10
Open Casket
For Hatton, no ordeal could have been more excruciating than having to tell me which bedrooms were occupied by whom. As a result, the process took longer than necessary. I managed to coax from him most of the information I needed, but he seemed unwilling to tell me where I might find Sophie Bourlet—so much so that I began to feel uneasy. After nearly a full two minutes, I was finally rewarded with a barely audible “Adjacent to the only other that’s not upstairs, sir.”
I knew what he meant at once: Sophie’s bedroom was next to Scotcher’s—which made sound good sense, since it was she, presumably, who wheeled him to breakfast every morning. There was no reason to suspect that anything of an improper nature was going on between them, and the possibility would not have crossed my mind if Hatton had not folded and unfolded his lips so many times before coming out with it, as if there were a shameful scandal to be covered up. Silly fellow!
I went first to the servants’ wing. Disturbing people when they do not wish to be disturbed is not much fun, I discovered. Brigid Marsh, in a hairnet and a dressing gown with large pink buttons, took the opportunity to launch a verbal assault against me by way of retaliation. For a reason I could not fathom, this involved shouting the provisional menus for tomorrow’s lunch and dinner at my face until I backed away.
Phyllis was in her room. She took some time to come to the door, and when she did, she had a thick layer of white goo spread all over her face, which gave me a start. Harmless and pointless, I imagined—and insufficient to conceal two red, tearful eyes.
“I’m doing my face,” she said, pointing at her chin.
I nodded. Why any person with umblemished skin should wish to daub herself with such a substance—or, having done so, to open her door so that others might see it—was a mystery to me. I had no doubt that the poor gullible girl’s complexion would look the same tomorrow as it had earlier today; if she was hoping that this magic skin potion would make Joseph Scotcher decide he wanted to marry her and not Sophie Bourlet, she was almost certain to be disappointed.
I apologized for disturbing her, and withdrew.
Hatton I had only just spoken to, so I returned to the main part of the house, where I knocked on Joseph Scotcher’s door first. There was no answer. I knocked again. Nothing.
He had looked distraught at dinner, and no doubt needed his rest more than most. How much would Poirot want me to wake him up? I wondered. Should I seek him out and ask?
No, I would leave Scotcher alone, I decided. It wasn’t as if he was the person Poirot was worried about. Although the more I pondered it, the more I wondered if we ought to be concerned for Scotcher’s safety. If Poirot was right and Lady Playford had invited the two of us to her house in order to prevent a murder, surely an obvious possible victim was the beneficiary of the new will.
I knocked again at the door, and this time it was opened immediately. “Yes?” Scotcher said in a weak voice. He wore navy blue and gold striped pajamas and a navy dressing gown, and he looked dreadful—worse than at dinner.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Did I wake you?”
“No. I heard your first knock, but I’m afraid I can’t get to the door as I once could. Even being on my feet . . .” He broke off, grimacing in pain.
“Let me help you.”
“There is no need, really,” Scotcher said, leaning against me. “I’m better alone. I shall be stronger in the morning. It is only the shock that has turned me for the worse. Why has she done it?”
“Lady Playford? I’m afraid I can’t help you. I don’t know her at all.”
“No, of course not.”
I helped him back to his bed and he thanked me fulsomely—I was in possession of a rare kindness and a generous spirit, apparently. The praise was excessive, but I could not help liking the man. It was rare to meet an overly appreciative person.
“Good night, Catchpool.” He closed his eyes. “You too should get some sleep. You have had a long journey—all the way from London.”
I assured him that I was fine, and moved on to Sophie Bourlet’s room, cursing Poirot for the task he had assigned me, and my own weakness in agreeing to do his bidding.
When I knocked on Sophie’s door, it swung open. It must not have been fully closed. “Miss Bourlet?” I called out. The wallpaper was pale blue with spirals of pink roses and there was a basin in the corner. The curtains were neither fully open nor fully closed.
When I did not get a reply, I entered. Sophie was not there, only her possessions in tidy piles, meticulously arranged as if ready for inspection.
