Closed Casket: The New Hercule Poirot Mystery (Hercule Poirot Mystery 2) (14 page)

Sergeant O’Dwyer and I spent the next two hours finding no trace of an Iris. Poirot had still not returned from Ballygurteen to explain why we were supposed to be looking for her. Orville Rolfe knew of no woman or girl by that name, and neither did Brigid or Hatton.

Nonetheless, our conversations with the two longest- serving members of Lillieoak’s staff were the most helpful we’d had so far. I had an opportunity to agree with Sergeant O’Dwyer, rather than the other way round, when he said, ‘I almost wish we had spoken to Hatton and Mrs Marsh first of all. Between them, they have painted a clear picture of the movements of the night in question.’

‘They have—assuming we can rely on their testimony,’ I said.

‘Brigid Marsh strikes me as an impressive character if ever there was one.’ O’Dwyer patted his stomach. ‘If her word is as good as her mutton soup, then I am in favour of relying on it.’

I said nothing. The mutton soup might have been near flawless, but as for the word or words … Brigid had said something to me earlier in the day that I had found inexplicable. Happening upon me in the hall, she narrowed her eyes at me and said, ‘I knew I was right—you’ve got that look about you!’ I asked the obvious question, to which she answered, ‘The look of a man who drinks water all through the night!’ She said this as fiercely as if she were accusing me of baby farming or some equally heinous crime, then pointed to her mouth and said, ‘Dry lips—I can see from here!’

As if all this were not quite galling enough, I was then subjected to a long and confusing story about her nephew, who had stolen some peppermints from a bowl that was a family heirloom, and broken the bowl in the process. He had then needed to lie about breaking it—which was an accident—because if he had confessed, Brigid would have known he had stolen the sweets—which was deliberate and pernicious.

I never drank water in the night, and I did not understand what analogy she was trying to make, but before I could say any of this, she had stomped off in the direction of the kitchen.

‘What about Hatton?’ I asked O’Dwyer. ‘Are you inclined to believe him too?’ Asking questions was the way to get the best from O’Dwyer. Make a statement and he would agree, but ask a question and he would happily produce an opinion of his own, as he did now.

‘Well, as I see it, Inspector Catchpool—’

‘Edward, please.’

‘As I see it, Edward, the butler told us nothing that made us more likely to think of anybody as guilty. And if he himself were the murderer, he would surely benefit from a cloud of suspicion lingering over somebody else.’

‘He observed a remarkable number of comings and goings that night,’ I said. ‘I dare say it is his job to monitor the activities of the house in that way.’

I started to list, mainly for my own benefit, the things Hatton claimed to have witnessed on the night of the murder. Working with Poirot in London earlier in the year had left me with an appetite for listing things. As a method of clarifying one’s thoughts, I had found that it helped enormously.

Things Hatton saw on the night of the murder:

1. 1. Lady Playford left the dining room in the middle of dinner. She appeared to be in a state of high emotion. She ran upstairs to her bedroom, closed the door and stayed there as far as Hatton was aware.
   
2. 2. The next people to leave the dining room were Claudia Playford and Randall Kimpton. They were followed closely by Harry and Dorro Playford. All four went straight to the drawing room.
   
3. 3. After that, the next to leave the dining room were Michael Gathercole and Orville Rolfe, who also left the room together. The latter was complaining of feeling a little unwell. Gathercole said something about feeling better after a good night’s rest. The two men entered the drawing room briefly to take their leave of the others, and then ascended the stairs. Each went to his room.
   
4. 4. Next to leave the dining room were Hercule Poirot and Edward Catchpool, who went outside together.
   
5. 5. Gathercole emerged from his bedroom ten minutes later. He went downstairs, put on his overcoat, and left the house by the back door.
   
6. 6. Approximately five minutes after Gathercole had left the house, Joseph Scotcher and Sophie Bourlet came out of the dining room. Scotcher appeared to be in some discomfort. Sophie pushed him in his wheelchair to his bedroom. Once she had settled him for the night, she went to her own room, put on her coat and went out into the garden.
   
7. 7. Roughly fifteen minutes later, Poirot and Catchpool returned to the house and proceeded to the drawing room.
   
8. 8. At about twenty minutes to ten, Hatton retired for the night. As the grandfather clock in the hall was striking ten, which happened to be just as he was getting into bed, Hatton glanced out of his bedroom window and saw Sophie Bourlet walking through the garden in the direction of the house.
   
9. 9. Ten minutes later the screaming started. Hatton put on a dressing gown, left his bedroom and went in search of the noise. When he reached the hall, he encountered Michael Gathercole, who was walking in through the front door at that moment. Together, they moved in the direction of the parlour to see what the noise was about.
   

