‘Before, when we were waiting to depart, you demanded to know the identity of Inspector Catchpool, did you not?’
The woman nodded.
‘Was that because you thought then that he was the man who had given you this strange warning?’
‘No!’ she cried, apparently alarmed by the suggestion. ‘No, I … I don’t remember what I was thinking then. It seems so long ago.’
‘Less than thirty minutes have passed since then,’ Poirot told her. ‘I do not find dishonesty impressive, mademoiselle, and there is something I find less impressive still: dishonesty that includes the pretence of the amnesia! You cannot confabulate an adequate story. Eh bien, it is most convenient for you, this sudden loss of memory!’
‘I’ve been honest all my life,’ the woman sobbed. I felt a pang of sympathy for her. ‘There are things I do not wish to tell you—things I cannot tell you. The truth is … I did not think Inspector Catchpool could be who he claimed to be because … well, because I was afraid of what might happen to me! On the coach. It all seemed so unlikely.’
We waited for her to say more.
‘I have been scared ever since the man warned me I might be killed! Well, who wouldn’t be? A complete stranger appears from nowhere to tell you you’ll be murdered if you sit in a particular seat on a coach … Who wouldn’t be scared when it came to it? That was why I was in the state I was in. And then he comes from nowhere’—she pointed at me—‘and starts asking me questions. What was I supposed to think? I’ll tell you what I thought. “Is this the man who’s come to murder me if I sit in the wrong seat? Is he only pretending to be a policeman?” Not that I believed what the first man had told me, not entirely. That’s to say, why on earth should anyone wish to kill me? I’ve never harmed a single soul.’
‘And why do it in the enclosed space of a moving vehicle, surrounded by people who would surely witness the crime as it was committed?’ Poirot murmured. ‘Mademoiselle, please explain to me: if you believed there was even the smallest chance you would be killed, why did you not decline to board the motor-coach?’
At this question, she seemed to tremble with fear. ‘I … I …’
‘Calm yourself, mademoiselle. Tell the truth to Hercule Poirot and all will be well. That I promise you.’
‘Well, I … I just didn’t believe it could be true!’ she said. Then a great torrent of words tumbled out of her. ‘And my aunt’s expecting me, and I’d bought my ticket and didn’t want to let her down. She’s expecting me this afternoon and she hasn’t been well at all. I’m the only person she’s got. And I told myself there’d be plenty of other seats for me to sit in, but I was scared even so. Who wouldn’t be? And I said to myself, “Get on that coach, Joan,” but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Then I spoke to you and Inspector Catchpool, M. Poirot, and you very kindly tried to help me but I didn’t want to tell you what was troubling me. I didn’t want to be a burden to anybody. And that’s when I had my idea.’
‘What idea?’ I said.
She looked at me. ‘I was too frightened to get on board when you did, so I stood aside. Then I thought, “What if I wait … and wait … and wait? That would be a good way to test it.”’
‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘Yes, I see. But please explain to Inspector Catchpool.’
She looked at me fleetingly, then averted her eyes. ‘Well, I thought I could make it work out so that I was the very last to board,’ she said. ‘Then the seat of danger would most likely be taken and that would have been all the reassurance I’d have needed … but then I got on and that seat wasn’t taken!’
I was not at all convinced by this. I said, ‘If the threat was attached to that one seat and no other, you could have been the first onto the coach and sat anywhere else, quite easily. That, surely, would be the only certain way to avoid what in fact happened: boarding at the end and finding that the seat of danger, as you call it, was the only one left. Incidentally, how on earth is that mysterious circumstance explained? Even assuming there is somebody who wishes to kill you and planned to do it during our journey today, and his plan relied upon you sitting in that seat, our prospective murderer would have had to persuade all those who boarded before you to leave that seat unoccupied!’
‘Calm yourself, Catchpool.’ Poirot placed his hand on my arm.
‘It’s absurd, though,’ I protested. ‘I’d like to hear her explain why she didn’t run a mile in the opposite direction as soon as she saw that the only seat still available was the very one she’d been warned about.’
