Closed Casket: The New Hercule Poirot Mystery (Hercule Poirot Mystery 2) by Sophie Hannah Page A
Authors: Sophie Hannah
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Soon there will be no pain to speak of. Not very observant, are you?’
‘I hope that I am,’ I said coolly.
‘Well, you have failed to notice this: nothing that happens to Orville Rolfe is ever in any way attributable to Orville Rolfe. His chair creaks because it is poorly made; his feet ache because modern shoe-making techniques are lacking; his stomach pain is the fault of a mysterious poisoner and nothing to do with his determination, against the odds, to inhale an entire chicken in a fraction of a second. Look at him now!’
On the bed, Rolfe had started to snore.
Dorro and Claudia Playford appeared in the doorway. ‘What is that foul smell?’ asked Dorro. ‘Is it cyanide? Doesn’t cyanide smell vile like that?’
‘There is no cyanide, and Mr Rolfe is fine,’ said Kimpton. ‘And my index finger is the hero of the hour, though far too modest to draw attention to its own stellar performance.’ He wiggled it in the air.
Harry Playford appeared, out of breath. ‘Poison!’ he announced to his wife. ‘Rolfe has been poisoned. Catchpool said so.’
‘What? But he’s sleeping peacefully,’ said Dorro.
‘He said something strange,’ I told them all. It appeared that Kimpton’s diagnosis was correct on this occasion, but it was beyond me how anybody could feel triumphant about the release of some gas while ignoring Rolfe’s peculiar story about the people who had discussed his death.
Nobody asked me to expand upon what I had said. They were all too busy laughing about Randall Kimpton’s finger, or backing away from it in mock disgust, or (in Harry’s case) staring at it with great admiration, as if it were the Poet Laureate. Not that Harry would have any interest in the Poet Laureate, I expect, unless there was a chance of stuffing his head and mounting it on a wall.
Where the devil was Poirot?
CHAPTER 11
Overheard Voices
Poirot finally appeared and his face was a picture! Never had I seen a mere expression so full of urgent questions. Before he could ask any, I started to tell him what he needed to know. ‘He’s recovering fast. Cried poison at first, which gave me a bit of a fright. Why should anybody wish to harm Orville Rolfe? It turns out that maybe they did not. Look, he’s regained some colour in his cheeks. Kimpton says all is well, and he’s the doctor.’
‘Though my credentials were questioned by the patient,’ said Kimpton. ‘Ungrateful cur!’
I walked over to Poirot and said in a whisper, so as not to be overheard, ‘Rolfe said something that worried me.’ I was determined to tell this story to someone who would take it seriously.
‘Wait,
mon ami.
Have you checked on Lady Playford?’
‘Yes. She was perfectly well. And, really, her room is only across the landing. With all of us up here attending to Rolfe, no one would go anywhere near Lady Playford if their intention was to murder her and get away unnoticed. Besides, I don’t think any of us has been alone for a moment.’
‘Some killers work in pairs, don’t they?’ said Kimpton, looking gleeful about having managed to eavesdrop successfully. Confound the man!
‘Although, I grant you, it is hard to imagine that level of cooperation and shared purpose at Lillieoak,’ he added.
‘Continue, Catchpool.’ Poirot dismissed the doctor’s frivolity with a cold look.
There was no point trying to keep this part quiet, since Kimpton had heard it himself. ‘Rolfe said something odd about an open casket,’ I told Poirot. ‘He said—’
‘Wait a moment, please. Viscount Playford, Dr Kimpton—go outside, please, and look for Michael Gathercole and Sophie Bourlet. Both are still unaccounted for.’
‘Will do, old boy,’ said Harry. He left the room at once.
‘I am going to bed,’ said Dorro. ‘It has been a horrible, exhausting evening.’
Kimpton said to Poirot, ‘Gathercole and Sophie might be unaccounted for, but they are both grown-ups who may do as they please. As may I, now that Mr Rolfe’s
‘I hope that I am,’ I said coolly.
‘Well, you have failed to notice this: nothing that happens to Orville Rolfe is ever in any way attributable to Orville Rolfe. His chair creaks because it is poorly made; his feet ache because modern shoe-making techniques are lacking; his stomach pain is the fault of a mysterious poisoner and nothing to do with his determination, against the odds, to inhale an entire chicken in a fraction of a second. Look at him now!’
On the bed, Rolfe had started to snore.
Dorro and Claudia Playford appeared in the doorway. ‘What is that foul smell?’ asked Dorro. ‘Is it cyanide? Doesn’t cyanide smell vile like that?’
‘There is no cyanide, and Mr Rolfe is fine,’ said Kimpton. ‘And my index finger is the hero of the hour, though far too modest to draw attention to its own stellar performance.’ He wiggled it in the air.
Harry Playford appeared, out of breath. ‘Poison!’ he announced to his wife. ‘Rolfe has been poisoned. Catchpool said so.’
‘What? But he’s sleeping peacefully,’ said Dorro.
‘He said something strange,’ I told them all. It appeared that Kimpton’s diagnosis was correct on this occasion, but it was beyond me how anybody could feel triumphant about the release of some gas while ignoring Rolfe’s peculiar story about the people who had discussed his death.
Nobody asked me to expand upon what I had said. They were all too busy laughing about Randall Kimpton’s finger, or backing away from it in mock disgust, or (in Harry’s case) staring at it with great admiration, as if it were the Poet Laureate. Not that Harry would have any interest in the Poet Laureate, I expect, unless there was a chance of stuffing his head and mounting it on a wall.
Where the devil was Poirot?
CHAPTER 11
Overheard Voices
Poirot finally appeared and his face was a picture! Never had I seen a mere expression so full of urgent questions. Before he could ask any, I started to tell him what he needed to know. ‘He’s recovering fast. Cried poison at first, which gave me a bit of a fright. Why should anybody wish to harm Orville Rolfe? It turns out that maybe they did not. Look, he’s regained some colour in his cheeks. Kimpton says all is well, and he’s the doctor.’
‘Though my credentials were questioned by the patient,’ said Kimpton. ‘Ungrateful cur!’
I walked over to Poirot and said in a whisper, so as not to be overheard, ‘Rolfe said something that worried me.’ I was determined to tell this story to someone who would take it seriously.
‘Wait,
mon ami.
Have you checked on Lady Playford?’
‘Yes. She was perfectly well. And, really, her room is only across the landing. With all of us up here attending to Rolfe, no one would go anywhere near Lady Playford if their intention was to murder her and get away unnoticed. Besides, I don’t think any of us has been alone for a moment.’
‘Some killers work in pairs, don’t they?’ said Kimpton, looking gleeful about having managed to eavesdrop successfully. Confound the man!
‘Although, I grant you, it is hard to imagine that level of cooperation and shared purpose at Lillieoak,’ he added.
‘Continue, Catchpool.’ Poirot dismissed the doctor’s frivolity with a cold look.
There was no point trying to keep this part quiet, since Kimpton had heard it himself. ‘Rolfe said something odd about an open casket,’ I told Poirot. ‘He said—’
‘Wait a moment, please. Viscount Playford, Dr Kimpton—go outside, please, and look for Michael Gathercole and Sophie Bourlet. Both are still unaccounted for.’
‘Will do, old boy,’ said Harry. He left the room at once.
‘I am going to bed,’ said Dorro. ‘It has been a horrible, exhausting evening.’
Kimpton said to Poirot, ‘Gathercole and Sophie might be unaccounted for, but they are both grown-ups who may do as they please. As may I, now that Mr Rolfe’s
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