“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 chiseler 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 color, a perfect oval of a face, mischievous catlike 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 traveled 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 demeanor 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 marvelous! 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 straightaway, 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 acquaintan
ce, 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 unsavory 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 demeanor 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.”
4
An Unexpected Admirer
A phenomenon I have had cause to notice time and again in both my professional and my social life is that when one meets a large group of people all at once, one somehow knows—as if by otherworldly instinct—which of them one will enjoy speaking to and which are worth avoiding.
So it was that when I returned, after dressing for dinner, to a drawing room full of many more people, I knew instantly that I should endeavor to end up standing next to the lawyer Poirot had described to me, Michael Gathercole. He was taller than even the average tall man, and stood slightly stooped as if to minimize his height.
Poirot was quite right: Gathercole did indeed look as if his physical self was a cause of discomfort to him. His arms hung restlessly by his sides, and each time he moved even slightly, it looked as if he was trying rather clumsily and impatiently to shake something off—something unfortunate that had attached itself to him, but that no one else could see.
He was not handsome in the usual sense of the word. His face made me think of a faithful dog that had been kicked too often by its owner and was certain it would happen again. All the same, he looked by far the cleverest of my new acquaintances.
The other newcomers to the drawing room were also as Poirot had advertised, more or less. Lady Playford was telling a complicated anecdote to nobody in particular as she entered. She made as imposing an impression as I had expected, with a loud, melodic voice and her hair in a sort of coiled leaning tower. After her came the planet-sized lawyer, Orville Rolfe; then Viscount Harry Playford, a blond-haired young man with a flat, square face and an amiable if distant smile—as if he had felt chipper about something once and had been trying ever since to recollect the cause of his good cheer. His wife, Dorro, was a tall woman with features that brought to mind a bird of prey and a long neck with a deep hollow at its base. One could have set down a teacup in that hollow and it would have nestled there quite satisfactorily.
The last two to arrive for drinks were Joseph Scotcher, Lady Playford’s secretary, and a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman. I assumed she was the nurse, Sophie Bourlet, for she had pushed Scotcher into the room in a wheelchair. She had a kindly smile that looked, at the same time, efficient—as if she had decided that a smile of this exact sort would be suitable for the occasion—and a modest manner. Of everyone in the room, she was the one to whom one might go with a practical problem. She carried a bundle of papers under one arm, I noticed, and as soon as she had the chance, she put them down on a small writing desk by one of the windows. Having done so, she approached Lady Playford and said something to her. Lady Playford looked over at the papers on the desk and nodded.
I wondered if, in the face of Scotcher’s declining vigor, Sophie had taken over some of the secretarial duties at Lillieoak. She was dressed more like a secretary than a nurse. All the other women wore evening gowns, but Sophie looked as if she had dressed smartly for a meeting at the office.
Scotcher was as light, in his physical appearance, as his nurse was dark. His hair was the colour of spun gold, and his skin was pale. He had delicate features, almost like a girl’s, and looked dangerously thin: a fading angel. I wondered if he had been sturdier before his health failed.
I managed to put myself in front of Gathercole reasonably swiftly, and the usual introductions followed. He turned out to be friendlier than he had looked from a distance. He told me he had first discovered Athelinda Playford’s Shrimp Seddon books in the orphanage that had housed him for most of his childhood, and that he was now her lawyer. He spoke of her with admiration and a little awe.
“You are evidently extremely fond of her,” I remarked at one point and he replied, “Everybody is who has read her work. She is, I believe, a genius.”
I thought about the profoundly unconvincing Sergeant Halfwit and Inspector Imbecile, and decided it would be injudicious to criticize the creative efforts of my host when she was standing only a few feet away.
“A lot of the big houses belonging to English families were burnt to the ground in the recent . . . unpleasant business over here.”
I nodded. It was not something that an Englishman at the beginning of a week’s holiday in Clonakilty cared to discuss.
“No one came near Lillieoak,” said Gathercole. “Lady Playford’s books are so well loved that even the lawless hordes could not bring themselves to attack her home—or else they were restrained by those better than themselves, to whom the name Athelinda Playford means something.”
This sounded unlikely to me. What lawless horde, after all, would cancel its plans to wreak havoc on account of Shrimp Seddon and her fictional chums? Was young Shrimp really so influential? Could her fat, long-haired dog, Anita, bring a smile to the face of an angry rebel and make him forget all about the cause? I doubted it.
“I see you are unconvinced,” said Gathercole. “What you forget is that people fall for Lady Playford’s books as children. That sort of attachment is difficult, later, to talk yourself out of, no matter what your political affiliation might be.”
He spoke as an orphan, I reminded myself; Shrimp Seddon and her gang were probably the closest thing he had had to a family.
An orphan . . .
It struck me that this was another connection between a guest at L
illieoak and death. Michael Gathercole’s parents had died. Did Poirot know? Although of course Gathercole was already connected—by his firm’s specialism, the estates of the wealthy. And—I was a fool!—everybody in the world has a relative who has died. Poirot’s idea of a death-themed gathering was ludicrous, I decided.
Gathercole left me to go and refill his glass. Behind me, Harry Playford was talking enthusiastically to Orville Rolfe about taxidermy. I did not care to hear a step-by-step account of his method, so I crossed the room and listened instead to Randall Kimpton’s conversation with Poirot.
“I hear you set great store by psychology in your solving of crimes, what?”
“I do.”
“Ah! Well, if you will permit me, I should like to disagree with you. Psychology is so intangible a thing. Who knows if it is even real?”
“It is real, monsieur. Let me assure you, it is real.”
“Is it? I do not deny that people have thoughts in their heads, of course, but the notion that one can deduce anything from one’s assumptions about what those thoughts might be and why they are there—I’m not convinced by that, I’m afraid. And even when a murderer confirms that you’re right—even when he says, ‘Quite so. I did it because I was wild with jealousy, or because the old lady I coshed over the head reminded me of a nanny who was cruel to me’—how do you know the blighter’s telling the truth?”
This was accompanied by many a triumphant eye-flare, each one seeming to revel in the superiority of Kimpton’s arguments. The doctor sounded, furthermore, as if he was not about to drop or change the subject. I thought of what Claudia had said about him winning her over twice and wondered if there had been an element of browbeating involved. She did not seem the type who would allow herself to be coerced, but all the same . . . there was something frightening about the unswerving and arrogant determination exuded by Kimpton—to win, to prevail, to be right.
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