“Mr. Gathercole, Mr. Rolfe—go after her, please.” Dorro gestured frantically towards the door. “Make her see sense!”
“I’m afraid I cannot do as you ask,” said Gathercole tonelessly. Whatever inner crisis had gripped him before seemed to have passed; he looked composed once again. He averted his eyes as he addressed Dorro, as if she were a gruesome spectacle that, once seen, might haunt a fellow forever. “Lady Playford is certain of her wishes in this matter, and I am satisfied that she is of sound mind.”
“Mr. Rolfe, you must tackle her, then, if Mr. Gathercole is too lily-livered to try.”
“Do not disturb Lady Playford, please,” said Poirot. “She will wish to be alone for a while.”
Claudia laughed. “Listen to him! He only arrived this afternoon, yet he talks with such authority about my mother.”
Harry Playford leaned forward and addressed Scotcher. “How do you feel about all this, old boy? Bit rum, what?”
“Harry, you must believe me. I neither asked for this nor hoped for it—ever. I do not want it! Though I am, of course, deeply moved to learn that dear Athie cares for me to this extent, I never imagined . . .” He grimaced and changed course. “I should very much like to understand what is behind it, that is all. I cannot truly believe that she envisages a cure for me.”
“You say you do not want it—then write down your wishes on a piece of paper!” said Dorro. “That is all you need do! Write down that you want everything to go to me and Harry, and we will sign our names as witnesses.”
“All to go to you and Harry?” said Claudia. “What was it you said to Joseph about not even being family?”
“I meant to you and Harry.” Dorro blushed. “You must forgive me. I scarcely know what I am saying! All I want is to make this right!”
“You spoke of my wishes, Dorro,” said Scotcher. “I have only one wish. Sophie . . . I would kneel if I could, but I am feeling particularly unwell after all this commotion. Sophie, would you do me the great honor of agreeing to become my wife, as soon as it can be arranged? That is all I want.”
“Oh!” Sophie exclaimed, taking a step back. “Oh, Joseph! Are you sure you want this? You have had a shock. Maybe you should wait before—”
“I have never been more certain of anything in my life, my dearest one.”
“That is what I call Claudia,” Kimpton muttered. “Kindly invent your own endearments, Scotcher.”
“What would you know about kindness?” Sophie turned on him. “What would any of you know about it?”
“We should all leave you and Mr. Scotcher alone, mademoiselle,” said Poirot. “Come—let us give them some privacy.”
Privacy! That was rich, coming from Poirot, the world’s most zealous interferer in other people’s romantic affairs.
“You are taking this proposal of marriage seriously, then, Monsieur Poirot?” asked Claudia. “You do not wonder what is the point of it when Joseph has only weeks to live? Surely a sensible invalid would rather not be concerned with arduous wedding preparations.”
“You are as bad as Randall! You are heartless tormentors, both of you!” Loathing seemed to pour from Sophie’s eyes as she stared at Kimpton and Claudia.
“Heartless?” said Kimpton. “Incorrect. I have the valves, the chambers, the arteries that make a heart. My blood is pumped around my body in the same way yours is.” He turned to Poirot. “This is what your psychology does, my friend—it has us all speaking as if muscle tissue were capable of finer feelings. Believe me, Sophie, when you’ve opened up as many bodies as I have and seen the hearts inside them—”
“Will you stop talking about disgusting, blood-soaked organs, while our plates are heaped with meat?” Dorro spat at him. “I cannot bear the sight of it, nor the smell.” She pushed away her plate.
None of us had managed to eat very much, apart from Orville Rolfe, who had wolfed his entire dinner within a few seconds of it being placed in front of him.
“Dearest Sophie,” said Scotcher. “Randall and Claudia are right: I do not have long to go. But I should like to spend what time I have left with you, as your faithful and loving husband. If you will have me, that is.”
The sound of a strangled cry, cut off at its midpoint, made everyone look up. It had come from nobody in the room.
“Which nosy so-and-so has his or her waxy lug-hole pressed up against the door?” said Kimpton loudly.
