Closed Casket: The New Hercule Poirot Mystery (Hercule Poirot Mystery 2) (12 page)

She looked surprised. ‘No. I walked and walked.’

‘Did you encounter any other person in the grounds?’

‘No.’

‘You did not whisper to anybody?’

‘I did not.’

‘I was in the garden also, with Catchpool. We spoke at length.’

‘I heard nothing,’ said Sophie. ‘Only leaves rustling, and the wind.’

‘What time did you go outside and what time did you return to the house? Do you remember?’

‘I went out a little after everybody left the dining room—everybody but Joseph and me, that is. I don’t know what time that was, I’m afraid.’

‘It was five minutes before eight o’clock,’ Poirot told her.

‘Then Joseph and I must have left the room at around ten minutes after eight. I helped him to prepare for bed for another fifteen or twenty minutes, and then I went outside. It must have been around thirty minutes past the hour when I went out.’

‘Then you left the house as Catchpool and I returned from our walk in the garden. We did not see you.’

‘I was quite unaware of the time. Perhaps I was five minutes later, or earlier.’

‘And what time did you return to the house?’

Sophie said angrily, ‘Why do you ask questions to which you know the answers? You all heard me scream. You all came running.’

‘But I do not know how long you had been inside the house when you screamed, mademoiselle. You started to scream at ten minutes after ten o’clock—that I know.’

‘I had come in from the garden no more than five minutes before that. I heard the shouting immediately. No one upstairs would have heard it, but I did, clearly, as soon as I closed the back door and shut out the wind. I heard Joseph begging for his life.’

‘What precisely did he say?’ Poirot asked.

‘I cannot bear to think of it! I must, I know. He said, “Stop, stop! Please, Claudia! You don’t have to—” He knew she would kill him. I should have flown at her as soon as I saw the club in her hand, but it did not seem possible … And then, the shock! I was paralysed, Monsieur Poirot. It is my fault that Joseph is dead. If I had thrown myself on Claudia, I might have stopped her. I could have saved his life.’

‘Was it only Monsieur Scotcher that you heard speak? Did Claudia Playford say anything?’

Sophie frowned. Then suddenly her eyes widened. ‘Yes! Yes, she spoke of a woman named Iris. “This is what Iris should have done,” or something like that. She said it while she was attacking Joseph.’

‘Please be as accurate as you can,’ Poirot urged. ‘It is important that I know her words.’

‘“This is what Iris should have done”—I’m certain of that part. And then, I think, “But she was too weak—she let you live, and so you killed her.” Or maybe it was “she let you kill her”. I was frozen. I could do nothing but scream and scream. I did not …’ Sophie’s voice cracked. ‘I did not attempt to save Joseph’s life.’

‘Who is Iris?’

‘I have no idea. Joseph never mentioned her in my presence.’

‘Yet Claudia Playford believes that he killed her,’ said Poirot.

‘Joseph would not harm a soul. Claudia is a demon.’

‘Why were you so long in the garden on such a cold night?’

‘I was too ashamed to return to the house. I was not myself at all.

‘Capable Sophie, strong Sophie—that’s how they all see me. Always on hand to take care of Joseph and Lady Playford and everybody. I needed some respite from being the person that everybody mistakes me for.’

‘I understand,’ said Poirot. ‘What did Claudia Playford do once she had finished attacking the head of Mr Scotcher?’

‘She dropped the club on the floor and ran from the room.’

Inspector Conree raised his chin and said, ‘Claudia Playford and Randall Kimpton tell a different story. They say they were together in Dr Kimpton’s room from when they left the bedroom of Orville Rolfe until you started to scream downstairs.’

‘Then they have told you a lie,’ said Sophie simply.

While Poirot and Inspector Conree were in Ballygurteen with Sophie Bourlet, Sergeant O’Dwyer and I were in Lady Playford’s study at Lillieoak. Since Scotcher’s death she had refused to come downstairs. The luncheon tray on her desk had not been touched, I noticed, and her face looked markedly thinner, though less than twenty-four hours had passed since the tragedy.

‘I left the dining room and went straight to my bedroom,’ she told Sergeant O’Dwyer. Her manner suggested that his question and any that might follow were a distraction. I had the distinct impression that she was trying to work something out on her own, and regarded interventions from others as a hindrance. ‘I did not eat dinner. You would find out anyway, so you might as well hear it from me. Mr Catchpool might already have told you.’

I indicated that I had not.

