Mercifully, the first course arrived not long afterwards, served ineptly by a red-eyed Phyllis. I noticed that Scotcher made a point of breaking away from his conversation with Poirot and turning to thank her fulsomely as she put down his portion of what Lady Playford described as “good old traditional English mutton broth.” The way she said it made me think it must be her favorite thing to eat in the world. It smelled delicious, and I tucked in as soon as was decent.
The conversation died down as we applied ourselves to eating. Beside me, a loud creak came from Orville Rolfe’s chair as he adjusted his position. “Is your chair all right, Catchpool?” he asked. “Mine is wobbly. There was a time when a chap making a chair would build it to last. Not anymore! Everything made nowadays is flimsy and disposable.”
“Many people say so,” I replied tactfully.
“Well?” said Rolfe. It was evidently a habit of his to demand an answer immediately after receiving one.
“I agree with you,” I said, hoping that would put an end to the matter. I felt as uncomfortable as I would have if we were discussing his size, and irritated that I should be embarrassed while he seemed perfectly all right.
He finished his soup before anybody else, looked around and said, “Is there more? I don’t know why modern bowls are made so small—do you, Catchpool? This one’s shallow enough to be a side plate.”
“I think they are probably a standard size.”
“Well?” Rolfe adjusted his position again, giving rise to more loud creaking. I prayed his chair would last for the duration of the meal.
Joseph Scotcher was still talking to Poirot about Lady Playford’s books. “As a detective, you more than most will find them a delight,” he said.
“I am looking forward to reading many during my stay here,” Poirot told him. “It was my intention to read one or two before I arrived, but alas, it was not to be.”
Scotcher looked concerned. “I hope you have not been unwell,” he said.
“No, nothing of that sort. I was engaged to offer my opinion on a case of murder in Hampshire and . . . let us say, it became complicated and frustrating.”
“I trust your efforts were successful in the end,” said Scotcher. “A chap like you is surely a stranger to failure.”
“Which novel of Lady Playford’s would you recommend that I read first?” Poirot asked.
That was interesting, I thought. Like Scotcher, I could not imagine Poirot failing to solve a case, and I had expected him to say something about the business in Hampshire having reached a satisfactory conclusion. Instead, he had altogether changed the subject.
“Oh, you must start with Shrimp Seddon and the Lady in the Suit,” said Scotcher. “It’s not the first, but it’s the most straightforward and, in my humble opinion, the best introduction to Shrimp. It’s also the first one I read, so I am sentimental about it for that reason.”
“No,” said Michael Gathercole. He had been talking to Lady Playford and Sophie Bourlet, but now he addressed Poirot. “One must read them in chronological order.”
“Oui, I think I would prefer to do so,” Poirot agreed.
“Then, like Michael here, you must be frightfully conventional,” said Lady Playford with a twinkle in her eye. “Joseph’s clever theory is that it’s better to read books in the wrong order, if they are a series. He says—”
“Let him tell us himself, since we have the benefit of his company tonight,” said Claudia. “We will have plenty of time to remember his wise words once he’s dead, after all.”
“Claudia!” said her mother. “That is quite enough!”
Sophie Bourlet had covered her mouth with her napkin and was blinking away tears.
Scotcher, however, was laughing. “Sincerely, I do not mind. Laughing about a thing takes the sting out of it, I find. Claudia and I understand one another well.”
“Oh, we certainly do.” Claudia smiled at him. There was something about her smile too. Not exactly flirtatiousness, but something . . . knowing. That was the only way I could describe it to myself.
“And in fact, doctors and the terminally ill joke about death all the time,” said Scotcher. “Is that not so, Kimpton?”
Kimpton said coldly, “It is. I tend not to participate, however. I believe death ought to be taken seriously.” Was he chastising Scotcher for mocking the idea of his own demise? Or for being overly familiar with Claudia? It was hard to tell.
