“This would explain perfectly the otherwise inexplicable actions of Lady Playford.” Poirot started to walk up and down—tiny footsteps, back and forth. I tried to walk alongside him, but it proved rather difficult, so I stopped.
“Joseph Scotcher will not live to inherit—Lady Playford knows this,” he went on. “So why does she make the revision of her will? Could it be that she wants to give her two children a very visible motive for committing murder—in front of the law, the police, the expert in solving crimes? Suddenly, Harry and Claudia Playford find themselves in a most alarming position. If they proceed with their plan to kill Scotcher, they are the obvious suspects because of this new motive given to them by their mother, so glaringly apparent to all! The same is true of Dorro Playford, and, to a certain extent, of Randall Kimpton.”
“Would it not have been simpler for Lady Playford to summon the gardaí and say, ‘I believe my son and daughter might be hatching a plot to murder my secretary’?”
“I do not think so, no. If she did not have incontrovertible proof, would she risk the accusation? It is more subtle, I think, to drape the enormous motive around the necks of Harry and Claudia in front of many people—as a deterrent.”
“An ineffective deterrent,” I pointed out. “Joseph Scotcher is dead—don’t forget that. Besides, why should Harry or Claudia or anybody go to lengths and risk their neck to murder a man who is about to die of a kidney disease? And why should it matter to anybody whether Joseph Scotcher has an open or a closed casket?’
Poirot turned away from the river and started to walk back to where the car awaited us. He was busy arranging himself on the seat when I climbed in nearly a minute later. Only once we had set off back to Lillieoak did he say, almost inaudibly, “Once we know the answer to the casket question, we will know everything.”
22
In the Orangery
Back at the house, Hatton was waiting for me with a message. “Mr. Gathercole awaits you in the orangery, sir,” he said. I wondered if his ability to speak freely would endure once Scotcher’s murder was solved. Then I worried it might never be solved, and wondered if Poirot shared my anxiety on this score.
“The orangery?” I said. I had seen no such place at Lillieoak. If it existed, I did not know how to get to it, and I said so. What a strange place for Gathercole to choose.
“Follow me,” said Hatton, before demonstrating that not only his speech but also his ability to show me which rooms were where had been significantly enhanced by the tragic circumstances.
The orangery turned out to be a large wooden structure attached to the back of the house, full of orange and lemon trees. In spite of the cold and windy weather, everything in here was lush and in full bloom. The heat was at first pleasant and then, after only a few seconds, uncomfortable; I found Gathercole mopping his brow with a handkerchief.
“Did you hear that the inquest into Scotcher’s death will take place next Wednesday?” he said.
“No. Who says so?”
“O’Dwyer.”
“And . . . this news disturbs you?” The evidence that it did was before my eyes. Gathercole looked considerably more uncomfortable than I felt, and I was certain it was not only the heat affecting him.
“Inspector Conree keeps insisting that no one leave Lillieoak,” he said. “It’s not healthy, all of us being penned in here under the same roof, after what’s happened. Not safe. I am worried that . . .” He stopped and shook his head.
I decided to be bold. “Are you afraid the truth will come out at the inquest, about the poisoning? You maybe did not bank on it happening so soon.” Bold and indiscreet. Conree, if he had heard me, would have been furious.
Gathercole looked confused. Indeed, his confusion appeared to interrupt his agitation.
I said decisively to myself: “If poison was the murder method, then Michael Gathercole did not kill Joseph Scotcher.”
“Whatever do you mean?” he said. “Are you suggesting that Scotcher was poisoned as well as beaten about the head with a club? That is rather unlikely!”
“Yes. People are rarely killed twice.” I smiled. “Nothing is clear at this point. We ought to wait for the inquest to tell us how Scotcher died. Did you want to speak to me about something? Hatton gave me to understand . . .”
“Yes. Yes, I did. There is something I must tell you, as soon as possible.”
“Might I ask why I am the one you wish to tell?” I said. “Surely Inspector Conree or Sergeant O’Dwyer would be a better choice?”