Again I wondered what to do. Should I find Poirot and tell him the nurse was not in her bedroom? Should I search the house for her? If she was not here and not attending to Scotcher in his room, where could she be?
In the end, I decided I would check on the people upstairs before going back to Poirot, for I did not know how many bedrooms would turn out to be empty. There was a chance I might stumble across Sophie Bourlet, Michael Gathercole and Athelinda Playford all playing cards together, and I wanted to be properly apprised of the position before I reported back.
Lady Playford opened her door immediately. “Yes?” she said. I asked her if she was all right and she said drily, “Edward! Yes, thank you, I’m fine,” with a silent “And you are the last person who would be able to help me if I were not” added at the end—unless I imagined it.
No, I had not. She had sounded cavalier and impatient, which, if she feared there was about to be an attempt on her life, was not the tone one would expect her to strike.
I knocked on Gathercole’s door. Nothing. Sighing, I knocked again. I tried the handle to see if it would open, and it did. I walked into the room, which was in darkness. After a little stumbling, I found myself at the window. Pulling back one of the curtains let in enough light for me to see that Gathercole’s bed was neatly made. The lawyer was nowhere in evidence.
I left the room, closing the door behind me, and moved on to Orville Rolfe’s bedroom, which was next to Gathercole’s. This was the last one to check, thank goodness. Harry, Dorro, Claudia and Kimpton were all downstairs in the drawing room.
Orville Rolfe opened his door wearing striped flannel pajamas. A sheen of perspiration covered his forehead. To my astonishment, he grabbed my forearm with his beefy hand. “Oh, Catchpool, the pain! It is agony! I cannot find a comfortable position. Where is the doctor chap, Kimpton? Fetch him at once, will you? Tell him I have been poisoned.”
“Goodness. I’m sure you haven’t been poisoned, Mr. Rolfe, but—”
“Well? Poisoned, I tell you! What else could it be? Will you go for Kimpton before it’s too late?”
Had Poirot and I been invited to Lillieoak to prevent the poisoning of Orville Rolfe? Anything seemed possible.
“Yes, yes, all right. Wait here.”
“Where else would I go? I am bent double in agony! Look at me! If you can’t find Kimpton, bring that nurse! She’d be better than nothing.”
I fairly leapt down the stairs, praying that Kimpton would not turn out to have disappeared, like Sophie Bourlet and Gathercole.
Were they together? Why had Gathercole looked so anguished at the dinner table, as if he was being torn apart inside? Did it have something to do with Sophie—perhaps with Scotcher’s proposal of marriage to her? No, that had not happened until later. It could not be that.
Kimpton, thankfully, was still in the drawing room with Poirot, Claudia, Harry and Dorro. “Orville Rolfe is in great pain!” The words tumbled out of me. “Says he’s been poisoned!”
Claudia let out a weary sigh and Kimpton laughed heartily. “Does he indeed? Well, I suppose it’s been an unusual evening, so I shouldn’t take anything for granted, but you needn’t look so abject, Catchpool. Did you see how quickly he demolished his chicken? Trapped wind’s all it is—feels like a thousand devils tearing at your gut, but I’ll wager I can cure it in seconds with a sharp poke of my finger to the right part of his anatomy!”
“Afterwards, please make sure that finger keeps its distance from my anatomy,” said Claudia, and Dorro scolded her for being vulgar.
“Dr. Kimpton, please go to Mr. Rolfe without delay,” said Poirot. “Catchpool, you go with him.”
“I will, but that’s not all: Gathercole and Sophie Bourlet—both are not in their rooms. I don’t know where they are.”
“Viscount Playford and I will look for them,” said Poirot. “And you two ladies, you will please stay together in this room. Yes?”
“If you insist,” said Claudia. “But really, don’t you think you are being a little hysterical? Nothing has actually happened apart from Mr. Rolfe eating too much. Is there any reason to suppose Gathercole and Sophie have come to harm?”
“I pray that they have not,” said Poirot.
As I followed Kimpton upstairs, I heard Claudia say to Dorro, “I should be the one searching the woods, while that demented Belgian waits in the drawing room and fusses like a girl!”
