Nevertheless, there was something unsettling here. I felt as if I was circling it, but could not quite catch a glimpse.
Scotcher had told everybody that he was about to die of a disease. And then he had died—from strychnine poisoning. Then his head was smashed in to indicate a third cause of death.
How many ways did Joseph Scotcher need to die in order to please . . . whom? I liked this question very much, and decided it might be a useful one to ask in all kinds of ways, though I did not know what those ways were. The presence of Conree, O’Dwyer and Sophie Bourlet was rather an irritant. All I wanted was to talk to Poirot alone. I would have given one of my own pink kidneys to know what his thoughts were.
At the garda station in Ballygurteen, Conree led us to a room at the end of a long, narrow corridor that made me think of a schoolroom the moment I walked into it. There were chairs, and a board on the wall; only the desks were missing. On the seat of one chair there was a dusty glass vase with some long-dead flower stalks in it, bound tightly by a pale green ribbon. There was no water in the vase, and the stalks had no flower heads atop them. Water damage had turned the ceiling brown in one corner.
“Well?” Conree fired the word at Sophie Bourlet. “What have you to say for yourself? You were his nurse—you must have known there was nothing wrong with him.”
“Your Doctor Clouder is a cruel man,” Sophie said bitterly. “He is a wicked liar! If I believed him, I might imagine I could have had a long and happy life married to Joseph, if only he hadn’t been murdered. What good would it do me to think that?”
Beneath his mustache, Poirot’s lips were moving, though no sound emerged. It would not be long, I guessed, before he intervened; he would not be able to help himself.
“Dr. Clouder has told no lies,” said Conree. “It is you, Miss Bourlet, who are the liar.”
“Monsieur Poirot, Mr. Catchpool, tell him! Joseph was dying of Bright’s disease. His kidneys had almost no life left in them. They must have been brown and shriveled. It is impossible that they were pink!”
“Did you see these shriveled brown kidneys with your own eyes?” Conree asked.
“You know I did not. How could I have seen them? I was not present at the autopsy.”
“Then you have no right to accuse the doctor who performed the postmortem of lying.”
“I have every right! Joseph was dying. You only had to look at him! Did you see these two pink, healthy kidneys yourself? No, you did not.”
“As it happens, I did,” said Conree. “Clouder summoned me immediately. I stood by his side and he pointed them out to me.”
Sophie opened her mouth, then closed it without speaking.
“Your husband-to-be was a dishonorable liar, Miss Bourlet, and so are you.”
“I am not a liar, Inspector,” said the nurse. “Neither am I heartless, as you are. Please, continue to speak your mind with no consideration for my feelings. There could be no better demonstration of the difference between your character and mine.”
“You were Scotcher’s nurse for how long?” Conree asked her.
“Two years.”
“And that whole time he was dying, was he?”
“No. At first there was the possibility that he might, but . . . we hoped and prayed. And then, a little over a year ago . . .” Sophie covered her mouth with her hand.
“A little over a year? Tell me, did you ever read up on Bright’s disease?”
“I did. Every word I could find, the better to help Joseph.”
“Did you miss the part about how long it takes to kill, once it has become terminal? A person would be lucky to last two months!” Conree turned to me and Poirot. “Gentlemen, I have read the testimonials Miss Bourlet offered to Lady Playford when she sought employment. I don’t mind telling you, they appeared a little too exemplary. I suspected they were falsified.”
“You are ridiculous,” Sophie told him. “This is slander.”
Conree made the gun shape with his index finger and thumb. “I know now that I was wrong about that,” he said. “I sent one of my men from Dublin to speak in person to those who recommended you for employment. That is how I know you are a fine nurse—among the best the profession has to offer.”
“And this is how you reward me, by suggesting—”
“Shut up!” Conree bellowed.
O’Dwyer muttered something under his breath. It sounded as if it ended with the word “draw.”
“You have something to say?” the inspector asked him.