Gathercole looked piercingly at me. “Not for me. I should hate for you to think me a liar, Catchpool. There are things, important things, that might have a bearing on this matter. Has anybody else approached you?”
“Of whom are you thinking? Approached me about what?”
He seemed not to have heard my questions. “It might be better if we talk after the inquest,” he said. “I know nothing for certain. I cannot know, as much as I might feel sure.”
“Please tell me what’s worrying you,” I urged him. “I should like to help if I can.”
Two people had now promised further elucidation after the inquest: Gathercole and Randall Kimpton. I found this remarkable. Surely it would make more sense for them to cough up whatever they were withholding long before their hand was forced by a public revelation.
Gathercole turned this way and that, unable to keep still. He said, “You asked me if something upset me—in the dining room, on the night Scotcher died. I ducked the question, for fear that you would think me foolish to be so concerned about a family to which I do not belong. Athelinda Playford is no relation of mine. I am her lawyer, and that is all. Well, not quite all,” he corrected himself. “According to the new arrangements she has put in place, I am also her literary executor.”
“I should not have thought you foolish,” I told him. “Many of us form our most profound attachments to those who are not kith and kin.”
“As you know, I have no family,” he said curtly. “In any case, what undid me at the dinner table—made me want to seize a knife and use it to inflict serious damage on most of those present—was that nobody thought to ask about Lady Playford’s own health.”
“I am not sure I follow.” As I said this, an ominous crunching sound came from beneath me. I looked and saw that I had stepped back and put my right heel down on a shovel that was lying on the floor of the orangery, full of jagged pieces of glass. What was left of a broken jam jar stood proudly beside the shovel. I realized at that moment that I had a distaste for orangeries and conservatories and the like for this very reason: with their fancy names, they masqueraded as desirable additions to a house, but their true purpose, often, was to provide a home for rubbish that no one could be bothered to throw away. In a proper room, if one broke a jam jar, one would clear away its remains, not leave them lying around for hapless visitors to stand on by accident.
“Why would a woman who is not sick herself make a will leaving everything to a man whom she knows will die in a matter of weeks?” Gathercole said. “The most likely reason, as far as I can see, is that she has recently learned that she herself has even less time left than he does. That was my fear, when Lady Playford made the request in her study that afternoon for a new will. I could not contain my anxiety, and rather impertinently asked her if she expected to predecease Scotcher. She assured me that she was as fit and healthy as she appeared, and I believed her. It was a profound relief. But none of them thought of it!”
Gathercole’s words came out loud and hard. “None of them asked! I could not bear it, Catchpool: the proof, unfolding before my eyes, of the selfishness, the sheer base unworthiness of the whole lot of them. They do not deserve Lady Playford’s hospitality or generosity. And Scotcher . . .” Gathercole spoke his name with venom. “At that moment, I should have enjoyed murdering him very much indeed.”
“What you enjoyed was the fantasy,” I told him. “You would find the reality of committing a murder most unpleasant.”
&n
bsp; “I would have expected no better of Claudia, who is a vicious little cat, or Harry, who could hardly be more obtuse, but Scotcher was a clever man, and one who would have had us all believe he was devoted to Lady Playford. Yet he too failed to make the most rudimentary inquiry about her health. I am not normally intemperate, but truly, I felt that I might explode with fury. None of them deserve her.” A moment later he added, “Deserved, I should say, in the case of Scotcher.”
“Thank you for telling me,” I said.
“Yes, well.” My gratitude had embarrassed him. “The only reason I didn’t straightaway is that it reveals my own . . . envy is what it must be, I suppose.”
“You thought to yourself that if you were the child of Lady Playford, you would care more for her than for whatever you might inherit from her.”
“I know I would! If I were her child, or, for that matter, her secretary. The only reason I am not her secretary is Joseph Scotcher.”
“I beg your pardon?” I laughed, wondering if I had heard wrong. “Lady Playford’s secretary? You? But you are a partner in a firm of solicitors.”
