‘It was. Everything had been agreed. Then they discovered that the Laviolettes wished to sell Kingfisher’s Rest, and Godfrey offered them a very good price. I can’t help thinking he must have been desperate for money in fact, because, really, why else would he have sold the house for so much less than it was worth? It was a deal that only a fool would refuse, even if this house is a great deal more aesthetically pleasing than Uncle Pumblechook, which is what I shall call the Devonports’ house from now on.
‘In any case, that is how Verna and I became friends. We had been neighbours in the estate for some time, but I did not know her well. After Sidney decided to buy her house instead of mine, she came to see me. To apologize and to make sure I was going to be all right. She was incredibly charming and gracious about the whole affair and offered to help me find a new buyer for this house. I told her, “No, thank you.” You see, M. Poirot, something strange had happened: as soon as Sidney Devonport told me that he no longer wished to buy my house—the very second the words left that unsightly gargoyle mouth of his—I knew that I did not want to sell my house, not to him and not to anybody. Hearing him say so casually that he didn’t want to live here made me realize that, in fact, I did.’
There then followed several more minutes during which Hester Semley explained why Kingfisher’s View was more advantageous than any other house she had ever encountered. (Poirot spared me these particular details.)
As soon as he was able to make himself heard, Poirot said, ‘Could there have been another reason for the Laviolettes wanting to sell their house? One that had nothing to do with money?’
‘I suppose so, though I cannot think what it might have been.’
‘Immediately before they decided to sell, had anything changed on the estate?’
‘Nothing at all. Things rarely change here at Kingfisher Hill, and thank goodness for that!’
‘What about Monsieur Alfred Bixby and the Kingfisher Coach Company?’ asked Poirot.
‘What about them?’
‘Do not some residents disapprove of Monsieur Bixby and his business? The vulgarity of the blue and orange char-a-bancs and his use of the name “Kingfisher”?’
‘Oh, yes, but that was true long before Godfrey and Verna bought a house here. The tawdriness of Mr Bixby predates us all. Wait.’ Hester Semley sat up straight and pushed her spectacles higher up her nose. ‘Something had changed at Kingfisher Hill, and just before Godfrey and Verna decided to sell their house, too: the gate porter had changed. I objected most strongly, but I was alone in my objection and eventually I had to concede defeat. No one was on my side apart from Lavinia Stent and she is worse than useless. Even Percy thought I was being unreasonable.’
‘The gate porter?’ said Poirot.
‘Yes, at the entrance to the estate. The old one retired and a new one was put in his place—a man of distinctly unsuitable appearance. Did you not notice him as you arrived? Covered in hair! Almost no forehead to speak of. His hairline starts no more than an inch above his eyebrows. As it happens, his predecessor, the old gate porter, was at the opposite end of the scale—he was as bald as a golf ball and had no eyebrows to speak of—but he always looked smart, unlike this new fellow. And who could object to a golf ball? It’s not this new chap’s fault, I can see that, and I am not opposed to hairiness in and of itself. And I’m sure the new porter is a reliable and polite employee—in fact I know he is—but was there any need to position him at the entrance gates so that everybody sees him the moment they arrive? Could he not have been put somewhere less public? Less visible? What are you grinning about, M. Poirot? Are you thinking that I am a ridiculous old woman to care about such things?’
‘I am thinking,’ said Poirot, ‘that, thanks to you, the pieces of a small puzzle begin to fall into place. This story about the new porter and the old porter who was the golf ball—it has provided me with an answer. Hopefully more will follow.’
Hester Semley leaned forward with interest. ‘Are you suggesting that the old gate porter and the new gate porter are connected to these killings at Kingfisher Hill?’
‘Pas du tout—’
Poirot was unable to say more because, at that moment, Percy stumbled inelegantly back into the room with coffee, cream and sugar precariously balanced on a wobbling tray. Both dogs got up and started to bark.
Normally the noise would have disturbed Poirot, but his personal triumph of deduction had rendered him temporarily immune to irritation. Lavinia Stent—a woman whose name he had never heard before and whom he would almost certainly never meet—might have been worse than useless to Hester Semley but she had been extremely useful to Hercule Poirot.