“Oh, no, not at all. It was only that it occurred to me . . . But it’s not important.”
“Out with it,” barked Conree.
With a look of what can only be described as terror on his face, O’Dwyer said, “When I was a boy, my brother and I used to fight like rats in a barrel. Our mammy would watch us kick and punch the stuffing out of one another and she’d not say a word, but if one of us ever told the other to shut up—well, her face would be a picture! There was no difference in her mind between ‘Shut up’ and the foulest obscenities. Sir, I swear, this has nothing to do with—”
“Continue,” Conree ordered.
“Well, we didn’t want our mouths washed out with soap, but we still longed to tell each other to shut up as much as we ever had, so we found a way round it. We would say, ‘Shut up the drawer, without the drawer.’ If Mammy heard us, we pretended we were only talking about a drawer that one of us had left open. But we both knew what we really meant. ‘Shut up the drawer, without the drawer’ leaves you with plain old ‘Shut up.’ It was you saying those words that made me think of it, sir.”
I released the breath I had been holding for several seconds.
Conree behaved in every respect as if O’Dwyer had not spoken. He said to Sophie, “You pushed Scotcher around in a wheelchair, knowing he could walk as easily as anyone. You gave him medicine that turns out not to be medicine at all—”
“I did not know that! The bottles were labeled by Joseph’s doctor in Oxford.”
“Oxford?” Conree responded, as if she had spoken of the planet Mars.
“That is where Joseph lived before he came to Lillieoak,” said Sophie.
“And why did he not find himself a doctor in Clonakilty once he settled there?”
“He was fond of his Oxford doctor, whom he knew well.”
“What was the fellow’s name?” Conree asked.
“I . . . I do not know,” said Sophie. “Joseph did not like to talk about him.”
“I’ll bet he didn’t! How often did he travel to Oxford to see this chap?”
“Once or twice a year.”
“Did you go with him?”
“No, he preferred to make the journey alone.”
“Naturally—because he was a lying scoundrel through and through.” Conree raised his chin so that it could take a good old run at his chest for greater impact, then slammed it down. “A dying man who needs a nurse to move him from one room of a house to another, but who hares off to Oxford on his own with no trouble at all, to visit a doctor who doesn’t exist! The same doctor sends labeled bottles of herbal nonsense, pretending to be medicine. Do you still deny that you knew the truth all along?”
Sophie looked him in the eye. “I knew, and know, the truth. Joseph was dying of Bright’s disease. He would not have lied to me.”
“He would and he did,” said Conree. “Of that there is no doubt. And by lying to me, you are helping his murderer to escape justice.”
“On the contrary.” Sophie rose to her feet. “I told you that I saw Claudia Playford bring down that club on Joseph’s head until there was nothing left of it but blood and splinters of bone. I told you straightaway who the murderer was, yet you have not arrested her. And you wonder why I disbelieve your doctor? Your ever-so-proper inquest? I almost pity you.”
Sophie walked slowly towards Inspector Conree. “If you care about catching Joseph’s killer, you will listen to me as I say this one last time—and then I am finished with you. I heard
Joseph speak to Claudia Playford, when he was supposed to have been already dead an hour from strychnine poisoning. He was not! He was alive! He begged Claudia not to kill him, as she stood with the club raised above her head. I do not deny that he might have had strychnine in his system, but Dr. Clouder’s report that was read out at the inquest cannot be true. Why do you trust a man who cannot button his own shirt correctly? Whose shoelaces are untied, whose belongings spill out of his pockets as he walks?”
Conree turned to O’Dwyer. “Take this liar away,” he said.
25
Shrimp Seddon and the Jealous Daughter
The journey back to Lillieoak by car was not a pleasant one. I sat beside Poirot and opposite Sophie Bourlet. It had started to rain and the sky was slate gray. Darkness was descending. I do not mind the nights in London; I scarcely notice them. There is always a sense that the next day is girding up to get going, and none too patiently. My feeling about Clonakilty is that the opposite seems true: it can be broad daylight and still there is the suspicion that the impending night is ready to pounce and smother when the time is right.