We all heard the flurry of footsteps as the listener ran away.
“Joseph, you know I love you more than anything,” said Sophie. She sounded—and it struck me as rather odd—as if she was pleading with him. “You know I would do anything for you.”
“Well, then!” Scotcher smiled. At least, I think it was a smile. He appeared to be in a certain amount of pain.
“Monsieur Poirot is right,” said Sophie. “We should be sensible and discuss this in private.”
Two by two, the rest of us filed out of the room. Claudia and Kimpton went first, then Harry and Dorro. Ahead of Poirot and me were Gathercole and Rolfe. I overheard Rolfe’s complaint that he had been promised a lemon chiffon cake for pudding; how, now that he had been forced away from the table, was he to be served this cake, and could Mr. Scotcher not have been a little less inconsiderate and postponed his proposal until dinner was properly concluded?
As for me, I had completely lost my appetite. “I need fresh air,” I muttered to Poirot. “Sorry. I know you find that incomprehensible.”
“Non, mon ami,” he replied. “Tonight, I comprehend it only too well.”
8
A Stroll in the Gardens
The first thing I did, as Poirot and I stepped outside, was gulp in air as if I’d been starved of it. There was something stifling about Lillieoak, something that made me want to escape its confines.
“This is the best time of day to walk in a garden,” said Poirot. “When it is dark and one sees no plants or flowers.”
I laughed. “Are you being deliberately silly? No gardener would agree with you.”
“I like to savor the smell of a garden I cannot see. Do you smell it? The pine, and the lavender—oh, yes, very strongly the lavender. The nose is as important as the eyes. Ask any horticulturist.” Poirot chuckled. “I think that if you and I were to meet the one who created this garden, I would make the more favorable impression upon him.”
“I expect you think that about anyone the two of us might meet, whether they were a gardener or a postman,” I said curtly.
“Who was at the door?”
“Pardon?”
“Someone was listening at the door—someone who made an unhappy exclamation immediately after Joseph Scotcher asked the nurse Sophie to marry him.”
“Yes, and who then ran away.”
“Who was it, do you think?”
“Well, we know it was nobody in the dining room—so not you, me, Harry, Dorro, Claudia, Kimpton. It wasn’t the two lawyers, Gathercole and Rolfe. It wasn’t poor old Joseph Scotcher, whose running days are over, and nor was it his nurse, Sophie. That leaves Lady Playford, who had left the room by then, Brigid the cook, Hatton the butler, Phyllis the maid. It could have been any of them. I am inclined to believe it was Phyllis—she is besotted with Scotcher. She told me so herself, before dinner.”
“And that is why you arrived late to the dining room?”
“Yes, it was.”
Poirot nodded. “Shall we walk a little?” he suggested. “I can see the path now. It goes all the way around the lawn and will bring us back to the house.”
“I have no wish to be brought back,” I told him. I did not want to walk a neat square on a paved path. I should have liked to stride out across the grass, with no thought about how or when I would return.
“You are wrong,” Poirot told me as we set off on the safe route of his choosing.
“About what?”
“The listener at the door who ran away—yes, it could have been Lady Playford, or the maid Phyllis, or Hatton, but it could not have been Brigid the cook. I caugh
t a glimpse of her when I first arrived. I doubt she could move so quickly, and her tread would be heavier.”
“Yes. Now that I think of it, the footsteps had a light and nimble aspect.”
“‘Nimble’ is an interesting word. It suggests youth.”
“I know. Which makes me think . . . It must have been Phyllis. As I said: we know she is enamored of Scotcher. And she’s young and sprightly, isn’t she? No one else is—no one who might have been listening outside that door. Hatton and Lady Playford are both older and move more slowly.”
“So it was Phyllis,” Poirot seemed content to agree. “Let us move on to our next question. Why would Lady Playford decide to change her will in such a peculiar way?”