To Poirot, Scotcher said, “My theory is simply this: when you read the Shrimp books in the wrong order, you meet Shrimp and Podge and the gang not at the beginning of their story, but in the middle. Certain things have already happened to them, and if you want to find out more about their histories, you have to read the earlier books. Now, to my mind, this is much more faithful to real life. For example, here I am meeting the great Hercule Poirot for the first time! I know only what I see of him and what he says to me in the present moment. But if I find him interesting enough—and I most certainly do—then I will endeavor to learn more about his past adventures. That was how I felt about Shrimp Seddon after reading The Lady in the Suit. It’s terribly ingenious, Poirot, and contains the best Shrimp moment of all: when she discovers that ‘hirsute’ is another word for hairy, and realizes there is no lady in a suit! There never was!”
“You have just given away the resolution of the mystery,” said Gathercole impatiently. “Why should Monsieur Poirot read it now that you’ve spoilt it for him?”
“Don’t be silly, Michael.” Lady Playford waved away his objection. “There are many intricacies to that story about which Joseph has said nothing. I should hope that nobody would read one of my books only to find out the answer. Monsieur Poirot, I am sure, is no philistine. It’s the working out, and the psychology, that matters.”
“Not you as well, Athie,” Kimpton grumbled. “Psychology! Hobby for degenerates—that’s all it is.”
Scotcher appeared to regret his words. “Gathercole is quite right. How cloth-headed of me to reveal such a pivotal moment. I am aghast at my own stupidity. I allowed my love for Lady Playford’s work to carry me quite away. I forgot myself.”
Gathercole, at the other end of the table, was shaking his head in apparent disgust.
Poirot said, “I am not a philistine, but I enjoy a mystery and I prefer to try to work out the solution myself. Is that wrong, Lady Playford? Surely that is the point of a mystery?”
“Oh, yes. I mean, it is, but . . .” She looked doubtful. “I do hope the chicken arrives soon,” she said, glancing towards the door.
Dorro said very quietly and without expression, “Nothing Joseph does is wrong. The opposite rule applies to me.” It was not clear whether she intended to criticize herself or her mother-in-law.
“Of course you prefer not to have the mystery ruined for you by a fool like me,” said Scotcher. “What appalling carelessness on my part. A million apologies, Monsieur Poirot. Though I must insist that you withhold your forgiveness indefinitely. Some sins are not deserving of pardon.”
Claudia threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, Joseph, you are a scream!”
“I wish Phyllis would clear away the first course and bring the entrée,” said Lady Playford. “I have an announcement to make, but let us see dinner on the table first.”
“I see—an announcement that requires an amply lined stomach, is it?” Kimpton teased.
As soon as Phyllis had served what we were told was Brigid’s finest dish, Chicken à la Rose, Lady Playford stood up. “Please, do not wait,” she said. “I have something to say to you all. Many of you won’t like it one bit, and nothing is ever better on an empty stomach.”
“I do so agree,” said Orville Rolfe. “Well?” He set about his chicken with a ferocious enthusiasm.
Lady Playford waited until a few more knives and forks had started to move before saying, “This afternoon I made a new will.”
Dorro made a choking noise. “What? A new will? Why? How is it different from the old one?”
�
�I assume that is what we are about to hear,” said Claudia. “Do tell, dearest Mama!”
“Do you know about this, Claudia?” Dorro fussed. “You sound as if you do!”
“Most of you will be shocked by what I am about to say.” Lady Playford’s words sounded rehearsed. “I must ask you all to trust me. I have confidence that all will be well.”
“Out with it, Athie,” said Kimpton.
In the silent ten or so seconds that followed—perhaps it was not even as long as that; it certainly felt far longer—I was acutely aware of the jagged breathing of everybody around the table. Dorro’s long neck twitched and she gulped several times. She seemed barely able to sit still.
Lady Playford said, “According to the provisions of my new will—made this afternoon and witnessed by Michael Gathercole and Hatton—everything I own is to go to Joseph Scotcher upon my death.”