Poirot was fidgeting next to me, continually adjusting his clothing and his mustache. Every time the motorcar went over a bump in the road, he moved to restore to their correct position hairs that had not been displaced. Finally he said, “Mademoiselle—might I ask you something?”
It took Sophie a few seconds to break free of the cocoon of silence in which she had wrapped herself. “What is it, Monsieur Poirot?”
“I do not mean to add to your unhappiness, but there is something I would like to know. How would you describe your relationship with Mademoiselle Claudia?”
“It has deteriorated since I accused her of murder.”
“And before that, did you like her? Did she like you?”
“You ought to have asked the second question first. I had no opportunity to decide how I felt about her before it became obvious that she loathed me from every angle. So . . . it was then hard for me to think well of her and treat her kindly.”
“You make it sound as if you tried.”
“I did. Claudia has some admirable qualities. And it was uncomfortable living in a house with someone who detested me. I have always firmly believed that the best remedy, when someone dislikes you, is to be relentlessly friendly and generous-spirited towards them. It works nearly every time.”
“Not with Claudia, though?”
“Decidedly not. She was determined to despise me on principle.”
“What principle?” Poirot asked.
“Lady Playford approved of me, and soon grew fond of me. We both loved Joseph and talked a lot about how best to care for him. It strengthened the bond between us.”
“And Claudia was jealous?”
“I think she saw me as the good daughter to Lady Playford that she had never been.”
“Did Claudia like Scotcher?” I asked.
“She liked to have him around, certainly,” said Sophie. “Him and Randall Kimpton, whom she dotes on—they were the only two people she ever showed any interest in.”
“Why do you think Mademoiselle Claudia killed Mr. Scotcher if she liked to have him around, as you say?” asked Poirot.
Sophie pressed her eyes shut. “I have asked myself that question . . . oh, you have no idea how many times! I cannot think why she did it. There seems to be no reason, apart from maybe something about this Iris person she mentioned. Have you found out about her yet—who she is and what she was to Joseph? He never once spoke of her to me.”
“Do you think Mr. Scotcher asking you to marry him might have had something to do with it?” Poirot said. “Again I wonder about jealousy. It is a most dangerous emotion.”
“No. Claudia was not remotely interested in Joseph as a romantic prospect. Randall Kimpton is her sun, moon and stars. No other man holds any appeal for her.” Sophie bit her lip. She said, “It’s going to sound as if I’m contradicting myself, but . . . I don’t think it was me that Claudia envied. I think she did her damnedest to make herself believe it was me, but I suspect she was jealous of a far more powerful rival than I could ever be.”
“Who?” Poirot and I asked in unison.
“Shrimp Seddon. Lady Playford’s detective heroine. I suspect that, as a young child, Claudia was hurt by her mother caring so much for Shrimp and spending so much time with her. One need only listen to the way Lady Playford talks about her writing to know that it excites her in a way that nothing else does. And Shrimp is clever enough to be fictional, and therefore beyond the reach of Claudia’s capacity to punish, so a substitute is needed—someone on whom all the pain of childhood neglect can be vented. I think I fitted the bill very nicely.”
“Mademoiselle, I should like to ask you one more question,” said Poirot. “Please would you go over once more for me your discovery of Joseph Scotcher’s body—what you saw when you returned to the house that night?”
“I have told you everything already,” said Sophie.
“Please.”
“I came in. I heard raised voices, a man and a woman. I moved towards the parlor, where it seemed to be coming from. I saw Claudia and Joseph. Joseph was on his knees, begging for his life.”
This was the same Joseph Scotcher who had died at least an hour earlier from strychnine poisoning, I reminded myself.
“And Claudia said all those things about Iris: ‘She should have done this, but she didn’t, and you killed her,’ or something like that. And then I started to scream, and Claudia dropped the club and ran—through the door to the library. Why must I go through all of this again? It’s horrible.”
