‘Indeed. When I told her that I intended to alight at Cobham, my aim was not to mislead her successfully. As you say, that could not have worked. No, I merely wished to see how she would respond.’
I frowned. ‘Why would she respond differently to hearing that you were going to Cobham rather than Kingfisher Hill?’
A small smile appeared on Poirot’s face. ‘Surely you know why, Catchpool,’ he said. ‘The answer could not be more apparent.’
‘Not to me, I’m afraid. And you’re evidently not ready to tell me. So how did she respond to your Cobham lie?’
‘Not in the manner that I expected. And then came the even more unexpected: her story of the murder she had committed. I do not think she had resolved in advance to confess, but she wished to goad me. To assert her superiority. She could not resist the urge to boast about her … achievement.’ He sighed.
‘So she is not merely a murderess, but proud of it?’
‘Proud is too happy a feeling for her, I think. She was … angry. Her fury, it burned—a slow, cold burn, the way ice sears the skin—though I cannot think which of my contributions to our dialogue had this effect upon her. Her boasting felt like an attack: on me and on all that I symbolize to her. Most interesting is that she told me of this crime she had committed only after I had told her that I was leaving the coach at Cobham.’
‘Why is that relevant?’ I asked.
‘You still do not see what is quite evident, mon ami? Here is what happened: when you and I disembarked, The Sculpture assumed that our journey was over and she would not see Hercule Poirot again. She remained seated. Languid, as Monsieur Bixby tells us. But then, what does she see through the window of the motor-coach? The two of us, entering the Tartar Inn and remaining there for some time. Where, she wonders, is the dear old friend of whom I had spoken with such affection? Would he not be waiting to take us immediatement to his home? She correctly calculates that something does not fit. When Bixby and his list of passengers confirms this, she knows that Poirot, he has misled her! He will return to the coach, she realizes, and now that she has confessed to a crime, what if he follows her when she alights at the next stop, Martyr’s Green?’
‘So she hooked it with the passenger manifest on which her name was listed, making it vastly less likely that we would ever identify her, and …’ I broke off.
‘Catchpool?’ Poirot peered at me. ‘Why do you stop like the unwound clock?’
‘Now I see!’ I exclaimed. ‘She wanted to make a dash for it at Cobham, but knew that was risky. If she’d left the coach in the ordinary way, she could not have guaranteed that we wouldn’t pick that moment to exit the Tartar Inn and catch her in the act. You might have followed her home, and once you had her address—’
‘Précisément! The jig, it would be up! It would have been only a matter of time before I knew also her name and the name of her victim. All of this she foresaw. What, then, does she do, la bête ingénieuse? She must ensure that she has the means of the undetected getaway, non? She tears a piece from her petticoat, cuts her own hand and allows the blood to stain the cloth, which she then leaves at the back of the motor-coach. Then she stages her little dramatic production at the Tartar Inn, and she succeeds in fooling us. We rush at once back to the vehicle. Once she sees that our attention is fully occupied by the false clue that she has left for us, she makes her exit—’
‘Knowing that by the time we’ve tumbled to the truth, it will be too late for us to follow her!’
‘Never is it too late,’ said Poirot with grim determination. ‘I will find her. Oh, yes. Even with not one morsel of a clue, I am determined. Wherever is Martyr’s Green, she will be known to somebody in its environs.’
‘We’re not getting off there, are we?’
‘No. We will continue to Kingfisher Hill as planned,’ said Poirot. ‘It is Helen Acton for whom time is in the shortest supply: there are only sixteen days between now and the tenth of March, her execution date. If she is innocent, we must establish the facts that will lead to her life being saved. After that, I will turn my attention to finding The Sculpture.’
My attention, meanwhile, was elsewhere.
‘Poirot?’
‘Yes, Catchpool?’
‘Does it not strike you as peculiar that among our fellow passengers there should be two women who tell us the most unlikely tales, both on the theme of murder, while we are on our way to investigate another murder?’