‘That is a pertinent question,’ Poirot agreed. ‘Mademoiselle?’
‘I didn’t feel as if I had a choice,’ she whimpered. ‘I wanted to get off, but the doors were locked and I didn’t want to cause any more fuss than I had already. Everyone looked so angry. And … oh, you won’t believe me, but when I saw that there was only one seat free and it was that one, I … well, I almost thought I must have dreamed the whole thing: the man, the warning, all of it.’
She shivered and pulled her green hat down, then left her hands over her ears as if to shield them from the cold. ‘I felt as if I must be going mad! How could it be that I had been warned of this by a stranger, and now I was going to have to sit in that very seat? It seemed utterly impossible. As you say, Inspector Catchpool—he would have needed to arrange it so that all the other people sat in seats that weren’t that one. How could anyone make that happen? They couldn’t. They wouldn’t. And so it seemed to me, only for a moment, that maybe I was losing my mind a little and had dreamed the whole thing. Or maybe it had been a … a premonition.’
‘Je comprends, mademoiselle.’ Poirot passed her a handkerchief so that she could wipe her streaming eyes. ‘Because it did not make logical sense, you entered a state of panic and your brain ceased to function properly. If it was a premonition then perhaps you were doomed, and you did not have the energy in that moment to resist.’
‘Yes, M. Poirot. You put it all so well.’
‘Premonitions are usually of terrible things, n’est-ce-pas?’ He smiled. ‘Not merely of warnings of terrible things.’
She looked confused for a second, then said, ‘I didn’t think I could save myself, if it had been decided that I was going to die. But the fear wouldn’t leave me alone and … well, that’s why I stood up again, I suppose, and said what I said.’
‘Indeed,’ said Poirot briskly. ‘What is your name? Your full name.’
‘Joan Blythe.’
‘And your aunt lives at Kingfisher Hill?’
‘Pardon? Oh—no. I’m getting off two stops before that, at Cobham.’
I had not known that there were to be stops along the way, but now it made perfect sense. Many people on the coach looked highly unlikely to keep country homes at Kingfisher Hill or to be visiting anyone who did.
I was surprised to hear Poirot say next that he and I were also travelling to Cobham. A flash of warning in his eyes ordered me not to disagree. Did this mean that our plans had suddenly changed—and only because of Joan Blythe and her implausible story?
‘What is the name and address of your aunt?’ Poirot asked her.
‘Oh, you mustn’t go to her about this, M. Poirot. Please—she would worry dreadfully. This has nothing to do with her, nothing whatever. I beg of you, please do not involve her in this horrible affair.’
‘You will tell me her name, at least?’
‘I … I would rather not, if you don’t mind, sir.’
‘Do you live with your aunt?’
‘I do. I have for nearly a year now.’
Was the new plan for us to leave the coach at Cobham and follow Joan Blythe to the home of her aunt? Or did Poirot merely wish her to believe that we might? I hoped for the latter; I was looking forward to seeing how the other half lived at Kingfisher Hill. The former, too, might have its advantages—chief among them that I might avoid having to learn the rules of Peepers.
Poirot took a new approach: ‘Tell us about your encounter with the person who so clos
ely resembles my friend Catchpool—assuming that this man who warned you was neither a premonition nor a figment of the imagination. When and where did you make his acquaintance?’
‘I … I can’t say that I remember when it was. Perhaps five or six days ago. As for where, well, it was … it was on the Charing Cross Road. That’s where it was!’
I was certain that she was lying. Maybe not about all of it, but there was something to the way she said ‘the Charing Cross Road’.
‘I was in town to collect some things for my aunt. I came out of a shop and there he was. I’ve already told you what he said to me.’
‘How did he commence the conversation?’ Poirot asked. ‘Did he know your name?’
‘Yes. I mean … well, he didn’t say so or address me as Miss Blythe or anything, but he must have known who I was, mustn’t he?’
