The Killings at Kingfisher Hill

by Sophie Hannah

  ‘How many more?’ said Daisy in a bored voice. ‘Are we to remain stuck in this room forever?’

  ‘Non, pas du tout. You will soon be released from captivity.’

  ‘Very well, then, get it over with.’

  ‘Before the stealing of the money, Monsieur Prowd had asked you twice to be his wife, as I understand it. Both times you refused him. Then on the day that your parents wrote to Frank to suggest a rapprochement, you sent a telegram to Monsieur Prowd in which you proposed marriage to him. Was there a connection between these two things? And why had you changed your mind and decided that you wanted to marry him after all?’

  ‘Oh, I always knew that I would marry Oliver one day. I simply could not do it too quickly if I wanted him to desire me madly. You wouldn’t understand, M. Poirot—you’re not a woman. But after the theft and Frank and all of that, well, I was far too afraid of Father and Mother to go anywhere near Oliver. I thought that was that, but I was wrong. When I heard that Father had written to Frank and was intending to forgive him for everything …’ She shrugged. ‘My parents could hardly object to my marrying Oliver after that, could they?’

  ‘May I ask you …?’ Poirot began.

  ‘You may,’ said Daisy with a grin. No doubt she was pleased by her answers so far and was looking forward to the next question.

  ‘When Helen Acton confessed to the murder of Frank, why did you say nothing? Why not tell everybody then that it was you who had pushed him?’

  ‘What an absurd question.’ She laughed, though I heard a certain amount of strain in her words. ‘There was Helen, rushing down the stairs crying, “Oliver, I killed him, I killed him.” It was perfect. Helen, for some baffling reason, seemed keen to be thought guilty, so I saved my own neck and allowed her to have her way. If you’re going to ask me why I later confessed, M. Poirot, the answer ought to be quite plain: I had foolishly told you the truth already, on the coach. Then there you were in my house when I arrived home … It seemed like a good time to come clean.’

  ‘Non.’ Poirot said quietly. ‘C’est incroyable. If you wished to save your neck, as you put it, why kill your brother in this way and that moment—when Oliver Prowd, Percy Semley and Godfrey Laviolette were standing in the entrance hall below the balcony?’

  This, I thought, was a good question—for Daisy, Helen or whoever had in fact murdered Frank Devonport. Why had they done so in such a public way, with witnesses all over the shop?

  ‘Helen Acton also must have been present to witness what you did,’ Poirot went on, ‘or else she would not have been able to run down the stairs immediatement and tell Monsieur Prowd that she had pushed Frank to his death. Mademoiselle, if you did indeed kill your brother as you would have us believe, then it seems to Poirot that you must have planned for the murder to happen in front of all of these people. Now, why would you do that?’

  ‘I shall leave that to you to work out,’ Daisy replied sullenly. Her good mood had evaporated.

  Poirot nodded. ‘And work it out I shall,’ he said. ‘Do not fear. I will soon know what happened and why it happened. Now, it is time for me to go with Percy Semley to Kingfisher’s View. Catchpool, you will stay here in this room. Everybody else is free to leave—the dining room, not the house.’

  I waited, hoping for an explanation of why these new instructions did not constitute a raw deal for me. After being cooped up for so long, I craved fresh air.

  ‘One by one, each of you will come in here and describe to Catchpool your exact movements on the day that Frank Devonport died,’ said Poirot. ‘Is that clear? It is of vital importance that we have a full and true account of the sixth of December last year from each of you. Sidney Devonport must also give his account. If he tries to exempt himself, do not stand for it, Catchpool.’

  This was getting worse by the second. When it came to not standing for things, my level of aptitude was flimsy at best. Poirot knew this perfectly well, and I would have reminded him of the fact if he and Percy Semley had not already departed for Kingfisher’s View.

  CHAPTER 13

  Aunt Hester

  I did not accompany Poirot to Kingfisher’s View, and so did not witness first hand any of the events that I am about to describe. I feel exactly as if I did, however, because Poirot brought the scene to life for me later in vivid detail, and I hope that my account captures everything with the same vitality here.

