The Killings at Kingfisher Hill Read online

‘How can you know this for sure?’

  ‘Speak to her and you will be as sure as I am. She had no reason to want Frank dead. None whatsoever. She … she loved him dearly.’

  ‘Let us suppose that both women are innocent: your sister and Helen Acton. That means that Frank was killed by someone else, does it not? Who do you think could have killed him? Who had a reason to do so?’

  ‘I don’t know! No one.’ His answer was a little too quick and insistent. ‘My concern is for the innocent. I don’t want either Helen or Daisy to hang, and I don’t believe that one of them must.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked him.

  ‘If two people confess to the same murder, and both insist that they did it—they and nobody else—and there are no witnesses to anything, then surely nobody can be hanged,’ said Richard Devonport. The relief in his voice made it plain that this was his favoured outcome, and no matter that the murder victim was his own brother. ‘Each confession would cancel out the other one and there would be no way to discover what really happened. No way at all.’

  CHAPTER 8

  The Chronology

  Two days later, Poirot and I were in the village of Chiddingfold, taking afternoon tea in the home of Inspector Marcus Capeling of Surrey Police. Our enquiries had come up with the name of Capeling as having been in charge of the investigation into Frank Devonport’s murder. Happily, he had at once expressed a willingness to talk to us, and, upon our arrival, had turned out to be a congenial fellow. He looked far too young to be a police inspector.

  His wife had greeted us at the door with what had struck me as excessive delight, and I soon understood why. She was one of those women who puts plates loaded with all sorts of baked treats in front of you and then cajoles until all present have eaten enough to rupture their stomachs. Poirot and I were not so much welcome guests as necessary repositories for her unbridled catering.

  Mercifully, a neighbour had burst into the Capelings’ sitting room, just as I was being coaxed through a third fruit scone, with news that the Dunbar baby—‘a little cherub if ever there was one’—was now ready to receive visitors, and Mrs Capeling had hurried away with a quantity of wrapped cake slices that would alarm any sensible newborn.

  Once the two women had left, Poirot said to Capeling, ‘Tell us about the murder of Frank Devonport. Do not omit a single detail, please.’ We had already described to him all that had taken place on our journey from London and during our brief stay at Kingfisher Hill. Capeling had said, ‘Well, blow me down!’ so often that I had lost count.

  ‘You know that Helen Acton confessed to the murder immediately?’ he said now.

  ‘I know that she confessed,’ said Poirot. ‘I did not know that it was immediate.’

  ‘Oh, yes. As one of my men said at the time, “She was busy confessing while poor old Frank’s body was still warm.” Stuck to her story ever since, too. And soon she will pay the price for what she did.’ Capeling frowned and rubbed his chin. ‘If indeed it was she who committed the crime. Now that Daisy Devonport has confessed, I’m starting to wonder if I might not have been right all along. Daisy, though …’ He shook his head. ‘I find it difficult to believe she killed her brother, but then again, she’s a hard one to make sense of—probably the most interesting character of all the Devonports—and I have been wrong before, M. Poirot. Many, many times, in my daily life and in my work.’ He said this quite cheerfully, apparently undisturbed by manifold errors both personal and professional.

  ‘My sincere condolences, mon ami. That cannot be a pleasant experience, I am sure.’

  ‘Ah, well.’ Capeling shrugged. ‘You say you have informed the Home Office of the latest developments? Daisy Devonport’s confession, I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I have spoken to my friends there,’ said Poirot. ‘It was the first visit I made on my return to London.’

  ‘Ah. I only ask because … well, I have heard nothing.’

  ‘Everything is in hand,’ Poirot told him. ‘The execution of Helen Acton is to be delayed and a new investigation of the murder of Frank Devonport will commence. I am afraid that, for a reason I am sure you will understand …’ Poirot paused tactfully.

