Closed Casket: The New Hercule Poirot Mystery

CHAPTER 2
A Surprise Reunion

Conceal and reveal: how appropriate that those two words should rhyme. They sound like opposites and yet, as all good storytellers know, much can be revealed by the tiniest attempts at concealment, and new revelations often hide as much as they make plain.

All of which is my clumsy way of introducing myself as the narrator of this story. Everything you have learned so far—about Michael Gathercole’s meeting with Lady Athelinda Playford—has been revealed to you by me, yet I started to tell the tale without making anybody aware of my presence.

My name is Edward Catchpool, and I am a detective with London’s Scotland Yard. The extraordinary events that I have barely begun to describe did not take place in London, but in Clonakilty, County Cork, in the Irish Free State. It was on 14 October 1929 that Michael Gathercole and Lady Playford met in her study at Lillieoak, and it was on that same day, and only an hour after that meeting commenced, that I arrived at Lillieoak after a long journey from England.

Six weeks earlier, I had received a puzzling letter from Lady Athelinda Playford, inviting me to spend a week as a guest at her country estate. The various delights of hunting, shooting and fishing were offered to me—none of which I had done before and nor was I keen to try them, though my prospective host wasn’t to know that—but what was missing from the invitation was any explanation of why my presence was desired.

I put the letter down on the dining room table at my lodging house and considered what to do. I thought about Athelinda Playford—writer of detective stories, probably the most famous author of children’s books that I could think of—and then I thought about me: a bachelor, a policeman, no wife and therefore no children to whom I might read books …

No, Lady Playford’s world and mine need never overlap, I decided—and yet she had sent me this letter, which meant that I had to do something about it.

Did I want to go? Not greatly, no—and that meant that I probably would. Human beings, I have noticed, like to follow patterns, and I am no exception. Since so much of what I do in my daily life is not anything I would ever undertake by choice, I tend to assume that if something crops up that I would prefer not to do, that means I will certainly do it.

Some days later, I wrote to Lady Playford and enthusiastically accepted her invitation. I suspected she wished to pick my brains and use whatever she extracted in a future book or books. Maybe she had finally decided to find out a little more about how the police operated. As a child, I had read one or two of her stories and been flabbergasted to discover that senior policemen were such nincompoops, incapable of solving even the simplest mystery without the help of a group of conceited, loud-mouthed ten-year-olds. My curiosity on this point was, in fact, the beginning of my fascination with the police force—an interest that led directly to my choice of career. Strangely, it had not occurred to me before that I had Athelinda Playford to thank for this.

During the course of my journey to Lillieoak, I had read another of her novels, to refresh my memory, and found that my youthful judgement had been accurate: the finale was very much a case of Sergeant Halfwit and Inspector Imbecile getting a thorough ticking-off from precocious Shrimp Seddon for being stumped by a perfectly obvious trail of clues that even Shrimp’s fat, long-haired dog, Anita, had managed to interpret correctly.

The sun was about to set when I arrived at five o’clock in the afternoon, but it was still light enough for me to observe my rather spectacular surroundings. As I stood in front of Lady Playford’s grand Palladian mansion on the banks of the Argideen river in Clonakilty—with formal gardens behind me, fields to the left and what looked like the edge of a forest on my right—I was aware of endless space—the uninterrupted blues and greens of the natural world. I had known before setting off from London that the Lillieoak estate was eight hundred acres, but it was only now that I understood what that meant: no shared margins of your own world and that of anyone else if you did not desire it; nothing and nobody pressing in on you or hovering nearby the way they did in the city. It was no wonder, really, that Lady Playford knew nothing of the way policemen conducted themselves.

As I breathed in the freshest air I had ever inhaled, I found myself hoping I was right about the reason I had been invited here. Given the opportunity, I thought, I would happily suggest that a little realism would significantly improve Lady Playford’s books. Perhaps Shrimp Seddon and her gang, in the next one, could work in cooperation with a more competent police force …

Lillieoak’s front door opened. A butler peered out at me. He was of medium height and build, with thinning grey hair and lots of creases and lines around his eyes, but nowhere else. The effect was of an old man’s eyes inserted into a much younger man’s face.