  The first thing my friend noticed about Hester and Percy Semley’s house was that it was superior to Little Key in every possible respect. It was more attractive from the outside, had more impressive gardens and was positioned in a more secluded part of the Kingfisher Hill Estate. It had a better sense of balance and proportion inside. Poirot could not help noting also that there was no point of perilous altitude in the entrance hall of Kingfisher’s View from which a person might be pushed to his death.

  As Poirot arrived with Percy Semley, an English Setter bounded forward to greet them. The dog was white with orange ears and a smattering of orange freckles (although that is probably not strictly how one should describe them), and he made several attempts to bite Poirot’s gloved hand in a genial sort of way. It was not an attack, more a case of him wanting to have a friendly chew on this exciting new visitor.

  A second dog lolloped forward as Percy Semley was trying to persuade the more energetic one to leave Poirot in peace. This dog was taller and heavier than the bouncier one, and also an English Setter: white with dark grey patches that according to Poirot made him look like a Dalmatian designed by someone with no sense of discipline.

  Hester Semley, who appeared next, was a small, bony, bespectacled woman with thick coiled springs of white hair all over her head. Poirot estimated her age at around sixty. She spoke and moved very quickly. Once introductions had been made, she held forth at length: ‘I am delighted to meet you, M. Poirot. I am aware of your work, of course. What brings you to Kingfisher Hill? Oh, well, no doubt you will tell me all about it in a moment. Percy, take his coat. Take his hat. Sterling, do be patient! I see you’ve met the boys, M. Poirot—Sterling is the one pestering you. Don’t worry, he won’t hurt you. I don’t think he likes the taste of your glove. They are leather, are they not? Sterling doesn’t like the smell of leather. Never mind, you weren’t to know. Just wait, Sterling! Percy, take his gloves. Put them in the pocket of his coat. Sterling only wants to nibble on your hand a little, M. Poirot. It’s his way of saying hello and showing you that he wants to be your friend. As soon as you sit down he’ll forget about your hands and give your face a good lick instead! He’s not shy like his older brother. Pound! Pound, come here and say hello to our guest. He is a most eminent detective and solver of many murders—isn’t that right, M. Poirot? Who knows when someone so distinguished will next visit us? If I were you, Pound, I would follow your little brother’s example and make the most of this opportunity.’

  Pound the Setter did not think an illustrious guest was anything to get excited about. He settled down on the floor and started to lick his front paw.

  ‘You have named your dogs Pound and Sterling?’ said Poirot. ‘After your Great British currency?’

  ‘I have,’ said Hester Semley ferociously as if she were not merely answering a question but also renewing a commitment. ‘Those fools in charge of us all will see us taken out of the Gold Standard if someone does not stop them. It’s a terrible thing. They say the pound cannot retain its value and no doubt it will not, thanks to their idiocy, but the way I see it is perfectly simple, M. Poirot: if you have no ability when it comes to fiscal matters, then do not involve yourself in fiscal matters! But I’m sure you have not come here to be told how I would organize the affairs of this great country if I were the government.’

  ‘I am sure you would do an excellent job,’ Poirot told her.

  ‘Oh, I would,’ she agreed as she ushered him into her drawing room. ‘I most certainly would. If I undertake to do any job, I make sure to do it well, which is why I shall endeavour to answer your questions to
the best of my ability. No doubt you wish to ask me all about the murder of the young woman at Little Key?’

  The dogs had followed them into the drawing room. Sterling sat panting enthusiastically beside Poirot’s chair but mercifully did not try to lick his face.

  ‘M. Poirot wishes to know my whereabouts when the crime was committed, Aunt Het,’ said Percy. ‘I told him I was with you.’

  ‘He was with me, M. Poirot. And you might think I would say that even if it were untrue, but I would not. People need to face the consequences of their actions, whether one is related to them by blood or not. Percy Semley, if you ever break the law, I shall report you straight to the police, nephew or no nephew!’

  ‘I know, Aunt Het.’ It sounded to Poirot as if Percy had responded to this assertion in these precise terms many times before.

  ‘So, is that all you wish to know?’ Hester Semley asked. ‘Surely not, since this young woman was killed at Little Key and is hardly the first to suffer that fate in that house. Percy, go and make tea or coffee. Which would you prefer, M. Poirot?’

