Closed Casket: The New Hercule Poirot Mystery (Hercule Poirot Mystery 2)

by Sophie Hannah

  ‘Yes, Dorro does enough fretting for twelve people,’ I concurred. ‘You asked about unusual reactions—I don’t suppose you noticed Gathercole’s? He seemed to be struggling to contain some terrible grief or fury that threatened to burst forth. There was a moment, I confess, when I feared his efforts would fail and it would all come out, whatever it was.’

  ‘You describe it very well,’ said Poirot. ‘However, it was not the announcement of the new will that upset Mr Gathercole. Remember, he had known for some hours and was perfectly composed when we all sat down at the table. So what altered his mood?’

  ‘I’ve been puzzling over that very question,’ I said. ‘What happened that he might not have been prepared for? I suppose Scotcher’s reaction was unexpected: he did not seem glad of the new arrangements at all, did he?’

  ‘Understandably, he did not. Scotcher is close to death. What can he gain from this new will? Nothing. He will not live to see the money, so it spells only trouble for him—resentment from Dorro, from Claudia … which is why I wonder.’

  ‘What do you wonder?’

  ‘Lady Playford’s intention—perhaps it is not to benefit Scotcher but to incommode him. To cause him distress and inconvenience. That, after all, is the effect that we observed, and Lady Playford seems to be a person whose aim would not miss.’

  ‘What if she and Joseph Scotcher have jointly concocted some kind of plot?’ I said.

  ‘Why do you suggest it?’ asked Poirot. We had reached the far side of the lawn, the spot that offered the best view of Lillieoak. People were supposed to stop here and admire the house.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s only that their behaviour struck me as similar somehow. Lady Playford leaves everything to a dying man who will not benefit from her generosity. Joseph Scotcher proposes marriage to a girl who, if she accepts him, will get deathbed duty instead of the romantic dream, before becoming a widow. In both cases, the promise of everything—one’s dreams come true—but a vastly different and more desolate reality.’

  ‘That is an interesting observation,’ said Poirot as we walked on. ‘Yet I can imagine the desire to marry the one you love growing more urgent as life departs. There is great consolation in the symbolic union.’

  ‘What if Nurse Sophie ends up with the lot?’ I said.

  ‘While I think of the grand romantic gestures, you think of practicalities, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘You have not considered it? If he marries her, and Lady Playford dies before he does, to whom would her estate go? To Sophie, as Scotcher’s wife.’

  ‘Catchpool. What is that noise?’

  We stopped. It seemed to be coming from the bushes to our right: the distinct sound of a person weeping that soon gave way to an intermittent hissing noise.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ I asked Poirot.

  ‘Frenzied whispering. Lower your voice, or they will hear us, if they have not already.’

  It was obvious as soon as he said it that the hissing I had heard was the sound of a frightened person trying to communicate quietly but urgently.

  ‘There must be two of them out here,’ I whispered. ‘Shall we look for them?’

  ‘In these gardens?’ Poirot made a dismissive noise. ‘It would be more profitable to look for a particular leaf—the first one you saw when you arrived here.’

  ‘People are easier to find than leaves,’ I said.

  ‘Not when you and I are strangers to these paths and others are not. No, we will return to the house. There is work for us to do. We must make ourselves busy. Once we are inside, we will be able to see who is there and who is not. That is more productive than looking for the needle in the hay.’

  ‘What did you mean about us having work to do?’ I asked. ‘What sort of work?’

  ‘I know now why we were invited here, you and I. It was not for our congenial company. Non, pas du tout. We are here to use our little grey cells. It is all part of Lady Playford’s plan.’

  Before I had a chance to ask ‘What plan?’ Poirot added quietly, as if as an afterthought, ‘We are here in order to prevent a murder.’

  CHAPTER 9

  King John

  Hatton admitted us to the house. Predictably, he said nothing, though his bearing suggested that all three of us might benefit from the pretence that Poirot and I had not ventured outside and then needed to be let in again.