“Yes. Disregard what I said, please.”
“Wait a minute. Are you saying—”
“We have more important things to discuss than my feelings about my profession! I told you a lie. You and Poirot, the gardaí.”
“What lie?”
Gathercole turned towards me and laughed. “Your face is a picture. Are you waiting for me to confess to murder? You needn’t worry—I did not kill Scotcher. The lie I told relates to my alibi.”
“Walking in the garden, alone, with no one to vouch for you?”
“I was neither in the garden nor alone, and somebody can vouch for me: Athelinda Playford. I was in her bedroom.”
“In her bedroom? When, precisely?”
“After Rolfe and I went upstairs. We said good night at his door, and once he was safely out of the way, I went to Lady Playford’s room.”
“To see that she was all right? That she had not taken Dorro’s cruel words too much to heart?” I knew I ought not to put words in his mouth.
“No. I went to her bedroom by prior agreement, before Dorro spoke those words.” Gathercole had closed his hand around an orange. He held it as if he were thinking about pulling it free, then let it go. The strong smell of citrus fruits combined with the heat was making me feel light-headed.
“It was the last thing she asked of me at our meeting earlier that afternoon,” Gathercole said. “She told me that, later that same night, an attempt might be made on her life. Her plan—one that involved me, though she had made it without my participation—was that she should retire to bed and go to sleep as usual. Meanwhile, I should conceal myself behind the thick curtains, ready to pounce if I heard someone come into the room—and ready, otherwise, to stay awake and on guard all night.”
“This is quite impossible,” I said, afraid I was being taken for a fool. “Hatton saw you go outside into the garden ten minutes after Orville Rolfe retired to his room.”
“He saw no such thing,” said Gathercole. “Lady Playford explained to him that I was with her throughout the relevant period of time, and that, if asked, he was to say that he had seen me on my way to the garden. It was all arranged.”
I did not know what to think. I wanted to believe him.
“I suppose it’s useful to know that I should not depend upon the word of the butler,” I said.
“Oh, Hatton’s as trustworthy as they come. Unless specifically instructed by Lady Playford to do otherwise, he would tell the truth. He is . . .” Gathercole stopped and smiled. “Strangely, I did not consider him when I spoke of the selfishness of those at Lillieoak. I think Hatton cares more for Lady Playford than either of her children does, in his own quiet way.”
“That is commendable, but I am hoping to find at least one person who cares most about solving the brutal murder of Joseph Scotcher.”
“I have no right to ask this of you, but if you could refrain from mentioning Hatton’s . . . misleading testimony to either Inspector Conree or Sergeant O’Dwyer, I should be most grateful and I know that Lady Playford would too.”
I was glad he had not asked me to keep it from Poirot. “What about your coat?” I said. “When we all gathered round to see the horrible sight in the parlor, you were wearing a coat.”
“I was,” Gathercole agreed.
“Yet you maintain that you did not set foot outside?”
He made an impatient noise under his breath and started to walk in a circle around me. “Do you have any idea how chilly it is next to the window of Lady Playford’s room?”
I told him that I was ignorant on this score. “She does not invite all her guests to hide behind the curtains while she sleeps,” I added drily.
“Anyone not invited to do so is lucky,” said Gathercole with feeling. “Trapped in a veritable vortex of cold air with the panes rattling in your ears. I did not think of the inclement October weather, but Lady Playford did when she made her plan. She declared that I might catch pneumonia if I did not have my coat, so I put it on and was grateful for it.”
“I see. And did anyone come to Lady Playford’s door while you were positioned behind the curtain?”
Gathercole smiled sadly. “I suppose I should have expected you to test me. After all, here I am, admitting that I lied to you—why should you believe me now? Yes, someone came to Lady Playford’s door: you did.”
“Then I don’t understand. There you were, ready to spring out and save Lady Playford—yet when she opened her door, you did nothing. How did you know I wasn’t about to plunge a meat skewer into her heart?”