  ‘I will take coffee, thank you. You are right. I would also like to ask you about the murder of Frank Devonport.’

  He had been about to say more but Hester Semley had already begun to answer and continued to answer for some time thereafter.

  ‘I know nothing about the murder of Frank Devonport apart from what everybody knows: that his fiancée Helen Acton confessed and is to be hanged, and that she told the police that the reason she did it was because she had fallen in love with Richard Devonport. Balderdash! Now, if a woman engaged to Richard claimed to have fallen for Frank, that I would have no trouble believing, but it simply would not happen in reverse. So, what was Helen Acton’s true motive? That is what you must find out, M. Poirot. Mustn’t he, Sterling? That’s right! Oh, are you one of those people who doesn’t like to be licked? He will only do it for a few moments. It’s easier if you don’t make a fuss.

  ‘Now, what you might not know is that on the day that Frank was killed, there was something of an exodus early in the morning from Little Key to here. Richard, Daisy, Godfrey and Verna all came here at about half past nine in the morning. Sidney and Lilian insisted on having the house to themselves for Frank’s grand welcome ceremony—well, they could have saved themselves the bother if they had simply not expelled him from the family in the first place. Some people are nothing but fools! Your son steals from you and you fail to report him to the police—you protect him from the law—at the same time as disowning him? I ask you, what sense does that make? No sense! I would have done the precise opposite.’

  She paused for breath and Poirot took his chance. ‘Please tell me everything that happened that day. You say that Richard and Daisy Devonport and the Laviolettes arrived half an hour after nine. Monsieur Oliver Prowd was not with them?’

  ‘No, he was in London. He arrived shortly before two o’clock and expressed a certain dissatisfaction with the situation. Mildly, mind you. He wasn’t threatening a revolution or anything like that. He wouldn’t dare—Daisy has him wrapped around her little finger. It was only that he did not see why they should all have to wait here until invited back to Little Key by Sidney or Lilian. He was tactful about it, but it was clear that he found the whole production to be overly dramatic and irrational, and when he said so, Daisy went wild and started to scream at him that he had no right to criticize her family, of which he was not yet a member even by marriage and would never become one if he continued to say such things. Her tirade was vicious and relentless—you were most upset by it, weren’t you, Pound? Of course, it makes perfect sense when you think about it.’

  ‘What—?’

  ‘Daisy and Oliver had both missed Frank dreadfully. The torment of knowing that he was back at Little Key and yet still they were not permitted to see him. Not that anyone had ever told Oliver that he couldn’t see Frank, but their friendship had ended, that’s for sure …’ She broke off. ‘I’ve forgotten what I was talking about.’

  ‘You—’

  ‘Oh, yes—I was saying that Daisy and Oliver can hardly be blamed for venting their ill temper on one another. They must both have been in a state of nervous agitation at the imminent prospect of seeing Frank again and yet also being made to wait by that bully Sidney Devonport. Dreadful man. Daisy takes after him. She can be rather dreadful herself. She likes to be in charge of everything and is afraid of almost nothing, but she is afraid of Sidney.’

  ‘You should have heard her earlier, Aunt Het,’ Percy cut in. ‘She told Sidney exactly what she thinks of him. She really seemed to want to crush him.’

  ‘Do not speak while I am speaking, Percy.’

  ‘But you’re always speaking, Aunt Het.’

  ‘Perhaps Daisy has finally conquered her fear of her father,’ continued Hester. ‘It will be good for her if she has. Certainly, on the day of Frank’s murder she was still scared of him. That is why she set about poor Oliver with such savagery. She knew he was quite right to find the situation ridiculous—all of them waiting here like fools for no good reason—and her pride couldn’t bear it. She’s far too proud and vain to say, “I know Father’s demands are objectionable but I’m afraid to stand up to him,” so instead she took it out on Oliver, who had inadvertently drawn her attention to her own weakness and subservience. Many people are not at all ashamed of their own fears, M. Poirot, but Daisy is. Her subjugation to Sidney ate away at her. I could see it.’