  ‘Oh, quite. Quite.’ Capeling looked relieved. ‘I expect the Home Office will send it up to Scotland Yard? The Devonport family … well, they’re not any old Jack or Jill. The case was only assigned to us local police because it seemed so straightforward—until one met the people involved, that is. It was thought that to keep it as a Surrey police matter might put a limit on any damage to the family’s name. Keep it out of the London newspapers, you know.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Poirot, ‘However, now that this solved case is once again unsolved, Scotland Yard will take it on from here.’ He gestured extravagantly in my direction, like a magician celebrating the reappearance of a formerly vanished object. ‘Inspector Catchpool will lead the investigation and I will offer to him what assistance I can, n’est-ce pas, Catchpool?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I agreed. He and I both knew that it would be the other way round. In truth, I wished that Poirot could lead the charge officially and be seen to do so by all involved. I was not looking forward to our return to Little Key, when I would have to brandish my Scotland Yard credentials and explain to the Devonports that, having thrown me out of their home only days ago, they now had no choice but to admit me once again and answer many upsetting and intrusive questions. That I would be accompanied by Poirot, my partner in deceiving them, would not help to secure a warm reception. I had put all of these points to Poirot on the way to Chiddingfold and he had waved them aside, accusing me of unwarranted pessimism: ‘All will be well, mon cher. Place your trust in Poirot, who has never let you down.’

  Now he said to Marcus Capeling, ‘Inspector, you said a moment ago that you might have been right all along. Right about what? Did you not believe that Helen Acton was guilty, even when she said so?’

  ‘No, I did not. Not at first. She insisted upon it, though, and so I thought … well, why would she risk her neck if she was innocent?’

  ‘Nevertheless, your first opinion was that she was innocent?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid it was.’

  ‘What made you think so?’

  ‘Her grief after the tragedy, for one thing. If you’d seen her, M. Poirot, you’d have thought the same, I’m sure. Never have I seen a plainer case of a woman who wished with all her breaking heart that the man she loved was alive and not dead.’

  ‘The man she loved?’ Poirot sat forward in his chair. He spoke quickly. ‘Don’t you mean to say the brother of the man she loved? She is engaged to be married to Richard Devonport, is she not? Richard Devonport is alive.’

  Capeling’s eyes widened. ‘No, no, M. Poirot. Now Helen Acton is betrothed to Richard Devonport, that is quite true. But that came later, after Frank’s death.’

  Poirot and I looked at one another, unable to believe what we were hearing. His eyes appeared more vividly green and jewel-like than usual, I noticed—like two emeralds under a bright light, though the Capelings’ small sitting room was dimly lit. Many people don’t believe me when I describe what happens to Poirot’s eyes at significant moments in the puzzle-solving process he so loves, but it is quite true. I have seen it happen many times: his eyes take on a peculiar green glow, as if lit from within.

  I cleared my throat and said to Capeling, ‘Do you mean to tell us that Helen Acton and Frank Devonport were, well … what, precisely?’

  ‘Why, when Frank died they were engaged to be married,’ said Capeling. ‘By all accounts they were inseparable and wildly in love. All the family said so.’

  ‘Then how does Richard Devonport fit into the picture?’ I asked.

  Capeling shook his head. ‘That’s the strangest part of it all. You see, before Frank died, Helen Acton did not know Richard Devonport at all. And he did not know her.’

  ‘Yet they ended up betrothed to one another?’ Poirot sounded as baffled as I felt. ‘And this happened a
fter she confessed to killing his brother?’

  ‘Oh, it’s even queerer than that, M. Poirot. There are so many aspects of the situation that defy explanation, I hardly know where to begin. You see, before he introduced Helen to his family as his fiancée, Frank had been estranged from the other Devonports for some time—just as Daisy told you. You know the story. He stole from the family coffers in order to help a friend in need. I daresay Daisy told you who the friend was? The man she plans to marry: Oliver Prowd.’

  In my head, I drew more lines of connection between the Devonports and the various members of their circle. I had already added a new one to my mental picture that led from Helen to Frank, making him not only her murdered almost-brother-in-law but also her murdered almost-husband. Now I created a new line on my imaginary diagram, one that linked Oliver Prowd directly to Frank Devonport. Prowd was no longer simply Daisy Devonport’s fiancé; suddenly he was also the good friend of Frank Devonport and the recipient of the stolen money. Which meant that …

  My mind blurred, then went blank. Too many scones had impaired my deductive functions, but I got there in the end: what this meant was that Daisy Devonport, according to her, had both murdered her brother, Frank the thief, and agreed to marry his accomplice and the beneficiary of his crime.

