Closed Casket: The New Hercule Poirot Mystery (Hercule Poirot Mystery 2) (30 page)

Kimpton appeared to consider this. ‘Yes,’ he said after a few moments. ‘Yes, I can see that you might see it that way. I saw it differently. That, no doubt, is why you enjoy inventing stories and I prefer to establish facts. I’m afraid to say that, in my estimation, my approach is the clear winner. After all, without the occasional solid fact, anyone could ask one to believe anything, and then no story is better than any other.’ He turned to Claudia. ‘Come, dearest one. Let us depart.’

Hand in hand, they left the room.

The next morning, Poirot and I waited outside the house for the car to be brought round. It was hard to believe that we were about to leave Lillieoak. I made a remark to this effect and got no answer.

‘Poirot? Are you all right?’

‘I am thinking.’

‘It looks serious, whatever it is.’

‘Not particularly. I do, however, find it interesting.’

‘What?’

‘We were invited to Lillieoak, you and I, as an insurance policy. Lady Playford believed that nobody would dare to commit a murder with Hercule Poirot in the house! No one would be so foolish. But someone did dare—Randall Kimpton was foolish enough to attempt it. And now he is dead. He could so easily have waited. In a week, Poirot, he would be gone! In a week, the obsession with opening the closed casket of Joseph Scotcher’s body would still have been there, as strong as ever! Why did Kimpton not wait?’

‘He saw his chance and made a rash decision.’ I frowned. ‘Poirot, you almost sound as if you wish he had got away with it.’

‘Do not be facetious, Catchpool. I am glad that his crime did not go unpunished, of course, but … I am not glad that he underestimated me. That he did not
instantly
decide against committing a murder right in front of the eyes of Hercule Poirot … Had he not heard the stories of my achievements? I believe he had, yet he was not impressed. He derided my methods—’

‘Poirot,’ I said firmly. It was not only murderers who tended towards obsessive behaviour, I reflected.

‘Yes,
mon ami
?’

‘Randall Kimpton is dead. It might sound puerile to put it in these terms, but … you won and he lost.’

Poirot smiled and patted my arm. ‘Thank you, Catchpool. It is not puerile at all. You are right: I won. He lost.’

It struck me then that there were other losers, less deserving ones than Kimpton, and ones I cared more about. Perhaps I was wrong to feel the way I did, but I could not help thinking that whatever lies he might have told and whatever terrible deeds he might have done, Joseph Scotcher had very much wanted to be a good man, and might one day have become one. He had met the dazzling Randall Kimpton at Oxford, had admired him, modelled himself upon him, purloined his sweetheart, followed him into the study of Shakespeare and then into the bosom of the Playford family—but he had not sought to mimic Kimpton’s self-regard, his cruel streak, his easy dismissal of the opinions and feelings of others.

I did not like to think that Scotcher had in all probability murdered Iris Gillow. His kind words in the drawing room before dinner on the night he was to die were the most thoughtful and beneficial that any person had ever addressed to me—ever, in my life. That in no way excused murder, I knew. Still—to me it was not insignificant.

‘I suppose that while we wait for the car, we might divert ourselves by discussing the one question that remains unanswered,’ Poirot said.

‘I was not aware there was one,’ I told him.

‘Why did Scotcher propose marriage to Sophie Bourlet immediately after hearing about Lady Playford’s new will?’

‘Oh. Yes, I suppose you’re right. I don’t know the answer.’ I refrained from adding, ‘And neither, surely, do you.’ It would not do for Hercule Poirot to be underestimated again so soon, and by his good friend too.

‘I have a few theories,’ he said. ‘One is that he felt that he was at risk of being murdered, for as long as he remained the sole beneficiary of Lady Playford’s will. He believed she might change her will back if he could make her angry, or jealous, or both. By becoming engaged to his nurse, he thought he could achieve this.’

‘I somehow doubt that was his reason,’ I said.