Once refreshments had been taken, and once Percy had left with instructions to make several telephone calls on his aunt’s behalf, Poirot reminded her that she had something to tell him about Winnie Lord.
‘Ah, yes,’ she said. ‘Nobody has seen her at Kingfisher Hill for some time. Is it true that she is no longer in the Devonports’ employ?’
Poirot confirmed that, as far as he was aware, this was true. ‘She was not there when Inspector Catchpool and I first visited Little Key, and Sidney Devonport said that her return was out of the question.’
‘I see. Well, I don’t know what she did finally to make herself so unwelcome but I do know that it could have been anything from the most serious dereliction of duty to something quite inconsequential. Sidney and Lilian took against her long ago, not on account of anything Winnie herself had done but because of Daisy.’
‘Please explain,’ said Poirot.
‘Well, of course I’m going to explain!’ Hester Semley glared at him. ‘How could you begin to understand what I’m talking about if I didn’t explain? Really, M. Poirot, I don’t know if you’re in the habit of conversing with people who lack the power of speech and comprehension or only tell you half of a story—’
‘I am in the habit of trying to obtain as much information as possible from those who are determined to tell me as little as possible.’
‘I see. Well, I am trying to tell you as much as possible so please do not interrupt me again. After Frank was sent packing by Sidney and Lilian, Daisy grew close to Winnie. They very quickly became inseparable. Sidney and Lilian were horrified—their daughter, a Devonport, suddenly all chummy with a servant? They could not abide it! Daisy knew this and it only made her more determined to flaunt her friendship with Winnie. She might not have had the courage to stand up to her parents over the matter of Frank, but she has never been afraid to drive them to fury in more subtle ways, as long as it could not be proved that it was her intention to do so.
‘I think she must have decided to turn Winnie into her new little sister, since Sidney and Lilian had decreed that she must lose a brother. There was much giggling in each other’s bedrooms at night, and Daisy sometimes helped Winnie with her tasks in the kitchen. Then there were trips to the theatre, presents, shared confidences—even secret words and codes, according to Verna. In case you’re wondering, I only know about all of this because Verna has told me. And the thing is, Daisy is extremely clever. She will have known that Sidney and Lilian depended on Winnie and would have been reluctant to let her go.’
‘But they did—they have—let her go,’ said Poirot.
‘That was later,’ Hester said. ‘When Daisy decided to take Winnie under her wing, she was correct in her assessment: at that time, Winnie was viewed as absolutely essential to the smooth running of the Devonport household. Lilian described her as a servant in a thousand. She and Sidney would have been extremely reluctant to have to start from scratch and train up a new girl. So they tried to go on as usual with Winnie, but privately, with Daisy, they stamped their feet and screamed at her about how she must on no account fraternize with the help. Verna overheard many such tirades. It was not difficult for her to do so—Sidney does not care to keep his voice down when he’s angry. Each time, Daisy would say, “Of course, Father, you’re quite right. I shall try to do better in future,” and t
hen she would continue to behave towards Winnie in exactly the same way.
‘Now, let me tell you, M. Poirot: it is possible that Daisy was lonely and pining for Frank and this led to her developing a genuine affection for Winnie as a sort of substitute for her brother, but in my opinion—and Verna agrees—her main aim in pursuing this behaviour was to make her parents suffer. I think she wanted to say to them without actually saying it, “Look what you’ve done. You sent Frank away and now I’ve made a sister out of your trusty servant, and you hate it, don’t you? Well, you should have thought about that, shouldn’t you?” Do you understand what I mean?’
Poirot gave a nod of confirmation, feeling like a pupil being prepared by his teacher for an important test.
‘All of this had an adverse effect upon Winnie,’ Hester went on. ‘I am not sure why—the tense atmosphere at Little Key, I imagine, and knowing she was partly the cause of it—but the standard of her work declined. Having always been supremely efficient, cheerful and able to perform her duties to the highest standards, she became morose, unreliable and a positive hindrance in every way. Though there was an intermediate stage.’