‘We cannot eliminate Sophie Bourlet and Michael Gathercole as suspects,’ said O’Dwyer. ‘Either might have done the deed, then gone outside, and made sure as they were seen coming in again.’

‘What about Claudia Playford?’ I said. ‘Brigid Marsh swears that as she ran from the servants’ quarters to the parlour, she saw Claudia with Randall Kimpton at the top of the stairs, outside Lady Playford’s study, on their way down like everyone else. It’s rather baffling.’

‘What is?’ O’Dwyer asked.

‘Hatton mentioning the grandfather clock in the hall has made me think about the chronology of it all—and it doesn’t make sense. Listen: Sophie Bourlet is outside. She returns to the house—she is seen to do so by Hatton. Almost immediately upon entering, she witnesses Claudia Playford beating Joseph Scotcher to death with a club. She starts to scream. Claudia drops the club and runs upstairs to the landing, where she is seen soon afterwards by Brigid Marsh.
How can Claudia have got herself from the parlour to that landing without using the main stairs?
There is no other way up to the landing outside Lady Playford’s study.’

‘You’re right, there is not,’ said O’Dwyer.

‘Remember, Sophie is still screaming all this while. Upstairs, Poirot and I and others are opening bedroom doors and rushing towards those very same stairs. I think I was the first there—I did not see Claudia Playford coming up and I saw no one on the landing. My question is: could Claudia Playford have reached the safety of Randall Kimpton’s bedroom, or her own, between Sophie starting to scream and me opening the door of Orville Rolfe’s room and stepping out onto the landing?’

‘Well, could she?’ said O’Dwyer eagerly. ‘Only you can answer that. Are you minded to say that it was impossible, and that therefore she could never have been downstairs murdering Mr Scotcher in the first place?’

‘Unless my memory of events is distorted … Yes. I should say it was quite impossible. Which means either Brigid is mistaken about seeing Claudia on the landing while Sophie was screaming, or …’

‘Or else Sophie is lying,’ said O’Dwyer.

‘She might have killed Scotcher, then gone out into the garden—hidden the clothes she wore to commit the murder, which would have been covered in blood—and then made sure she was seen returning to the house, ready to scream in false shock, as an innocent party would on discovering the battered body of the man she loved.’

‘What about Phyllis the maid?’ O’Dwyer said. ‘Did you know that she was enamoured of Mr Scotcher? Brigid thinks it was Phyllis that killed him. She told me so quite bluntly. I have to say, I was as persuaded by her account of Phyllis’s passion for the deceased young gentleman as I was by her muffins, which are delicious. If Phyllis knew that Scotcher loved Sophie and not her, there’s no telling what she might have done, Brigid said. Oh, she had a thing or two to say, so she did! “What species of fool goes and falls head over heels for a man who’s as near dead as he is alive, when Clonakilty’s full of big, strapping lads?” She’s not wrong there! And what I want to know is, if Phyllis was missing from the kitchen when she should have been helping Brigid, then where was she? Mr Hatton did not mention seeing her, not in any shape or form.’

‘Let us find her and ask,’ I said.

We waited in the hall until Phyllis was produced by Hatton. Her posture brought to mind a reluctant gladiator—forced, terrified, into the arena. She sniffed, shuffled her feet and said, ‘I never did it. I never did nothing wrong! I’d not have hurt Joseph, not for anything!’

‘Nobody is here to accuse you of wrongdoing, miss,’ said O’Dwyer. ‘We need to talk to you, is all.’

‘I’m
innocent,’ Phyllis protested. ‘Me, a murderer? That what Cook’s told you? Ask anyone who knows me, they’ll swear I could never.’

‘Shall we find somewhere a little more private to sit and talk?’ I suggested.

‘No.’ Phyllis recoiled as if I had laid a trap for her. ‘I’ve work to do. Haven’t I always? Ask what you want to know and I’ll answer. I’d as soon have it over with.’

‘Do you know anybody by the name of Iris?’

‘Iris?’ Phyllis looked around wildly. ‘Iris? I’ve never known an Iris. I knew an Eileen—from Tipperary, she was—and a Mavis, as used to work here at Lillieoak. Who are you talking about? What Iris?’

‘Never mind,’ I said.

‘There is no need to fret, miss,’ said O’Dwyer. ‘We only need to know what were your movements on the night that poor Mr Scotcher met his untimely end.’

Phyllis’s face twisted. She started to sob, and sank to the floor in a heap. O’Dwyer crouched down beside her. ‘There, there, miss. You were fond of Mr Scotcher, were you?’

‘He was the only one I cared about! I wish I had died instead—I truly wish it, I do! They can bury me alongside him!’

