---sorry, everyone, my computer did a wobbly and I thought the whole of my post hadn't gone through but now I see that part of it did. To continue with the important part about Poirot and his English beginnings:
"Felled on the floor limp lay the earl,
Blood from the blade blackening his back,
While all the warriors, muddled with mead-drinkiong,
Snored in their slumbers, lost like the daylight
That darkness has doused. One of their number,
A murdering bondman -- hated by Hrothgar
(Bringer of boons, mighter meat-giver)
And by He who made heaven (granter of goodwill,
Holy hgelper) -- unfairly faked sleep.
Wakeful eyes worked, lurking behind lids,
Knowing that another, whose sword he had stolen,
A goodman not guilty, a worthy warrior,
Would be caught for the killing -- unless
One much wiser, a righteous unraveler,
A reader of runes, a conner of clues
Might see through the slaying, righting its wrong,
And finger the fiendish one.
Very clerverly done, I thought, by Simon Bret!