Poirot opened his mouth to ask what she meant, then thought better of it.
‘At first, it seems, Winnie was so delighted to have found favour with Daisy that she neglected certain of her duties simply because her attention was no longer wholly focused upon her work. She was thrilled to have acquired a new sister in the form of Daisy, and she lost interest in everything else. Then, after Frank died, her work deteriorated still further and this time the slide in standards was accompanied by withdrawal and an unhappy aspect. She went missing once or twice too—wandered off when the family was relying on her to cook and serve breakfast or dinner—then reappeared a while later without apology or explanation. Of course, she might have been badly affected by the tragedy, but I happen to believe that she was more unhappy about Daisy’s reaction to Frank’s murder than about the murder itself.’
‘How did—?’
‘M. Poirot, if you ask me how Daisy reacted to Frank’s death, I shall set Pound and Sterling on you. That was the very next thing I was going to tell you. You really must learn the virtue of patience.’
Hester Semley glared at Poirot in silence for a full five seconds. Then she said, ‘Daisy was distraught after Frank died. Oh, everybody was terribly upset, but Verna said that three people took it much harder than the rest: Helen Acton, Daisy and Lilian. Daisy’s profound unhappiness brought out her cruel streak. And who had the worst of it? Winnie, of course—the adoring disciple. My theory is that Winnie realized only then that she meant nothing to Daisy and never had. She saw that, for Daisy, she had never been more than an entertaining way to aggravate her parents. Now, I should tell you that Verna disagrees. She thinks that Daisy grew genuinely fond of Winnie after Frank was banished, whereas I think the desire to do something—anything—to make Sidney and Lilian suffer was paramount. I believe Daisy used poor Winnie with that sole aim in mind.’ Hester sighed. ‘Then, devastated by the loss of Frank, which came so soon after the hope of being reunited with him, Daisy began to persecute Winnie in various subtle ways: constantly criticizing her, mocking her … So, of course, Winnie’s work in the house deteriorated even further. It comes as no surprise to me to learn that she slipped up once too often and was given her marching orders. I doubt Daisy will have cared too much about that.’
Poirot thought of the next question he wished to ask, did not ask it, and was unsurprised when Hester answered it anyway.
‘Which brings me to Oliver Prowd and the conversation he had with Godfrey, here in this room on the day that Frank was killed. Once Daisy, Richard and Verna had set off with Winnie for Little Key, Oliver was inconsolable. Godfrey told him to buck up or something of the sort, and it all came pouring out. I made myself scarce so that the two of them could talk man to man, though of course I heard every word. No, I will not apologize for that, M. Poirot. This is my house and I like to hear what people say in it.’
‘Monsieur Prowd was unhappy about his altercation with Mademoiselle Daisy?’ Poirot asked.
‘That, certainly, but it was not only that. He felt terribly guilty about the way he had treated Frank, you see. At one time the two men had been inseparable. Like brothers. Frank had stolen money from Sidney only to save Oliver and his ailing father from penury, and Oliver had accepted the money and Frank’s advice about how precisely to invest it. Oliver had willingly entered into a business arrangement with Frank—the schools. Do you know about the schools?’
Poirot indicated that he did.
‘Oliver had been happy to benefit from Frank’s criminal activity and from his good head for money and business,’ Hester Semley went on. ‘But as a friend? He had shunned Frank. As he told Godfrey that day, Frank had come to remind him of everything he wished to forget: his terrible fear of financial ruin and that his father would die in poverty, his tacit participation in a criminal act. Most of all, his inability to rescue himself. He felt indebted to Frank and inferior to him, and his feeling of worthlessness together with everything else … well, suffice to say that from Oliver’s point of view the friendship could not go on. He and Frank continued to communicate from a distance when they needed to, but they did not see each other again. Oliver told Godfrey that he could not have borne a face-to-face meeting with Frank, so it was no wonder that he dreaded the impending encounter at Little Key. He could hardly avoid Frank now, could he? He was engaged to Daisy and now Frank had apparently been welcomed back to the family—’
‘Pardon me.’ Poirot was determined to speak and was prepared to be chided for interrupting if necessary. ‘Some minutes ago, you said that Mademoiselle Daisy and Oliver Prowd had missed Frank inordinately. That is why Monsieur Prowd was eager to go to Little Key as soon as possible once he returned from London, n’est-ce pas, instead of being detained here? Yet you say also that he dreaded encountering Frank Devonport.’