“What!” Dorro’s voice shook. Her thin lips were twisted in terror, as if she had come face-to-face with a grisly specter invisible to the rest of us.
“By everything, you mean . . . ?” Claudia prompted. She appeared unruffled; Kimpton too. They had an air about them of people watching a pantomime and rather enjoying it.
“I mean everything,” Lady Playford said. “The Lillieoak estate, my houses in London, everything. All that I own.”
7
The Reaction
Scotcher rose to his feet so quickly, his chair crashed to the floor. He looked suddenly pale, as if he had heard bad news. “No,” he said. “I never asked or expected . . . Please . . . There is no need . . .”
“Joseph, are you all right?” Sophie stood, ready to hurry over to him.
“Here, give him this.” Kimpton, on her left, handed her his water glass. “He looks as if he needs it.”
The nurse was soon by Scotcher’s side. She placed one of her hands under his elbow, as if to hold him upright.
“It’s always so upsetting to discover a vast fortune is one day to be yours,” Kimpton remarked drily.
“Has everybody gone mad?” Dorro said. “Joseph is dying. He will be dead and buried before he has a chance to inherit anything! Is this some sort of cruel trick?”
“I am entirely serious,” said Lady Playford. “Michael will confirm it.”
Gathercole nodded. “It is true.”
Claudia smiled. “I ought to have been able to guess. I imagine you have wanted to do this for some time, Mother. Though I’m surprised you cut off Harry, your favorite child.”
“I do not have a favorite, Claudia, as well you know.”
“Not in the family, no,” her daughter murmured.
“Golly, this is a bit of a surprise,” said Harry, wide-eyed. It was the first comment he had made.
Poirot, I noticed, was as still as a statue.
Orville Rolfe took the opportunity to jab me in the ribs—if you could call it a jab, from so amply padded an elbow—and say, “This chicken is excellent, Catchpool. Superb. Brigid is to be congratulated. Well? Tuck in, I should.”
I’m afraid I could not persuade myself to reply.
“Isn’t it rather pointless to leave one’s money to someone who is about to die, when one is not likely to die oneself for a good many years?” Kimpton asked Lady Playford.
“Randall is right,” said Scotcher. “You all know my predicament. Please, Athie, you have been so . . . There is really no need . . .” A complete sentence appeared to be too much for him. He looked ravaged.
Sophie picked up the chair that Scotcher had knocked to the floor. Having helped him back into a seated position, she handed him the glass of water. “Drink as much as you can,” she urged. “You will feel better.” Scotcher was barely able to hold the glass; Sophie had to help him steer it towards his mouth.
I found the whole spectacle curious. Of course Lady Playford’s news would come as a shock, but why should it distress Scotcher to such an extent? Would not a puzzled “How silly, when I will not live to inherit and we all know it perfectly well” have been more appropriate to the occasion?
Dorro stood up. Her mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. She clutched at her dress. “Why do you hate me, Athie? You must know that Harry and I are the only ones who will suffer, and I cannot believe you hate your own son! Is this punishment for my failure to bear a child? Claudia doesn’t need your money—she is about to marry into one of the richest families in the world.”
Kimpton caught me looking at him. He smiled as if to say, “Didn’t know, did you? It’s true: I am quite as rich as Dorro makes me out to be.”
“So it must be me that you seek to harm!” she went on. “Harry and me. Have you not cruelly deprived us already of what was rightfully ours? I know it was your doing and not the wish of Harry’s late father, God rest his soul.”
“What nonsense you invent,” said Lady Playford. “Hate you, indeed—rubbish! As for your reference to my late husband’s will, you have, I am afraid, mistaken your own feelings of disappointment for cruelty on my part.”
Kimpton said, “Dorro, surely if Scotcher dies before Athie, everything will go to you and Harry as before. So why worry?”
“Mr. Gathercole, is it true what Randall says?” Dorro asked.
I was still reflecting upon the mention of the late Viscount Playford’s will. What was the story, I wondered. Even in the midst of this unusual scene and amid the airing of family grievances, one could hardly say to Dorro, “What did you mean about Harry’s father’s will?”
