‘Hardly,’ I said, though I could not help smiling. Poirot sounded utterly convinced by his own story.
‘It is so,’ he said solemnly. ‘Yet never before have I encountered a game so stimulating to the intellect as this creation of Messieurs Devonport and Laviolette. This, then, is why Poirot comes to Kingfisher Hill—as an enthusiast of the games, and to meet his heroes.’
‘Yes, but chinwagging with some chaps about a silly game isn’t going to get you anywhere, is it? How do you propose to advance your true purpose?’
‘It is quite the challenge, is it not?’ Poirot smiled. ‘Partly it is the difficulty that appeals to me. I am not allowed to refer to the matter apart from when alone with Richard Devonport. Of course, it is possible that one or more people might mention the tragic affair to me of their own volition. If that were to happen, well, there I would have the opportunity.’
‘But Richard Devonport told you it is never mentioned,’ I reminded him.
‘Among the family it is not. Sometimes it proves easier to confide in a stranger.’
‘And if nobody confides? How—?’
‘Stop the how-how, Catchpool. You come at it from the wrong direction. Why do you ask me how before I know how? When I have done it, that is when I will know how I did it. Then I will tell you.’
‘You had better tell me the rules of Peepers as well, if I am to be required to play it and behave as if it brings me great joy.’ I shuddered. ‘I take it you know the rules—you are not relying on me to relay them to you?’
‘I have made a brief study of them, yes. You do not need to know them or play the game.’
This was the most welcome news I had received in some time.
‘I have had a better idea.’ Poirot beamed at me. ‘I am the devotee of the board games. You, my friend, are a businessman.’
‘A … Poirot, I am not any sort of businessman. I’m a police inspector.’
‘I am aware of your profession, Catchpool. Sidney Devonport is not aware of it and does not need to be.’
‘I refuse to pretend—’
‘On the contrary.’ Poirot gave me his most imperious look. ‘You accept.’ He seemed to soften slightly. ‘Catchpool, I beseech you—do me this kind favour and affect an interest in the business of the games. You could ask such questions as how Peepers might be produced in large quantities so that, within five years, no home in the civilized world will be without a … a set? A copy? Is it correct to talk about a “copy” of a game?’
I was prevented from answering by the sound of footsteps, loud and fast. I turned and found Diamond Voice immediately behind me. She was breathless. Her mouth opened and closed but only gasps came out. If she had registered my presence, she showed no sign of it. Poirot was the sole focus of her attention.
‘M. Poirot, come at once!’ She reached out her hand to him and I saw a smear of blood on the side of it. ‘Come!’
Poirot and I were already moving towards the Tartar Inn’s doors, following her. ‘To where, Mademoiselle?’
‘The coach. Something terrible has happened. Oh, please, hurry!’
CHAPTER 4
The Missing Manifest
I had never seen Poirot move with such speed or urgency as he did now. My legs are longer than his, but still I had trouble keeping up. He started to murmur as we got closer to the motor-coach, and I made out the words ‘Notre Seigneur’.
I thought I knew what he was praying we would not find. I feared the same thing: that Joan Blythe had been murdered after all and that we were about to discover her body.
She had sat in the very seat against which she had been warned—not for long, but perhaps for long enough. I had not believed her dramatic story before; now that I was afraid for her, I found it easier to believe. But had I not seen Miss Blythe walk away from the coach? She could, of course, have returned to it while Poirot and I were inside the Tartar Inn. Why she would ever do such a thing was a different matter.
We found the coach half empty, with only about fifteen people inside. The majority of those who were travelling on from Cobham must still have been at the Tartar Inn. I was dimly aware of the presence of the mother and baby as I climbed aboard and looked for signs of catastrophe.
The mother said something inconsequential about it being too cold on the coach and an inn being no place to take a baby. She was aggrieved and seemed not to care that blood had been spilled. ‘Has something happened?’ I demanded of her, for she was the only one looking in my direction.
‘Qu’est-ce qui se passe?’ Poirot asked a man seated near the front, who looked distinctly nonplussed. ‘Somebody has been hurt?’
