Closed Casket

by Sophie Hannah

“Me?” Lady Playford laughed. “I’m strong as an ox. I expect to chug on for years.”

  “Then Scotcher will inherit nothing on your demise, being long dead himself, and the new will you are asking me to arrange will achieve nothing but to create discord between you and your children.”

  “On the contrary: my new will might cause something wonderful to happen.” She said this with relish.

  Gathercole sighed. “I’m afraid to say I’m still baffled.”

  “Of course you are,” said Athelinda Playford. “I knew you would be.”

  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 October 14, 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 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 judgment 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 gray 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 mustaches.

  “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?”

  “We
ll . . .” 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 judgment 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-colored 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 mustache 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.

  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 humor, 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 color 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 under way, 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.”