Gathercole looked away.
“Oh—now I understand!” I said. “You knew it was not I who might kill her. Which means that she expected a particular person to make an attempt on her life—and you know that person’s name, don’t you?”
Gathercole’s face had taken on a sullen cast.
“Please tell me at once,” I urged him.
“You ought to speak to Lady Playford,” he said. He repeated the instruction several times, and would tell me no more.
23
The Inquest
The inquest was held at Clonakilty Courthouse, an edifice as unprepossessing as any I had ever seen. It smelled of dark things that had been locked up for too long. The windows were narrow, with water rolling down their misty panes. I stood outside for as long as I could, thinking about the contrast between this building and Lillieoak, where I was prepared to reside temporarily, in spite of a murder having been committed there. Yet I would not spend as much as one night in this courthouse.
There were no chairs, only long wooden benches that filled the large room. Harry and Dorro Playford inserted themselves between me and Poirot as they hurried inside. Instead of dropping back to wait for me, Poirot took the opportunity to leave me behind. I was irked by this until I tumbled to his plan. He was trotting off in the direction of Lady Playford and . . . goodness me, he was elbowing Randall Kimpton out of the way in order to put himself next to her! I was not accustomed to seeing him move with such speed.
I smiled to myself, knowing his intention only too well. I had recounted to him everything Gathercole had told me, including his recommendation that I speak to Lady Playford if I wished to know more. This had proved impossible; she had done an excellent job of hiding herself away in the intervening days. And now here she was among us—approachable at last. I wondered how thorough an interrogation Poirot would be able to fit into the time before the inquest started.
A man I assumed was the coroner, with a small, knobbly head that made me think of a peanut, had walked in a moment ago, with Inspector Conree at his side. Sergeant O’Dwyer followed close behind, chattering away to a man with thin, sandy hair that seemed to lie in wispy horizontal sheets atop his head, and a bottom lip that curled downward when in a resting position, as if he had just said, “Look at this ulcer I have on my gum,” and was attempting to display it.
&n
bsp; Kimpton barely noticed Poirot as he snuck in next to Lady Playford. The motorcar containing Claudia had arrived moments earlier, and he was looking over his shoulder with his arm outstretched. “There you are, dearest one,” he said, and she ran to him as if they had been separated for weeks instead of less than thirty minutes.
I secured for myself a spot on the bench behind Poirot, hoping I would be able to hear the conversation if he attempted to have it.
He wasted no time. “Lady Playford . . .”
“Lady Playford, Lady Playford! It’s interminable! Will you please call me Athie?”
“Of course, madame. Please accept my apologies.”
“What did you want to say?”
“Is it true what I hear about Mr. Gathercole, on the night of Joseph Scotcher’s murder?”
“What have you heard, and from whom?”
“From Mr. Gathercole himself, though I did not hear his words. His words, ah . . . let us say they went over the houses to reach me.”
“Around the houses. And it’s the wrong phrase in any case. You might say ‘reached me by a circuitous route,’ but you would only say ‘around the houses’ if you wanted to imply that the communication had been inefficient. As this conversation is. What is it that you would like to know?”
“Mr. Gathercole claims that he spent most of the evening of Joseph Scotcher’s murder hiding behind your bedroom curtains in case someone broke in and made an attempt on your life. Between leaving the dining room with Orville Rolfe and when Sophie Bourlet started to scream downstairs, that is where he insists he was: hiding behind a curtain. He also says that you asked Hatton the butler to lie and say that he saw Mr. Gathercole coming in from outside.”
“Yes. That is all true. Don’t blame poor old Hatton—he is too loyal for his own good. I wanted to protect Michael, who had done nothing wrong. I knew he had an alibi, and I decided it wouldn’t matter if it were not precisely the same alibi given to the police. All that matters, really, is that we all know he could not have murdered Joseph.” Lady Playford smiled, but without enthusiasm. There was an air of weariness about her, as if she was put out to have to explain.
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