‘I am not aware of anyone being hurt,’ the man told him.
Diamond Voice was behind us. ‘It’s all the way at the back’, she said. ‘The last row.’
I rushed down the aisle, with Poirot behind me. ‘She’s not here, dead or alive,’ I called out.
‘Miss Blythe?’ he said.
‘Yes. There’s no sign of her. Though there is something here …’
‘What is it that you see?’ Poirot panted. ‘Move aside, please.’
I squeezed myself into the space between the back two rows of seats on the left, and we surveyed the item together. It was a piece of fabric that looked as if it had been torn from an item of clothing or a fancy tablecloth. It was white, around seven inches by four inches, with lace along one edge. It was smeared with spots of blood.
‘Madame!’ Poirot waved the bloodstained fragment in the direction of an elderly lady who was sitting immediately in front of where it had been left. ‘Can you tell me how this piece of petticoat came to reside here?’
The woman recoiled. ‘I’m sure I don’t know anything about it, and I would rather not have anything so unpleasant as blood or torn clothing brought to my attention, thank you very much.’
‘You must tell Hercule Poirot, madame: how many people have been to this part of the vehicle since we stopped? I will need you to make the identifications—’
‘You have no right to order me around, you pompous little man! I know of no Erckle … whoever it was you said.’
‘Hercule Poirot. I am he, madame. Please tell me at once: has a person been attacked? Have you witnessed, since we stopped here, any acts of violence or anything untoward that might cause blood to be shed?’
‘I most certainly have not.’
By now, everyone on the coach was muttering about the fuss Poirot was making. It made me suddenly aware that, when we had first boarded the coach in our state of panic, all the seated passengers had appeared perfectly calm—as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened in our absence.
‘Mesdames et messieurs!’ Poirot called all those present to attention, and asked them the same questions: did they see anything? Had anyone been attacked or harmed? Where had this bloodstained material come from?
One by one, everybody told us the same thing: they had seen nothing alarming or worthy of note. Several people had walked up and down the aisle at various points, wishing to stretch their legs without venturing out into the eye-stinging wind, but there had been no acts of violence—at least none that had been observed. Everyone agreed that the young lady who had caused a silly fuss earlier by insisting on swapping seats with someone had most certainly not returned to the motor-coach since leaving it.
That, in isolation, was comforting—Joan Blythe was most likely unharmed. I was on the point of suggesting that we look around outside, in case the attack had taken place there, when Poirot grabbed me by my wrist and whispered fiercely, ‘Catchpool.’
‘What is it?’
‘Regard!’ With the hand that was not clutching my arm, he made a gesture that was intended to suggest the coach in its entirety. ‘Poirot has been the incredible fool! Do you not see? Then look now! Observe what is missing, what is not here to be observed!’
‘How can I—?’
‘Elle aussi est disparue—notre tueuse,’ he said in an urgent whisper. ‘She was behind us, urging us fo
rward in haste, and now she is not here. Of course!’ He made a low moaning sound as he sank into a seat in the back row.
‘Did you just say …? Doesn’t the word “tueuse” mean “killer”?’
‘Please lower your voice, Catchpool. A killer belonging to the female sex. Oui.’
‘Then I understood you correctly. You said that our killer has also disappeared. To whom are you referring? Oh, do you mean …?’ It struck me only then that he must have been talking about Diamond Voice, who was no longer with us. Where had she got to?
‘You do not comprehend what has transpired, Catchpool? We have been tricked. Forever will I curse my own stupidity!’
‘Why did you call her a killer?’ I asked him. ‘Was she the one planning to murder Joan Blythe? How?’
Poirot looked bewildered. He raised a hand to stop me. ‘You bark at the improper tree, as so often, Catchpool. No, she did not plan to kill Miss Blythe. She planned to kill somebody else, and then she put her plan into action.’