“Yes,” Michael Gathercole confirmed. “If Scotcher were to predecease Lady Playford, it would be exactly as if the terms of the old will still applied.”
“You see, Dorro?” said Kimpton. “No need to worry.”
“I wish to understand why this change was made,” Dorro insisted, still clutching at her dress. She would rip the skirt in a moment if she kept it up. “Why leave everything to a man who will soon be rotting in the earth?”
“Oh, now, that was bitter!” said Scotcher.
“I feel bitter!” Turning to Lady Playford, Dorro pleaded, “What will Harry and I do? How will we manage? You must put this right at once!”
“I for one am glad to have proof at last,” said Claudia.
“I quite agree that proof at last is the grail,” said Kimpton. “But proof of what, dearest one?”
“Of how little we matter to Mother.”
“Apart from him.” Dorro jabbed an accusing finger at Scotcher. “And he isn’t even family!”
At that moment, I happened to glance at Gathercole. What I saw caused me nearly to fall off my chair. His face was a deep, mottled red, and his lips trembled. Evidently he struggled to contain a powerful rage, or it might have been great anguish. Never have I seen a man look more likely to explode. No one else appeared to have noticed.
“I’m an old woman, and you, Joseph, are a young man,” said Lady Playford. “I neither wish nor intend to outlive you. I am accustomed to getting what I want, you see. Hence my decision. It is well known among the best doctors that the psychological has a profound influence upon the physical, and so I have given you something to live for—something that many would kill for.”
“Psychology again!” grumbled Kimpton. “Now an improved mood can cure a pair of shriveled brown kidneys! We doctors are surplus to requirements.”
“You are disgusting, Randall,” said Dorro. “Whatever will our guests think?”
“Is it ‘shriveled’ and ‘brown’ that you object to?” Kimpton asked her. “Would you mind explaining why those words are more offensive than ‘rotting in the earth’?”
“Shut up!” cried Sophie Bourlet. “If you could only hear yourselves! You are monsters, the lot of you!”
“It is human nature that is the monster, not anybody at this table,” said Lady Playford. “Tomorrow you will come with me to my doctor, Joseph. There’s none finer. He can cure you if anyone can. Don’t protest! It’s all arranged.”
“But there can be no cure for me. You know this, dear Athie.
I have explained.”
“I shall not believe it until I hear it from my own doctor. Not all medical men are equally intelligent and capable, Joseph. It is a profession that risks attracting those who find sickness and weakness attractive.”
“I know what must be done.” Dorro clapped her hands together. “Joseph must make a will naming Harry and Claudia as the beneficiaries. Mr. Gathercole, Mr. Rolfe, you will assist with this, won’t you? Can it be done, quickly? I don’t see why it should not be done! You evidently do not wish to steal from this family, Joseph—and I believe it would be theft if you were to allow what is rightfully ours to be left to you without putting in place—”
“That is enough, Dorro,” Lady Playford said firmly. “Joseph, please take no notice. Theft! The very idea! It is no such thing.”
“And what of Harry and me? We will starve! We will have nowhere to live! Where will we go? Have you made no provision for us at all? Oh, do not bother to answer! It gives you pleasure, does it not, to see me squirm and beg!”
“What an extraordinary thing to say,” Lady Playford observed mildly.
“This is about Nicholas!” Dorro babbled on, wild-eyed. “In your mind, you have turned Joseph into Nicholas—your dead little boy, come back to life! The resemblance is quite apparent: both fair-haired and blue-eyed, both weak and sickly. But Nicholas cannot be brought back from the grave by this new will of yours! Nicholas, I am afraid, is stone-cold dead and will remain so!”
All movement at the table ceased. A few seconds later, without a word, Lady Playford left the dining room, closing the door quietly behind her.
“All those children you never had, Dorro?” said Kimpton. “Lucky blighters, I should say.”
“Indeed,” said Claudia. “Imagine.”
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