‘No. No, they don’t,’ she gabbled, frantic with fear. ‘What are they? What is this about? Tell me what you mean! Why would you say those words?’
‘The lady sitting next to you was reading a book called Midnight Gathering. She seemed to object to people looking at it—to me looking, at any rate. Given her temper, I wondered whether she might be the prospective killer your mysterious stranger had in mind.’
I said all of this with a slight smile. I fancied that a more lighthearted approach from me might coax her into perking up or even admitting that she’d invented the whole thing—though there was no doubt that her fear was real. I could hardly breathe for the weight of it, sitting between us.
And then, as quickly as it had sprung up, it seemed to dissolve into nothing. Her body sagged, her eyes dulled and she sounded almost bored as she said, ‘I didn’t see any book.’
I made a mental note of all this so that I could report it to Poirot later. Once Joan Blythe had learned that Midnight Gathering was the title of a book, she had lost interest in it entirely and been frightened no longer.
One thing I knew beyond doubt: the words ‘midnight gathering’ had great significance for Joan Blythe. For some reason that she was determined not to reveal, they filled her with terror.
CHAPTER 3
Richard Devonport’s Letter
The rest of the journey as far as Cobham was uneventful, and there we made our first official stop. Joan Blythe aimed a dejected ‘Thank you’ in my direction before alighting. She had told me the truth about one thing, at least: she did have a suitcase with her. I watched as the driver returned it to her.
It was even colder here than in London. My breath froze in the air as I stood by the coach opposite an establishment called The Tartar Inn, waiting for Poirot. I got a shock when he finally joined me. He looked quite unwell, as if he had been drained of all vitality. Evidently he had suffered since he and I had last spoken.
‘Goodness me, Poirot, was she as unpleasant as all that?’
‘Was who unpleasant?’
‘The lady with the book.’ I looked to see if she was among those who were stepping off the coach now. Not all of them were asking the driver for their cases; some wanted only to stretch their legs. The Kingfisher Coach Company’s vehicles were not as comfortable as Alfred Bixby believed them to be.
‘She had put away her book by the time I arrived at her side,’ said Poirot. ‘As to whether she is unpleasant … no ordinary word is adequate.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She has given me much to think about, Catchpool. Do not ask me any more—not until I have had a chance to reflect and arrive at an opinion.’ He produced a splutter of annoyance. ‘One reason that I find travel so désagréable is that one cannot efficiently move the little grey cells of the brain when one’s body is being thrown about in an infernally noisy contraption with wheels!’
‘You look positively sickly,’ I told him. A sudden panic gripped me. ‘Poirot, have you consumed anything? Can we be certain that you haven’t …’
He chuckled, and my dread dissolved. ‘It is that you think Hercule Poirot has been poisoned by that devil, the elusive seventh-row killer? Non. I shall arrive at Kingfisher Hill in excellent physical condition.’
‘So we are still going there?’ I said. ‘I thought our plans had changed.’
‘Never. I merely wished to give to la pauvre mademoiselle that impression. Where is she?’ Poirot looked around. ‘Do you see her?’
‘No. She must have hared off in a hurry. Damnation! I was on the lookout for you and took my eyes off her.’
‘What did you hope to see? A motor car driven by the infirm aunt?’ Poirot smiled. ‘It is likely that no such person exists. Still, it was an interesting tale.’ He nodded slowly, as if confirming something to himself.
Once the driver had reunited all the Cobham people with their suitcases, he and Alfred Bixby made for the Tartar Inn. Several of our number followed them, and Poirot and I decided that the chance of victuals and warmth was an unexpected blessing that we should not pass up. After the endurance test that had been our afternoon so far, I was ravenous.
We walked through the public bar into the Tartar’s sitting room. ‘Ah!’ Poirot exclaimed with relief, pointing at an available table with chairs around it. It was the last one left. I hurried to secure it for us.
‘Give me a comfortable chair over a bar stool any day of the week,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how people sit on those things for as long as they do. If your legs are as long as mine it’s a torture—and I am reliably informed that it’s equally painful for those with legs that are too short. Here, with any luck, we’ll get service at the table.’