The butler’s expression was odder still. It suggested that he needed to impart vital information in order to protect me from something unfortunate, but could not do so, for it was a matter of the utmost delicacy.

I waited for him to introduce himself or invite me into the house. He did neither. Eventually I said, ‘My name is Edward Catchpool. I have just arrived from England. I believe Lady Playford is expecting me.’

My suitcases were by my feet. He looked at them, then looked over his shoulder; he repeated this sequence twice. There was no verbal accompaniment to any of it.

Eventually, he said, ‘I will have your belongings taken to your room, sir.’

‘Thank you.’ I frowned. This really was most peculiar—more so than I can describe, I fear. Though the butler’s statement was perfectly ordinary, he conveyed a sense of so much more left unsaid—an air of ‘In the circumstances, this is, I am afraid, the most I can divulge.’

‘Was there something else?’ I asked.

The face tightened. ‘Another of Lady Playford’s … guests awaits you in the drawing room, sir.’

‘Another?’ I had assumed I was to be the only one.

My question appeared to repel him. I failed to see the point of contention, and was considering allowing my impatience to show when I heard a door opening inside the house, and a voice I recognized. ‘Catchpool! Mon cher ami!’

‘Poirot?’ I called out. To the butler I said, ‘Is that Hercule Poirot?’ I pushed open the door and walked into the house, tired of waiting to be invited in out of the cold. I saw an elaborately tiled floor of the sort you might see in a palace, a grand wooden staircase, too many doors and corridors for a newcomer to take in, a grandfather clock, the mounted head of a deer on one wall. The poor creature looked as if it was smiling, and I smiled back at it. Despite being dead and detached from its body, the deer’s head was more welcoming than the butler.

‘Catchpool!’ Again came the voice.

‘Look here, is Hercule Poirot in this house?’ I asked more insistently.

This time the butler replied with a reluctant nod, and moments later the Belgian moved into view at a pace that, for him, was fast. I could not help chuckling at the egg-shaped head and the shiny shoes, both so familiar, and of course the unmistakable moustaches.

‘Catchpool! What a pleasure to find you here too!’

‘I was about to say the same to you. Was it you, by any chance, wanting to see me in the drawing room?’

‘Yes, yes. It was I.’

‘I thought so. Good, then you can lead me there. What on earth is going on? Has something happened?’

‘Happened? No. What should have happened?’

‘Well …’ I turned round. Poirot and I were alone, and my suitcases had vanished. ‘From the butler’s guarded manner, I wondered if—’

‘Ah, yes, Hatton. Pay no attention to him, Catchpool. His manner, as you call it, is without cause. It is simply his character.’

‘Are you sure? It’s an odd sort of character to have.’

‘Oui. Lady Playford explained him to me shortly after I arrived this afternoon. I asked her the same questions you ask me, thinking something must have occurred that the butler thought it was not his place to discuss. She said Hatton becomes this way after being in service for so long. He has seen many things that it would not have been prudent for him to mention, and so now, Lady Playford tells me, it is his preference to say as little as possible. She too finds it frustrating. “He cannot part with the most basic information—what time will dinner be served? When will the coal be delivered?—without behaving as if I’m trying to wrestle from him a closely guarded and explosive family secret,” she complained to me. “He has lost what judgement he once had, and is now unable to distinguish between outrageous indiscretion and saying anything at all,” she said.’

‘Then why does she not engage a new butler?’

‘That, also, is a question I asked. We think alike, you and I.’

‘Well, did she give you an answer?’

‘She is fascinated to monitor the development of Hatton’s personality, and to see how he will further refine his habits in the future.’

I made an exasperated face, wondering when someone would appear with the offer of a cup of tea. At that moment, the house shook, then stilled, then shook again. I was about to say ‘What on earth …?’ when I noticed, at the top of the staircase, the largest man I had ever seen. He was on his way down. He had straw-coloured hair and a jowly face, and his head looked as tiny as a pebble balanced atop his planet-sized body.

Loud creaking noises came from beneath his feet as he moved, and I feared he might put one of them clean through the wood. ‘Do you hear that appalling noise?’ he demanded of us without introducing himself. ‘Steps shouldn’t groan when you stand on them. Isn’t that what they’re for—to be stood on?’

