Closed Casket: The New Hercule Poirot Mystery (Hercule Poirot Mystery 2) by Sophie Hannah
Authors: Sophie Hannah
Ads: Link
vulgar.
‘Dr Kimpton, please go to Mr Rolfe without delay,’ said Poirot. ‘Catchpool, you go with him.’
‘I will, but that’s not all: Gathercole and Sophie Bourlet—both are not in their rooms. I don’t know where they are.’
‘Viscount Playford and I will look for them,’ said Poirot. ‘And you two ladies, you will please stay together in this room. Yes?’
‘If you insist,’ said Claudia. ‘But really, don’t you think you are being a little hysterical? Nothing has actually happened apart from Mr Rolfe eating too much. Is there any reason to suppose Gathercole and Sophie have come to harm?’
‘I pray that they have not,’ said Poirot.
As I followed Kimpton upstairs, I heard Claudia say to Dorro, ‘
I
should be the one searching the woods, while that demented Belgian waits in the drawing room and fusses like a girl!’
By the time Kimpton and I reached him, Orville Rolfe’s skin had taken on a ghastly yellow sheen. He lay on his back, stretched out across his bed, with one leg dangling off it. So alarmed was I that I found myself saying to Kimpton, ‘Could it be poison?’
‘What else is it likely to be?’ Rolfe groaned. ‘I’m a goner! I can’t breathe!’
‘Poison my eye!’ said Kimpton briskly, taking Rolfe’s pulse. ‘You’ll be quite all right in no more than an hour—that’s my prediction. Can you turn over and lie on your side? And then bring your knees up to your chest? The more you can alter your position, the better.’
‘I can’t move, I tell you!’
‘Hm.’ Kimpton rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I don’t suppose you’d allow me to sit on your stomach, would you?’
Rolfe yowled like a wounded animal. Then his eyes widened and he tried to sit up. The attempt failed; he fell back down on the bed. ‘I heard them!’ he said.
‘Whom did you hear?’ Kimpton flexed the fingers of both hands as he approached the prone lawyer, as if he were about to sit down at a piano and play a concerto. To me he said, ‘The problem is knowing where to apply the much-needed sharp jab. In a patient of a normal size, the skin is much closer to the organ.’
‘I heard them talking about it,’ Rolfe mumbled as perspiration dripped from his brow onto the pillowcase beneath him. ‘
He
said I had to die, that it could not be helped. And they talked about my funeral!’
‘If you would consider eating less, and more slowly, there’d be no need for anybody to discuss your funeral for a good long while,’ said Kimpton, bending to examine Rolfe’s right side. He flexed his fingers again.
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Mr Rolfe, what exactly did you hear, and who said it?’
‘Well?’ Rolfe yelled at me. ‘Had to be open casket, that’s what they said. “Open casket: it’s the only way.” Poison, you see. That’s how I know. If you poison someone … Oh, the agony! Do something, Kimpton—are you a doctor or not?’
‘Most certainly am!’ With that, Kimpton thrust his index finger at great speed into the southerly region of Rolfe’s middle section.
The lawyer let out a frightful howl. I took a step back. Voices were coming from outside: the sound of two people talking. ‘Ha!’ Kimpton declared triumphantly. ‘First time lucky, I believe. You should feel better very soon, old boy.’
I opened the window. ‘Poirot? Is that you?’ I shouted into the night.
‘
Oui
,
mon ami.
I am with the Viscount.’
‘Hallo up there!’ Harry Playford called out cheerfully—like a man who had forgotten that he had been disinherited earlier in the evening.
‘Come quickly. Rolfe might have been poisoned.’
The lawyer had not completed his sentence, but I thought I knew what he had been trying to say: that if you wanted or needed to give somebody an open casket funeral, poison was a method of murder that left the face intact.
‘Utter rot, Catchpool.’ Kimpton sounded disappointed in me. ‘My diagnosis was correct: trapped wind. Look, he’s stopped sweating, you will notice.
‘Dr Kimpton, please go to Mr Rolfe without delay,’ said Poirot. ‘Catchpool, you go with him.’
‘I will, but that’s not all: Gathercole and Sophie Bourlet—both are not in their rooms. I don’t know where they are.’
‘Viscount Playford and I will look for them,’ said Poirot. ‘And you two ladies, you will please stay together in this room. Yes?’
‘If you insist,’ said Claudia. ‘But really, don’t you think you are being a little hysterical? Nothing has actually happened apart from Mr Rolfe eating too much. Is there any reason to suppose Gathercole and Sophie have come to harm?’
‘I pray that they have not,’ said Poirot.
As I followed Kimpton upstairs, I heard Claudia say to Dorro, ‘
I
should be the one searching the woods, while that demented Belgian waits in the drawing room and fusses like a girl!’
By the time Kimpton and I reached him, Orville Rolfe’s skin had taken on a ghastly yellow sheen. He lay on his back, stretched out across his bed, with one leg dangling off it. So alarmed was I that I found myself saying to Kimpton, ‘Could it be poison?’
‘What else is it likely to be?’ Rolfe groaned. ‘I’m a goner! I can’t breathe!’
‘Poison my eye!’ said Kimpton briskly, taking Rolfe’s pulse. ‘You’ll be quite all right in no more than an hour—that’s my prediction. Can you turn over and lie on your side? And then bring your knees up to your chest? The more you can alter your position, the better.’
‘I can’t move, I tell you!’
‘Hm.’ Kimpton rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I don’t suppose you’d allow me to sit on your stomach, would you?’
Rolfe yowled like a wounded animal. Then his eyes widened and he tried to sit up. The attempt failed; he fell back down on the bed. ‘I heard them!’ he said.
‘Whom did you hear?’ Kimpton flexed the fingers of both hands as he approached the prone lawyer, as if he were about to sit down at a piano and play a concerto. To me he said, ‘The problem is knowing where to apply the much-needed sharp jab. In a patient of a normal size, the skin is much closer to the organ.’
‘I heard them talking about it,’ Rolfe mumbled as perspiration dripped from his brow onto the pillowcase beneath him. ‘
He
said I had to die, that it could not be helped. And they talked about my funeral!’
‘If you would consider eating less, and more slowly, there’d be no need for anybody to discuss your funeral for a good long while,’ said Kimpton, bending to examine Rolfe’s right side. He flexed his fingers again.
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Mr Rolfe, what exactly did you hear, and who said it?’
‘Well?’ Rolfe yelled at me. ‘Had to be open casket, that’s what they said. “Open casket: it’s the only way.” Poison, you see. That’s how I know. If you poison someone … Oh, the agony! Do something, Kimpton—are you a doctor or not?’
‘Most certainly am!’ With that, Kimpton thrust his index finger at great speed into the southerly region of Rolfe’s middle section.
The lawyer let out a frightful howl. I took a step back. Voices were coming from outside: the sound of two people talking. ‘Ha!’ Kimpton declared triumphantly. ‘First time lucky, I believe. You should feel better very soon, old boy.’
I opened the window. ‘Poirot? Is that you?’ I shouted into the night.
‘
Oui
,
mon ami.
I am with the Viscount.’
‘Hallo up there!’ Harry Playford called out cheerfully—like a man who had forgotten that he had been disinherited earlier in the evening.
‘Come quickly. Rolfe might have been poisoned.’
The lawyer had not completed his sentence, but I thought I knew what he had been trying to say: that if you wanted or needed to give somebody an open casket funeral, poison was a method of murder that left the face intact.
‘Utter rot, Catchpool.’ Kimpton sounded disappointed in me. ‘My diagnosis was correct: trapped wind. Look, he’s stopped sweating, you will notice.
Similar Books