‘It requires an explanation, certainement. Fortunately, everything that requires an explanation has one. We simply need to find it. Tell me, how are you able to claim that the confession of The Sculpture was an unlikely tale? You did not hear it.’
‘Well, what did she say? I’m sure you remember every detail.’
Poirot’s eyes were fixed on the back of the seat in front of him. He gazed at it, as if at a far-off horizon. ‘They were the most abstract of details, and yet she told me a great deal. So much, and yet so little.’
‘I should very much like to hear those abstract details,’ I said, preparing myself for disappointment. Poirot rarely provides timely answers to my most pressing questions.
I was astonished when he said, ‘Of course, my friend. I shall tell you without further delay everything that is known to me about what we have called our Mystery Number Three.’ And he proceeded to do so. What follows is my rendering of the conversation that took place between Hercule Poirot and the woman to whom we had given so many names: the woman with the book, Diamond Voice, The Sculpture and—the one I found most chilling to contemplate—la bête ingénieuse.
CHAPTER 5
An Abstract Confession
‘Do you suppose she’s an actress?’
Poirot’s conversation with The Sculpture had begun with this bold question from her. He understood her to be talking about Joan Blythe.
She continued, ‘Could anyone really be as witless as she seems? I think that was a performance from start to finish.’
‘You do not believe her fear and unhappiness are real?’
‘No. She was playing a part. As for why this particular part … that is puzzling. I can’t think that he would have asked her to, but perhaps he did.’
‘“He”?’ Poirot enquired.
‘Mr Bixby. I think several people on this coach are actors and not real customers of his business.’
‘Might I ask why you say so, mademoiselle?’
‘How many times has he so far drawn to your attention the fact that every seat is taken, that one cannot leave it to chance if one wants to travel with the Kingfisher Coach Company, that one must book a place well in advance of the desired date of travel? Well?’
‘Many times,’ Poirot admitted.
‘It’s all we have heard from him since we arrived at the meeting point in London, and he sounds very much as if he is reciting well-rehearsed lines. Think about this, M. Poirot: why would he bother to tell us at all, if it were true? We would have seen with our own eyes that the coach was full, yet he mentions it over and over again. When a fact is both evident and true—and when nobody is attempting to deny its truth—one does not feel the need to insist upon it so relentlessly. Think what obnoxious company he is, how he inflicts himself on his customers, who cannot possibly want to listen to his endless, tedious speeches. Does he strike you as a man who would do well in business? Of course not. Which means that he must have paid at least half of us passengers to pretend to be paying customers in order to make his firm seem far more successful than it is.’
‘I see no evidence for this,’ Poirot told her. ‘Though it is an interesting possibility.’
‘When I say “actors”, I don’t mean that they’ve played King Lear at the Fortune Theatre or anything like that,’ The Sculpture said impatiently. ‘I’m talking about a few shillings stuffed into the pockets of Mr Bixby’s acquaintances. It’s hardly the most demanding role, is it? Sit on a coach and allow those around you to assume you paid for your ticket as they paid for theirs.’
‘If you are correct, why have we heard none of our fellow passengers volubly proclaiming the wonders of Kingfisher coaches and announcing their intention never to travel with any other companies?’
‘It’s hard to hear much of anything above the noise of the wretched engine,’ said The Sculpture. ‘It is perfectly possible that Mr Bixby would not have thought to make that additional request of them. You credit him with too much imagination.’
‘I might say the same to you, mademoiselle. The arranging of the passengers who are not really passengers—this is a scheme that would take more imaginative flair than our Monsieur Bixby possesses.’
‘Again, we disagree,’ she said coolly. ‘Desperation breeds imagination, even in the minds of the dull-witted.’
‘May I ask you a question, mademoiselle? Have I done something to offend you?’
She laughed. ‘It is I who have offended you, M. Poirot, whether you realize it or not. You scour my every remark in search of the sycophantic adoration you have come to expect and find none of it. This mystifies you. You are so accustomed to receiving fawning praise that anyone who speaks to you as if they are your equal is interpreted as hostile.’
