‘What became of the woman and the baby?’ asked Poirot.
‘Oliver did not say, not precisely. Let me be clear: he did not even say in so many words that there was a baby. Nor did he say that they did away with it, but it was quite apparent that they did. One can always find a questionable doctor to do one’s bidding if one has the resources. In any case, Oliver treated the girl cruelly afterwards and had nothing more to do with her—and unless he was lying to Godfrey, which I don’t think he was, he felt terrible about it all, just as he felt terrible about his treatment of Frank. My theory, M. Poirot, is that all of the poor man’s past mistakes were replaying themselves in his mind in a rather frenzied way as a result of his anxiety at the prospect of seeing Frank again. His self-loathing had become temporarily uncontrollable. It was evident that Godfrey was quite unequal to the task of making him feel any better. The best he could come up with was to suggest a game of golf. I don’t know—perhaps that works for men, but it certainly wouldn’t make me feel any better. Knocking a little ball around with a funny stick for hours on end! It’s the most ludicrous waste of time.’
‘Did Oliver Prowd happen to mention the name of his father’s doctor?’ Poirot asked. ‘The one who would not assist with the … the solving of the problem?’
He expected Hester Semley to answer in the negative and was pleasantly surprised when she said, ‘Yes, he did. I remembered it because at first I thought Oliver kept referring to him as F. Grave—the initial F. and the surname Grave. But the emphasis was wrong each time he said it and I soon realized my mistake. It was Ephgrave—a strange name. Come to think of it, I have a copy of the London telephone directory. Shall we look it up? I don’t know if the spelling is E-f-f or E-p-h, and I’m not sure how you think Oliver Prowd’s father’s old doctor might help you to solve either of your two murders.’
‘Please, let us consult the directory.’
More slowly than Poirot would have believed possible, Hester Semley rose to her feet. ‘Follow me. No quick movements, please, or you’ll wake the boys. They need their afternoon nap or else they’ll be grumpy all evening.’
It took Poirot several minutes to tiptoe as far as the drawing room door. As he approached it, the sight of something on a nearby shelf stopped him as surely as if he had hit a wall. It was a book that had caught his eye, or rather the title of a book: Midnight Gathering. The coincidence of finding it here was surprising enough, but far more surprising to Poirot was the name of the author. ‘Sacre tonerre!’ he muttered. Then he smiled. ‘Now, at last, I can make the fast progress,’ he thought to himself. ‘I must find Catchpool. There is much to be done.’ And he cast a guilty eye in the direction of Pound and Sterling in case somehow his thoughts of movement and speed might drift across to the dogs and wake them from their nap.
CHAPTER 14
Poirot Makes a Task List
‘Well?’ I spluttered, trying to avoid swallowing a mouthful of water. ‘Did you ask Hester Semley how a book belonging to Daisy Devonport came to be in her house?’ I was swimming in Kingfisher Hill’s famous Victor Marklew swimming pool. Poirot walked on the grass beside me—65 feet up and 65 feet down again—and we talked as I swam. Poirot had suggested this ‘so that time is not wasted by your aqueous pursuits, Catchpool.’
I had tried to persuade him to join me but he had refused, insisting that the water would be icy cold. It was not. The pool was heated to a temperature that was eminently bearable as long as one never stood still in it. Remarkably, I had it all to myself. I was not able to swim as fast as I would have liked, however; I had to slow down to match Poirot’s walking pace. Still, it was wonderfully invigorating at any speed. There is nothing like a swim in the outdoors, with fresh air and water on your face. ‘You really should try it, Poirot,’ I had told him a few moments ago. ‘It’s invaluable for clearing the head.’
‘My head is in no need of clearing,’ he had replied. ‘And if you cannot say the same of yours, you should devote yourself not to frolicking in water like a dog but to arranging your thoughts more carefully in future, with the order and the method. Have I not always told you this?’
Now he said, ‘Of course I asked about the book. Why do you assume that it was Daisy Devonport’s copy of Midnight Gathering that ended up at Kingfisher’s View? It was not. It was a copy that had been given by Daisy to Verna Laviolette as a gift. Verna had read and enjoyed it, then passed it on to Hester Semley.’