  Why would Daisy kill one of the people involved in the theft and consent to marry the other? Unless her motive for killing Frank had nothing to do with the stolen money. Equally likely, I reminded myself, was that she had not murdered Frank at all and was lying about having done so.

  ‘Ah, so you didn’t know that Oliver Prowd was the friend Frank Devonport stole for?’ said Capeling.

  ‘Non. Richard Devonport, I now see, has told us very little. He did not tell us that Helen Acton was engaged to be married to his brother at the time of Frank’s murder.’ Poirot shook his head. ‘Having invited Hercule Poirot to his home and asked urgently for his help … Ah, but Monsieur Richard does not believe my help to be necessary any more. He is certain that no one will hang for the murder of his brother now that there are two confessions, each one contradicting the other. Alors, he feels no obligation to furnish me with the additional information. He claims to know no reason why anyone at all should have wished to kill Frank. Yet kill him somebody did!’

  ‘The response from the Home Office so far suggests that Richard Devonport might be correct in his assessment,’ I told Capeling. ‘Helen Acton’s execution has been delayed—and if she and Daisy Devonport both continue to swear to their different versions of what happened, it could well be cancelled altogether …’ I turned to Poirot. ‘I say, imagine if they both wanted Frank dead and worked up this whole plot in advance, knowing that if they both confessed, it would be impossible for the blame to land decisively on either of them.’

  ‘Oh, Catchpool. Anyone would think that you joined the police only today and have not yet received the basic training. Have you forgotten that Daisy Devonport went to considerable effort to conceal her name and identity from me when we first met—and also her destination? She never wished for her confession to reach the police or the Home Office in time to save the life of Helen Acton.’

  Privately I thought, But what if Daisy is cleverer than we think? ‘What kind of man asks for his brother’s murderer’s hand in marriage?’ I asked Marcus Capeling.

  ‘A man who believes she’s innocent, I suppose,’ came the reply.

  I turned to Poirot. ‘Sidney Devonport certainly thinks Helen Acton is guilty, and Richard is plainly terrified of his father. He cringes with fear whenever Sidney opens his mouth, jumps to his every whim …’

  ‘What is your point, mon ami?’

  ‘Are we to suppose that Sidney has no objection to Richard’s engagement to Helen Acton? Or that Richard has been willing to defy him on that matter alone while deferring to him in everything else?’

  ‘We do not at present know enough about the Devonport family members and their relationships with one another,’ said Poirot. ‘It is too early to make suppositions.’

  ‘Do you know about Oliver Prowd’s father?’ Capeling asked. ‘Otto, his name was.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Daisy mentioned him, but not by name. He had a role in the story that she told me.’

  ‘It was not only for Oliver Prowd that Frank Devonport stole all that money,’ said Capeling. ‘It was also for the sake of Oliver’s father, Otto, who was old and sick. The two of them, father and son, had lost all their money when the stock exchange had its little setback. Frank wanted to help them both. When Otto Prowd died, he was once more a wealthy man—that was thanks to Frank Devonport. He and Oliver invested the stolen money and struck gold. Otto was able to live out his last days in comfort. He died knowing that Oliver would have no money worries for the rest of his life. Well, not unless he made some very unwise decisions.’ Capeling wagged his finger suddenly and said ruefully. ‘Which is always possible where money’s involved.’ It sounded as if he might have been speaking from experience.

  ‘Was Daisy Devonport engaged to Oliver Prowd when her brother Frank died?’ Poirot asked.

  Capeling nodded. ‘She was. Although it had not been long, I don’t think. Maybe only a matter of weeks.’

  ‘I see. So the plan for them to marry was not something that happened after the fact, as it were.’

  ‘Not at all—but why do you ask?’ said Capeling.

  ‘It is useful, always, to understand the chronology of human relationships,’ Poirot told him. ‘How everything fits together. There are many questions I would have liked to ask Richard Devonport—many that I did ask him between Kingfisher Hill and London—but he declined to answer, did he not, Catchpool?’