‘What did he say to you first of all?’ Poirot asked.
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Endeavour to recall the scene, mademoiselle. Often we can remember more than we imagine we will.’
‘I can’t, I just … All I can recall is him saying about me taking a trip on a motor-coach soon, and that I’d be wise to avoid sitting in the seat that was seven rows back and … well, as I’ve told you!’
Poirot seemed lost in thought. Eventually he said, ‘Eh bien, let us resume our travels.’
‘No!’ Joan Blythe’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘I cannot sit there, I’ve told you!’
Poirot turned to me. ‘Catchpool?’
‘You want me to swap places with Miss Blythe,’ I said, resigned.
‘Non. I could not allow you to take such a risk. I, Hercule Poirot, will sit in this seat of danger, and we will see if a killer reveals himself!’
I was surprised and grateful. In almost all minor matters, Poirot volunteered me to suffer inconveniences that he wished to avoid for himself. It was heartening to know that, in matters of life and death, he applied different rules.
I would have worried equally about him, of course, except that I did not believe for a moment that any murders were going to take place between here and Kingfisher Hill.
Poirot patted me on the back. ‘It is decided! Miss Blythe, you will have my seat and I shall take yours. Catchpool, sit beside Miss Blythe and ensure that she arrives at Cobham unharmed. Can you do as I ask?’
I could—and it looked as if I was going to have to.
I wasn’t the only one being churlish; Joan Blythe was no happier than I was about our new seating arrangements and she didn’t try to hide it. Once we were on the move again, her fear seemed to leave her and her mood turned to moroseness. ‘M. Poirot believes me even if you don’t,’ she said.
‘I have not said that I don’t.’
‘I can see it on your face. You … you really do not look at all like him, now I come to think on it.’ Her voice took on an apologetic tone as she said this. She sounded almost ashamed. Then, earnestly, she said, ‘I’m not a liar, Inspector Catchpool.’
I wondered. That assertion could have two very different meanings. The first was obvious: ‘I’m not a liar—by which I mean that I have told you nothing that is not true.’ I favoured the second: ‘I’m not a liar by nature or inclination, which is why it pains me to have needed to lie to you today.’ Yes, if I had been putting good money on it, I would have plumped for that second meaning.
‘May I ask you a question, Miss Blythe?’ I said.
She closed her eyes. ‘I’m so tired. I would rather not talk any longer.’
‘One question. Then I’ll leave you be.’
She gave a small nod.
‘You said to Poirot, “My aunt’s expecting me and I don’t want to let her down.” That was the reason you gave for being determined to travel despite the warning you were given. Then later, when Poirot asked you if you live with your aunt, you said that you did. You told him you had lived with her for nearly a year. Then you said, “She’s expecting me this afternoon and she hasn’t been well.”’
‘That is all true,’ said Joan Blythe miserably. She sounded as if she was pleading with me—as if my asking about it could somehow render it untrue.
‘You did not say, “She’s expecting me home,” as I think most people would who lived with an ailing relative. You sounded very much like a visitor who had promised to call on her sick aunt.’
‘But I do live with her. I do! I’m not a bad person, Inspector. I’ve never committed a crime and I’ve always done my best to do what’s right.’
‘Shall I tell you what I think? I believe your fear is real and … yes, I believe it might well be mortal fear. And I’m sure you are as uncriminal as you claim to be, and perhaps you are in grave danger … but you’ve also told me some lies since you and I first met. That makes it much harder for me to help you, which is why I wish you would tell me the whole story—the unadorned truth.’
‘Please, can we not talk any more? I’m so tired, I can hardly keep my eyes open.’ She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Gradually, her breathing slowed. If she was not asleep, then she was certainly in the calmest state that I had seen her in since I first noticed her. This I found interesting: that her fear was for herself and nobody else. She was not worried that, by swapping seats with him, she might be endangering the life of Hercule Poirot. On one level this made perfect sense: she was afraid only of the very precise scenario that she had been advised to avoid—the particular combination of her and the seat of danger; these were the two things that must not come together. And she alone had been warned about the seat; no such ‘premonition’ had appeared to Poirot.
