The Killings at Kingfisher Hill

by Sophie Hannah

  ‘How touched you must have been that he had killed for your sake,’ said Poirot. ‘You judge the morality based only on the benefit to you personally, mademoiselle. This I see very clearly.’ To the others, he said, ‘Monsieur Prowd knew that Daisy had already confessed to the murder of Frank, and he had seen that her confession had been believed by nobody, apart from Sidney and Lilian Devonport, perhaps. And Helen Acton had confessed to the same crime and been convicted of it. At that point, Monsieur Prowd believed that his beloved Daisy was not in especial danger of being hanged for murder. He himself did not think she was a murderer—he must have thought she was playing some complicated game of the mind. I imagine that he hoped to persuade her to retract her confession. However, when Winnie Lord arrived with her story of the false motive and the true one—a tale that sounded so much more psychologically credible—Oliver Prowd’s fears increased substantially. He decided that Winnie must at all costs be stopped from giving her account to Inspector Catchpool.’

  ‘Oliver meant only to keep me safe,’ Daisy said shakily. ‘This is all my fault, not his.’

  ‘And now,’ said Poirot gravely, ‘let us finally solve the murder of Frank Devonport …’

  ‘When I visited Hester Semley, she told me of a conversation between Oliver Prowd and Godfrey Laviolette that she had overheard, a conversation that took place at her house on the day of Frank Devonport’s death,’ said Poirot. ‘Monsieur Prowd spoke of a woman with whom he had behaved in an unprincipled and unchristian fashion. He admitted to having treated this woman poorly. He also mentioned that the two of them had sought the help of a doctor—the same doctor who was attending to Monsieur Prowd’s dying father, Otto Prowd. This doctor had refused to help and was no doubt shocked to be asked. Ladies and gentleman, Hester Semley leapt to a most understandable conclusion.’

  ‘A baby?’ said Daisy breathlessly. ‘No, that cannot be. Oliver would have told me—’

  ‘Attendez-vous, mademoiselle. There was no baby. Hester Semley was incorrect to assume that a pregnancy was involved. I have spoken to the doctor in question, Dr Ephgrave of Harley Street. From him I heard the true story. The young woman was a teacher at a school owned by Frank Devonport and Oliver Prowd. When Monsieur Prowd’s father grew so ill that he could not leave his sick bed, he expressed a wish to his son. He knew he had little time left and he wanted to learn a new skill—to use his mind for something stimulating, for as long as he had a mind left to use. Alors, Monsieur Prowd asked this young woman, this teacher, to come to the house and teach the French language—that was her subject—to his dying father.

  ‘This arrangement worked well. Otto Prowd was happier for a while, until his health deteriorated to the point where he could no longer proceed with the lessons. He was close to death … and yet, at the same time, not so close.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Richard Devonport.

  ‘By now the young teacher had grown fond of the old man, who had been such a keen and good pupil. When Oliver Prowd told her that in the opinion of Dr Ephgrave it might be another month before Otto Prowd died, the young woman decided that this was intolerable. Oliver Prowd agreed: he did not wish his father to spend the next month in agony with no hope of recovery. Together, the two of them went to Dr Ephgrave and begged him to end the suffering of the old man, to give him a drug that would enable him to pass out of life immediately and peacefully. Alas, the doctor would not agree to the suggestion.’

  ‘He was a dreadful prig,’ said Oliver.

  ‘Two hours after Dr Ephgrave had refused to help with this plan, Otto Prowd was dead,’ Poirot told the assembled group. ‘Who was it that held down the pillow over his face, Monsieur Prowd? Surely you will tell us now. Dr Ephgrave said nothing to the police because he saw no way to prove it, but he suspected that either you or the French teacher smothered your father to death. He is correct, is he not? This was the unchristian thing that you did, together with a young woman?’

  Oliver nodded. ‘We couldn’t bear to see him suffer like that. He wanted us to do it. We did it with his full agreement—both of us, together. We agreed: it had to be done that way or not at all, so that we would share the responsibility. We both pressed down on the pillow. It was horrible, but it was necessary. It felt right. Father was spared any further suffering.’