‘Are you a fool?’ said Hester bluntly. ‘You think both things cannot at the same time be true? Of course Oliver had missed Frank. He had missed him desperately. If you had only heard him speaking to Godfrey, you would understand completely. It was his low opinion of himself that had prevented Oliver from pursuing his friendship with Frank, not any lack of affection for Frank. All those months that he could not bear to see or speak to him, he wished things were different and felt the lack of his lifelong friend most keenly. But he could not overcome his shame.’
‘I see.’ Poirot nodded. ‘And so once it became clear to him that he now had no choice but to meet Frank face to face …’
‘He knew it would be a deeply uncomfortable encounter, and also that it was unavoidable, so he wished to get it over and done with as soon as possible,’ said Hester.
‘The worst thing of all, he told Godfrey, was that he knew Frank would forgive him without hesitation. That would make him feel even more ashamed. And then there was his anguish over Daisy. She was so excited about Frank’s return, it made Oliver feel a little unloved. It reinforced his sense of inferiority. “She loves him more than she loves me,” he said to Godfrey. “She always will.” I’m sure I have no need to tell you this, M. Poirot, but I would advise you to question both Winnie Lord and Oliver Prowd very closely.’
‘An interesting suggestion,’ Poirot said evasively.
‘You’d be a fool to disregard my advice,’ said Hester. ‘On the day of Frank’s grand return to the family home, both Winnie and Oliver would have been keenly aware that Daisy’s feelings for them were nothing compared with the strength of her love for her older brother. How on earth could either of them hope to hold her attention even for a moment with Frank around? Jealousy is a powerful motive for murder, M. Poirot. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.’
‘Did Monsieur Prowd say anything else to Monsieur Laviolette that struck you as important?’ asked Poirot.
‘Not really. Only more in the same vein: self-pity, shame. He seemed to want to confess everythin
g, every past mistake, as if Godfrey were a priest or something! Oh, and he begged Godfrey not to say a word about any of it to Daisy.’
‘What past mistakes?’ said Poirot.
‘All the women who had mistreated him, all those he had mistreated. There was one girl who deceived him for months, claiming to be destitute and without family, and then Oliver discovered that she was a member of the Danish Royal Family. He felt like a prize idiot for having believed her.’
‘The … the Danish—’
‘Then there was the one with whom he had behaved in an unprincipled and unchristian fashion—that was how he put it. He meant sex, of course. Young people are prudishly reluctant to utter the word, I find. I cannot think why. It’s only a word. In any event, Oliver had blamed the girl for the unprincipled activity when the fault had belonged as much to him and he felt terribly guilty and ashamed.’
‘The same pattern as with Frank,’ said Poirot.
‘Quite,’ Hester agreed. ‘Oliver was aware of it too. He recognized and loathed his own hypocrisy. Poor Godfrey, I don’t think he knew quite what to say to any of this. Oliver would have been far better off confiding in me, of course, but what man of his age wants to unburden himself to an old woman? Especially about something as shameful as putting a young woman in the family way and then blaming her for it and abandoning her.’
‘There was a baby?’ said Poirot, immediately alert. This was interesting, he thought.
‘It did not, I think, go that far.’ Hester shot Poirot a knowing look. ‘Oliver’s narrative became rather oblique at that point, but he did say that the Harley Street doctor who was attending to his dying father would not help them, though he easily could have. Oliver called him a hateful man in one breath, then with the next he was denouncing his own appalling behaviour and praising the doctor’s wisdom and judgement. Good old doctor, say I, if he would not help Oliver and his lady-friend to get rid of a baby! Doctors are supposed to save lives, not end them when they’ve barely begun.’
The Killings at Kingfisher Hill Page 20
