The Killings at Kingfisher Hill Read online

  Eventually, he asked Capeling, ‘Did you tell Helen Acton that you did not believe her story? When she told you that she had known Richard Devonport for only one day …’

  ‘Less than that,’ said Capeling. ‘It was a matter of hours. A small portion of a day.’

  ‘Yet she claimed to have been driven to kill for his sake?’

  ‘Not exactly for his sake, M. Poirot. She said only that she loved him, and … did what she did to Frank in order to be free to marry Richard.’

  I made a scornful noise. ‘Why not simply break off her engagement to Frank Devonport if Richard was the one she loved? There was no need to kill him for that reason alone. Helen Acton is a liar and that’s all there is to it. She might have murdered Frank, but if she did it was for a different reason.’

  ‘All I can tell you is what she told me, Inspector,’ Capeling said. ‘What she kept telling me, every time we spoke: “I did it because I did not love Frank any more. I loved Richard. He was the one I wanted.” Those same words, over and over. Once I had learned the truth from others about the timing of her association with Richard Devonport, I spoke to her again and … well, I put it to her that she and Richard had met only on that very day—the day Frank died.’

  ‘What did she say to that?’ Poirot asked.

  ‘She did not deny it. But she also would not confirm it. And I got the same response from Richard Devonport when I asked him about it.’

  ‘About when they first met?’

  Capeling nodded. ‘Neither of them would answer me on the matter of whether or not they first clapped eyes on each other on that day. All I can tell you is that everybody else present swears that they did.’

  ‘We will come to the details of the day in a moment,’ said Poirot. ‘Inspector, did Helen Acton claim—has she ever claimed—that for Monsieur Richard she experienced love at first sight?’

  Marcus Capeling smiled. ‘“Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night”.’

  ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ I said reflexively. I had studied it at school and its lessons had stayed with me: pursue your romantic urges with no thought for what society will allow and there is a good chance that you will end up in a disadvantageous situation.

  ‘No, Helen has never said anything about love at first sight to me,’ Capeling answered Poirot’s question. ‘Nor to anybody else, as far as I am aware. If I had to guess … well, I would say that she and Richard must have known each other already, before Frank died, but for some reason did not wish to admit it.’

  ‘How soon after the death of Frank did Mademoiselle Helen become engaged to his brother?’ Poirot asked.

  ‘Two weeks. Richard visited her twice in jail—he was keen to do so once he heard that she had named her love for him as the why of it all. In fact …’ Capeling broke off.

  ‘What?’ said Poirot.

  ‘I’ve remembered something: I was there when Richard was first informed of Helen’s … stated reason for the crime she had committed. Never have I seen a man look more astonished or appalled.’

  ‘Appalled?’ I said.

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Capeling. ‘Imagine how you would feel upon discovering that the reason your brother was dead was you. I’d have felt terribly guilty if I’d been in Richard’s position.’

  ‘Would you have wanted, or agreed, to marry your brother’s murderer two weeks later?’ I asked him.

  ‘My friend Catchpool is notorious for never agreeing to marry anybody,’ Poirot told Capeling. ‘He has driven his mother to the end of her wits.’

  ‘Oh, you should get yourself married, Inspector!’ Capeling glanced down at the remaining scones on the table in front of him and smiled. ‘You too, M. Poirot. As a married man, I’d be the first to recommend it.’

  ‘So Richard Devonport was appalled to be loved by the woman who killed his brother,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘Yet soon afterwards, he puts a ring on the finger of this same woman …’

  ‘A ring on her finger,’ Capeling echoed. ‘It’s funny that you should say that, M. Poirot.’

  ‘What is funny?’ Poirot asked.

  ‘At the time of Helen Acton’s arrest she was wearing the ring Frank had given her: a solitaire ruby, it was. Very striking.’

  ‘A ruby?’ I looked at Poirot. ‘Inspector, you have just described Daisy Devonport’s engagement ring. Don’t you remember, Poirot? She was wearing it when we travelled together on the coach.’

  Poirot nodded.