‘So Daisy has both received it as a gift and given it as a gift,’ I said, trying as we spoke to keep track of the number of lengths of the pool I had swum. It was hard to count and talk at the same time.
‘She has given it not only to Verna Laviolette,’ said Poirot. ‘According to Hester Semley, she also gave a copy to Oliver Prowd after he accepted her proposal of marriage. When she gave it to Verna, she apparently told her that it was her favourite book in the world. She said, “I give this book to all the most important people in my life.” I have now read parts of it myself: it seems to be an interesting tale of a most unsympathetic and enervating family.’
‘No wonder Daisy Devonport likes it so much!’ I said.
‘Tell me, Catchpool, why do you say that Mademoiselle Daisy, as well as giving Midnight Gathering as a gift, has also received it as one?’
I stopped swimming and looked at him. Surely he could not have forgotten. ‘She told you on the coach when you sat next to her. She said the copy of the book that she had with her, the one I had angered her by looking at, had originally been a gift from … And then she stopped before telling you from whom it had been a gift.’
‘You are right in every detail. This is fascinating, is it not?’
‘What, that she was first given it and then, presumably, liked it so much that she gave it to others? I can’t see anything remarkable about that. What interests me far more is the name of the author. How could I have failed to notice it? It must have been right there on the cover, beneath the title.’
It was the first thing Poirot had said to me when we met after his visit to Hester Semley. ‘You will not believe me, Catchpool, when I tell you the name of the author of Midnight Gathering. That book was written by a woman called Joan Blythe! Yes, I assure you, I am in earnest.’
Now I said, ‘I wonder if that’s why our Joan Blythe was so scared when she heard me say “Midnight Gathering” on the coach. She had not mentioned having written or published a book, and suddenly I came out with the title. She might have thought … well, I don’t know what she might have thought, but I can see how it might shake her a little.’
‘You told me that she was terrified, not merely shaken,’ Poirot reminded me. ‘Also you are assuming that Joan Blythe from the motor-coach is the same Joan Blythe who wrote the book. There is no reason to suppose this.’
‘Either way, a coincidence of this magnitude … it’s impossible! Either we have Daisy travelling with a copy of Midnight Gathering and then happening to sit next to a woman who is the author of that very book, or—even less likely—Daisy sits next to a woman who is not the writer of the book she is reading but who has exactly the same name as the book’s author.’
‘Catchpool, Catchpool.’ Poirot sighed. ‘You still do not see what is so clear?’
Suddenly I did, or I thought I did. ‘Joan Blythe might not have been the real name of the woman on the coach,’ I said. ‘She didn’t want to tell us her real name. Having seen Daisy’s book and noted the name of its author, she gave Joan Blythe as her false name.’
‘Sometimes, my friend, I despair of you,’ said Poirot. ‘Yes, she might very well have picked Joan Blythe as her assumed name having seen it on Mademoiselle Daisy’s book, but … how can you see this and not see the rest of the picture?’
I put my head under the water and swam as fast as I could to the far edge of the pool, then back again to where Poirot was standing still, waiting for me. Surfacing, I said, ‘The woman in the Devonports’ drawing room with her head smashed to smithereens—was that Joan-Blythe-from-the-co
ach, as I suppose I must call her from now on to distinguish her from Joan-Blythe-the-author? Or was it not?’
‘Officially she has not yet—’
‘—been identified. I know. Nevertheless, you have an opinion. You think you know who she is.’
‘You wish to be included in my provisional thoughts?’ said Poirot. ‘Very well. Yes, the dead woman is, as you call her, Joan-Blythe-from-the-coach. Her real name is not Joan Blythe and she was most decidedly not the author of Midnight Gathering.’
‘Then who was she?
Poirot smiled. ‘Soon, my friend, I will be able to tell you everything you desire to know. I am very close now to piecing together all the different parts of this puzzle. There are, however, certain things I must do—and things, also, that you must do.’
‘I thought there might be,’ I muttered, thinking not for the first time how lucky it was that my boss at Scotland Yard held Poirot in such high esteem. My other cases would quietly be reassigned to colleagues, enabling me to devote myself entirely to helping Poirot for as long as he needed me.
‘Tell me first about the day of Frank Devonport’s murder,’ he said. ‘You have spoken to everybody, I hope, and taken down their accounts?’