  ‘Yes, he snapped shut like a clam shell,’ I said. ‘Once he had satisfied himself that neither Helen Acton nor Daisy could now hang for Frank’s murder—’

  ‘I don’t see that as being true at all,’ Capeling interjected.

  ‘I agree with you,’ I said. ‘Nothing is guaranteed. This is a highly irregular situation. However, it is what Richard Devonport believes. And it’s why he told Poirot and me that he could not answer questions about his family and concentrate on driving the car at the same time.’

  ‘An excuse,’ said Poirot.

  ‘He tried various others too,’ I said. ‘At one point he professed to be too exhausted by the events of the day and suggested that further discussion would be impossible for him. Personally, I think he has a theory about who did kill his brother but for some reason doesn’t want to tell us. He doesn’t believe it was either Helen or Daisy, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Yes, it is interesting,’ said Poirot. ‘Who else in the household would he wish to protect? His mother, perhaps …’

  I thought of an idea I preferred. ‘Or his father. When one fears a parent to the extent that Richard Devonport fears Sidney Devonport, one might be unwilling to risk an accusation of murder in case the accused is found not guilty and returns home to punish the accuser.’

  ‘A very interesting notion, Catchpool.’ Poirot gave me an encouraging smile and I felt inordinately pleased. ‘Inspector Capeling, I have made arrangements to talk to Helen Acton first thing tomorrow, but in the meantime, my curiosity gets the better of me: did she include in her confession a motive? I assume you asked her why she would kill this man she loved and to whom she was betrothed?’

  ‘Oh, she was very clear about the why of it,’ said Capeling. ‘She said, and insists to this day, that she did it because she loved his brother, Richard, more. Now, if you’ll pardon my saying so, I have always found that hard to believe. Partly because, as I’ve told you, Helen and Richard did not know each other before Frank died. And … well, not that I’m an expert on women’s tastes, but anyone would have had to concede that Frank Devonport was a fine specimen: tall, handsome. Handsome as a movie star—that’s what my wife said when I showed her a photograph. I can’t see any woman falling for his short, plain and quite unremarkable brother instead. It’s not only down to physical appearances, mind you.
Frank, by all accounts, was a man of real character, a born leader. Charismatic is what everyone said, everybody I spoke to. And you’ve met Richard. He’s a timid little mouse, isn’t he? Scurrying around in the background, hoping not to be noticed. No, I can’t see that the future wife of Frank Devonport would lose her heart to his brother. Although I could be wrong. I suppose people want all sorts of things for all kinds of reasons, don’t they?’

  ‘Nobody would believe that murdering a chap’s brother was the way to win his heart,’ I said.

  Poirot shook his head. ‘Remember, Catchpool, we know nothing of the strength or weakness of the Devonport brothers’ fraternal bond. Did Richard seem to you eager for Frank’s killer to be identified and brought to justice? To me, he did not.’ He turned to Marcus Capeling. ‘Twice you have told us that Helen Acton and Richard Devonport did not know one another. Please explain, and be precise. Do you mean that their acquaintance was merely superficial, or—?’

  ‘Oh, I can be precise.’ Capeling chuckled. ‘I can get it down to hours. Probably minutes and seconds if you’d like.’

  ‘Minutes and … and seconds?’ Poirot smoothed down his moustaches. I braced myself for whatever we were about to be told. I expected it to make as little sense as everything else that had befallen us since we had waited on Buckingham Palace Road to board that infernal orange and blue motor-coach.

  ‘Oh, yes, M. Poirot—it was mere hours before Frank died, you see, when they met.’

  ‘Mon ami, do you mean to suggest—?’

  ‘Yes,’ Capeling said. ‘Richard Devonport and Helen Acton made one another’s acquaintance for the very first time on the day of Frank Devonport’s murder.’

  Poirot rose from his chair and walked over to the window, where he stood and looked out at the row of small cottages opposite the Capelings’ house. It was some time before he spoke again. A low-pitched muttering emanated from him, punctuated now and then by muffled exclamations. As I watched the back of his singular, egg-shaped head, I half fancied that it grew larger before my eyes as the finest brain in the land swelled with new thoughts, deductions and questions.