20
Cause of Death
Scotcher’s body had been removed from the parlor. I assumed it had been taken to a nearby mortuary, though all Conree was willing to offer us was the word “removed.” Having been forced by Kimpton to include Poirot and me in this little gathering, he was retaliating by withholding as much mundane information as possible—like a more virulent counterpart of Hatton, the butler.
Though Scotcher was gone, his wheelchair was still in the same spot, forlorn in the absence of its former occupant. The bloodstain on the oriental carpet marked where his head had lain, or what was left of it.
Poirot, Inspector Conree and Sergeant O’Dwyer sat on the chairs furthest from the blood, like tense audience members waiting for a show to begin.
“I am confident that I know what this is about,” Conree said as Kimpton and I entered the room. “You have my permission to raise the matter, Dr. Kimpton. Poirot, Catchpool, I hope I can rely on your discretion.”
Stepping directly over the bloodstain, Kimpton approached Scotcher’s wheelchair and put his hand on it. “‘Here I and sorrows sit,’” he murmured. “‘Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.’”
“A quotation from Shakespeare’s King John?” Poirot asked him.
“At a time like this, old boy, I would draw upon no other dramatic work.”
“You saw Scotcher’s wheelchair as a throne?”
“Not really. Do not be so literal-minded. Ha!” Kimpton’s eyes flared to underline the irony. “I, of course, am a fine one to talk!”
“But you saw Joseph Scotcher as a king—the king of Lillieoak?” Poirot persisted.
Kimpton smiled faintly. “Heir to Athie’s kingdom, yes. Monarch-in-waiting. I like that! You are quite right, Poirot. The crime is regicide, though no newspaper will report it as such.”
“Would you have been a loyal subject of King Joseph, I wonder,” Poirot mused aloud.
“Wonder away, old stick. Have fun with your psychological confabulations. What harm can it do? Though I’m afraid I have brought us all here to talk about rather more pedestrian matters of fact.”
“Come to the point,” ordered Inspector Conree.
“I shall. The bloodstain—look at it. Does anything strike you?”
“Well, you may accuse me of fearing the worst, if you wish,” said O’Dwyer, “but I can see it never coming out of that carpet. Lady Playford will need a new one.”
“Quiet, O’Dwyer,” Conree growled at him.
“Oh, yes,” the sergeant agreed, as if keeping quiet were next on his list of activities, and always had been.
“Anything else?” Kimpton looked at Poirot and me. “Shall I tell you? All right, then. I would swear to it that there is not enough blood for a murder committed in the way we have all been assuming it was committed. All except me, I should say. I wondered as soon as I saw Scotcher lying there. But it was only once his body was removed that I became sure.”
“Sure of what?” said Poirot.
“That Scotcher wasn’t clubbed to death. Yes, somebody smashed his head to pieces with a club, but that was not what killed him. He must already have been dead when it happened.”
“Well, I never,” said O’Dwyer quietly.
“If I had to guess, I’d say that he’d been dead around an hour by the time the club got to him,” said Kimpton. “Sergeant O’Dwyer, did the police doctor say something similar? I saw you talking to him. Frankly, I find it hard to credit that any medical man would miss it.”
“It would have been improper for Dr. Clouder to say anything before performing the postmortem,” Inspector Conree huffed. His mood was deteriorating fast in the face of Kimpton attempting to take charge. “I discouraged him from speculating. There is to be an inquest, and, since we cannot anticipate its verdict, it would be indecorous of any of us to try.”
“Indecorous?” Kimpton guffawed at the ludicrous pronouncement. “Tommyrot—unless you are set on impeding your own investigation, Inspector.”
He walked around the wheelchair, positioned himself in front of Poirot and said, “If Scotcher had been killed by the blows from the club, there would be twice as much blood on the carpet as there is.”
