, perhaps, or a single major backer.”
He shrugged lightly.
“They may come close. They may even be on the verge of success.”
He glanced around.
“But then those potential investors look more closely… and they see the reality.”
Poirot allowed himself a thin smile.
“A diabolical mess.”
Miss Lemon slid slowly from her chair onto the floor.
Poirot sighed.
“I confess, I feel sympathy for the supporters. For years, they have been fed the same refrain, talk of investors, of progress, of plans just around the corner.”
He shook his head.
“Bull merde, repeated by successive boards.”
He looked down at Miss Lemon.
“And now, perhaps, they find themselves… how do you say… in hock to one individual. Unable to turn elsewhere. Unable to explore other options.”
He paused, softening slightly.
“Of course, these are only the deductions of my little grey cells. Until the truth is revealed, they remain… suggestions.”
He straightened his jacket.
“But surely, Miss Lemon…”
He glanced at her unconscious form.
“…the onus is on the Board to tell the truth.”
Miss Lemon did not respond.
Poirot looked down.
“Ah.”
The Rights of Fans. 