“He saw his chance and made a rash decision.” I frowned. “Poirot, you almost sound as if you wish he had got away with it.”
“Do not be facetious, Catchpool. I am glad that his crime did not go unpunished, of course, but . . . I am not glad that he underestimated me. That he did not instantly decide against committing a murder right in front of the eyes of Hercule Poirot . . . Had he not heard the stories of my achievements? I believe he had, yet he was not impressed. He derided my methods—”
“Poirot,” I said firmly. It was not only murderers who tended towards obsessive behavior, I reflected.
“Yes, mon ami?”
“Randall Kimpton is dead. It might sound puerile to put it in these terms, but . . . you won and he lost.”
Poirot smiled and patted my arm. “Thank you, Catchpool. It is not puerile at all. You are right: I won. He lost.”
It struck me then that there were other losers, less deserving ones than Kimpton, and ones I cared more about. Perhaps I was wrong to feel the way I did, but I could not help thinking that whatever lies he might have told and whatever terrible deeds he might have done, Joseph Scotcher had very much wanted to be a good man, and might one day have become one. He had met the dazzling Randall Kimpton at Oxford, had admired him, modeled himself upon him, purloined his sweetheart, followed him into the study of Shakespeare and then into the bosom of the Playford family—but he had not sought to mimic Kimpton’s self-regard, his cruel streak, his easy dismissal of the opinions and feelings of others.
I did not like to think that Scotcher had in all probability murdered Iris Gillow. His kind words in the drawing room before dinner on the night he was to die were the most thoughtful and beneficial that any person had ever addressed to me—ever, in my life. That in no way excused murder, I knew. Still—to me it was not insignificant.
“I suppose that while we wait for the car, we might divert ourselves by discussing the one question that remains unanswered,” Poirot said.
“I was not aware there was one,” I told him.
“Why did Scotcher propose marriage to Sophie Bourlet immediately after hearing about Lady Playford’s new will?”
“Oh. Yes, I suppose you’re right. I don’t know the answer.” I refrained from adding, “And neither, surely, do you.” It would not do for Hercule Poirot to be underestimated again so soon, and by his good friend too.
“I have a few theories,” he said. “One is that he felt that he was at risk of being murdered, for as long as he remained the sole beneficiary of Lady Playford’s will. He believed she might change her will back if he could make her angry, or jealous, or both. By becoming engaged to his nurse, he thought he could achieve this.”
“I somehow doubt that was his reason,” I said.
“Let us, then, try a simpler theory: Scotcher wanted to punish Lady Playford. She had caused serious problems for him by changing her will. He feared imminent exposure as a fraud by somebody at Lillieoak, and he blamed Lady Playford for this. By choosing that moment to declare his romantic love for Sophie Bourlet instead of his loving gratitude towards Lady Playford, he deprives his benefactor of what he knows she wants most: his attention. Suddenly she is no longer the person in the house about whom he cares most.”
“More likely than the first theory, but I am still not convinced,” I said. “How about this one, since we’re speculating: Scotcher proposed marriage in order to be sure of Sophie’s silence on the matter of his feigned illness. Previously, he had flattered her in the same way that he had flattered Phyllis, and that was enough for Sophie. But if she knew he was not really dying, as she must have, and suddenly she hears Lady Playford announce that she’s leaving all her worldly goods to poor, sick Joseph Scotcher . . . well, a decent girl like Sophie might then feel obliged to speak up. Scotcher’s antics might start to look to her rather like fraud. Remember, Lady Playford had confessed to nobody that she knew the truth; she pretended to be fooled by the Bright’s disease of the kidneys story.”
“So to propose marriage to Sophie was the only way to ensure her loyalty and her continued discretion, Scotcher might have thought,” said Poirot. “Yes, that is a good theory. But in the end I prefer a different one. I prefer the theory that Joseph Scotcher loved Sophie Bourlet.”
“Does that count as a theory? That was the official explanation, after all.”
Poirot ignored my question. “Fear of exposure as a liar—or that he might be killed by someone who did not wish him to inherit the Lillieoak estate—shocked Scotcher into behaving in a way that was more real than it was his custom to be. He loved this woman who accepted him and all his lies without question, who uncomplainingly did all the work for Lady Playford that he was quite well enough to do himself. He had perhaps loved Sophie Bourlet for a long time, but he had never said so in earnest; it was easier for him to say only things that were not real. Until that night. Then, in a moment of crisis, it became important to him to declare his love.”