“Are you saying that Mr Scotcher died from his illness, and his murderer was unaware that he was dead already?” O’Dwyer asked. “Now, if you are—and I’d be the first to allow that strange happenings are more common than people would think, but having said that—”
“I do not believe Scotcher died from any illness,” Kimpton cut him off impatiently. “Poirot, how well do you remember the scene as we saw it on the night of the murder? We ran down the stairs and were confronted by a monstrous sight. Scotcher’s head had taken a pretty thorough beating. There was not much left of it, but it was not entirely destroyed, if you recall.”
“The lower part of his face was still intact,” I said. “His mouth was fixed in a terrible grimace of pain.”
“Full marks, Catchpool,” said Kimpton. “I’m pleased you mentioned the grimace.”
“Mon Dieu,” Poirot said under his breath. “I have been a fool—a blind fool.”
“Here, gentlemen, is my guess,” said Kimpton. “It has as its foundation certain observations I have made in the course of my work as a pathologist. I have performed many postmortems in cases of suspicious death, at the behest of the police. In one such case—a murder—the cause of death was poisoning. Strychnine.”
Inspector Conree hauled himself to his feet, red in the face. “We must stop this at once. I am in charge of—”
“The victim of a strychnine death dies with what looks like a ghastly grin on his face,” said Poirot as if Conree had not spoken. “Yet I did not think of it. Je suis imbecile!”
“Indeed, the facial muscles spasm,” said Kimpton. “That’s what causes the grimace or grin. It is also said of strychnine deaths that one ends up with a back so arched that both one’s head and one’s feet are on the floor. That’s an exaggeration, but there is some truth in it.”
“Scotcher’s body lay in a most unnatural position,” said Poirot. “Both were present: the arched back, the grin. I am ashamed that I did not see straightaway what must have occurred.”
“Well, I didn’t think of it, and I’m a doctor,” Kimpton said. “It was only once the body had been removed and I was able to look at the amount of blood left behind that I was certain.”
“Come along, O’Dwyer,” said Conree. “You and I will not be part of this unsavory exercise.” He marched from the room, having first reattached his chin to the top of his chest. O’Dwyer shrugged helplessly before following him.
“Test every liquid you can find in Scotcher’s bedroom,” Kimpton called after them. To Poirot and me, he said, “What an insufferable fustilugs! Might Sergeant O’Dwyer chop off his head with an ax, do we think? Here’s hoping. Back to Scotcher, now that we can speak freely. The inquest will tell us that he died from strychnine poisoning. What it won’t tell us is why somebody clubbed him about the head postmortem. Rather a waste of time, expending all that energy trying to murder someone who is already dead, I should say. Any theories, Poirot? I have one if you don’t.”
“I am interested to hear yours, monsieur.”
Kimpton smiled. “You must promise not to hold it against me if I turn out to be wrong.”
“Naturally. Even Hercule Poirot is, on the very rare occasion, wrong.”
Kimpton walked over to the window and looked out. “I think our club-wielding culprit is Sophie Bourlet,” he said. “That would explain her eagerness to blame it on Claudia. She must have believed she could fool the garda’s medical examiner. She wrongly assumed that he would see a mess of blood and brains, and conclude that the cause of death was obvious, and there was no need for a postmortem or an inquest. Unpardonably foolish of her. As a nurse with a modicum of medical knowledge, she should have known better than to leave the lower part of Scotcher’s face intact. The strychnine grin is a well-known phenomenon.”
“W
hy should she wish to mislead anyone about the cause of death?” I asked.
“Because . . . ,” Kimpton began with a sigh, as if my question were idiotic and the answer as plain as day, “. . . it was common knowledge that Sophie was in charge of administering all Scotcher’s medicines and tonics and whatever else he took. If she had wanted him dead, it would have been the easiest thing in the world for her to slip something into one of those bottles of his. If he’d turned up dead and it was a clear case of poisoning, the first name in everybody’s mind would have been Sophie’s. She had the opportunity several times each day.”