‘Yes, and it all seems straightforward. Nobody’s version of the sixth of December contradicts anybody else’s. Oliver Prowd left for London very early in the morning. Shortly after nine, Daisy and Richard Devonport and the Laviolettes set off for Kingfisher’s View, the Semleys’ house, where they arrived at half past nine. Frank arrived at Little Key at ten o’clock with Helen Acton. They spent the morning there with Lilian and Sidney Devonport.
‘A little before two, Oliver returned from London and went to Kingfisher’s View as instructed. Then at two Winnie Lord arrived to tell the exiles that they could now return. Daisy, Richard and Verna Laviolette did return then, but Oliver and Godfrey did not—they set off at five o’clock from Kingfisher’s View, with Percy Semley in tow. Semley invited himself along, apparently. He had heard wonderful stories about Frank from various Kingfisher Hill people and wanted to meet him. Neither Godfrey Laviolette nor Oliver Prowd had the courage to tell him that his presence would not be welcome.
‘Meanwhile, back at Little Key everyone had congregated in the drawing room at around twenty minutes after two, when Daisy, Richard and Verna returned from Kingfisher’s View. Present for this drawing room gathering, therefore, were all five Devonports—Frank, Richard, Daisy, Sidney and Lilian—as well as Helen Acton and Verna Laviolette. Winnie Lord came in and out to serve refreshments and clear away afterwards.’
‘Excellent. All is as I expected,’ said Poirot. ‘Continue.’
I shivered. Speaking at length made even slow swimming impossible, and I was getting cold. ‘Everyone agrees that Helen Acton left the drawing room at around four o’clock. She was tired, she said, and needed to rest before dinner. She went upstairs. Around ten to fifteen minutes later, other people started to leave the drawing room. Verna Laviolette, Sidney, Lilian and Daisy all went upstairs to their bedrooms. Frank also went upstairs, but to Helen’s room, not his own.
‘At around half past four, before going up to her room, Daisy sent Winnie Lord to Kingfisher’s View to retrieve Oliver. Richard Devonport, who did not go upstairs after everyone left the drawing room—he went to the library—says that Winnie arrived back from Kingfisher’s View at half an hour after five o’clock. With her were the three men: Oliver Prowd, Godfrey Laviolette and Percy Semley. Richard heard their voices from the library.’
‘Then, according to Richard Devonport, he was alone in the library for some time?’
‘Yes. He claims to have heard Winnie say that she had to get on with preparing dinner, and after that he heard only the voices of the three men, until … well, until Frank fell from the balcony and Helen came running down the stairs crying, “Oliver, I did it, I killed him.” As to the precise wording of her confession there is some disagreement, but all versions have Helen Acton freely admitting that she pushed Frank from the balcony. Poirot, if I’m not swimming, I must get out and wrap myself in those towels.’ I pointed at them. ‘Better still, let’s go back to Little Key and continue the conversation there.’
‘Your account so far has been most informative,’ he said. ‘I wish now to hear in more detail about these ten minutes between half past five and twenty minutes to six. The interruption of returning to the house will not be helpful to my train of thought.’
‘Poirot, the blood in my veins is almost blue from the cold.’ I pointed at my arm.
‘So I see. Alas, it will prove impossible to make me responsible for this turn of events, however hard you try, Catchpool. It was not Poirot who persuaded you to plunge into an expanse of cold water. Please continue.’
‘I shall remember this,’ I told him. With a sigh, I sank back into the water up to my neck and made a series of vigorous movements with my arms and legs to stimulate the circulation.
‘After half past five is where the accounts start to differ. Daisy says that she heard Oliver’s voice and knew that he had returned. When she went out onto the landing, she saw that he had brought Percy Semley with him, and she was angry. Semley was not invited and it was inappropriate for Oliver to have brought him. At that point, according to Daisy, Helen’s bedroom door opened. Frank emerged. Not Helen, says Daisy: Helen was still inside her bedroom. From the balconied landing, Frank saw Semley, Godfrey Laviolette and Oliver Prowd downstairs in the entrance hall, and moved towards the stairs, clearly intending to join them. Daisy claims that this was the moment when she resolved to take action to protect her family from the danger presented by Frank’s return. She pushed him violently over the balcony, he fell and … well, we know what happened to him after that.