  We went first to the dining room, which was empty, then to the drawing room. Here we found Harry, Dorro, Claudia and Randall Kimpton. A fire blazed in the grate, yet the room was still cold. All were seated and drinking what looked like brandy, apart from Kimpton. He had been fixing himself a drink, but after filling the glass he handed it to Poirot, who raised it to his nose. Whatever it was, it did not meet with his approval. He set it down on the nearest table without taking a sip. Kimpton was busy pouring a drink for me and so failed to notice.

  ‘Have you heard any news?’ Dorro asked, leaning forward. Her anxious eyes flitted from me to Poirot and back again.

  ‘News of what, madame?’

  ‘Joseph Scotcher’s proposal of marriage to Sophie Bourlet. We left them alone in the dining room—well, it seemed tactful—but we have not seen or heard from them since. I had assumed they would join us in here. I should like to know the outcome.’

  ‘How delightful that you care, Dorro,’ said Kimpton. He lit a cigarette. Harry Playford took a silver case out of his pocket and lit one of his own.

  ‘She said yes, naturally.’ Claudia yawned. ‘I don’t see how anyone can think it in doubt. They will certainly marry, assuming the grim reaper allows sufficient time. It’s terribly like The Mikado, isn’t it? Do you know it, Monsieur Poirot? The Gilbert and Sullivan operetta? Wonderful music—killingly funny, too. Nanki-Poo wants to marry Yum-Yum, but the only way he can is if he agrees to be beheaded by Ko-Ko, the Lord High Executioner, after exactly a month. He agrees, of course, because he adores Yum-Yum.’

  ‘Good chap,’ said Kimpton. ‘I should marry you even if it meant having my head chopped off in a month, dearest one.’

  ‘And then I should have a dilemma—whether to keep your head or your body,’ said Claudia. ‘I think, all things considered, the head.’

  What an alarming and illogical remark, I thought. Kimpton, to whom it had been addressed, seemed charmed by it.

  ‘Why not keep both, my divine girl?’ he asked. ‘Is there a rule forbidding it?’

  ‘I think there must be, or else it’s no fun at all,’ said Claudia. ‘Yes! If I refuse to choose between lifeless head and bloodless body, both will be taken away and burned, and I will have neither. I choose the head!’

  ‘My mind is flattered, at the same time as sending signals to my extremities of great offence taken. I don’t mind telling you it’s a tricky balancing act, even for a brain as sophisticated as mine.’

  Claudia threw back her head and laughed.

  I found this entire exchange astonishing, and—if I am to be honest—rather repulsive.

  Dorro seemed to agree with me. ‘Can you not stop?’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘Can the two of you never stop? A terrible thing has happened. This is no time to be frivolous.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Kimpton. ‘Frivolity is free, after all. Heiresses and paupers may enjoy it alike.’

  ‘You are beastly, Randall.’ Dorro stared at him with loathing in her eyes. ‘Harry, have you nothing to say?’

  ‘We’ll all feel better after a snifter or two,’ said Harry matter-of-factly, looking down at the contents of his glass.

  Kimpton took his drink and crossed the room to stand behind Claudia’s chair. He leaned down, kissed her forehead, and said, ‘“He is the half part of a blessed man/Left to be finished by such as she/And she a fair divided excellence, Whose fullness of perfection lies in him.”’

  Claudia groaned. ‘Shakespeare’s infernal King John. It is endlessly tiresome. I prefer your ideas to Mr Shakespeare’s, darling—they are more original.’

  ‘Where are the others?
’ asked Poirot.

  ‘All in bed, I expect,’ said Claudia. ‘Mr Gathercole and Mr Rolfe have said goodnight. I cannot think why they should wish to extricate themselves, when the Playford family fun has barely started.’

  ‘I heard Mr Rolfe say he was feeling unwell,’ said Dorro.

  ‘Poor Scotcher looked sick as a dog too,’ said Harry.

  ‘I’m sure Sophie has tucked him up in his nice warm deathbed,’ Claudia said.

  ‘Stop it! Stop it at once, I can’t bear it.’ Dorro’s voice shook.

  ‘I shall say what I like,’ Claudia told her. ‘Unlike you, Dorro, I know when there is a funny side and when there is none. Harry, how would you like to stuff Joseph’s corpse and stick him up on the wall?’