By the time Kimpton and I reached him, Orville Rolfe’s skin had taken on a ghastly yellow sheen. He lay on his back, stretched out across his bed, with one leg dangling off it. So alarmed was I that I found myself saying to Kimpton, “Could it be poison?”
“What else is it likely to be?” Rolfe groaned. “I’m a goner! I can’t breathe!”
“Poison my eye!” said Kimpton briskly, taking Rolfe’s pulse. “You’ll be quite all right in no more than an hour—that’s my prediction. Can you turn over and lie on your side? And then bring your knees up to your chest? The more you can alter your position, the better.”
“I can’t move, I tell you!”
“Hm.” Kimpton rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you’d allow me to sit on your stomach, would you?”
Rolfe yowled like a wounded animal. Then his eyes widened and he tried to sit up. The attempt failed; he fell back down on the bed. “I heard them!” he said.
“Whom did you hear?” Kimpton flexed the fingers of both hands as he approached the prone lawyer, as if he were about to sit down at a piano and play a concerto. To me he said, “The problem is knowing where to apply the much-needed sharp jab. In a patient of a normal size, the skin is much closer to the organ.”
“I heard them talking about it,” Rolfe mumbled as perspiration dripped from his brow onto the pillowcase beneath him. “He said I had to die, that it could not be helped. And they talked about my funeral!”
“If you would consider eating less, and more slowly, there’d be no need for anybody to discuss your funeral for a good long while,” said Kimpton, bending to examine Rolfe’s right side. He flexed his fingers again.
“Wait,” I said. “Mr. Rolfe, what exactly did you hear, and who said it?”
“Well?” Rolfe yelled at me. “Had to be open casket, that’s what they said. ‘Open casket: it’s the only way.’ Poison, you see. That’s how I know. If you poison someone . . . Oh, the agony! Do something, Kimpton—are you a doctor or not?”
“Most certainly am!” With that, Kimpton thrust his index finger at great speed into the southerly region of Rolfe’s middle section.
The lawyer let out a frightful howl. I took a step back. Voices were coming from outside: the sound of two people talking. “Ha!” Kimpton declared triumphantly. “First time lucky, I believe. You should feel better very soon, old boy.”
I opened the window. “Poirot? Is that you?” I shouted into the night.
“Oui, mon ami. I am with the viscount.”
“Hallo up there!” Harry Playford called out cheerfully—like a man who had forgotten that he had been disinherited earlier in the evening.
“Come quickly. Rolfe might have been poisoned.”
The lawyer had not completed his sentence, but I thought I knew what he had been trying to say: that if you wanted or needed to give somebody an open casket funeral, poison was a method of murder that left the face intact.
“Utter rot, Catchpool.” Kimpton sounded disappointed in me. “My diagnosis was correct: trapped wind. Look, he’s stopped sweating, you will notice. Soon there will be no pain to speak of. Not very observant, are you?”
“I hope that I am,” I said coolly.
“Well, you have failed to notice this: nothing that happens to Orville Rolfe is ever in any way attributable to Orville Rolfe. His chair creaks because it is poorly made; his feet ache because modern shoe-making techniques are lacking; his stomach pain is the fault of a mysterious poisoner and nothing to do with his determination, against the odds, to inhale an entire chicken in a fraction of a second. Look at him now!”
On the bed, Rolfe had started to snore.
Dorro and Claudia Playford appeared in the doorway. “What is that foul smell?” asked Dorro. “Is it cyanide? Doesn’t cyanide smell vile like that?”
“There is no cyanide, and Mr. Rolfe is fine,” said Kimpton. “And my index finger is the hero of the hour, though far too modest to draw attention to its own stellar performance.” He wiggled it in the air.
Harry Playford appeared, out of breath. “Poison!” he announced to his wife. “Rolfe has been poisoned. Catchpool said so.”
“What? But he’s sleeping peacefully,” said Dorro.
“He said something strange,” I told them all. It appeared that Kimpton’s diagnosis was correct on this occasion, but it was beyond me how anybody could feel triumphant about the release of some gas while ignoring Rolfe’s peculiar story about the people who had discussed his death.
