The Killings at Kingfisher Hill

by Sophie Hannah

  Poirot came quickly to my defence. ‘Mademoiselle, I can assure you that it is true. Inspector Catchpool and I, we travel together. I am M. Hercule Poirot.’

  His words had a visible effect. All at once, her demeanour changed. She looked around. She seemed to notice for the first time that her behaviour had attracted many avid spectators. Then she hung her head and whispered, ‘Forgive me, Inspector. Of course you are who you say you are. I don’t know what came over me.’

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ I asked her bluntly.

  ‘Nothing. I’m perfectly all right.’

  ‘I find that difficult to believe.’

  ‘If I needed help, I’d ask for it, Inspector, sir. Please, you mustn’t trouble yourself on my account.’

  ‘Very well,’ I said, dissatisfied. ‘Shall we?’ I gestured towards the motor-coach, curious to see if she would behave sensibly henceforth. In spite of her erratic behaviour, I was convinced of the soundness of her faculties. She was not afflicted by any mental infirmity. The problem was an emotional one.

  ‘I … you …’ she stammered.

  ‘Let us take our seats, Catchpool,’ said Poirot firmly. ‘You and me. This young lady wishes to be left alone.’

  At this, the woman with the unfinished face looked distinctly relieved and, with her and Poirot united against me, I admitted defeat. As we climbed on board, having left our valises with all the others, she retreated. Perhaps her name was not on Alfred Bixby’s manifest and she was not and never had been bound for Kingfisher Hill. Now that I came to think of it, she did not seem to have any suitcases with her and was carrying no bag or purse. She might have put herself among us to hide from somebody. I decided that, since I would never know, there was no point in speculating further.

  Once inside, I saw that most of the coach’s seats were empty. There was a simple explanation for this: many people had dropped back, eager to overhear my questioning of the woman with the unfinished face. Now that was concluded, everybody had remembered how cold they were. There was a build up of impatient bodies in the aisle behind me. ‘Forward march,’ someone muttered.

  ‘Yes, do hurry, Catchpool,’ said Poirot.

  I followed his instruction and walked on along the aisle, only to come to a sharp halt a few moments later. In my peripheral vision, I had glimpsed a book that was sitting open on one of the coach’s seats, with its cover facing upwards and its title clearly visible. Could it be …? No, how could it possibly?

  Exclamations of impatience erupted, not least from Poirot, as I stepped backwards, forcing those behind me to do the same, in order to get a closer look at the book’s cover. I had indeed made a mistake. The title of the book was Midnight Gathering. I blinked and looked again. Yes, definitely Midnight Gathering. Yet I had been left with the powerful impression that I had seen two quite different words.

  ‘What’s that bunny up to?’ I heard an American voice call out from the logjam that I had created in the aisle. ‘We’re all waiting here!’

  ‘Alors, on y va, Catchpool,’ said Poirot behind me.

  A woman’s hand reached out and snatched the book from the seat. Her swift action broke my trance, and I looked up. It was the rude woman with the diamond voice. She clutched the book close to her body and glared at me, as if by merely looking at it I might have tarnished it beyond repair.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to …’ I mumbled. She glared more fiercely. Her face had much in common with her voice. With the addition of kindness and compassion to either or both, the effect would have been charming. I felt a jolt of recognition: this young lady, with her exquisitely sculpted cheekbones, delicate features, blue eyes and fine golden hair, was in every way my mother’s favourite type—in a physical sense at least. All of the women she insisted I ought to want to marry looked more or less like this one, minus the furious grimace.

  On the third finger of her left hand, the owner of Midnight Gathering wore a ring: a large ruby. Sorry, Mother, too late, I thought to myself. She’s already promised to another chap. I hope he’s not the sensitive sort or he’ll never survive the ordeal.