And yet she could have hurried onto the coach as soon as its doors opened and sat in any one of twenty-nine other seats. Assuming she had taken this mysterious stranger at his word, that would have been a way to ensure her safety, would it not? Here she was, sitting beside me and no longer in a state of agitation—behaving very much as if she believed her problem to be solved—when she could have boarded before me and sat herself down in this very seat before I chose this pair for Poirot and me.
It made no sense. Unless …
I imagined how Poirot might answer all of my points: she was afraid, as anyone would be, to enter a vehicle in which she might find someone intent on ending her life. She knew she needed to travel to her aunt, which was why she dithered and generally behaved as if she needed to get herself onto that coach yet very much did not wish to. Then when she saw others boarding before her, she had the idea of waiting to see which seat would be left if she were to be the last one on. Yes, that hypothesis worked.
And then she saw that the one unoccupied seat was the one about which she had been warned and … this was the part I could not fathom. How did she go from being too scared even to approach the vehicle and secure a ‘safe’ seat to being willing to sit in the exact seat about which she had been warned?
That was assuming that her whole story wasn’t a lie from top to bottom—which I reminded myself might be the case.
By the time she opened her eyes again twenty minutes later, I had reflected further upon her story and had more questions for her. I started with a simple one: ‘Why were you in London today?’
She turned and looked out of the window. We had left the busy streets behind and were now surrounded by greenery. Soon it would start to get dark.
‘I was meeting a friend.’
‘I can’t help thinking it odd that you have no cases, no handbag—’
‘That’s not true. The driver took my case when he took the others. All my effects are inside it.’
‘You had no suitcase when I first saw you.’
‘It was there,’ she insisted. ‘I left it near some others. I … I must have walked away from it. If you don’t believe me, wait until we get to Cobham. Then you’ll see.’
‘This mysterious stranger who approached you … what was his mood and manner? Was he trying to help you or scare you?’
‘Oh, I was scared, all right. Frightened out of my wits, I w
as.’
‘Indeed, but can you know for certain that his intention was to scare you?’
She looked suddenly angry. ‘I know it because that was exactly what he did—I’ve never felt a terror like that before, Inspector. So, yes, I’m certain!’
‘What if he was trying to save your life?’ I pressed the point. ‘What if he has, in fact, saved your life? Have you considered that?’
‘I don’t want to consider anything. Please stop asking me questions that I can’t … Please stop!’
‘Of course.’
The last thing I wanted to do was to cause her further distress. My mind, however, remained fixed on the problem. If his aim had been to help her, it followed that he must have known several facts—that she was to travel on the two o’clock Kingfisher Company coach from London, and that another passenger on that same coach planned to kill her, but would or could only do so if she sat in the aisle seat of the seventh row. Did that mean that the stranger knew where Joan Blythe’s would-be murderer planned to sit?
The woman with the diamond-bright voice and the golden hair …
How could this not have occurred to me before? She had been sitting right next to her and had spoken unkindly—and in a deliberately loud voice, it now seemed to me—about Joan Blythe before we all boarded the coach. Could she be the one with murderous intentions? Yet I had heard her say that she would much prefer to sit beside Poirot, and now she was doing just that.
‘Midnight Gathering,’ I murmured.
A small gasp came from beside me. I turned, and started at the sight of Joan Blythe’s face. Her expression was the same one she had worn when I had first laid eyes upon her: one of utter horror, as if she had seen something ghastly. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked her.
‘You … you said something … I did not quite hear it.’ Despite our proximity to one another, the noise of the engine made it difficult to hear precisely what even one’s immediate neighbour was saying if one was not also looking at them.
‘“Midnight Gathering”,’ I repeated. ‘Do those words mean something to you?’
The Killings at Kingfisher Hill Page 3