  I saw Poirot recoil at this, and I could hardly blame him. Did Randall Kimpton, a doctor, seriously intend to marry a woman who thought a man’s tragic death was something to laugh about?

  Dorro slammed her drink down on the table beside her. She folded her hands into fists, but couldn’t keep her fingers still; they wriggled like worms. ‘There is not a soul who cares about me,’ she cried. ‘Even you do not care, Harry.’

  ‘Hm?’ Her husband inspected her for a few seconds before saying, ‘Buck up, old girl. We’ll muddle along.’

  ‘You’re a fine one to be offended by a little deathbed joke, Dorro.’ Claudia narrowed her eyes at her sister-in-law. ‘Mother is sobbing in her room, I am sure, thanks to your harsh words. You accused her of trying to turn Joseph into Nicholas and make a substitute son of him. That is quite untrue.’

  ‘Don’t! I could tear out my tongue!’ Dorro crumpled. No longer puffed up with indignation, she began to cry. ‘I was beside myself, and it … it came out of me. I did not choose to say it.’

  ‘Yet say it you did,’ said Kimpton cheerfully. ‘“Stone-cold dead”, I believe it was.’

  ‘Please, let us not speak of it!’ Dorro begged.

  ‘What, of “stone-cold dead” as your description of Nicholas? I noticed at the time that you drew out each syllable to the length of two. It was as if you wanted the saying of it to last as long as possible. What interests me most is this: if you had said “dead” without the “stone-cold”, would Athie have fled as she did? I doubt it. To my estimation, it was the “stone-cold” that did it.’

  ‘You are an unkind man, Randall Kimpton,’ Dorro sobbed.

  Harry Playford finally sat up and took notice. ‘Look here, Randall, is there any need for these jibes?’

  Kimpton smiled. ‘If I believed you really wanted an answer, Harry, I would happily supply one.’

  ‘Well … jolly good, then,’ Harry said doubtfully.

  ‘Jolly, jolly good,’ said Kimpton, and Claudia laughed her brittle laugh again.

  I can honestly say that of all the family gatherings I have attended, including my own, I have never encountered a worse atmosphere than the one in the drawing room at Lillieoak that night. I still had not sat down and was not inclined to do so. Poirot, who preferred to be seated whenever possible, stood by my side.

  ‘Why do we allow words to have such power over us?’ Kimpton asked of nobody in particular. He had started to walk slowly around the room. ‘They are lost in air the moment they leave our mouths, yet they stay with us forever if they’re arranged in a memorable order. How can three words—“stone-cold dead”—be so much more upsetting than the wordless memory of a dead child?’

  Dorro rose from her chair. ‘And what about the way Athie has treated her two living children this evening? Why have you nothing to say on that subject? How dare you portray me as the aggressor and Athie as the victim, as if she is a frail old thing. She is stronger than any of us!’

  Kimpton had stopped by the French windows. He said, ‘“Grief fills the room up of my absent child,/Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,/Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,/Remembers me of all his gracious parts,/Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form./Then have I reason to be fond of grief?” Are you familiar with Shakespeare’s King John, Poirot?’

  ‘I am afraid not, monsieur. It is one of the few that I have not read.’

  ‘It’s sublime. Brimming with love for king and country, and without the dreary structural straitjacket that Shakespeare so often insisted on imposing. Do you have a favourite of his plays?’

  ‘I can attest to the excellence of many, but if I had to choose one … I am fond of Julius Caesar,’ said Poirot.

  ‘An interesting and unusual choice. I’m impressed. Do you know, it is only because my favourite is King John that I pursued a career in medicine. If it were not for Shakespeare, I would be a man of letters and not a doctor. If ever I meet a dissatisfied patient, I make sure to tell them to blame Shakespeare, not me.’

  ‘Those poor desperately bored corpses on your autopsy table, darling,’ said Claudia.

  Kimpton laughed. ‘You forget, I encounter the living as well as the dead, dearest one.’

  ‘No one with a beating heart could find you unsatisfactory in any particular. I assumed the dissatisfied patients you referred to were the corpses, therefore—dissatisfied with their own personal outcomes. Luckily they are in no position to say anything about it.’

  ‘I do not want to think or talk about death!’ said Dorro. ‘Please.’