‘My daughter-in-law, Dorro, made a remark that upset me. You must not think badly of her. She is a kind person who worries excessively, that is all. There is nobody in this house who is unkind or wicked, Sergeant. Even my daughter, Claudia, who has a punishingly sharp tongue sometimes …’ Lady Playford straightened her back in preparation for what she was about to say. ‘Claudia is no more a killer than I am a pirate on the high seas. It’s absurd.’

‘Then you believe that Sophie Bourlet is lying?’ I said.

‘No,’ said Lady Playford. ‘Sophie would not falsely accuse a person of murder. She has a good heart.’

‘Then …’

‘I do not know! Believe me, I quite see the problem! I insist upon two things—that my daughter is not a murderer and that Sophie Bourlet would not falsely accuse her of murder—and those two things are irreconcilable.’

‘If I might just kindly ask, your ladyship …’ Sergeant O’Dwyer seemed to introduce all his questions with these words. ‘You returned to your room—and did you leave it again, or did you stay in it, or what did you do after that?’

‘I stayed in my room, alone, until I heard Sophie’s distant screams and people running along the landing. In all that time I was disturbed only when Mr Catchpool knocked at my door. He wanted to check that nothing terrible had happened to me.’

‘Poirot asked me to make certain of everybody’s safety,’ I told O’Dwyer. ‘I found that all were safe and well except for Sophie Bourlet and Michael Gathercole, who were nowhere to be found, and Joseph Scotcher and Orville Rolfe, who were in their rooms but not at all well.’

‘If I might just kindly ask, your ladyship … Scotcher was dying of Bright’s disease of the kidneys, is that right, now?’

‘That is correct.’

‘And the upsetting remark that your daughter-in-law made. I should like to hear about it, if you don’t mind.’

‘She said that I was trying to pretend that Joseph Scotcher was my son Nicholas, who died as a child. She described Nicholas as “stone-cold dead”. As of course he is. I know that perfectly well. What upset me was not the unpleasant reality, which I accepted long ago, but that Dorro would choose to say such a thing to me.’

‘She regretted it soon afterwards,’ I could not help saying. ‘She was terribly upset later, in the drawing room, and wished she could take it back.’

‘Yes,’ said Lady Playford thoughtfully. ‘One ought not to use words carelessly, or even spontaneously. Once they are launched, they cannot be called back. I have been unhappy on many occasions, but never once have I used a word or words that I have not carefully chosen
.
’

‘I’d agree with you there,’ said O’Dwyer. ‘If anybody has a talent for choosing words, it’s you, your ladyship.’

‘And yet, thanks to me, poor Joseph is dead.’ Tears shone in her eyes.

‘You must not blame yourself,’ I told her.

‘Now there Inspector Catchpool and I are of one mind,’ said O’Dwyer. ‘Whoever is to blame for Mr Scotcher’s demise is the one that coshed him over the head with the club.’

‘It’s kind of you to try, gentlemen, but you will never convince me this was not my fault. I changed my will in a way that was designed to provoke. I made a theatrical spectacle of the announcement, over dinner.’

‘Yet you did not expect Joseph Scotcher to be murdered a few hours later,’ I said.

‘No. Had I considered the possibility, I would have concluded it was out of the question. Shall I tell you why? Because the only sensible motives for this murder belong to those who would never commit the act. My son Harry—unthinkable! As for my daughter, Claudia … You might not believe this, Edward—may I call you Edward?—but the psychology is all wrong. It cannot be Claudia.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘A violent murder is the last resort of a person whose passionate rage or burning resentment has been locked inside them for too long—for a lifetime!—with no means of escape,’ Lady Playford said. ‘Finally, the cork pops. The glass shatters! My daughter’s simmering fury—which has been with her since childhood, despite having no discernible cause—has garnered quite an audience in the daily run of things. Far from keeping it stoppered up all her life, she has broadcast it far and wide, to anyone who crosses her path. Bitterness emanates from her as she stomps around the house feeling aggrieved on her own behalf, and she gives full vent to it. I am sure you have noticed, Edward.’

‘Well …’

‘You are too polite to say so. Claudia could lay waste to an army simply by opening her mouth and speaking her mind. For her to pick up a club and batter a man’s head with it … words would first have to fail her, and I assure you, no such thing has happened.’

‘And Dorro?’ I said.

‘Are you asking if Dorro might have killed Joseph? The idea is laughable! Oh, she was in a bate at the prospect of inheriting nothing, but Dorro is a fearful woman. More importantly, she is a pessimist. She could not commit murder without feeling that discovery, conviction and execution were almost guaranteed, and that trio of unfortunate consequences would deter her. Anyhow, why should Sophie pretend she saw Claudia doing it if Dorro was the one she saw?’