  I turned away from her and was about to advance along the coach’s aisle when she did the most peculiar, petty thing. She moved as if it was her intention to replace the book in its former position, and then she very pointedly stopped just before doing so. She allowed the hand in which she held it to hover in mid-air above the seat between us. Her meaning was unambiguous, and she aimed a spiteful smile at me, knowing that I knew it. What an unpleasant woman! She was thoroughly enjoying her silent persecution of me. Her smile said, I don’t mind anybody else seeing the book—only you. It was my punishment for having been a nosy nuisance. Well, there she perhaps made a fair point. I had probably peered rather intrusively.

  Once Poirot and I were seated side by side towards the back of the coach, he said, ‘Tell me, Catchpool, what did you see that was so interesting to you that you felt compelled to keep us all trapped in the aisle for so long?’

  ‘It was nothing. I made a mistake. And it wasn’t long—the whole thing was over in seconds.’

  ‘What mistake?’

  ‘Did you see the book that woman was reading?’

  ‘The beautiful, angry woman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I saw a book, yes. She held it very tightly.’

  ‘I think she feared I might tear it away from her,’ I told him. ‘That was what I wanted to get a second look at—her book. It was called Midnight Gathering. When I first saw it, I was certain I saw the words “Michael Gathercole” as the title. It must have been the M and the G.’

  ‘Michael Gathercole.’ Poirot sounded interested. ‘The solicitor Michael Gathercole? That is curious.’ He and I had become acquainted with Gathercole the previous year during an eventful stay in Clonakilty in the Irish Free State. ‘Why would the name of Michael Gathercole, an unremarkable practitioner of the law, be the title of a book, Catchpool?’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t. And it wasn’t. I was mistaken. We needn’t discuss it further.’

  ‘It is more likely for Gathercole to have written a book and for his name to be on its cover as the author,’ said Poirot.

  ‘Gathercole has nothing to do with anything. Some other person wrote a book called Midnight Gathering.’ Please, I thought, let this be the end of it.

  ‘I think I comprehend why you saw a name that was not there, Catchpool—and why it was this name in particular.’

  I waited.

  ‘You are preoccupied with the unhappy woman who accuses you of impersonating Inspector Edward Catchpool of Scotland Yard. She tells us that she is not in need of help, but you disagree, and so you are alert to danger. To harm. Alors, in the part of your mind that does not perceive its own workings, you make a connection between this incident today and the events of last year in Clonakilty, where danger was present and terrible harm was done.’

  ‘You’re probably right. She hasn’t got on yet, has she?’

  ‘I cannot tell you, mon ami. I have not been keeping watch. Now, we have important matters to attend to.’ He produced a small, folded piece of paper from his coat pocket. ‘Read this before the coach departs. It is unwise to read while in motion. It makes for the bilious stomach.’

  I took the paper from his hand, hoping that whatever was written on it would tell me why we were going to Kingfisher Hill. Instead, I found myself looking at an excessive number of the tiniest words I had ever seen on a page. ‘What is this?’ I asked. ‘A set of instructions? For what?’

  ‘Turn it over, Catchpool.’

  I did so.

  ‘Now do you see? Yes, instructions. Rules. The rules of a game played with a board and a number of round discs with eyes on them—the game of Peepers!’

  ‘Eyes? Human eyes, or the letter “I”?’

  ‘Eyes, Catchpool.’ Poirot fluttered his own open and closed. He looked absurd, and I would have laughed had I not felt so frustrated.

  ‘What’s this about, Poirot? Why do you
have the rules for a board game in your pocket?’

  ‘I do not.’ His green eyes glittered. ‘You have them in your hand.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I have brought with me more than the rules of Peepers. I have too the game itself—it is in a box inside my suitcase!’ He made this announcement triumphantly. ‘I tell you to read the rules now because, as soon as possible, you and I will play Peepers together. We become the great experts and enthusiasts of Peepers! You will note that it says two players is the minimum number.’

  ‘Please explain,’ I said. ‘I don’t like board games. I detest them, in fact. And what does this Peepers game have to do with your determination to take me with you to the Kingfisher Hill Estate? Don’t tell me the two are unconnected. I shan’t believe you.’

  ‘You do not detest Peepers, Catchpool. It is impossible, for you have never played it. Keep the open mind, I beg of you. Peepers is not like chess.’