  Poirot opened his mouth, which Hester Semley took as an opportunity to accelerate her own disquisition. ‘Most people are endlessly willing to be frightened of one thing or another. Oh, that’s not how they would see it. They would say they were respectful of social conventions or concerned with sparing the feelings of others. Balderdash! They are cowards who know nothing of freedom. Still, I don’t know why we’re talking about those people because we’re supposed to be talking about Daisy, who is the opposite. She wishes, and has always wished, to live free and unafraid. Yet in a cruel irony, she is the daughter of Sidney Devonport. Percy, you should have been a Devonport child. You would have made a good one. Why aren’t you fetching the coffee?’

  ‘Oh, I forgot about that,’ said Percy. He hurried away to do her bidding, closing the door behind him.

  ‘He is not very bright,’ Hester told Poirot. ‘What was I …? Oh, yes, you wanted to know what happened on the day that Frank was killed. I can only tell you about what happened here. Daisy was still berating Oliver when Winnie arrived—Winnie is the Devonports’ servant. Remind me to tell you something important about her. Sidney had sent her over here to tell everybody that at last they could return to Little Key, which is what most of them did, but not Oliver. Daisy was so angry with him that she told him he was not welcome to accompany her. Poor chap! I don’t think I was the only one who felt sorry for him. Godfrey Laviolette immediately suggested a round of golf to cheer Oliver up, and the three of them went off to play: Godfrey, Oliver and Percy. Pound, Sterling and I stayed here—didn’t we, boys? We had a little nap. Then the golfers returned after about an hour and a half. Percy took the boys out for a run in the woods.’

  Seeing the question forming on Poirot’s face, Hester said, ‘Not Godfrey and Oliver. I should hardly describe Godfrey Laviolette as a boy, even if he does have that strange, smooth skin that seems never to wrinkle. I meant the dogs. My boys.’ She reached over and stroked Pound, who rolled onto his back and stuck his legs in the air. Sterling, as if noticing the unequal distribution of attention, sat up and prodded Poirot with his front paw. Poirot calculated that he could not risk stroking him unless he wished to be licked again, which he decidedly did not.

  ‘Now, something you will certainly want to know about if you’re interested in the Devonport family is the conversation that took place between Godfrey and Oliver that afternoon while Percy was out and after they had all played golf. You must remind me to tell you all about that, as well as Winnie Lord. And after that … well, I’m not sure I am able to offer an
y further assistance. You evidently don’t believe that Frank was murdered by his fiancée Helen Acton—no, you don’t, or else you would not have asked about everybody’s movements on that day—but if you’re thinking that someone else killed Frank, I can only say that I’m sure you’re right and it could have been anyone. Anyone at all. I mean, obviously it was neither of the Laviolettes. But—’

  ‘Why is this obvious?’ Poirot asked.

  ‘Please, I am speaking!’ Hester Semley sighed. ‘Now I must interrupt the flow of my thoughts in order to answer you. It is obvious because Godfrey and Verna are decent, kind-hearted people. I am very fond of them both. They would never kill anybody. Whereas any of the Devonports might, because they are either a tyrant, in the case of Sidney, or else they have had their personalities so disfigured by living with a tyrant that all kinds of destructive seeds have very likely been sown. I see that you have another question for me. You may ask it.’

  Poirot was reluctant to fill the blissful and unexpected silence with words. He said, ‘My friend Inspector Catchpool … he was surprised when Helen Acton described Verna Laviolette to us as kind. I will admit, I too was a little surprised.’

  ‘Then you’re both fools,’ said Hester. ‘Verna is one of my favourite people. You could not hope to meet a kinder, more thoughtful woman. Do you know how we met? No, how could you? I’ll tell you. Godfrey and Verna used to own Little Key, though it was called Kingfisher’s Rest in those days—a much more suitable name, and the Estate Committee really should have forbidden Sidney to change it. I don’t give a fig about it coming from the pen of Charles Dickens! So does Uncle Pumblechook. How would you feel if one of your neighbours named his house Uncle Pumblechook?’

  She seemed to be waiting for an answer. As solemnly as he could, Poirot said, ‘I understand that the Devonports’ original plan was to buy this house?’