‘You would not define your attitude towards me as hostility?’ Poirot enquired in an even tone.
The Sculpture turned in her seat so that she could look more squarely at him. She seemed to him to be weighing up whether or not to say something. ‘Your life’s work—the mission that you have set for yourself, this vocation that I’m sure you see as noble and sacred—is to bring murderers to justice. Would you agree?’
Poirot considered it. Finally he said, ‘I have never thought of myself as having a mission. There are things I believe to be sacred: the right of all men, women and children to live the lives that have been given to them, and not to have those lives ended too soon by violence. The importance of restraining the disorderly elements in a society, so that the world is safe for those who wish only to live in peace and according to the law.’ He nodded, satisfied with his answer. ‘That is the purpose of Hercule Poirot. The bringing of murderers to justice is a necessary part of it, I grant you, but all that I do, I do for the sake of what I cherish and wish to preserve. It is a terrible tragedy to have as one’s foremost purpose in life a preoccupation with that which one detests.’
Poirot had noticed that, as he was speaking, The Sculpture was growing increasingly agitated. When he stopped, her relief was visible. She said abruptly, ‘You are revered all over the world for your achievements, but I find your presumption rather naïve—this belief that you can keep everybody safe from harm, that murders should be prevented and murderers dispatched to the gallows.’ She waved her hand dismissively. ‘Murder is not the only or even the greatest harm one person can do to another, and besides, it cannot be stopped.’
Poirot regarded her gravely. ‘Now I begin to wonder if you are the actress, mademoiselle. Do you seriously suggest that we should allow murderers to commit their crimes without interference?’
‘It is not a question of allowing,’ she said, reminding Poirot of a school mistress giving much-needed instruction to her least favourite pupil. ‘They will do it anyway, as they always have. What is your solution? That we kill all the murderers? If that is your answer, then you do believe that sometimes the taking of a life is justified. Many murderers would agree with you. I suppose you are travelling to the Kingfisher Hill Estate?’
‘No—only to Cobham.’ Poirot added an embellishment: ‘There my friend Catchpool and I will be met by a very dear old friend of mine, whom I first met as a young policier …’ He stopped and smiled. ‘But you do not want to know about my dear friend. Why do you ask if I am going to Kingfisher Hill? Are you?’
‘No,’ she snapped as if horrified by the idea. ‘I’m getting off at Martyr’s Green. I thought perhaps you might have a country residence at Kingfisher Hill. It would suit you.’
‘I do not.’
‘All the puffed-up lords and ladies there would doubtless agree with you that the powerful should be able to put to death anyone who displeases them and call it by the name of justice.’
‘You assume the worst of me, mademoiselle.’ Thoughtfully, Poirot looked at her. ‘At the same time—yes—you endeavour to present yourself in your least favourable aspect. Why? I do not believe that you truly, in your heart, approve of murder.’
‘I am not impartial in this matter.’ She hesitated for a moment before saying, ‘Oh, caution be damned! I will say it, and there will be nothing you can do, since we are strangers to one another.’ Lowering her voice, she said, ‘I have committed a murder myself.’
‘Please, tell me it is not so,’ said Poirot. He wished he could believe that he had misheard her over the angry rumble of the engine, but he knew precisely what she had said. And then she said it again:
‘It is quite true.’ She mouthed the words at him: ‘I killed a man.’ Then, speaking once more at a normal volume, she said, ‘Nobody could have stopped me. I did it deliberately and was quite set on doing it. Afterwards, I felt no regret. I am glad I did it. There, now you know. What are you going to say to that?’ She smiled at him coldly.
‘Whom did you kill, and why?’ he asked.
‘If I told you that, you might be able to identify the case in question. I cannot risk it. I’ve only confided as much as I have in the hope that you might make an effort to see things in the round—from the murderer’s point of view as well as the victim’s.’
‘The murderer’s point of view,’ Poirot repeated slowly. It was hard to produce any words in response to her extraordinary proclamations.