  ‘You, however, were not,’ said Poirot. ‘Pas du tout. Your conscience troubled you excessively—as it should have done. We humans have no right to play God, Monsieur Prowd. Yes, there is sickness and there is suffering—but it is not our place to decide when life should end. Your conscience knew this even if you did not. It troubled you so gravely that you decided, shortly after the deed was done, that you did not wish to share the blame. You decided that the smothering to death of Otto Prowd was mainly the fault of the young woman who had been your collaborator.’

  ‘Yes. I was vicious and unkind to her. She was the stronger of the two of us. Oh, not physically, but her will was stronger. I persuaded myself that, were it not for her influence …’ He did not finish the sentence.

  ‘Exactly as you had blamed Frank Devonport for the theft of his parents’ money, even though you had known about this, too, in advance,’ said Poirot. ‘You had agreed to it and profited from it! You are a moral coward, Monsieur Prowd! Do you think that you can kill once and be untarnished? You cannot! That is why it was so easy for you to take another life, when Winnie Lord said to you words that you very much did not want to hear.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know what I am?’ Oliver said bitterly. ‘I know it better than you. I feel terrible about the way I treated both of them, Frank and … the teacher. I feel wretched about Winnie Lord too, and even about your stolen money, Sidney—but I will never regret saving my father from the agony he was having to endure. Never!’

  ‘Please do not torment him, M. Poirot.’ There were tears in Daisy’s eyes. ‘Have you never been afraid of anything? Are you so perfectly moral and pure that you have nothing to rebuke yourself for? I tell you, the killing of Winnie was my fault. Let me hang for it instead of Oliver!’

  Poirot ignored her. ‘Once I had heard this story from Dr Ephgrave, suddenly everything fell into place,’ he said. ‘At last I was able to explain the most bothersome detail of this whole affair, a detail that appeared to make no sense at all.’

  ‘What detail?’ asked Richard.

  ‘Before I tell you that, I wish to ask a question of you, Mademoiselle Helen.’

  ‘Ask it,’ she said.

  ‘How did you and Frank Devonport meet?’

  ‘You know the answer to that.’

  ‘Oh, I do. Indeed I do.’

  I didn’t. From the looks on their faces, neither did anyone else in the room.

  ‘Frank Devonport must have spoken to you of his old friend Oliver Prowd, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Helen. ‘He talked about Oliver rather a lot, and they were still acquainted in business, though they no longer saw one another.’

  ‘C’est ça,’ Poirot said. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Frank Devonport did not know about the engagement of Oliver Prowd to his sister Daisy. He was estranged from both of them, so how would he know? And for the same reason of estrangement, neither Daisy Devonport nor Oliver Prowd knew of Frank’s engagement to Helen Acton.’

  ‘Why are you telling us this?’ Lilian Devonport asked. ‘What possible relevance can it have?’

  ‘Mademoiselle Helen,’ said Poirot. ‘Did Frank Devonport ever tell you that Oliver Prowd was dark-haired and handsome?’

  Helen looked surprised. ‘No. Men do not generally say such things about other men. He spoke only of Oliver’s character and their relationship.’

  ‘Nothing whatsoever about his physical appearance, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mademoiselle, I have heard now several accounts of how you ran down the stairs, seized Oliver Prowd by the arms and confessed to him that you had murdered Frank. You agree that this is what happened?’

  Helen nodded.

  ‘
You said to him, according to more than one person who witnessed the scene, “I killed him, Oliver.” At that moment there were three men standing in the entrance hall: Godfrey Laviolette, Oliver Prowd and Percy Semley. They had all just arrived from Kingfisher’s View. As Frank’s new fiancée, coming for the first time to Little Key, you had met none of them before. This was the first time you could conceivably have laid eyes upon any of them, yes? I suggest to you, mademoiselle, that you therefore could not have known that the handsome man with the dark hair was Oliver Prowd, or that he was named Oliver. You had not been introduced to him, so how could you have known it was he?

  ‘And yet I did,’ said Helen with a small, sad smile. ‘Je le savais aussi bien que je connaissais mon propre nom.’

  Why on earth was she suddenly speaking in French, I wondered. Then I tumbled to it all at once. ‘You are the French teacher?’ I asked her. ‘You … you knew Oliver already?’