‘It is,’ Poirot agreed.

‘Well?’ said the man unnecessarily. He had been given his answer. ‘I tell you, they don’t make staircases like they used to. The craftsmanship’s all gone.’

Poirot smiled politely, then took my arm and steered me to the left, whispering, ‘It is the fault of his appetite that the stairs groan. Still, he is a lawyer—if I were that staircase, I would obtain legal advice.’ It was not until he smiled that I realized it was supposed to be a joke.

I followed him into what I assumed was the drawing room, which was large and had a big stone fireplace that was too near the door. No fire burned in the grate, and it was colder in here than it had been in the hall. The room was much longer than it was wide, and the many armchairs were positioned in a sort of messy row at one end and an equally untidy cluster at the other. This arrangement of furniture accentuated the room’s rectangular shape and made for a rather divided effect. There were French windows at the far end. The curtains had not been drawn for the night, though it was dark outside—and darker for the time of day in Clonakilty than in London, I noticed.

Poirot closed the drawing room door. At last, I took a proper look at my old friend. He looked plumper than when I had last seen him, and his moustache seemed larger and more prominent, at least from across the room. As he moved towards me, I decided that in fact he looked exactly the same, and rather it was I whose imagination had shrunk him to a manageable size.

‘What a great pleasure to see you, mon ami! I could not believe it when I arrived and Lady Playford told me that you were to be among the guests for the week.’

His pleasure was evident, and I felt a pang of guilt because my own feelings were less straightforward. I was heartened by his good spirits and relieved that he did not seem in the least disappointed in me. In Poirot’s presence, it is easy to feel that one is a disappointing specimen.

‘You did not know I was coming until you arrived here today?’ I asked.

‘Non. I must ask you at once, Catchpool. Why are you here?’

‘For the same reason as you are, I should think. Athelinda Playford wrote and asked me to come. It is not every day that one is invited to spend a week in the home of a famous writer. I read a few of her books as a child, and—’

‘No, no. You misunderstand me. I chose to come for the same reason—though I have not read any of her books. Please do not tell her so. What I meant to ask was, why does Lady Playford want us here, you and me? I imagined she had perhaps invited Hercule Poirot because, like her, he is the most famous and acclaimed in his field. Now I know that cannot be so, for you are here also. I wonder … Lady Playford must have read about the business in London, the Bloxham Hotel.’

Having no desire to discuss the business in question, I said, ‘Before I knew I would meet you here, I fancied she had invited me to ask me about police matters, so that she can get the detail right in her books. They would certainly benefit from a more realistic—’

‘Oui, oui, bien sûr. Tell me, Catchpool, do you have with you the letter of invitation?’

‘Hm?’

‘Sent to you by Lady Playford.’

‘Oh, yes. It’s in my pocket.’ I fished it out and handed it to him.

He cast his eye over it and passed it back to me, saying, ‘It is the same as the one sent to me. It reveals nothing. Maybe you are right. I wonder if she wishes to consult us in our professional capacities.’

‘But … you have seen her, you said. Did you not ask her?’

‘Mon ami, what sort of oafish guest demands of his hostess on arrival, “What do you want from me?” It would be impolite.’

‘She did not volunteer any information? A hint?’

‘There was barely time. I arrived only a few minutes before she had to go to her study to prepare for a meeting with her lawyer.’

‘The one who was on the stairs? The, er, rather large gentleman?’

‘Mr Orville Rolfe? No, no. He is a lawyer too, but the one with whom Lady Playford had a meeting at four o’clock was a different man. I saw him also. His name is Michael Gathercole. One of the tallest men I have met. He looked very uncomfortable about having to carry himself around.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Only that he gave the impression of wishing he could discard his own skin.’

‘Oh. I see.’ I did not see at all, but I feared that asking for further clarification would have the opposite effect.

Poirot shook his head. ‘Come, take off your coat and sit,’ he said. ‘It is a puzzle. Particularly when one considers who else is here.’

‘I wonder if it would be possible to ask someone to bring some tea,’ I said, looking around. ‘I would have expected the butler to have sent a maid by now, if Lady Playford is busy.’