‘What about your daughter’s young man—Randall Kimpton?’ I asked.

Lady Playford looked surprised. ‘Why should Randall wish to kill Joseph? His only motive would be money, and he already has it in abundance.’

It was all very well her insisting that this, that and the other person could not possibly have murdered Scotcher. Someone had. That was beyond doubt. ‘Whom do you suspect?’ I asked.

‘Nobody. “Suspect” suggests a firm belief, and I have none. I have two lists in my mind, and nothing more.’

‘Lists?’

‘Those who are innocent beyond all doubt, and the rest.’

‘When you say “beyond all doubt”—’

‘From my knowledge of their characters.’

‘Might we hear the two lists, your ladyship?’ asked O’Dwyer.

‘If you must. The innocents are: Harry, Claudia, Dorro, Michael Gathercole, Sophie Bourlet. The others are—forgive me, Edward—Edward Catchpool, Hercule Poirot—’

‘I beg your pardon? Poirot and I are on your list of potential murderers?’

‘I have every confidence that neither of you murdered Joseph, but I do not
know
it,’ Lady Playford said with a hint of impatience. ‘I cannot say that you, or Poirot, would
never
commit murder. If it makes you feel any better, I could not say it of myself. In the right circumstances … For instance, if I knew who had killed Joseph, I might well find the largest, sharpest knife in the house and stick it into them. I should enjoy it, too!’

There was a knock at the door.

‘I don’t want to speak to anybody else,’ Lady Playford said urgently, as if speaking to me and Sergeant O’Dwyer were quite enough of an ordeal. ‘One of you shoo them away, whoever it is.’

It was Hatton, the butler. The crisis conditions at Lillieoak seemed to have restored his ability to speak when necessary. ‘There is a message for you from Monsieur Poirot, Mr Catchpool,’ he whispered efficiently, leaning forward to aim the words directly at my ear. ‘He telephoned. He wishes you to ask everybody if they know a woman by the name of Iris.’

I wondered if Inspector Conree shared this wish of Poirot’s.

‘Hatton, Brigid, Orville Rolfe—and Randall Kimpton in some circumstances, though
never
for money,’ said Lady Playford once the butler had gone. ‘They are all on my list of possible murderers. The person who poses the gravest problem is Phyllis. She
adored
Joseph—hung on his every word. I do not believe she would have harmed him. On the other hand, she is slow-witted, and it is never difficult to persuade that sort of person to do the wrong thing.’

‘If I could trouble you to answer one more question, your ladyship,’ said O’Dwyer. ‘It’s about your new will.’

‘I thought it might be.’

‘Why did you decide to change it in the way that you did, with Mr Scotcher so close to death’s door? Did you not believe he was bound to die before you?’

‘I have answered that question already,’ said Lady Playford wearily. ‘I do not wish to repeat myself yet again. Edward here will be able to tell you.’

I nodded, remembering her impressive performance in the dining room. Physical health is affected by psychology, therefore Scotcher might be persuaded to last a little longer if he knew he would one day inherit a fortune. I had not been convinced at the time and I was no more convinced now.

‘I wonder if you would mind talking a little about your late husband’s will, Lady Playford,’ I said hesitantly, half expecting her to shout at me to be quiet and stick to the subject at hand.

‘Guy? Oh—you mean because of what Dorro said at dinner? No, I don’t mind in the least. It was not an easy decision to make, but my husband and I knew it was the right one. You’ve seen Harry. If Lillieoak and everything that was Guy’s had passed to him in the customary fashion, it would not have been him making the decisions and running things, it would have been Dorro, and—’

Lady Playford broke off abruptly. After making an impatient noise she continued. ‘I might as well finish, now that I have started, whatever you will think of me. I love Dorro well enough, but I do not trust her. Neither does Claudia—and Lillieoak is her family home as much as it is Harry’s. And, really, the fact that things are habitually done a certain way does not mean they must always be done that way. I am Guy’s widow—frankly, I don’t see why I should be pushed aside any more than Claudia should be. Why should I leave my home that I love and let Dorro take over? And Harry and Claudia receive allowances that
are
generous and cover all their needs, whatever Dorro’s opinion might be. Guy quite agreed,’ she added as an afterthought.

I was glad this was the sort of problem I was never likely to have. ‘Do you know a person by the name of Iris?’ I asked Lady Playford.

‘Iris? No. Whom do you mean?’

I wished I knew.

‘No. I know of no Iris.’

Her denial was convincing. All the same, I could not help thinking that if anyone could tell a lie and make the world believe it, that person was surely Athelinda Playford.