‘Now, now, miss. You’re a grand young lady. I should think that plenty of fellows will—’

‘Don’t say it! Don’t!’ Phyllis wailed. ‘Don’t speak to me of anybody else. As if Cook in me ear all the time isn’t bad enough! I was a silly fool, like she always said I was. Joseph was so nice to me—just being kind, as he was, no one kinder—and I got it all wrong. I should’ve known. Me a servant and him a book-learned sort. I wanted to believe he could love me the way I loved him. And then I heard him ask Sophie to marry him, and … and …’ She dissolved into weeping.

O’Dwyer made comforting noises and patted her on the back. I guessed he was a married man. My father was forever patting my mother in the same way.

‘Did you say that you
heard
Scotcher ask Sophie to marry him?’ I asked Phyllis.

She was too much beside herself to answer with words, but her ardent nodding was unambiguous.

‘You were not in the dining room when Scotcher made his proposal of marriage, Phyllis. I was. I was at the table. You had left the room some time before it happened. So if you don’t mind my asking, how did you hear what you claim to have heard?’

‘I listened outside the door, and no more than that! Doesn’t mean I murdered anyone! Nice girl like Sophie—course he’d sooner marry her than the likes of me, a drudge without a penny to my name.’

‘If I might enquire, miss …’ O’Dwyer began. ‘When you were listening outside the door, did you happen to hear of Lady Playford’s alterations to her will?’

Phyllis shook her head. ‘I heard all the talk afterwards, but I didn’t hear her say it. I only went listening at the door after I heard it slam and saw Lady Athie rushing upstairs. Trying not to cry, she was—and her the steadiest of folk, normally.’

‘So you wondered what had happened to make her abandon her dinner and her guests?’ I said.

‘That’s right. And when I heard them all talking, well, I could scarcely believe it! Joseph was to inherit the lot, everything Lady Athie had to leave! Nobody was happy about it—him least of all. And what sense did it make, leaving it all to a dying man?’

‘No sense whatsoever,’ I agreed.

‘And then I heard Joseph ask the question that broke my heart. I knew he was fond of Sophie, but I never thought he saw her that way. I thought I was his special one. He’d see me coming along the hall and he’d say, “Here she is—Phyllis, light of my life.”’ She had taken off her apron and was dabbing at her eyes with it.

‘Not all men are as responsible as they ought to be in their dealings with the ladies,’ O’Dwyer said soberly.

‘Phyllis, may I ask you something?’ I said. ‘After you heard what you heard, did you run off?’

‘I did! Didn’t want to be caught in floods of tears, and Mr Kimpton was making nasty jibes about someone listening at the door, so I ran.’

That explained the stifled sobs we heard, and the running footsteps.

‘Where did you go?’

‘I started off to the kitchen, but Cook would have had plenty to say and I didn’t feel strong enough to hear it. She’d have taunted me for being foolish and tried to persuade me to step out with her nephew, Dennis. That’s her plan for me, but I don’t like Dennis! His breath smells foul as anything. So I ran past the kitchen, out the back door and down to the river. I was minded to toss myself in, I might as well tell you. If I’d had more courage, that’s what I’d have done. Wish I had!’

‘What did you do instead?’ I asked.

‘Walked up and down a bit, then came back up to the garden. Sat on the grass by the big pond, hoping I’d get wet and catch a chill and die of it.’

‘While you were in the garden, did you hear two men talking?’

‘Do you mean you and Mr Poirot?’ said Phyllis. ‘Oh, yes, I heard you right enough.’

‘Good. That’s one mystery solved,’ I said with relief. ‘And … you were crying at the time?’

‘Thought I’d never stop,’ Phyllis confirmed.

‘Were you alone? It’s only that, in the same way that you heard us, we heard you, and then we heard a sort of whispering or hissing sound.’

‘That was me talking to meself. “Quiet, Phyllis, you stupid girl,” I said, but it did no good. Nothing could stop me crying. I heard you saying that you might come looking for me, so I made off back to the house. Straight to my room, I went. I locked the door, lay down on the bed and cried and cried. And the worst thing was …’ Phyllis’s mouth wobbled and more tears poured forth. ‘Joseph wasn’t even dead then! He was still alive, and I was that upset about him marrying someone else, and now … well, now I’d do
anything
to have him back and to have things as they were before, even if that meant him marrying her and not me.’

I believed that her regret was real, and I said as much once she had taken her leave of us. O’Dwyer lost no time in agreeing. ‘So you’d be after crossing her name off the list, would you?’

‘Not a bit of it,’ I said.

‘No? I could have sworn that you said only a moment ago—’

‘One regrets nothing so much as the unfortunate things one has done oneself that cannot be undone—don’t you find?’

Immediately, I felt as if I had accused Phyllis of murder, when I had intended merely to refrain from eliminating her from my mental list of suspects.

I then felt duty-bound to say, ‘I am sure Phyllis is not the killer,’ when the truth was that I was not sure at all.