‘I insisted upon no interruptions. I had some refreshments upon arrival, and soon drinks will be served in this room, I am told. We do not have long, Catchpool.’

‘Long? For what?’

‘If you would sit, you would learn for what.’ Poirot gave a little smile. He had never sounded more reasonable.

With some trepidation, I sat.

CHAPTER 3
A Particular Interest in Death

‘I must tell you who else is here,’ said Poirot. ‘You and I are not the only guests, mon ami. Altogether, including Lady Playford, there are eleven of us at Lillieoak. If one counts the servants as well, there are three more: Hatton the butler, a maid named Phyllis, and the cook, Brigid. The question is: ought we to count the servants?’

‘Count them as what? Or for what? What are you talking about, Poirot? Are you here to conduct a study of the population of County Cork—how many inhabitants per house, that sort of thing?’

‘I have missed your sense of humour, Catchpool, but we must be serious. As I say, we do not have long. Soon—within the half hour—someone will disturb us to prepare for the serving of drinks. Now, listen. At Lillieoak, apart from ourselves and the servants, there is our hostess, Lady Playford, the two lawyers we have talked about—Gathercole and Rolfe. There is also Lady Playford’s secretary, Joseph Scotcher, a nurse by the name of Sophie Bourlet—’

‘A nurse?’ I perched on the arm of a chair. ‘Is Lady Playford in poor health, then?’

‘No. Let me finish. Also here are Lady Playford’s two children, the wife of one and the young gentleman friend of the other. In fact, I believe Mr Randall Kimpton and Miss Claudia Playford are engaged to be married. She lives at Lillieoak. He is visiting from England. An American by birth, but also an Oxford man, I think Lady Playford said.’

‘So you got all of this from her?’

‘You will discover when you meet her that she is able to convey much in a short space of time, all with great colour and speed.’

‘I see. That sounds alarming. Still, it’s comforting to know that someone in this house is capable of speech—given the butler, I mean. Have you reached the end of your inventory of people?’

‘Yes, but I have not yet named the last two. Mademoiselle Claudia’s brother, Lady Playford’s son, is Harry, the sixth Viscount Playford of Clonakilty. He too I have already met. He lives here with his wife Dorothy, who is referred to by all as Dorro.’

‘All right. And why is it so important that we list these people before we all gather for drinks? Incidentally, I should like to find my room and run a flannel over my face before the evening’s activities get underway, so—’

‘Your face is clean enough,’ said Poirot with authority. ‘Turn around and look at what is mounted above the door.’

I did so, and saw angry eyes, a big black nose and an open mouth full of fangs. ‘Good gracious, what the devil is that?’

‘The stuffed head of a leopard cub—the handiwork of Harry, Viscount Playford. He is a practitioner of taxidermy.’ Poirot frowned and added, ‘An enthusiastic one, who tries to persuade strangers that no other hobby is likely to provide the same satisfaction.’

‘So the deer’s head in the hall must be his too,’ I said.

‘I told him I do not have the necessary implements or knowledge for the stuffing of animals. He said I would need only some wire, a penknife, needle and thread, hemp and arsenic. I thought it judicious not to tell him that I would also need not to find the idea repellent.’

I smiled. ‘A hobby involving arsenic would hardly appeal to a detective who has solved murders caused by that very poison.’

‘This is what I want to talk to you about, mon ami. Death. Viscount Playford’s hobby is one that is all about the dead. Animals, not people—but they are still dead.’

‘Assuredly. I don’t see what the relevance is, though.’

‘You remember the name Joseph Scotcher—I mentioned it a moment ago.’

‘Lady Playford’s secretary, yes?’

‘He is dying. From Bright’s disease of the kidneys. That is why the nurse, Sophie Bourlet, lives here—to tend to his needs as an invalid.’

‘I see. So the secretary and the nurse both live at Lillieoak?’

Poirot nodded. ‘Now we have three people gathered here who, one way or another, are involved closely with death. And then there is you, Catchpool. And me. We both have encountered many cases of violent death in the course of our work. Mr Randall Kimpton, who plans to marry Claudia Playford—what work do you think he does?’

‘Does it involve death? Is he an undertaker? A chiseller of gravestones?’