  ‘Is it like the Landlord’s Game? I cannot abide that one.’

  ‘You refer to the Monopoly game, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard it called that as well. Appalling waste of any intelligent person’s time.’

  ‘Ah! Pourrait-il être plus parfait?’ Poirot had never looked more delighted. ‘Those are the very words you must say when we arrive at the home of la famille Devonport!’

  ‘Who are the Devonport family?’ I asked.

  ‘You must say it so that everybody hears it: that you detest the Monopoly game.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Poirot? I’m not in the mood for’—I had been about to say ‘games’—‘your usual antics.’

  ‘I do not have any antics, mon ami. Now, read the rules, please. Do not delay. Soon we will be moving.’

  Sighing, I started to read. Or rather, I looked at the minuscule words and did my best to concentrate on them, but, hard as I tried, I could not take them in. I was about to say so when I heard Alfred Bixby’s indignant voice rise above the general murmurs of conversation around me. ‘I’m afraid this is your last chance, miss,’ he said. I was in an aisle seat and so was he and I saw him as he leaned forward; he was sitting in one of the front seats immediately behind the driver and level with the doors, and was addressing his remarks to someone outside. ‘No Kingfisher Coach Company coach has ever been as much as a minute late in departing, and that’s a tradition I intend to keep up! You’re not the only pebble on the beach, young lady! I’ve got twenty-nine other passengers to think of who don’t want to be late—one with an infant! So, are you joining us for the journey or not?’

  ‘It’s her,’ I muttered as, a moment later, the woman with the unfinished face appeared in the aisle. She cowered there as if afraid Bixby might rise from his seat and give her a walloping. For his part, he looked as if he wished to do that very thing. ‘Driver, close the doors,’ he said. The driver did as instructed and started up the engine.

  The woman, whose face showed traces of tears, stood immobile at the front of the coach. ‘Take your seat, miss, please,’ Bixby said to her. ‘There’s only one left. It’s not as if there are dozens to choose between!’ He rose to his feet and pointed. ‘There—seventh row.’

  ‘I think that perhaps you were right, Catchpool,’ said Poirot. ‘The behaviour of la pauvre begins to interest me. See how she thinks most intensively. There is a puzzle in her mind. Until she solves it, she cannot know …’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘If she wishes to accompany us or not. Her indecision causes her great distress.’

  As the disapproving noises of the other passengers started to rise in volume, the unhappy woman hurried forward and sat down. Seconds later, we set off, and it wasn’t long before Bixby was on his feet again. He walked up and down the aisle, intent on telling every single one of us how deeply he regretted that we had very nearly had to experience a delay to what would undoubtedly turn out to be the most comfortable and blissful journey of our lives. I missed the odd word thanks to the excessively loud growl of the engine. Bixby made no mention of this unfortunate circumstance—no apology or explanation—and I deduced from his silence on the matter that the din would accompany us all the way to Kingfisher Hill.

  He had taken his little speech almost to the back of the coach, and we had been travelling for no more than ten minutes, when I heard a loud squeal of distress. It had come from several rows in front of me. Immediately after the noise, the woman with the unfinished face appeared in the aisle again. ‘Stop, please!’ she called out to Bixby. Then she turned and addressed the driver, ‘Stop this coach. I must … Please, open the doors. I cannot stay here, sitting there.’ She pointed at her seat. ‘I … unless someone will take my seat in exchange for theirs, you must let me get out.’

  Bixby shook his head. His upper lip curled. ‘Now, you listen to me, miss,’ he said as he walked slowly towards her.

  Poirot rose to his feet and put himself in the aisle between the woman and Bixby. ‘Monsieur, if you will allow me to intervene?’ he said with a bow.

  Bixby looked uncertain, but he nodded. ‘As long as it doesn’t lead to a delay, M. Poirot. I’m sure you understand. These good people have homes and families waiting for them.’

  ‘Bien sûr.’ Poirot turned to face the woman. ‘Mademoiselle, you wish to sit in a different seat?’

  ‘Yes. I must. It’s … it’s important. I would not ask otherwise.’