‘Keep your eyes on Monsieur Bixby,’ Poirot said. ‘If he ends up—how do you say it?—in his glass, he might permit his char-a-banc to depart without all of its passengers.’
Bixby looked as if he was nicely settled in, with a large measure of ale set before him. I hoped there was nobody waiting on the coach who was hoping to depart promptly.
‘And, Catchpool?’
‘Mm?’
‘These might be preferable to wooden stools, but they are not comfortable chairs. Most decidedly not. When we reach Kingfisher Hill, that is when we will sit in the comfortable chairs.’
A waitress came over to take our order, after which refreshments were brought that were rather stodgy but no less satisfying for it. That was my feeling, anyway; Poirot made his usual murmurings about the atrocious English cuisine.
‘Well, then, mon ami,’ he said, once we had warmed up and dealt with our hunger and thirst. ‘You have much to tell me, of that I am sure.’
Acquaintance with Hercule Poirot has done wonders for my memory. Knowing that he likes me to report to him in the most thorough fashion, I now always make a point of remembering and storing away every detail. I told him all about my conversation with Joan Blythe, from start to end, and he listened intently. When I had finished, he smiled and said, ‘I do enjoy the way you construct these yarns of yours, Catchpool. Now tell me: did you have time also to peruse the rules of Peepers?’
He could not have deflated my spirits more thoroughly if he had tried.
‘No, I did not. And it wasn’t a yarn, it was a factual account of the conversation I had with Miss Blythe.’
‘You do yourself a disservice, my friend. Your telling of it added so much to the bare facts. It added the mood and the interpretation, the fear that burned in her eyes in response to the words “midnight gathering”—ah, c’est merveilleux! You do indeed make the yarn. I did not intend the word in a derogatory sense.’
Mollified, I said, ‘Can you make any more sense of it than I can, Poirot? When I told Joan Blythe that Midnight Gathering was the title of a book, she was no longer afraid. But that has to mean that the words frightened her for some other reason—one that had nothing to do with the book.’
‘And why does this cause you the disquiet?’ said Poirot.
‘Well, because … because it still makes no sense even if that’s true! Imagine this: imagine that the words “Tartar Inn” are enough to strike dread into your heart.’
‘They are and evermore shall be,’ said Poirot drily. ‘Both the chairs and the food—’
‘For whatever reason, those words frighten the life out of you. You have also been told that you will be murdered if you sit in a particular seat. Later, you discover that the woman in the adjacent seat had a book in her possession called Tartar Inn—the very words that fill you with terror—and your response is to become immediately less afraid, not more so? That makes no sense to me.’
Poirot nodded decisively. ‘Now I see to where you are driving, Catchpool. Ah, yes, now I see. I agree, we cannot yet know the meaning of this detail. It is an unanswered question. Even so, much about the peculiar situation of Joan Blythe is clear.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ I said. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Mon ami, do you not understand that—?’
/> Our conversation was interrupted at this juncture by Alfred Bixby. ‘M. Poirot, Inspector Catchpool. Not wishing to hurry you, but we’re hoping to be on our way again before too long. There’s a little chap whose mother tells me he’s growing rather impatient. Mind you, if you ask me, it’s her that’s out of sorts and not the baby. He looks the picture of contentment to me, I haven’t heard so much as a peep out of him—but I know better than to tell a doting mother that she’s wrong about her own son. Hoha!’
I told Bixby that we would return to the coach in a moment. Once he had moved on to the next table of Kingfisher Coach Company passengers, some of whom were still eating, Poirot said, ‘It is of great interest to me that the angry lady with the book was unduly harsh both to you and to Mademoiselle Joan. Great interest.’
‘She did not tell you her name, then?’
He gave a small, mirthless laugh. ‘No, Catchpool, she did not. She told me a considerable amount, but not her name—for reasons that will become obvious when I tell you what passed between us.’