“You’re a sentimental old soul, Poirot.” I smiled. Perhaps I was one too; I could not deny that I felt unambiguously fond of my little Belgian friend at that moment.
“Edward!”
Hearing Gathercole’s voice, I turned. He was striding towards us. “Thought I might have missed you,” he said.
“No. Not yet.”
At that moment, Lady Playford came running outside in her kimono. Her face was pale, and she looked older and smaller than I thought of her as being. She was smiling rather maniacally. “Poirot! Don’t dare to escape without letting me grab you first! I have a query about my next bundle, and Michael is useless today—aren’t you, Michael? Completely inattentive. Poirot, do you remember the disguise storyline I mentioned to you? Listen to my brain wave! What if it’s not a disguise but a disfigurement, a facial disfigurement? No noses involved—absolutely not! Noses feature prominently in my bundle-of-the-moment and I can’t bear repetition. What about a harelip that has been either corrected or . . . oh! Or created—yes, I like that. Why would anyone do it, though? And do I want all my books to be propelled by the idea of surgery? I don’t think I do. And of course one mustn’t alarm one’s readers, who, after all, are children. I do think people cosset children too much, don’t you? Horrible things do sometimes happen to faces and, really, perhaps the sooner a child learns this, the better!”
Gathercole and I exchanged a smile and moved a little to the side. “I envy you, returning to London,” he said. “I’m afraid Lady Playford is not herself. She is pretending to be, of course.”
“Volubly,” I agreed. “How long will you stay at Lillieoak?”
“I don’t know. I want to keep an eye on things for a while. Claudia, for instance . . . I don’t think Lady Playford will be of much use to her, nor she to Lady Playford, and I should like to be of assistance to both of them if I can.”
We exchanged cards and shook hands. The motorcar pulled up then, as Lady Playford was saying, “Oh, that is clever. That is very clever indeed. I see I shall have no choice but to dedicate this particular bundle to you, Poirot.”
She turned to me as the driver opened the car door. “Goodbye, Edward, and thank you. I am sorry I disappointed you.”
“You did not.”
“Oh, yes, I did. By turning out not to be guilty of murder.”
“I never believed that you were, Lady Playford.”
“You did, I’m afraid. You alone.” She looked unutterably sad for a second. Then the frenzied smile reappeared. “I found it amusing—and rather flattering,” she said in a high, brittle voice. “You really can admit it, you know. I shan’t be in the least offended, and there is no need to feel guilty. You lead a blameless life, I am sure. Too blameless.” She gripped my arm. “I am old, but if I were young like you, I would live, and I should not mind what anybody thought about me. You sense this in me—I can tell that you do. That is why you suspected me of murder. Do you see?” Her eyes glittered with a strange sort of power.
I did not see, and nor did I wish to. It sou
nded murky and complicated. “Lady Playford, I assure you—”
“Oh, well, never mind that now.” She waved my words away to make room for more of her own. “Edward, may I ask you something? Would you mind dreadfully if I put you in a book one day?”
Acknowledgments
I am immensely grateful to the following teams of brilliant, dedicated and inspiring people:
James Prichard, Mathew Prichard, Hilary Strong, Christina Macphail, Julia Wilde, Lydia Stone, Nikki White and everybody at Agatha Christie Limited; David Brawn, Kate Elton, Laura Di Guiseppe, Sarah Hodgson, Fliss Denham and all at HarperCollins UK; Dan Mallory, Kaitlin Harri, Jennifer Hart, Kathryn Gordon, Danielle Bartlett, Liate Stehlik, Margaux Weisman and the team at William Morrow; Peter Straus and Matthew Turner of Rogers, Coleridge & White.
Thank you also to all my international Poirot publishers, too many to name, but thanks to whom this novel will reach readers all over the world. And I’m hugely grateful to everyone who has read and enjoyed The Monogram Murders and either written, e-mailed or tweeted to tell me so. Thank you to Adele Geras, Chris Gribble and John Curran, who read early drafts and/or discussed early ideas and made immensely helpful comments. Thank you to Rupert Beale, for his kidney-ailment expertise, and to Guy Martland for his willingness to discuss medical probabilities with me. Thank you to Adrian Poole for sharing his knowledge of Shakespeare’s King John, and to Morgan White for gathering together everything I needed to know about Ireland in 1929.
Massive thanks to Jamie Bernthal, who has helped in every possible way from start to finish. Without him, this book would have been worse, less fun to write and—even more worryingly—Lillieoak would have had no ace floor plans!