Nobody asked me to expand upon what I had said. They were all too busy laughing about Randall Kimpton’s finger, or backing away from it in mock disgust, or (in Harry’s case) staring at it with great admiration, as if it were the poet laureate. Not that Harry would have any interest in the poet laureate, I expect, unless there was a chance of stuffing his head and mounting it on a wall.
Where the devil was Poirot?
11
Overheard Voices
Poirot finally appeared and his face was a picture! Never had I seen a mere expression so full of urgent questions. Before he could ask any, I started to tell him what he needed to know. “He’s recovering fast. Cried poison at first, which gave me a bit of a fright. Why should anybody wish to harm Orville Rolfe? It turns out that maybe they did not. Look, he’s regained some color in his cheeks. Kimpton says all is well, and he’s the doctor.”
“Though my credentials were questioned by the patient,” said Kimpton. “Ungrateful cur!”
I walked over to Poirot and said in whisper, so as not to be overheard, “Rolfe said something that worried me.” I was determined to tell this story to someone who would take it seriously.
“Wait, mon ami. Have you checked on Lady Playford?”
“Yes. She was perfectly well. And, really, her room is only across the landing. With all of us up here attending to Rolfe, no one would go anywhere near Lady Playford if their intention was to murder her and get away unnoticed. Besides, I don’t think any of us has been alone for a moment.”
“Some killers work in pairs, don’t they?” said Kimpton, looking gleeful about having managed to eavesdrop successfully. Confound the man!
“Although, I grant you, it is hard to imagine that level of cooperation and shared purpose at Lillieoak,” he added.
“Continue, Catchpool.” Poirot dismissed the doctor’s frivolity with a cold look.
There was no point trying to keep this part quiet, since Kimpton had heard it himself. “Rolfe said something odd about an open casket,” I told Poirot. “He said—”
“Wait a moment, please. Viscount Playford, Dr. Kimpton—go outside, please, and look for Michael Gathercole and Sophie Bourlet. Both are still unaccounted for.”
“Will do, old boy,” said Harry. He left the room at once.
“I am going to bed,” said Dorro. “It has been a horrible, exhausting evening.”
Kimpton said to Poirot, “Gathercole and Sophie might be unaccounted for, but they are both grown-ups who may do as they plea
se. As may I, now that Mr. Rolfe’s digestive problems are happily resolved. And what I wish to do is take my dearest one here and exchange a few sweet nothings before retiring for the night. Is that permitted, Poirot? I don’t understand why you and Catchpool have decided to proceed as if a murder is imminent, but you can hardly expect us all to play along with the charade, if I may be blunt—which I’m afraid I just have been.”
“You must do as you choose, monsieur.”
“Jolly dee! Well, good night, then!” He took Claudia’s arm and steered her out of the room.
Poirot and I were left alone with Rolfe. Small snorting sounds came from him at regular intervals and his eyelids fluttered.
Finally I was able to tell Poirot what Rolfe had said about the open casket argument. Poirot listened carefully. Then, without a word by way of response, he crouched down by the side of the bed and gave one of the lawyer’s large pink cheeks a slap.
Rolfe’s eyes opened. “Steady on, old fellow,” he said.
“You must wake up immediately,” said Poirot.
This provoked a look of confusion. “Am I not awake now?”
“You are, monsieur. Do not fall asleep again, please. Catchpool tells me that you overheard someone saying that you must die, and that you must have an open casket funeral. Is that true? Did you hear this?”
“I did. That’s why, when I thought I might have been poisoned . . . but the discomfort has eased considerably, so I am content to bow to Dr. Kimpton’s expertise. It was not poison after all.”
“Please repeat to me the exact words you heard, about the open casket,” said Poirot.
“He said I must die, and that there was no other way. And they talked about my funeral—it had to be open casket, that’s what they said.”
“Who is ‘he’?”
“I don’t know. I could not hear clearly. A man—that is all I can tell you. A man saying I had to die. And a woman . . .” Rolfe stopped, frowned, carried on. “Yes, yes, a woman was trying to talk him out of it. I think it was only the man who wanted me dead.”
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