‘He is a pathologist for the police in the county of Oxfordshire. He too works closely with death. Eh bien, do you wish to ask me about Mr Gathercole and Mr Rolfe?’

‘No need. Lawyers deal with the affairs of the dead every day.’

‘That is particularly true of the firm of Gathercole and Rolfe, which is well known for its specialism: the estates and testamentary dispositions of the wealthy. Catchpool, surely you see by now?’

‘And what of Claudia Playford and Dorro, the Viscount’s wife? What are their connections to death? Does one of them slaughter livestock while the other embalms corpses?’

‘You joke about this,’ said Poirot gravely. ‘You do not think it is interesting that so many people with a particular interest in death, either private or professional, are gathered here at Lillieoak at the same time? Me, I would like to know what Lady Playford has in mind. I cannot believe it is accidental.’

‘Well, she might have some sort of game planned for after dinner. Being a writer of mysteries, I imagine she wants to keep us all in suspense. You did not answer my question about Dorro and Claudia.’

‘I can think of nothing appropriate to our theme that applies to them,’ Poirot admitted after a moment.

‘Then I call it a coincidence! Now, if I’m to wash my face and hands before dinner—’

‘Why do you avoid me, mon ami?’

I stopped inches from the door. It had been foolish of me to suppose that, since he had not mentioned it at once, he would not raise the matter at all.

‘I thought you and I were les bons amis.’

‘We are. I have been confoundedly busy, Poirot.’

‘Ah, busy! You would like me to believe that is all it is.’

I glanced towards the door. ‘I am going to track down that silent butler and threaten him with all manner of mutiny if he does not show me to my room immediately,’ I muttered.

‘You Englishmen! However strong the emotion, however fierce the fury, stronger still is the desire to smother it, to pretend it was never there at all.’

At that moment the door opened and a woman of between—at a guess—thirty and thirty-five walked in, wearing a sequined green dress and a white stole. In fact, she did not so much walk as slink in, making me think instantly of a cat on the prowl. There was a supercilious air about her, as if walking into a room in an ordinary fashion would be beneath her. She seemed to be using every movement of her body to indicate her superiority over whomever else happened to be in the vicinity—in this instance, Poirot and me.

She was also almost unnaturally beautiful: exquisitely arranged hair of a rich brown colour, a perfect oval of a face, mischievous cat-like brown eyes with thick lashes, shapely eyebrows, and cheekbones as sharp as knives. She was an impressive sight to behold, and obviously aware of her charms. There was also a viciousness about her that communicated itself before she had spoken a word.

‘Oh,’ she said, hand on hip. ‘I see. Guests, but no drinks. Would that it were the other way round! I suppose I am early.’

Poirot rose to his feet and introduced himself, and then me. I shook the woman’s chilly, elegant hand.

She did not respond with a ‘Delighted to meet you’ or anything of that sort. ‘I am Claudia Playford. Daughter of the famous novelist, sister of Viscount Playford. Older sister, as it happens. The title landed on my younger brother and not me, simply because he is a man. Where is the sense in that? I would make a far better viscount than him. Frankly, a buttered teacake would make a better viscount than Harry. Well? Do you think it’s fair?’

‘I have never given it any thought,’ I said truthfully.

She turned to Poirot. ‘What about you?’

‘If you were to have the title immediately, would you then say, “Now that I have what I want, I am completely happy and content?”’

Claudia raised her chin haughtily. ‘I would say no such thing, for fear of sounding like a silly child from a fairy tale. Besides, who says I am unhappy? I am very happy, and I was talking not about contentment but about what is fair. Are you not supposed to have a brilliant mind, Monsieur Poirot? Perhaps you left it in London.’

‘No, it travelled with me, mademoiselle. And if you are one of the few people in this world who can sincerely say, “I am very happy”, then I promise you this: life has been fairer to you than it has to most people.’

She scowled. ‘I was talking about me and my brother and nobody else. If you cared about playing fair, you would confine your assessment of the situation to the two of us. Instead, you sneakily introduce a nameless crowd of thousands to support your argument—because you know you can win only by distortion!’