  A sharp, bright voice that I recognized only too well said, ‘M. Poirot, please be kind enough to grant her wish and give her your seat. I should much rather sit beside a world-renowned detective than a gibbering fool. She’s done nothing but gasp and shudder for the last fifteen minutes. It’s fatiguing in the extreme.’

  So la pauvre mademoiselle, as Poirot had called her, had been sitting beside the owner of that wretched book all this while! No wonder she didn’t want to stay there any longer. She had probably made the mistake of glancing at the book’s cover and received a thorough savaging.

  ‘What is wrong with your seat?’ Poirot asked. ‘Why do you wish to move?’

  She shook her head wildly. Then she cried out, ‘You won’t believe me, but … I will die if I sit there. Someone will kill me!’

  ‘Please explain to me what you mean,’ said Poirot. ‘Who will kill you?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ the woman sobbed. ‘But I know that it’s this seat. Next to the aisle, seven rows back, on the right. Only this seat, and none of the others. That’s what he said. Nothing will happen to me if I sit anywhere else. Please, sir, let me take your place and you take mine?’

  ‘Who said this to you?’

  ‘The man! A man. I … I don’t know who he was.’

  ‘And if you sit in this particular seat, what did the man say would happen?’ asked Poirot.

  ‘Haven’t I just told you?’ the woman wailed. ‘He said I’d be murdered! “Mark my words,”’ he said. ‘“You heed this warning, or you won’t get off that coach alive.”’

  CHAPTER 2

  The Seat of Danger

  After making her astonishing announcement, the woman with the unfinished face clammed up so determinedly that further debate proved impossible. Ignoring the outraged splutterings of Alfred Bixby (‘The very idea, M. Poirot! A murder on a Kingfisher Coach Company motor-coach? Such a thing would never happen!’), Poirot ordered the driver to stop so that he could take the unhappy woman outside and attempt to get to the bottom of it all.

  I had started down the aisle, intending to join them, but a sharp look from Poirot told me that I was not invited. The driver had parked the coach by the side of whatever road we were on. I am familiar with most parts of London, but I did not recognize this nondescript row of houses and shops. There was a milliner’s, and one building that stood higher than the rest, with a large sign attached to its front that read ‘McAllister & Son Ltd. Disposal of Premises—Clearing Sale of Entire Stocks at a Remarkable Discount’. None of us knew how long we would have to wait while Poirot conducted his private conver
sation outside. Whispering had broken out all over the coach, and the tone of most of it was anxious.

  ‘Catchpool.’

  I looked up to find Poirot in the aisle beside me.

  ‘Come outside, please.’

  ‘I thought you wanted me to—’

  ‘Follow me.’

  We walked around the side of the coach and found the cause of our delay hunched over and shivering by a wall.

  ‘Here is Inspector Catchpool!’ Poirot presented me to her as if I had not already introduced myself. As he did so, I realized that I was still holding the rules of Peepers in my hand. Hurriedly, I folded the paper and put it in my pocket.

  She looked up as I approached. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t him. It definitely wasn’t him. I’m sorry, I must have got it all mixed up in my memory.’

  ‘What’s this about?’ I asked Poirot. ‘Who was not me?’

  ‘The gentleman who told our friend here that she would be murdered if she sat in the seat immediately to the right of the aisle in the seventh row.’

  ‘What? Are you suggesting—’

  ‘I suggest nothing, Catchpool. Mademoiselle, did you not tell me less than two minutes ago that the man who gave you this warning was the very same man with whom you had conversed before we all boarded the motor-coach? This man, Inspector Catchpool, who stands before you now?’

  ‘Yes, I said so. But as soon as I saw his face again, I knew I’d been wrong,’ she wailed.

  ‘There is a resemblance, though, between Catchpool and the man who said you would be murdered if you sat in that particular seat?’

  ‘Yes, sir! They’re both tall, with the same colour of hair. But … the other man had funny eyes.’

  ‘Funny in what way?’ asked Poirot.

  ‘I don’t know! I can’t explain it.’