“She told us why. She hopes that Scotcher’s unconscious mind will exert its powerful influence—”
“That is senseless.” Poirot dismissed my answer, only half-expressed. “Kidney failure is kidney failure. The prospect of all the riches in the world cannot reverse a terminal illness that has nearly run its course. Lady Playford is a woman of considerable intelligence, therefore she knows this. I do not believe that was her reason.”
He stopped walking in order to disagree with himself. “Although the ability of people to believe what they hope is true is without limit, mon ami. If Lady Playford loves Joseph Scotcher very much, perhaps . . .”
I waited to see if he would say more. When it was clear he did not intend to, I said, “I think you were right the first time. If there’s one thing I know about Athelinda Playford from her books, it’s that she thinks of all kinds of peculiar motives and schemes that no one else would ever dream up. I think she was playing a game at the dinner table. She strikes me as the sort who would enjoy games.”
“You think it is not real, this will that leaves her entire estate to Scotcher?” We had started to move again.
“No, I think it is,” I said. What did I mean? I considered it carefully. “Making it real is part of her game. She’s serious, all right—but that doesn’t mean she isn’t toying with everybody.”
“For what reason, mon ami? For revenge, perhaps? The desire to punish—though not so severely as she might? A most interesting allusion was made to the late Viscount Playford’s will. I wonder . . .”
“Yes, I have been wondering about it too.”
“I think I can guess what happened. Usually the family estate passes to the son, the new viscount. Yet in this instance that evidently did not happen. Lady Playford, as we heard this evening, is the owner of the Lillieoak estate and of several houses in London. Therefore . . . an unusual arrangement must have been made by the late Viscount Playford. It is possible that he and Lady Playford did not believe the young Harry to be capable of taking on such a responsibility—”
“If that was their worry, one could scarcely blame them,” I interjected. “Harry does rather give the impression of having a suet pudding between his ears, doesn’t he?”
Poirot murmured his agreement, then said, “Or perhaps the reluctance of Lady Playford and her late husband had more to do with their daughter-in-law, who has shown her vicious streak most clearly in the short time we have known her.”
“What do you mean about Lady Playford wanting to punish, but not too severely?”
“Let us say that she does not wish to disinherit her children—that would be too extreme. At the same time, it infuriates her that they take her for granted. Perhaps they are not as attentive as they might be. So she makes a new will leaving everything to Joseph Scotcher. She knows he will not outlive her—her new arrangements make no difference to him, apart from as a gesture. Now her children and her daughter-in-law will be nervous for the remainder of Scotcher’s life, in case she should happen to die before him—after all, accidents do happen. When Scotcher dies from his illness, they will all breathe a sigh of relief and never again take for granted that everything belonging to Lady Playford will one day be theirs. They might treat her more considerately thereafter.”
“I don’t like that theory at all,” I said. “Accidents do happen, and I cannot believe that Lady Playford would make so imprecise a plan. If she wanted her estate to go to her children, she would not take even the tiniest risk. As you say, she could fall down the stairs and break her neck tomorrow and everything would go to Scotcher.”
I expected Poirot to argue the point, but he did not. We walked for a while in silence. My legs were starting to ache from the effort of adjusting my pace to match his. Someone ought to make a competitive sport out of trying to walk excessively slowly; it tests muscles of which one was previously unaware.
“I have an outlandish hypothesis,” I said. “Imagine that Lady Playford has reason to believe one of her children intends to kill her.”
“Ah!”
“You’ve already thought of this, I suppose.”
“Non, mon ami. Continue.”
“She is worried about her dying secretary, Joseph Scotcher. As a sort of mother figure to him, which is very likely how she sees herself—he is an orphan, and she lost a child—she doesn’t want to die while he is alive and needs her. She hopes to stay alive in order to be of help and comfort to him during his final illness. At the same time, she knows her power is limited; if Harry or Claudia—or Dorro or Randall Kimpton for that matter—is serious about killing her, she might not be able to prevent it.”
“So she changes her will to ensure that her would-be killer waits until Scotcher is dead before killing her?” said Poirot.