‘Daisy doesn’t understand what happened next, she told me. Suddenly Helen was at her side—she had not heard Helen come out of her bedroom—and then, to Daisy’s astonishment, something happened that made no sense: Helen hurried down the stairs and confessed to Frank’s murder. By now, having heard the great crash and the exclamations of the men downstairs, everybody who was not standing in the entrance hall was on the landing—not only Daisy but also Verna Laviolette and Sidney and Lilian Devonport. Richard Devonport came out of the library and ran over to where his brother’s body lay. The only person who did not appear was Winnie Lord—she must still have been busy in the kitchen and not heard the commotion. As to the people on the landing, watching from the balcony … well, here we encounter a problem. The accounts given by Verna, Sidney and Lilian are all different, from each other and also from what Daisy told me.’
‘How are they different?’ asked Poirot.
I had established a good rhythm for my arm and leg movements and was warming up somewhat. ‘Verna’s version is the most interesting. She says Helen Acton cannot have pushed Frank and neither can Daisy have done it, because Frank was already falling, in mid-air, when Helen and Daisy stepped out of their bedrooms. She says she would swear to that. When I asked her who might have pushed Frank, she said without hesitation, “Lilian. She was standing close enough to have done it.” Sidney Devonport was there too, Verna said, though he was further away—but she conceded that he might also have pushed Frank while Lilian stood by and watched. I don’t know about you, but I scarcely find it credible that, having finally decided to forgive Frank his trespasses—’
‘Ah, but if Sidney and Lilian murdered him, then the performance of forgiveness and reconciliation would have been a sham, n’est-ce pas?’
‘I suppose so,’ I said doubtfully. ‘All the same, what Verna told me was very different from what I was told by Sidney, Lilian and Daisy. Sidney and Lilian said that, when they emerged from their rooms, Helen was standing on the landing and Frank was already falling. They both say that Daisy appeared a moment or two later, as Frank was about to hit the ground. Meanwhile, Daisy says that her parents were not on the landing at all—neither of them—or, if they were, she did not notice them there. She says that she pus
hed Frank and was aware of Verna’s presence and, a few seconds later, Helen’s, but claims she did not see either Sidney or Lilian up on the balcony until she had followed Helen down the stairs. As for the assembled hordes downstairs in the entrance hall, none of them looked up before Frank … landed, as it were, so they were of no use in determining who appeared on the balcony when and in what order.’
‘You have made the excellent report, my friend,’ said Poirot with satisfaction. ‘You may now get out of the water if you wish. We must waste no time, for there is much to do. And I am afraid that I must leave you alone at Kingfisher Hill for a short while.’
‘Why?’ I asked as I wrapped the two towels around me. They weren’t much use on the warming front; I was colder out of the water than in it.
‘Our dead woman from the coach,’ said Poirot. ‘I must visit her next of kin.’
‘Joan Blythe? But … do you mean her aunt in Cobham?’
‘She has no such relation. It is her mother that I intend to visit in order to ask her about her daughter’s green coat and hat. Your Sergeant Gidley has been most helpful in providing me with an address. After that, my next appointment will be with the doctor of the late Otto Prowd: Dr Alexander Ephgrave of Harley Street. I shall speak to him, and then I shall visit Coutts bank to discuss the financial affairs of Godfrey Laviolette with his banker. Finally, I shall visit the offices of the publisher of a certain book.’
‘Midnight Gathering,’ I guessed.
Poirot smiled. ‘Well done, Catchpool. Your swim appears to have improved the functioning of your little grey cells. It is a happy day indeed—for I am nearly certain of what will result from all of the enquiries I am about to make. I am unlikely to be wrong.’
Seeing my expression of helpless frustration, he said, ‘You too could be in a similarly fortuitous position if you would only apply your mind to the problem at hand. Here, I will give you the hand of the helper. Think, my friend: Midnight Gathering, the book. Where it was when you first saw it? Think of what Daisy Devonport told me on the coach about it being a gift—you repeated her very words to me only minutes ago, so I know that you remember them. Then recall Helen Acton’s confession, seconds after Frank fell to his death. What did she say to Oliver Prowd when she ran down the stairs?’
The Killings at Kingfisher Hill Page 21