As always, I am grateful for the support of Dan, Phoebe and Guy Jones, my amazing family. Last but not least, thank you to my dog, Brewster, who used one of my characters as a conduit for his suggestion that Lillieoak ought to have a dog. He’s so vain, he probably thinks this Poirot’s about him. (Indeed, that very line was the working title of Closed Casket for many months, only in the second person.)
Books by Agatha Christie
Mysteries
The Man in the Brown Suit
The Secret of Chimneys
The Seven Dials Mystery
The Mysterious Mr. Quin
The Sittaford Mystery
The Hound of Death
The Listerdale Mystery
Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?
Parker Pyne Investigates
Murder Is Easy
And Then There Were None
Towards Zero
Death Comes as the End
Sparkling Cyanide
Crooked House
They Came to Baghdad
Destination Unknown
Spider’s Web*
The Unexpected Guest*
Ordeal by Innocence
The Pale Horse
Endless Night
Passenger to Frankfurt
Problem at Pollensa Bay
While the Light Lasts
Poirot
The Mysterious Affair at Styles
The Murder on the Links
Poirot Investigates
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
The Big Four
The Mystery of the Blue Train
Black Coffee*
Peril at End House
Lord Edgware Dies
Murder on the Orient Express
Three Act Tragedy
Death in the Clouds
The ABC Murders
Murder in Mesopotamia
Cards on the Table
Murder in the Mews
Dumb Witness
Death on the Nile
Appointment with Death
Hercule Poirot’s Christmas
Sad Cypress
One, Two, Buckle My Shoe
Evil Under the Sun
Five Little Pigs
The Hollow
The Labours of Hercules
Taken at the Flood
Mrs. McGinty’s Dead
After the Funeral
Hickory Dickory Dock
Dead Man’s Folly
Cat Among the Pigeons
The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding
The Clocks
Third Girl
Hallowe’en Party
Elephants Can Remember
Poirot’s Early Cases
Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case
Marple
The Murder at the Vicarage
The Thirteen Problems
The Body in the Library
The Moving Finger
A Murder Is Announced
They Do It with Mirrors
A Pocket Full of Rye
4:50 from Paddington
The Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side
A Caribbean Mystery
At Bertram’s Hotel
Nemesis
Sleeping Murder
Miss Marple’s Final Cases
Tommy & Tuppence
The Secret Adversary
Partners in Crime
N or M?
By the Pricking of My Thumbs
Postern of Fate
Published as Mary Westmacott
Giant’s Bread
Unfinished Portrait
Absent in the Spring
The Rose and the Yew Tree
A Daughter’s a Daughter
The Burden
Memoirs
An Autobiography
Come, Tell Me How You Live
The Grand Tour
Plays and Stories
Akhnaton
The Mousetrap and Other Plays
The Floating Admiral†
Star over Bethlehem
Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly
* novelized by Charles Osborne
† contributor
About the Authors
AGATHA CHRISTIE is the most widely published author of all time, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in more than a hundred foreign languages. She died in 1976.
www.agathachristie.com
SOPHIE HANNAH is the internationally bestselling author of numerous psychological thrillers, which have been published in more than twenty-seven countries and adapted for television. Sophie is an Honorary Fellow of Lucy Cavendish College, Cambridge.
www.sophiehannah.com
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Also by Sophie Hannah
Little Face
The Truth-Teller’s Lie
The Wrong Mother
The Dead Lie Down
The Cradle in the Grave
The Other Woman’s House
Kind of Cruel
The Carrier
The Orphan Choir
The Monogram Murders
Woman with a Secret
A Game for All the Family
Credits
Cover design by Emin Mancheril
Cover photograph © Carlos Restrepo/Arcangel
Title page art © by MSSA/Shutterstock, Inc.
Lillieoak floor plans by Nick Springer. Copyright © 2016 by Springer Cartographics LLC.
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
agatha christie and poirot are registered trademarks of Agatha Christie Limited.
closed casket. Copyright © 2016 by Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any inf
ormation storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
first edition
ISBN 978-0-06-245882-7 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-06-249773-4 (international edition)
ISBN 978-0-06-266227-9 (Barnes & Noble signed edition)
ISBN 978-0-06-266228-6 (Books-A-Million signed edition)
Epub Edition September 2016 ISBN 9780062458841
16 17 18 19 20 rrd 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON M4W 1A8, Canada
www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com
Closed Casket Page 28