I was struck dumb momentarily. Was this what Poirot had meant by Mystery Number Three? Other passengers were boarding and the coach was filling with loud chatter, but still I lowered my voice and whispered as quietly as I could. ‘Do you mean to tell me that the woman who savaged me for glancing at her book has committed a murder? Whom did she murder? And how did you come to know of her crime?’
‘She told me.’
‘She told you?’
Poirot nodded. ‘I do not know the name of her victim. I thought, when she first began to tell her tale, that it could not be true. What person who has deliberately taken the life of another would describe her crime in such detail to none other than Hercule Poirot, who is known to bring murderers to justice? That was the argument I made to myself—but now, see what has happened! She is vanished! I do not know her name or where to find her. Wherever she is, she is laughing at me, Catchpool. She outwitted me.’
‘Excuse me, gentlemen.’ A head popped up from the row in front of us. It was a young man with dark hair and a continental accent—Italian, perhaps. ‘I could not help but hear a little of what you say, and … if you will forgive the intrusion, I believe I have information that may interest you.’
We made noises of encouragement. On this occasion being overheard might have worked to our advantage, though I resolved to make sure to stick to a whisper in future, at least until the growl of the engine started up again.
‘You are M. Hercule Poirot?’ asked the Italian.
‘I am,’ Poirot confirmed.
‘A lady was asking Mr Bixby many questions about you after you went outside.’ The man gestured towards the Tartar Inn. ‘A very beautiful lady with golden hair. She asked to where you were travelling.’ He turned to me. ‘You too—the inspector.’
‘As I thought!’ Poirot murmured. ‘What was Monsieur Bixby’s response to her enquiry?’
‘He told her that you and the inspector were going all the way to the final stop: Kingfisher Hill.’
‘Was any more said?’
‘Yes, it was. She asked if he might have made a mistake. He told her that he had not, and showed her the passenger manifest. After that, she seemed to believe him.’
‘This is most useful information,’ said Poirot. ‘And it gives to me the idea. We must hope and pray … Monsieur Bixby!’
‘Yes, M. Poirot?’ Our host hurried towards us down the aisle. ‘How can I be of assistance? We’ll be on our way again in a jiffy!’
‘Do you have the passenger manifest?’ Poirot asked him.
‘Ho, yes. Naturally.’
‘Might I see it?’
‘It’s funny, M. Poirot—you’re the second person who has asked for it. There was a young lady—’
‘Yes, yes. Please let me have it without delay.’
‘Of course. Of course.’ Bixby reached into his pocket. He blinked, then frowned. ‘I don’t seem to … Why, it’s not here. I don’t understand. I certainly had it when we stopped.’
‘Might it be somewhere else among your effects?’ Poirot asked him. ‘I would be most grateful if you could make a more thorough search.’
‘I shall do that very thing,’ said Bixby, straight-backed and solemn, as if making a vow that would bind him for years to come.
Poirot and I watched as he looked up and down the coach, in all of his pockets and under every seat. Finally, he had no choice but to admit defeat. ‘I can’t understand it,’ he said. ‘It appears that the passenger manifest is well and truly missing.’
Far from discouraging him, this news seemed to fill Poirot with energy. ‘Monsieur Bixby,’ he said, ‘Is it possible that the young lady who asked to see the manifest when we stopped at Cobham never gave it back to you?’
‘Well, I … I can’t see why she’d want to keep it.’ Bixby looked to his left and right, then down at the ground. Then he turned in a small circle, as if he might find his list of passengers near his feet.
‘Spare yourself the futile effort,’ Poirot advised. ‘You will not find it. The young lady who took it from you has vanished and taken it with her. You do not, I suppose, know her name?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ said Bixby. ‘It will be on the list.’
‘Yes, and that is precisely why we no longer have it. Do you have another copy somewhere? In your offices in London, perhaps?’
‘No, I don’t. Everyone had paid in full, so I only needed the list to bring with me today, so that I could check them all off—and to hand in to the gate porter once we arrive at Kingfisher Hill.’
‘I assume you do not know, then, if the woman who has made off with the list originally planned to disembark at Cobham?’