  Helen nodded. ‘He was the last person I expected to find at Frank’s parents’ house. As you say, M. Poirot, Frank also had no idea that Oliver would be here or that he was engaged to Daisy. Then, when I met Daisy and she started to talk about her fiancé, Oliver … well, the truth soon became apparent: it was the same Oliver! Frank was surprised but not horrified, as I was. He had nothing to fear. I was in such a terrible panic, I had to leave the drawing room and go upstairs. All I could think about was Oliver returning from the other house and telling Frank the one thing I had never told him, the one thing I would sooner have died than have him know—that I was a killer and, even worse, that I had kept it from him. Honesty, integrity … Frank valued these qualities above all else. How could I make sure he never found out? I couldn’t think of anything! I was half wild with panic. Then Frank came to my room and I … I had to pretend to be perfectly all right. And then we heard the front door, and the voices …’ Helen stopped and stared into the distance. It was as if she was watching this scene from the past unfold before her eyes.

  ‘And then Frank walked out onto the landing,’ said Poirot quietly. ‘You followed him and saw Oliver Prowd in the entrance hall below. Now, imminently, it seemed certain that Frank would discover the truth. And he could not be allowed to know. The man you loved more than anything in the world could not live to see you hang for the murder of Otto Prowd. And so … you pushed him to his death.’

  ‘I did not mean to,’ said Helen. ‘Yes, I did it, but there was no intention. I was out of my mind—not capable of rational thought in that moment. My hands seemed to move without my awareness. And then Frank was falling from the balcony and it was too late.’

  ‘Mademoiselle, if you had not intended it, it would not have happened,’ said Poirot. ‘Hands do not move unless minds make them move. Like Monsieur Prowd, you had killed before—on that occasion, you believed that you had an excellent reason for doing so. In the case of Frank, you try to tell me that no reason or choice was involved. Neither of these statements is the truth! There can be no justification for such actions. And once a first murder has been committed, the second becomes so much easier. The law against killing our fellow men and women is not there only to protect them, but also to protect us from our worst impulses.’

  ‘You may think and believe what you wish,’ said Helen. ‘Remember, M. Poirot, I am not trying to escape justice. All I want, all I have wanted for some time, is to die and be with Frank again. I confessed immediately—and I only lied about why I did it to protect Oliver. I did not want him to hang for what we had done to Otto. I agree with him: to end a person’s suffering, at their express request, when death is so imminent. I do not believe that to be a sin.’

  ‘The law disagrees,’ Poirot told her.

  ‘As soon as I had pushed Frank and he was falling, I … I knew that I had made the most appalling mistake,’ said Helen.

  ‘Indeed. You made a serious miscalculation,’ said Poirot. ‘Monsieur Prowd would never have told Frank that the two of you had together killed his father. He wished to protect himself as much as you did.’

  ‘I realized that only once it was too late,’ said Helen. ‘Until then, all I could think was that Oliver had blamed me for what we did to his father—me alone. Oliver, did you not insist over and over that I had forced that course of action upon you? I thought that at any moment you would look up, see me on the balcony and say, “There’s the woman who murdered my father.” And then … then Frank was falling and hitting the ground—and Frank was dead and I wanted to die too. Only moments earlier I had been desperate to avoid the gallows for the murder of Otto. Now Frank was dead, it was my fault, and suddenly the gallows were all I wanted.’

  ‘So you ran down the stairs and confessed to Oliver Prowd what you had done,’ said Poirot. ‘He was kind to you then, having been unkind the last time you had encountered him. You could afford to be sympathetic this time, Monsieur Prowd—here was a death for which you were not responsible.’

  Richard Devonport had stood up and was walking slowly across the room to where Helen sat by the piano. ‘I was so sure you were innocent,’ he said to her. ‘So sure. Your love for Frank … well, I never doubted it. I thought it meant that you would never have killed him. I thought that M. Poirot would find out the truth and …’ He left the sentence unfinished.

  ‘And what, Richard?’ said Helen. ‘You thought I would then love you the way I had loved Frank, because you would have been my saviour?’

  Violently, he turned away from her.