‘Let us, then, try a simpler theory: Scotcher wanted to punish Lady Playford. She had caused serious problems for him by changing her will. He feared imminent exposure as a fraud by somebody at Lillieoak, and he blamed Lady Playford for this. By choosing that moment to declare his romantic love for Sophie Bourlet instead of his loving gratitude towards Lady Playford, he deprives his benefactor of what he knows she wants most: his attention. Suddenly she is no longer the person in the house about whom he cares most.’

‘More likely than the first theory, but I am still not convinced,’ I said. ‘How about this one, since we’re speculating: Scotcher proposed marriage in order to be sure of Sophie’s silence on the matter of his feigned illness. Previously, he had flattered her in the same way that he had flattered Phyllis, and that was enough for Sophie. But if she knew he was not really dying, as she must have, and suddenly she hears Lady Playford announce that she’s leaving all her worldly goods to poor, sick Joseph Scotcher … well, a decent girl like Sophie might then feel obliged to speak up. Scotcher’s antics might start to look to her rather like fraud. Remember, Lady Playford had confessed to nobody that she knew the truth; she pretended to be fooled by the Bright’s disease of the kidneys story.’

‘So to propose marriage to Sophie was the only way to ensure her loyalty and her continued discretion, Scotcher might have thought,’ said Poirot. ‘Yes, that is a good theory. But in the end I prefer a different one. I prefer the theory that Joseph Scotcher loved Sophie Bourlet.’

‘Does that count as a theory? That was the official explanation, after all.’

Poirot ignored my question. ‘Fear of exposure as a liar—or that he might be killed by someone who did not wish him to inherit the Lillieoak estate—shocked Scotcher into behaving in a way that was more real than it was his custom to be. He loved this woman who accepted him and all his lies without question, who uncomplainingly did all the work for Lady Playford that he was quite well enough to do himself. He had perhaps loved Sophie Bourlet for a long time, but he had never said so in earnest; it was easier for him to say only things that were
not
real. Until that night. Then, in a moment of crisis, it became important to him to declare his love.’

‘You’re a sentimental old soul, Poirot.’ I smiled. Perhaps I was one too; I could not deny that I felt unambiguously fond of my little Belgian friend at that moment.

‘Edward!’

Hearing Gathercole’s voice, I turned. He was striding towards us. ‘Thought I might have missed you,’ he said.

‘No. Not yet.’

At that moment, Lady Playford came running outside in her kimono. Her face was pale, and she looked older and smaller than I thought of her as being. She was smiling rather maniacally. ‘Poirot! Don’t dare to escape without letting me grab you first! I have a query about my next bundle, and Michael is
useless
today—aren’t you, Michael? Completely inattentive. Poirot, do you remember the disguise storyline I mentioned to you? Listen to my brainwave! What if it’s not a disguise but a disfigurement, a facial disfigurement? No noses involved—absolutely not! Noses feature prominently in my bundle-of-the-moment and I can’t bear repetition. What about a hare lip that has been either corrected or … oh! Or
created
—yes, I like that. Why would anyone do it, though? And do I want
all
my books to be propelled by the idea of surgery? I don’t think I do. And of course one mustn’t alarm one’s readers, who, after all, are children. I do think people cosset children too much, don’t you? Horrible things do sometimes happen to faces and, really, perhaps the sooner a child learns this, the better!’

Gathercole and I exchanged a smile and moved a little to the side. ‘I envy you, returning to London,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid Lady Playford is not herself. She is pretending to be, of course.’

‘Volubly,’ I agreed. ‘How long will you stay at Lillieoak?’

‘I don’t know. I want to keep an eye on things for a while. Claudia, for instance … I don’t think Lady Playford will be of much use to her, nor she to Lady Playford, and I should like to be of assistance to both of them if I can.’

We exchanged cards and shook hands. The motorcar pulled up then, as Lady Playford was saying, ‘Oh, that is
clever.
That is very clever indeed. I see I shall have no choice to but to dedicate this particular bundle to you, Poirot.’

She turned to me as the driver opened the car door. ‘Goodbye, Edward, and thank you. I am sorry I disappointed you.’

‘You did not.’

‘Oh, yes, I did. By turning out not to be guilty of murder.’