“Yes. She calculates that they would wait, in order to make sure of getting their hands on her money, the houses, the land. Exactly. And after Scotcher is dead, why should she care if she lives or dies? Her husband has already passed on, and losing Scotcher will be like losing a child all over again.”
“Why would Lady Playford not go to the police if she believed her life was in danger?”
“That is a good point. Yes, she would, most probably. Which makes my exciting theory pure bunkum.”
I heard a little laugh beside me. Poirot, like Athelinda Playford, enjoyed playing games with people. “You give up too easily, Catchpool. Lady Playford is not a young woman, as we have discussed. Many at her age do not like to travel. So, she did not go to the police. Instead, she brought the police to her. You, mon ami. And she did better than that: she brought to her home the great detective Hercule Poirot.”
“You think there is something in my hypothesis, then?”
“It is possible. It would be hard for a mother to say of one of her children, ‘He plans to kill me,’ especially to a stranger. She might try instead to push away the unbearable truth and approach the matter in a less direct fashion. Also, she may be unsure; she may lack the proof. Did you notice any interesting reactions to the news of the changed will?”
“Knocked everyone for six, didn’t it? Caused a great to-do, and I doubt we’ve heard the end of it either.”
“Not everyone seemed knocked for the six,” Poirot said.
“Do you mean Harry Playford? Yes, you’re right. He appeared equally unmoved by his wife’s distress, by her cruel words about his dead brother, Nicholas, and by his mother’s anguished departure that followed. I should say that Harry Playford is an even keel sort of fellow who could find himself at the center of an earthquake and barely notice. He strikes me as neither bright nor sensitive. I mean . . . gosh, that sounded rather harsher than I intended it to!”
“I agree, mon ami. So we can put to one side for the time being Harry Playford’s unusual reaction and say that it is probably not unusual for him. I suspect that he has come to rely on his wife to express all the emotion for the two of them.”
“Yes, Dorro does enough fretting for twelve people,” I concurred. “You asked about unusual reactions—I don’t suppose you noticed Gathercole’s? He seemed to be struggling to contain some terrible grief or fury that threatened to burst forth. There was a moment, I confess, when I feared his efforts would fail and it would all come out, whatever it was.”
“You de
scribe it very well,” said Poirot. “However, it was not the announcement of the new will that upset Mr. Gathercole. Remember, he had known for some hours and was perfectly composed when we all sat down at the table. So what altered his mood?”
“I’ve been puzzling over that very question,” I said. “What happened that he might not have been prepared for? I suppose Scotcher’s reaction was unexpected: he did not seem glad of the new arrangements at all, did he?”
“Understandably, he did not. Scotcher is close to death. What can he gain from this new will? Nothing. He will not live to see the money, so it spells only trouble for him—resentment from Dorro, from Claudia . . . which is why I wonder.”
“What do you wonder?”
“Lady Playford’s intention—perhaps it is not to benefit Scotcher but to incommode him. To cause him distress and inconvenience. That, after all, is the effect that we observed, and Lady Playford seems to be a person whose aim would not miss.”
“What if she and Joseph Scotcher have jointly concocted some kind of plot?” I said.
“Why do you suggest it?” asked Poirot. We had reached the far side of the lawn, the spot that offered the best view of Lillieoak. People were supposed to stop here and admire the house.
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s only that their behavior struck me as similar somehow. Lady Playford leaves everything to a dying man who will not benefit from her generosity. Joseph Scotcher proposes marriage to a girl who, if she accepts him, will get deathbed duty instead of the romantic dream, before becoming a widow. In both cases, the promise of everything—one’s dreams come true—but a vastly different and more desolate reality.”
“That is an interesting observation,” said Poirot as we walked on. “Yet I can imagine the desire to marry the one you love growing more urgent as life departs. There is great consolation in the symbolic union.”
“What if Nurse Sophie ends up with the lot?” I said.
“While I think of the grand romantic gestures, you think of practicalities, n’est-ce pas?”
Closed Casket Page 6