  ‘In what way do you owe your career in medicine to the play King John?’ Poirot asked Kimpton.

  ‘Hm? Oh, that. Yes indeed. I could probably have got away with Julius Caesar. Yes, I think I could have. It’s a respectable if uncommon choice. One would not have to suffer the condemnation of one’s peers or participate in ceaseless arguments that can have no clear winner. As a Shakespeare scholar, I was told every day that Hamlet and King Lear and Macbeth were vastly superior to King John. I disagreed, but how could I conclusively prove I was right? I could not! My enemies were able to produce many scholars who agreed with them, as if an army of head-nodders were proof of anything. One only has to look at the political situation to see that it is not so. Vast numbers of people on this tiny island believe they would be better off as an entirely separate country—’

  ‘Please, can we not discuss politics, after all that has happened tonight?’

  ‘Bless you, Dorro,’ said Kimpton. ‘Present me with a list of topics I am allowed to refer to, and the authority by which you seek to enforce your restrictions—moral or legal, I will allow either—and I will give your document my full consideration. In the meantime, I will finish my explanation to Poirot. Many in the Irish Free State view the English not as an asset but as an antagonist—which tells us, in my opinion, that many people are fools. It does not, however, settle the matter in dispute. What I am trying to say—circuitously, I will admit—is that some things are subjective and cannot be proven in an absolute sense. Whether or not King John is William Shakespeare’s finest play is one of those things.’

  ‘While medicine is not,’ said Poirot.

  ‘Quite correct.’ Kimpton smiled. ‘As someone who likes to win and prefers each victory to be unambiguous, I realized that I was better suited to a different kind of work. I am pleased to say that I made the right decision. Now my life is much more straightforward. I say, “If we don’t amputate this chap’s leg, he will die,” or “This lady was killed by a brain tumour—here it is, the size of a melon.” Nobody argues with me because they cannot. There is the melon-sized tumour for them all to see, or the dead fellow—dead from gangrene, with both of his legs still attached, thanks to an idiot optimist who erred on the side of hope rather than caution.’

  ‘You chose a profession that enables you to prove you are right,’ Poirot summarized.

  ‘I did, yes. The study of literature is for those who enjoy speculation. I prefer to know. Tell me—all these murderers you’ve caught … in how many cases did you have absolute proof that would have held up in court if the beggar in question had not confessed? Because a confession proves nothing at all. I will prove it: I, Randall Kimpton, murdered Abraham Lincoln. I was not born wh
en it happened, but nevertheless … I’m an ambitious young cove, so I did not let that stop me. I killed President Lincoln!’

  Claudia cackled in appreciation. It was an alarming sound, but Kimpton seemed to like it.

  ‘There are mysteries, also, in medicine, and much that cannot be proven,’ said Poirot. ‘The tumour in the brain, the missing leg … you choose examples that serve your purpose. You do not mention the patients who come to you with pain for which you are unable to find a cause.’

  ‘There have been a few, I will grant you that. But generally, if a chap sneezes and has a runny nose and swollen red nostrils, I can say he has a cold and no one will waste hours trying to prove me wrong. That is why I would far rather do my work than yours, old boy.’

  ‘And I, mon ami, would rather do mine. If anyone can look at the running nose and take the temperature and see the influenza, what then is the challenge?’

  Kimpton started to chortle to himself, and before long he was laughing so hard, his whole body was shaking. ‘Hercule Poirot!’ he said when finally he had composed himself. ‘How glad I am that you exist and that you are here! How marvellous that, after all you have accomplished, you still welcome the challenge presented by uncertainty. You are a better man than I. To me, uncertainty is a pestilence. It is a plague. But I am glad you disagree with me.’

  I sensed that Poirot was struggling to maintain his composure. For my part, I could cheerfully have punched Kimpton right on his insufferably smug nose. He made Poirot look shy and self-effacing in contrast.

  ‘May I change the subject, monsieur?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not the one in charge of which conversational topics are permitted,’ said Kimpton. ‘Dorro, how’s your official document coming along? We need guidance.’

  ‘Have the four of you been together since you left the dining room?’ Poirot asked. ‘And did you come from there directly to here?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Claudia. ‘Why?’