‘Yes!’ The sullen veneer was gone and she sounded suddenly jubilant. Leaning in towards Poirot, she whispered as if sharing a delicious secret, ‘Once you have killed a person, it becomes infuriating to contemplate the likes of Hercule Poirot, with their determination to eradicate and punish something that is an ever-present part of life and always will be—something that, in certain circumstances, can feel natural and even beneficial. The wish to kill is simply a part of human nature.’
Poirot was deeply unsettled. ‘May God forgive you for these callous words,’ he muttered.
‘Well, there’s no need to resort to hysterics,’ said The Sculpture. ‘And remember, God has far more than words to forgive me for. I can’t help noticing that you assume He shares your principles—of course you do. What if I were to tell you that He thoroughly approves of murder, and that is why it’s as prevalent as it is throughout the world?’
Poirot thumped his knee with his closed fist. ‘You are teasing Poirot. You must be. No one could say these things and believe them.’
She seemed to take pity on him. ‘You are right: I am teasing you a little. I do not approve of murder in all or even most cases. There, is that better? I do wonder, though … do you and your sort really need to make quite such a fuss about it when it happens?’
‘Ah, so you admit that you jest!’ said Poirot. ‘Merci à Dieu! Then you have committed no murder.’
She frowned. ‘I did not say that. I have committed one murder. It was my only choice in the situation. I do not approve of killing people all over the place any more than you do, but in this instance it was necessary and I … yes, I will say it: I am glad I did it.’
Poirot was starting to feel a sickness in the pit of his stomach. It was clear that she was playing a game of sorts, but he feared that, on the essential point, she spoke the truth.
‘I can tell you a little of the story if you would like to hear it,’ she offered. ‘I think I can render it in the abstract so that there is no chance of you finding me after today. I should actually enjoy hearing the thoughts of an expert on murder. It is something I have never been able to discuss with anybody and … well, you are not just anybody, M. Poirot. What do you say? Shall I tell you all about it?’
Poirot shuddered, which seemed to thrill her. ‘Oh, do say yes! I feel that you and I might have the most fruitful discussion on a topic that is of great import to us b
oth. Such exchanges are rare.’ Now her manner was that of an over-excited child, though Poirot expected that the cold, gloating superiority might return at any moment.
Feeling complicit in something monstrous—yet telling himself, as comfort, that it might all be lies, or that she might unintentionally let slip information that he could later use in the service of justice—Poirot said, ‘Very well. Tell me your story. Let me ask first one question: in your bag, you have a book, n’est-ce pas? A book by the name of Midnight Gathering.’
‘Ah! Has your prying inspector friend filed a report on me? Why do you ask about the book?’
‘You are fond of crime, mademoiselle. Did you steal it?’
‘Did I steal Midnight Gathering? What an extraordinary question. No, I did not.’
‘And if I do not believe you?’
She searched his face carefully, then gave an uncertain laugh. ‘If you must know, the copy in my bag was originally a gift from … Well, I shall tell you no more, as it’s none of your concern. If you are not careful, I will change my mind about telling you anything at all. You have one last chance, M. Poirot. I can’t think why you should wish to distract me with talk of books when I’m eager to tell you about’—she lowered her voice—‘the man I killed. Shall I give up on you as a hopeless scatterbrain, or may we speak of murder now?’
With little appetite for what he imagined he was about to hear, Poirot invited her to tell her story.
The Sculpture took a few moments to prepare herself. Then, as soon as she began to speak, her face lost its hard contours and her eyes filled with tears. For the first time since making her acquaintance, Poirot was able to see her as someone capable of feeling pain, not only of inflicting it on others.
‘There was a man,’ she said. ‘I loved him very much. More than I have ever loved anyone, before or since. And I murdered him.’
She pulled a handkerchief out of her bag and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. ‘Those are the bare bones of it. There is more, of course, but never forget, when you hear the rest of the story, that my love for him was as strong when I killed him as it had always been. It was in no way diminished.’
The Killings at Kingfisher Hill Page 6