“So, if you are correct, Sophie Bourlet did two things in order to divert suspicion from herself,” said Poirot. “First, she bludgeoned Scotcher with a club after killing him with poison, in order to disguise the method that would suggest her as the most likely killer. Second, she took the further precaution of pretending to have witnessed Mademoiselle Claudia attacking him with the club.”
“Quite so,” said Kimpton.
“Sophie claims to have heard as well as seen certain things,” Poirot told him.
“Heard?”
“Oui. A conversation between Mademoiselle Claudia and Mr. Scotcher, immediately before she attacked him with the club.”
A heavy sigh came from Kimpton. “Which must be a lie if Scotcher was already dead when the attack took place. Do continue, Poirot.”
“Sophie swears that she heard Mr. Scotcher beg for his life, and that, in response, Mademoiselle Claudia said, ‘This is what Iris should have done.’”
“Iris?” Kimpton spun round to face us. “Iris Gillow?”
The same name I had heard from Claudia Playford. Who was she?
“I do not know which Iris, and Sophie Bourlet told me she did not know either,” said Poirot.
“What else did she hear?” Kimpton demanded.
“She did not recall precisely the words. ‘This is what Iris should have done.’ And then ‘But she was too weak. She let you live, and so you killed her.’ Or something similar. Does this mean something to you, Dr. Kimpton? Who is Iris Gillow?”
Kimpton had lowered himself into an armchair and dropped his head into his hands. “I shall tell you, but . . . please, give me a moment to gather my thoughts,” he murmured. “Iris. After all these years . . . But this is nonsense!” He sounded, for the first time since I had met him, uncertain and confused. “Claudia was with me upstairs. Whomever Sophie Bourlet heard talking about Iris, it cannot have been her. It must have been someone else.”
Poirot smoothed his mustache with the index finger and thumb of his right hand. “Then you do not believe that Sophie lied about the words she overheard? Surely if she is capable of administering lethal poison, and of lying about seeing Claudia murder Joseph Scotcher, she might also lie about other things?”
“The words she claims to have heard have a ring of truth to them,” Kimpton said darkly. Rallying, he added, “That means nothing, of course. The best lies always sound true.”
I had been waiting for a while to raise something that was bothering me. Now seemed the perfect moment. “Dr. Kimpton, if your suspicions about Sophie Bourlet are correct, was it not rather reckless of her to leave the lower part of Scotcher’s face intact?”
“She might have intended to obliterate the strychnine grin, but something prevented her from doing so,” said Kimpton. “What if she heard footsteps and suddenly found herself with less time to set the scene than she had anticipated?”
“That is possible,” Poirot agreed. “The trouble is that everything is still possible. Dr. Kimpton, if you believe that Sophie Bourlet murdered Joseph Scotcher, please tell me: what do you think was her motive?”
“Motive?” Kimpton snorted, as if the discussion of such a thing were unworthy of him.
“Yes, the motive. Scotcher had proposed marriage to her that very evening. Why should she murder the man she loved, who was, in any case, dying from an illness?”
“I don’t know and I don’t much care,” said Kimpton. “Make her admit she did it and then ask her why. Motive! You persist in your folly of imagining that human beings can be made to make sense, Poirot.”
“I do, monsieur.”
“There is no sense. There is no consistency. I am living proof: I accuse Sophie Bourlet of lying, but I am convinced, for no good reason, that she heard the words she says she heard, about Iris. And I am considerably more rational than most people, I assure you.”
“Who is Iris Gillow?” I asked.
Kimpton’s mouth set in a hard line. “I should very much like to tell you about her. And tell you I shall—immediately after the inquest.”
“Why not now?” Poirot asked.
“It is easier to wait,” said Kimpton. He made to leave the parlor, then stopped at the door. “Prepare yourselves for a surprise, gentlemen. A big one.”
“Do you mean the surprise of the cause of death being poison?” I asked.
