Closed Casket: The New Hercule Poirot Mystery (Hercule Poirot Mystery 2) by Sophie Hannah Page B
Authors: Sophie Hannah
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digestive problems are happily resolved. And what I wish to do is take my dearest one here and exchange a few sweet nothings before retiring for the night. Is that permitted, Poirot? I don’t understand why you and Catchpool have decided to proceed as if a murder is imminent, but you can hardly expect us all to play along with the charade, if I may be blunt—which I’m afraid I just have been.’
‘You must do as you choose, monsieur.’
‘Jolly dee! Well, good night, then!’ He took Claudia’s arm and steered her out of the room.
Poirot and I were left alone with Rolfe. Small snorting sounds came from him at regular intervals and his eyelids fluttered.
Finally I was able to tell Poirot what Rolfe had said about the open casket argument. Poirot listened carefully. Then, without a word by way of response, he crouched down by the side of the bed and gave one of the lawyer’s large pink cheeks a slap.
Rolfe’s eyes opened. ‘Steady on, old fellow,’ he said.
‘You must wake up immediately,’ said Poirot.
This provoked a look of confusion. ‘Am I not awake now?’
‘You are, monsieur. Do not fall asleep again, please. Catchpool tells me that you overheard someone saying that you must die, and that you must have an open casket funeral. Is that true? Did you hear this?’
‘I did. That’s why, when I thought I might have been poisoned … but the discomfort has eased considerably, so I am content to bow to Dr Kimpton’s expertise. It was not poison after all.’
‘Please repeat to me the exact words you heard, about the open casket,’ said Poirot.
‘
He
said I must die, and that there was no other way. And they talked about my funeral—it had to be open casket, that’s what they said.’
‘Who is “he”?’
‘I don’t know. I could not hear clearly. A man—that is all I can tell you. A man saying I had to die. And a woman …’ Rolfe stopped, frowned, carried on. ‘Yes, yes, a woman was trying to talk him out of it. I think it was only the man who wanted me dead.’
‘Did you recognize the voice of the woman?’ Poirot asked.
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘When did you hear this conversation?’
Rolfe looked a touch afraid to offer yet another disappointing answer. ‘I couldn’t tell you. Some time this afternoon. They were talking in the parlour, in lowered voices. They did not know I was in the library at the time, reading the newspaper.’
‘Is the library close to the parlour?’ asked Poirot.
‘Adjoining. There’s a door between the two rooms. It was ever so slightly ajar. And it was not a conversation, it was a passionate disagreement. The woman disagreed about the need for an open casket. She was angry, and then he got angry too, and she said, “Would you be so severe with
her
, or did you love her too much?” And then he said … oh dear!’
‘Why “oh dear”, monsieur?’
‘No, blast it, I shall carry on,’ said Rolfe. ‘He assured her that nothing could be further from the truth, that she was his one and only true love.’
My mind filled with names—possible pairings. I’m sure Poirot’s did too. Harry and Dorro, Claudia and Randall, Joseph Scotcher and Sophie Bourlet. My fourth pair was more of a stretch: Michael Gathercole and Sophie Bourlet. I had no reason to assume there was any kind of romantic bond between them; it was only that they were the two people missing.
‘I remember that phrase distinctly: “my one and only true love”,’ Rolfe said. ‘But I do wonder … The more I think about it, the more I wonder if I might have imagined it all.’
I feared Poirot might slap him again, and harder this time.
‘Imagined?’ he said ominously.
‘Yes. You see, I remember hearing all that, but not
thinking about
having heard it. I don’t recall saying to myself, “Who might that be? I wonder if I could take a peek and see who it is.” Surely I would have been keen to know, after all that talk of murder. Though all the overblown romantic
‘You must do as you choose, monsieur.’
‘Jolly dee! Well, good night, then!’ He took Claudia’s arm and steered her out of the room.
Poirot and I were left alone with Rolfe. Small snorting sounds came from him at regular intervals and his eyelids fluttered.
Finally I was able to tell Poirot what Rolfe had said about the open casket argument. Poirot listened carefully. Then, without a word by way of response, he crouched down by the side of the bed and gave one of the lawyer’s large pink cheeks a slap.
Rolfe’s eyes opened. ‘Steady on, old fellow,’ he said.
‘You must wake up immediately,’ said Poirot.
This provoked a look of confusion. ‘Am I not awake now?’
‘You are, monsieur. Do not fall asleep again, please. Catchpool tells me that you overheard someone saying that you must die, and that you must have an open casket funeral. Is that true? Did you hear this?’
‘I did. That’s why, when I thought I might have been poisoned … but the discomfort has eased considerably, so I am content to bow to Dr Kimpton’s expertise. It was not poison after all.’
‘Please repeat to me the exact words you heard, about the open casket,’ said Poirot.
‘
He
said I must die, and that there was no other way. And they talked about my funeral—it had to be open casket, that’s what they said.’
‘Who is “he”?’
‘I don’t know. I could not hear clearly. A man—that is all I can tell you. A man saying I had to die. And a woman …’ Rolfe stopped, frowned, carried on. ‘Yes, yes, a woman was trying to talk him out of it. I think it was only the man who wanted me dead.’
‘Did you recognize the voice of the woman?’ Poirot asked.
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘When did you hear this conversation?’
Rolfe looked a touch afraid to offer yet another disappointing answer. ‘I couldn’t tell you. Some time this afternoon. They were talking in the parlour, in lowered voices. They did not know I was in the library at the time, reading the newspaper.’
‘Is the library close to the parlour?’ asked Poirot.
‘Adjoining. There’s a door between the two rooms. It was ever so slightly ajar. And it was not a conversation, it was a passionate disagreement. The woman disagreed about the need for an open casket. She was angry, and then he got angry too, and she said, “Would you be so severe with
her
, or did you love her too much?” And then he said … oh dear!’
‘Why “oh dear”, monsieur?’
‘No, blast it, I shall carry on,’ said Rolfe. ‘He assured her that nothing could be further from the truth, that she was his one and only true love.’
My mind filled with names—possible pairings. I’m sure Poirot’s did too. Harry and Dorro, Claudia and Randall, Joseph Scotcher and Sophie Bourlet. My fourth pair was more of a stretch: Michael Gathercole and Sophie Bourlet. I had no reason to assume there was any kind of romantic bond between them; it was only that they were the two people missing.
‘I remember that phrase distinctly: “my one and only true love”,’ Rolfe said. ‘But I do wonder … The more I think about it, the more I wonder if I might have imagined it all.’
I feared Poirot might slap him again, and harder this time.
‘Imagined?’ he said ominously.
‘Yes. You see, I remember hearing all that, but not
thinking about
having heard it. I don’t recall saying to myself, “Who might that be? I wonder if I could take a peek and see who it is.” Surely I would have been keen to know, after all that talk of murder. Though all the overblown romantic
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