I could not help but feel proud when Poirot put a question to Sophie that he had first heard from me.
“Claudia Playford was seen on the upstairs landing with Randall Kimpton, mademoiselle, when everybody was coming down the stairs in response to your screams. I see only one way she could have gotten there, and that is by running up the stairs very quickly after attacking Mr. Scotcher, before anyone opened their door. Did you, by chance, hear the footsteps of Claudia Playford running up the stairs? You would, I think, have heard her in the hall when she emerged from the library. That floor is tiled, with no carpet. You might perhaps have wondered if she planned to escape, this murderer of the man you loved. That might have made you more aware of her movements.”
Sophie’s eyes darted back and forth as she tried to think. “No,” she said eventually. “I heard nothing. As you say, Claudia must have run upstairs, but . . . I did not hear her. I heard only my own screams.”
26
Kimpton’s Definition of Knowledge
As soon as we drew up outside Lillieoak, Sophie Bourlet flung herself out of our vehicle as if Poirot and I had conspired to imprison her in it against her will, and ran for the house.
“Everything is altered, Catchpool,” Poirot said with a heavy sigh, as he and I stepped out into the cold air.
“Indeed. Two pink, healthy kidneys, and no getting away from it.”
“Speaking of getting away . . . Whatever Inspector Conree might say now that the inquest is behind us, I must ask you to remain at Lillieoak until I have solved this case. Having you by my side, it assists with the flow of my thoughts. If it would help for me to speak to Scotland Yard on your behalf . . .”
“There is no need. Yes, I shall stay.” I didn’t tell him I had telephoned my boss that morning, before the inquest, and that the mere mention of the name “Hercule Poirot” had been sufficient to achieve the desired result. I had no intention of going anywhere, with the matter of Joseph Scotcher’s murder unresolved.
“I will solve it, Catchpool! Do not be in doubt of that.”
“I am not.” I had utmost faith in him—as little as I had in Conree, and as much as my Belgian friend had in himself.
He sighed. “This case is full of apparent contradictions. Scotcher was dying of Bright’s disease, but then no! He was not dying—he was healthy! Scotcher was bludgeoned to death with a club—but he was n
ot! He was poisoned. There are two things about Mr. Joseph Scotcher that we first believed were true. Eh bien, both turn out to be false.”
I didn’t know I was going to say it until the words came out of my mouth: “Iris Gillow—what if she is the key to all of this?”
“What do you know about her?” asked Poirot.
“Only that Randall Kimpton needs to tell us who she is—because it seems to me that she must be a vital part of this story.”
“Not really.” The voice came from behind us as we stood outside Lillieoak’s front door.
I turned. It was Kimpton, strolling towards us with his hands in the pockets of a long gray coat. “I do not deny that Iris is important, but she is not relevant. There is a difference. Shall we go inside? I said I would tell you after the inquest, and enough time has been wasted already.”
No lights were on inside the house; it was as if we had entered the mouth of a cave. “‘Here walk I in the black brow of night, to find you out,’” said Kimpton in a tone of exasperation. “Except it’s not yet night and it would be nice to be able to see where one was going.”
Once we were in the library with the lights lit, Poirot said, “Dr. Kimpton, you knew, did you not?”
“Knew what?”
“That Mr. Scotcher was not dying at the time of his murder. That he did not suffer from Bright’s disease of the kidneys, or any other illness.”
“Well . . . that depends on your definition of knowledge.”
We waited for him to say more. He, in turn, appeared to be waiting for us to speak, with his usual charming smile in place. After a few seconds, he adjusted it to a frown. “Strong suspicion is not knowledge, as any detective will tell you,” he said. “I see that you are uninterested in this line of inquiry, so I will abandon it. Yes, in the sense that you mean, I knew. I did not believe for a moment that Scotcher was dying, or that there was anything the matter with his kidneys. I never believed it.”
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