‘I never believed that you were, Lady Playford.’

‘You did, I’m afraid. You alone.’ She looked unutterably sad for a second. Then the frenzied smile reappeared. ‘I found it amusing—and rather flattering,’ she said in a high, brittle voice. ‘You really can admit it, you know. I shan’t be in the least offended, and there is no need to feel guilty. You lead a blameless life, I am sure. Too blameless.’ She gripped my arm. ‘I am old, but if I were young like you, I would
live,
and I should not mind what anybody thought about me. You sense this in me—I can tell that you do.
That
is why you suspected me of murder. Do you see?’ Her eyes glittered with a strange sort of power.

I did not see, and nor did I wish to. It sounded murky and complicated. ‘Lady Playford, I assure you—’

‘Oh, well, never mind that now.’ She waved my words away to make room for more of her own. ‘Edward, may I ask you something? Would you mind dreadfully if I put you in a book one day?’

I am immensely grateful to the following teams of brilliant, dedicated and inspiring people:

James Prichard, Mathew Prichard, Hilary Strong, Christina Macphail, Julia Wilde, Lydia Stone, Nikki White and everybody at Agatha Christie Limited; David Brawn, Kate Elton, Laura Di Giuseppe, Sarah Hodgson, Fliss Denham and all at HarperCollins UK; Dan Mallory, Kaitlin Harri, Jennifer Hart, Kathryn Gordon, Danielle Bartlett, Liate Stehlik, Margaux Weisman and the team at William Morrow; Peter Straus and Matthew Turner of Rogers, Coleridge & White.

Thank you also to all my international Poirot publishers, too many to name, but thanks to whom this novel will reach readers all over the world. And I’m hugely grateful to everyone who has read and enjoyed
The Monogram Murders
and either written, emailed or tweeted to tell me so. Thank you to Adele Geras, Chris Gribble and John Curran, who read early drafts and/or discussed early ideas and made immensely helpful comments. Thank you to Rupert Beale, for his kidney-ailment expertise, and to Guy Martland for his willingness to discuss medical probabilities with me. Thank you to Adrian Poole for sharing his knowledge of Shakespeare’s
King John
, and to Morgan White for gathering together everything I needed to know about Ireland in 1929.

Massive thanks to Jamie Bernthal who has helped in every possible way from start to finish. Without him, this book would have been worse, less fun to write and—even more worryingly—Lillieoak would have had no ace floorplans!

As always, I am grateful for the support of Dan, Phoebe and Guy Jones, my amazing family. Last but not least, thank you to my dog, Brewster, who used one of my characters as a conduit for his suggestion that Lillieoak ought to have a dog. He’s so vain, he probably thinks this Poirot’s about him. (Indeed, that very line was the working title of
Closed Casket
for many months, only in the second person.)

Little Face

Hurting Distance

The Point of Rescue

The Other Half Lives

A Room Swept White

Lasting Damage

Kind of Cruel

The Carrier

The Orphan Choir

The Telling Error

The Monogram Murders

Pictures Or It Didn’t Happen

A Game for All the Family

The Narrow Bed

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

The Hound of Death

The Listerdale Mystery

Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?

Parker Pyne Investigates

Murder Is Easy

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

Crooked House

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Spider’s Web*

The Unexpected Guest*

Ordeal by Innocence

The Pale Horse

Endless Night

Passenger To Frankfurt

Problem at Pollensa Bay

While the Light Lasts

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Black Coffee*

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The ABC Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment With Death

Hercule Poirot’s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labours of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

Mrs McGinty’s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Man’s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

The Clocks

Third Girl

Hallowe’en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Poirot’s Early Cases

Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Thirteen Problems

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It With Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4.50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertram’s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple’s Final Cases

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Giant’s Bread

Unfinished Portrait

Absent in the Spring

The Rose and the Yew Tree

A Daughter’s a Daughter

The Burden

An Autobiography

Come, Tell Me How You Live

The Grand Tour

Akhnaton

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Floating Admiral
^†

Star Over Bethlehem

Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly

* novelized by Charles Osborne

† contributor