“No. Something quite other. I will say no more, for I might be wrong. But I don’t think I am.” And with that, Randall Kimpton left the room.
21
The Casket Question
The next morning after breakfast, Poirot indicated that he wished to talk to me alone, and suggested a walk by the river. I foolishly assumed that we would first walk to the river, only to discover that this was not what he had in mind. A motorcar would take us to the bank of the Argideen; Hatton had already arranged it, and we would be there within the hour.
In due course a driver presented himself and we set off. As we drove the long way round, circling away from the house at first and going in what I maintained was the wrong direction, given that we could have walked a straight line from Lady Playford’s front door to the river, I said to Poirot, “Joseph Scotcher’s murder cannot have been anything to do with the new will. That was only announced at dinner. Surely the poison must have been put into his medicine bottle before dinner.”
“The strychnine was not necessarily in his medicine, mon ami. It might have been in his mutton soup. We do not know.”
“Even if it was, we ate the soup before Lady Playford told us her news. The motive must have been something else. Unless the murderer is Gathercole or Lady Playford. They were the only ones who knew the terms of the new will before dinner. And here’s another thing to consider: we can no longer be certain that Orville Rolfe is in the clear. He could be the poisoner just as easily as anyone else. Also—you’ll think this a stretch, I’m afraid—Orville Rolfe was the person who brought up the subject of poison. He had it on his mind—which is interesting.”
Poirot smiled. “Everything that you say, I have thought of already,” he said. I think he meant it as a compliment. “But you neglect to mention the main puzzle in all of this.”
“Which is what?”
Poirot indicated that he did not want to expand upon his words until we were alone, so we passed the rest of the journey in silence.
Eventually we arrived at our destination. “Here’s the Argideen, genullmen,” said our driver, leaning his elbow over the back of his seat. “Coulda walked it in a quarter o’ the time. “I’ll stop here for when you want taking back, will I?”
We thanked him and stepped out into the blustery day. The river was steely gray and noisy, in a state of unrest. I started to walk, but soon had to double back. Poirot was standing fixed to the spot, staring at the water. This, apparently, was his idea of a walk.
“Consider the account given to us by Orville Rolfe, Catchpool—the argument he overheard about a funeral, and whether the casket was to be open or closed. It is true that he might have imagined the whole thing while delirious from pain, or he might have lied to us, but I do not think so. It is too much of a coincidence.”
“I don’t understand. What coincidence?”
Now Poirot looked as gratified that I failed to grasp his meaning as he had been pleased before that I was thinking his very thoughts. I wished he would make up his mind whether he preferred me clever or stupid.
“I think I know what you’re about to say. If you are poisoned, your face and head remain intact. An open casket at the funeral is possible. Orville Rolfe nearly said it himself, while writhing in agony, when he believed he had been poisoned. By contrast, if your head is reduced to pulp by a club, the only choice would be a closed casket.”
“Précisément! And Orville Rolfe told us he heard a man say that it would have to be open casket—that was the only way. A woman argued with him. Do you see how it fits together?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. That is why the woman—perhaps Claudia Playford—would take a club to the head of a man already poisoned to death. Because she did not want him to be able to have an open casket funeral.”
Poirot’s expression was distant and contemplative. “Do you remember when we walked in the garden after dinner?” he said. “We imagined: what if Lady Playford believed that one of her children might be planning to kill her?”
“I remember it very well,” I told him.
“Let us now try a variation of that hypothesis. What if Lady Playford knew for some time that her son or daughter, or maybe both of them together, plotted to murder Joseph Scotcher, or wanted him dead? That would explain the new will, would it not? She makes an elaborate show of leaving everything to Scotcher and depriving her own two children of their inheritance. She does so in the presence of two lawyers, one Scotland Yard policeman, and the famous Hercule Poirot!” He threw up his hands as he said this. I smiled to myself, half expecting the Argideen river to cease its frothing and foaming in deference to his greatness.
Closed Casket Page 14