  Poirot nodded to Sergeant Gidley, who rose to his feet and pulled two sets of handcuffs out of his two trouser pockets. ‘Miss Acton, you are already convicted of the murder of Frank Devonport and you are soon to pay the price for your crime.’

  ‘Thank goodness.’ Helen closed her eyes and smiled.

  ‘Oliver Prowd,’ said Gidley. ‘I am arresting you for the murders of Otto Prowd and Winnifred Lord.’

  ‘No,’ Daisy gasped. ‘No! Oliver! Where are you taking him?’ She staggered to her feet as Sergeant Gidley and Marcus Capeling led Oliver Prowd and Helen Acton from the room. ‘Stop. Stop at once! M. Poirot, this is quite wrong. Winnie’s death was my fault—you know it was. If I had not asked Oliver to marry me, he would not have been at the house when Frank brought Helen here and …’ She closed her eyes tightly. ‘Why can one not undo the past? If only it were possible. Poor, poor Helen. Can’t you see that she never intended to harm anyone? I thought you were supposed to be clever!’

  ‘Mademoiselle, I am afraid that …’

  ‘No! Do not say a word, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want Oliver to die! Or Winnie, or Frank. Or you, Mother. I don’t want anyone to die. Let us stay in this room forever and never open the door. We can tell ourselves the lie that all is well and that all the harm that’s been done can be undone.’ I saw an expression on her face then that I had never seen there before: peacefulness. ‘I find that I am able to believe it,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Please, nobody say a single word. Please let me go on believing it for as long as I possibly can.’

  EPILOGUE

  Three Weeks Later

  ‘Catchpool?’

  I looked up from the papers in front of me. ‘Poirot! What are you doing here? Did Blanche Unsworth let you in?’ My face felt rather hot, and I did my best to look innocent.

  ‘Oui, mon ami.’ He smiled. ‘How else would I appear in her drawing room to find you here? I do not have the magic powers to move through walls.’

  Hastily, I pushed the papers out of the way as if they were irrelevant and uninteresting, and picked up a newspaper instead.

  ‘You did not hear my arrival or my conversation in the hallway with Madame Unsworth?’

  ‘Hmm?’ I pretended to concentrate on the news headlines in front of me. ‘Gosh, listen to this: it seems we have a new political party. Did you know that? It’s called the—’

  ‘I find it interesting that you did not hear,’ Poirot interrupted my attempt to distract him. ‘You were absorbed in your papers, were you not? Not the newspaper, but those pa
pers there.’ He pointed. ‘What are they?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  He had started to walk slowly towards them and would see them at any moment unless I leapt to cover them up. I sighed and said, ‘Don’t laugh at me if I tell you. I’m working on a new board game. Inventing one, I mean.’

  ‘Catchpool!’ My friend’s eyes sparkled with delight. ‘You have been inspired by Peepers, yes?’

  ‘Quite the opposite,’ I told him. ‘No board game should have rules that look anything like the rules of Peepers looked. They’re far too complicated and would make anyone want to run for his life. I am determined to invent a board game that is perfectly simple, yet at the same time immensely satisfying.

  ‘Speaking of satisfying …’ I said

  ‘Yes, mon ami?’

  ‘That whole business at Kingfisher Hill …’

  ‘What of it?

  ‘Were you, are you … satisfied with the way it all turned out?’

  ‘Ah! Allow me to ask you: were you dissatisfied? We arrived at the truth, did we not?’

  ‘Yes, but … what if it’s true that Helen Acton was momentarily not in her right mind when she pushed Frank over the balcony? And the whole Otto Prowd affair … He was in terrible pain and so close to death … Dr Ephgrave said so, didn’t he?’

  Poirot nodded. ‘I see what causes you the struggle. Yes, my friend, it is always easier when the criminal gives one the satisfaction of being very clearly the embodiment of evil with no contradiction in his character—only the badness from top to bottom. Sadly, this is rarely the truth of any human being. It is possible to feel the sympathy for a person who has done something terrible and at the same time hold them responsible for their actions. The satisfaction of solving a murder, in such instances, comes from two sources: the belief that the law must be upheld in even the most difficult of circumstances, and then following that law without allowing your resolve to be swayed by pity for the perpetrators who must now face justice.’