‘Evidently you did not enjoy your conversation with her. I’m eager to know why you disembarked at Cobham looking as if you had escaped the jaws of hell.’
‘Very soon I will tell you why. First, though, if you will indulge me …’
‘If you bring up the rules of Peepers again—’
‘There is a letter I would like you to read,’ Poirot said gravely, his hand lingering near the pocket of his waistcoat. ‘A letter from a Monsieur Richard Devonport of Kingfisher Hill.’
‘Hadn’t we better get back to the coach? I shall read it once we—’
‘Many of our fellow travellers are still at their tables. There is time,’ Poirot said firmly. He passed me a neatly folded sheet of cream-coloured paper. ‘I had not intended to show this to you until much later, but now I believe I must. I received this most extraordinary letter two days ago.’
This provoked my curiosity. I unfolded the paper and began to read:
Dear M. Poirot,
I should so much have liked to say that I am delighted to introduce myself to you. Your reputation is formidable, and, if things were different, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to begin with those very words. Sadly, nothing has delighted me since the tragedy that befell my family in December of last year and the grave injustices that have followed it—though whether those can correctly be termed injustices rather depends upon one’s definition.
I am no doubt confusing you already, so let me start with more essential matters. My name is Richard Devonport. I am the younger son of Sidney Devonport, of whom I am sure you have heard. Recently I have also become the manager of his investments, though until the middle of last year I worked for the Treasury, and I would encourage you to approach any contacts you might have there if you are in need of a testimonial as to my good character.
On the sixth of December last year, my older brother Frank Devonport (Francis was his name, but everybody knew him as Frank) was murdered in our family home at Kingfisher Hill. I loved my brother dearly, M. Poirot, and admired him greatly. He was a unique and brilliant man. Since his death, I am rather ashamed to admit that I have been wallowing in grief and confusion, and therefore until now have felt myself quite unable to take useful action such as requesting your help. I might have wallowed for many more months or even years, were there not a growing urgency about the case that cannot be ignored—at least not by me.
A woman has confessed to my brother’s murder, M. Poirot. She confessed almost immediately and is to be hanged on the tenth of March. That does not give us much time, assuming you are willing to offer your assistance. I would of course reward you handsomely for your service. Your name has been in my mind for several weeks. Repeatedly I have thought to myself, ‘Only a man of Hercule Poirot’s calibre can save Helen now.’
Helen Acton: that is the name of the woman who insists that she is the murderer of my brother Frank. Perhaps you have read about the case in the newspapers. Helen is also my fiancée. In the normal run of things, that would mean that she and I are engaged to be married, but I regret to say that I have not lived in the realm of normality for some time now. I regret even more deeply to inform you that no facet of my involvement with Helen is straightforward or ordinary.
M. Poirot, it is well nigh impossible to explain adequately in one letter all that you will need to know in order to prevent further tragedy. Most of it can wait, assuming you decide that you wish to help me. There is one more thing that I must tell you in this letter and it is the most important thing of all: Helen did not murder Frank. She is innocent of the crime for which she is to be hanged, completely innocent. At the same time, she is determined to tell anyone who will listen that she is guilty.
Why should anybody conduct themselves in such a perverse fashion and endanger their own life by doing so? I am convinced of two things: only the correct answer to that question can save Helen from Holloway Prison’s gallows, and only you, M. Poirot, possess the necessary intellect and understanding of human nature to obtain that answer.
I hope and pray that you will look favourably upon this heartfelt plea and write to me without delay to inform me of your acceptance of this undertaking.
Yours most sincerely
Richard Devonport, Esq.’
‘Good gracious,’ I said. ‘What a peculiar letter.’
‘This is why I wanted you to see it,’ said Poirot. ‘When we left London, there was only one puzzle to be solved: the one presented here by Richard Devonport.’ He took the letter from me, folded it and put it back in the pocket of his waistcoat. ‘But since that time we have acquired two more mysteries. Each of these conundrums involves, as Monsieur Devonport says in his letter, a tragedy or a possible tragedy—or both! The combination of all three gives to Poirot a heavy anxiety. I cannot carry the burden alone, Catchpool. It is too much.’
‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘Three mysteries?’
‘Oui, mon cher. There is the betrothed of Richard Devonport, Mademoiselle Helen. Did she or did she not kill his brother Frank? If she did not, then why has she confessed? That is Mystery Number One. Then we have Number Two: the strange affair of Joan Blythe who speaks of mysterious warnings of her own future murder and is assuredly deeply afraid of something.’
‘And Number Three?’
‘You do not yet know of Number Three—although this will be remedied when we return to the char-a-banc. Now that Mademoiselle Joan no longer travels with us, we may sit together again.’
I guessed that Mystery Number Three had something to do with Poirot’s conversation with Midnight Gathering’s owner: Diamond Voice, as I thought of her.
‘There’s a fourth puzzle,’ I said as we stood up to leave the Tartar Inn.
Poirot rubbed the small of his back and winced, staring resentfully at his chair. ‘What fourth?’ he said.
‘Peepers. What does it have to do with anything? I assume we’re going to Kingfisher Hill to speak to Richard Devonport, but …’
‘Yes, indeed. I responded tout de suite to the letter I have shown you and announced my willingness to intercede. Monsieur Devonport suggested that I come to his Kingfisher Hill home at my earliest convenience, but he wanted to converse first by telephone. When we spoke, he told me that there would be a condition applied to my visit.’
‘I hope you asked his permission to bring me with you,’ I said.
Poirot regarded me sternly. ‘I am not the imbecile, Catchpool. Though the same condition applies to you as it does to Poirot: we are not to mention to anyone in the household our true reason for being there.’
‘What?’ I said, astonished. ‘Is this a joke?’
‘Non, c’est serieux. I tell you in earnest: Frank Devonport’s murder, the name of Helen Acton, Richard Devonport’s belief in her innocence—none of these things are to be mentioned once we arrive at the house. The matter is never spoken of by the family. We must proceed as if we are unaware of it all.’
‘That is beyond ludicrous,’ I said
.
‘I do not find it as strange as you do,’ said Poirot. ‘When something so devastating and tragic has occurred, I can imagine that a certain entente might come to exist between the members of a family. Above all, Richard Devonport impressed upon me that no one must ever know that I was summoned by him. He believes that he would be disowned if that fact were to come to light.’
‘Poirot, this is irregular in the extreme.’
‘Non, non, Catchpool. You make the customary error.’
‘What error?’
‘Your belief that the ways and the habits, the anxieties and the neuroses of the Devonports are so extraordinary. I would expect to find something similarly incomprehensible in most families. Think of the impositions of your own mother, Catchpool. The vacances à la mer that neither one of you enjoys—is that not both a senseless tradition and one that cannot be broken?’
My mother had nothing to do with the matter at hand and nor did the regular seaside holidays that she and I took together, so I ignored Poirot’s provocative digression.
‘Assuming that Richard Devonport is correct and his fiancée is innocent,’ I said, ‘how are you to uncover the truth if you’re forbidden to refer to Frank Devonport’s murder? The arrival of Hercule Poirot at the family home can have only one possible meaning. Everyone will know it.’
‘Once more, you are in error, my friend. Poirot, he comes to Kingfisher Hill in order to meet the genius Sidney Devonport and his good friend Godfrey Laviolette. It is of those two men that I must pretend to be the ardent admirer! Sidney is the father of Richard and the late Frank, and Monsieur Laviolette is Richard’s godfather.’
‘And what have Sidney Devonport and Godfrey Laviolette done to earn your esteem?’ I asked.
‘You cannot guess?’ Poirot chuckled. ‘Together they invented …’ He waved his finger at me, as if I were an orchestra and he the conductor.
I groaned. ‘Not Peepers?’
‘Oui, c’est ça. And this is where I enter the stage, as the passionate player of the board games. This I have been for many years!’
The Killings at Kingfisher Hill Page 4