The door opened again and a dark-haired man entered, dressed for dinner. Claudia clasped her hands together and sighed rapturously, as if she had feared he might not arrive but here he was, to save her from some terrible fate. ‘Darling!’

The contrast between her demeanour now and her rudeness to me and Poirot could not have been greater.

The newcomer was handsome and clean-cut, with a ready and engaging smile and almost-black hair that fell over his forehead on one side. ‘There you are, dearest one!’ he said as Claudia ran into his embrace. ‘I have been looking everywhere for you.’ He had the most perfect teeth I had ever seen. It was hard to believe that they grew naturally in his mouth. ‘And here, by the look of it, are some of our guests—how marvellous! Welcome, one and all.’

‘You are in no position to welcome anybody, darling,’ Claudia told him with mock sternness. ‘You are a guest too, remember.’

‘Let’s say I did it on your behalf, then.’

‘Impossible. I should have said something quite different.’

‘You have been saying it most eloquently, mademoiselle,’ Poirot reminded her.

‘Have you been divinely beastly to them, dearest one? Take no notice of her, gentlemen.’ He extended his hand. ‘Kimpton. Dr Randall Kimpton. Pleasure to meet you both.’ He had a remarkable manner when speaking—so much so that I noticed it straight away, and I am sure Poirot did too. Kimpton’s eyes seemed to flare and subside as his lips moved. These wide-eyed flares were only seconds apart, and appeared to want to convey enthusiastic emphasis. One was left with the impression that every third or fourth word he uttered was a source of delight to him.

I could have sworn that Poirot had told me Claudia’s chap was American. There was no trace of an accent, or at least not one that I could detect. As I was thinking this, Poirot said, ‘It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr Kimpton. But … Lady Playford told me that you were from Boston in America?’

‘Indeed I am. I expect you mean that I don’t sound American. Well, I should hope not! I took the opportunity to divest myself of all the unsavoury trappings the moment I landed at the University of Oxford. It doesn’t do to sound anything but English at Oxford, you know.’

‘Randall has a talent for divesting himself of trappings, don’t you, darling?’ said Claudia rather sharply.

‘What? Oh!’ Kimpton looked unhappy. His demeanour had completely changed. So had hers, for that matter. She stared at him as might a schoolteacher at a disobedient pupil, apparently waiting for him to speak. Finally he said quietly, ‘Dearest one, do not break my heart by reminding me of my most reprehensible mistake. Gentlemen, I was once, momentarily, foolish enough—having gone to great lengths to persuade this extraordinary woman to become my wife—I was foolish enough to doubt my own wishes and—’

‘Nobody is interested in your regrets and recriminations, Randall,’ Claudia said, cutting him off. ‘Apart from me—I never tire of hearing of them. And I warn you, you will need to reproach yourself a good deal more in my presence before I agree to set a wedding date.’

‘Dearest one, I shall do nothing but reproach, accuse and vilify myself from now until the day I die!’ Kimpton said earnestly, eyes flaring. The two of them might have forgotten entirely that Poirot and I were there.

‘Good. Then I see no immediate need to divest myself of you.’ Claudia smiled suddenly, as if she had only ever been teasing him.

Kimpton seemed to inflate with confidence once again. He took her hand and kissed it. ‘A wedding date will be set, my dearest one—and soon!’

‘Will it, indeed?’ Claudia laughed merrily. ‘We shall see about that. In any case, I admire your determination. There is no other man on earth who could win me over twice. Or, probably, even once.’

‘No other man would be as obsessed or devoted as I, my divine dearest one.’

‘That I can believe,’ said Claudia. ‘I did not imagine I could ever be induced to wear this ring again, yet here I am, wearing it.’ She took a moment to examine the large diamond on the third finger of her left hand.

I thought I heard her sigh then, but the sound was masked by that of the door opening a third time. A young maid stood in the doorway. Her fair hair was arranged in a bun that she patted nervously as she spoke. ‘I’m to prepare the room for drinks,’ she muttered.

Claudia Playford leaned towards me and Poirot and said in a loud whisper, ‘Make sure to sniff before you drink. Phyllis is as scatter-witted as they come. I can’t imagine why we still have her. She wouldn’t know the difference between port and bathwater.’