Alfred Bixby shook his head. He looked stricken. ‘I wish I could be of more help, M. Poirot. Then he brightened and said, ‘Now that I ponder on it, I’d wager that her plan at the outset was to stay on after Cobham. Yes, I am sure of it! When we first came to a stop, she stayed in her seat. I was standing at the front, so I noticed who was getting off and who was staying put, and she didn’t move a muscle. I don’t mind telling you, M. Poirot, that I noticed her in particular.’ Bixby narrowed his eyes and nodded meaningfully. ‘What red-blooded fellow wouldn’t notice her, if you catch my drift? Ho-ha!’
‘Indeed so,’ said Poirot.
‘She had no plans to go anywhere, but she must have spotted something. She was looking out of the window and must have seen something that … well, it altered her bearing completely. Yes, I’d swear to that. She went from seeming rather languid, I suppose you’d say, to being all of a hurry and a fluster: enquiring about your journey, then asking to see the passenger list with everybody’s destinations on it. She didn’t believe me when I told her that you and Inspector Catchpool were staying on until Kingfisher Hill. So I showed her the proof in black and white, and her response made no sense to me. She said, “So they aren’t being met off the coach by their dear old friend.”’
‘Thank you, Monsieur Bixby,’ said Poirot. ‘All is as I surmised. Only then, after her exchange with you, did she decide to make Cobham her destination. Until then, she had planned to travel further.’
Once Poirot and I had reclaimed our original pair of seats and the coach had started on the second leg of its journey, I pestered him for answers. I was unclear as to whether our three mysteries were still outstanding and unresolved as far as he was concerned, or whether he had formed some conclusions. Also, I wanted to know what he had done with the white fabric with the blood spots on it.
‘The fabric is unimportant,’ he told me. ‘It was a decoy, that is all.’
‘So you have solved one of the mysteries?’
‘Catchpool, use your sense. How could I have made progress in the matter of Richard Devonport’s murdered brother when I am trapped in an icy char-a-banc with no way of getting at the relevant information?’
‘All right, don’t get your hackles up. You were talking as if you knew something.’
‘And Joan Blythe, who is so dreadfully afraid of who knows w
hat—how could I have solved that problem, when she told me so little of the truth?’
‘I agree. I did not intend to imply that—’
Poirot spoke over my words. ‘As for the other woman, the one who takes a close interest in our itinerary: I do not know whom she murdered or why she chose to tell Poirot, but I do know why she took a hat pin or some other sharp object from her reticule and stabbed it into her thumb. You noticed, I dare say, that there was blood on the side of her hand when she came to find us at the inn? The manner in which she said, “Quickly, come at once!”—it was to make us believe that the blood belonged to somebody else, someone in urgent need of help if it was not already too late. Mais non, it was not the blood of a victim who waited, injured or deceased, in this vehicle, as she led us to suppose. It was her own blood, from a self-inflicted wound.’
‘Why would she do that?’ I asked.
‘You will understand why when I tell you the alarming story that she told me. Now, however, I am trying to tell you what little I know and how I know it.’
He paused, then took up the story again: ‘I had told her that I was travelling only as far as Cobham. This was the same incorrect information that I had given to Mademoiselle Joan, and an instinct warned me that I would be unwise to share too much of the truth with The Sculpture.’
‘The Sculpture?’
‘Yes, that is how I think of her, since I do not know her name.’
‘I think of her as Diamond Voice,’ I told him.
‘Je comprends,’ he said. ‘It did not strike you that she had the bone structure that could have been the work of a master sculptor? The cheekbones and jaw and forehead that all look as if carved with the greatest skill and delicacy from the rarest and finest of materials? Hers is a powerful beauty. You did not notice?’
‘I might have if her manner had been less rebarbative.’
‘From what material her character is carved, I prefer not to speculate. This is another reason why my instincts urged me to withhold from her our true destination. She told me that she was going as far as Martyr’s Green.’
‘Then she would have seen us get back on the coach and known that you had lied to her.’
The Killings at Kingfisher Hill Page 5