  ‘This is what I’m trying to tell you,’ said Capeling. ‘When I first met Daisy Devonport, she was engaged to be married to Oliver Prowd and wore the ring he had bought for her: an emerald with diamonds around it. Helen Acton, meanwhile, was wearing Frank’s ring: the ruby solitaire. But after the first time Richard visited her at Holloway Prison, Helen asked the guards to find her ruby ring among her effects and send it on to Richard at Kingfisher Hill. A matter of days later, when I visited the Devonport family, Daisy’s emerald and diamond ring was no longer on her finger. Instead, there was the ruby solitaire that Frank had given Helen!’

  ‘Yet Mademoiselle Daisy remains betrothed to Oliver Prowd,’ said Poirot. ‘This is most extraordinary. C’est merveilleuse!’ He clapped his hands together.

  ‘Why is it marvellous?’ I demanded. ‘I don’t think it’s marvellous at all. Frankly, Poirot, I don’t know why you’re bothering.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ His eyes glinted that bright green again. ‘It gives me great pleasure to bother, Catchpool.’

  ‘But you’ll never make sense of any of it! It’s impossible: a riddle without an answer. Helen Acton is lying and Daisy Devonport is lying. Richard Devonport has told us so little that he might as well have lied—in fact, he probably has. And now this business with the rings and people deciding to marry when they barely know each other—never mind that one has been condemned to death, which generally makes marriage impossible! And as for Joan Blythe …’ I made a disgusted noise.

  ‘Aha. I wondered when you would mention her,’ said Poirot. He smiled at Capeling, as if I was a joke to be shared between the two of them. ‘You always come back to her, n’est-ce pas? You believe she is connected to our other mysteries.’

  ‘All I know is that she started it. She was the beginning of everything ceasing to make the slightest bit of sense. And all that has happened since—all that we have seen and heard of, Poirot, without exception—has made even less sense!’

  ‘And this lack of sense infuriates you,’ said Poirot softly. ‘Je comprends bien. But you are in error, my friend, in so many ways. Later I shall explain to you why and you will feel much better.’ He turned to Capeling, ‘Inspector, let us speak of the indisputable facts of Frank Devonport’s death. Start at the beginning, please, and tell me what is known.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Capeling. ‘I shall start with the morning of the day of the murder. You probably know the date: it was December the sixth last year. Frank had previously been sent into exile by his family as a consequence of a theft—you know that already. Banished, he was, with no hope of a reprieve. Well, when his mother Lilian was diagnosed with an illness that her doctor told her was not survivable, when she knew she only had limited time left, it seems that she and Sidney Devonport softened their position somewhat and decided that it was time for Frank to return. He was at the time working as a schoolmaster in Lincolnshire. He and Oliver Prowd had put that excess money they should never have had in the first place—profits from the stolen money they invested—into opening a handful of schools—did you know that?’

  ‘No,’ I said, only to be corrected by Poirot, who told Capeling that, yes, Daisy Devonport had mentioned it to him on the coach and that he had in turn told me about it. I must have forgotten that detail.

  ‘Very successful these schools were too,’ Capeling went on ‘When Frank died, they were sold to the philanthropist Josiah Blantyre for a handsome sum.’

  ‘You raise an important question,’ Poirot said. ‘Who benef
itted financially from Frank Devonport’s death?’

  ‘Sidney and Lilian Devonport, as his next of kin.’

  ‘And did you enquire as to the financial position of Sidney and Lilian Devonport?’ I asked, thinking of people I knew at Scotland Yard who might not have bothered to do so after Helen Acton had confessed so readily.

  ‘Oh, indeed I did,’ Capeling said proudly. ‘It was enough to start my eyes watering, I don’t mind telling you. The Devonports, senior and junior, have got so much money between them that someone could take away three quarters of it and they wouldn’t notice. Well … they might notice,’ he amended. ‘I’m sure they keep a close eye out, after what Frank did. But they would still be immensely wealthy, is my point. No member of the Devonport family has any money worries that would induce them to kill anybody, and that’s for certain.’

  ‘Please return to last year, the sixth of December,’ said Poirot. ‘Start at the beginning.’

  ‘Frank arrived at Little Key with his fiancée Helen Acton at around ten o’clock in the morning,’ said Capeling. ‘When I interviewed them afterwards, Sidney and Lilian Devonport told me that they had felt a certain amount of trepidation about the meeting: the return of their banished son to the family home. They had exchanged letters and spoken over the telephone, but, as I’m sure you can imagine, the prospect of seeing Frank again in the flesh felt rather momentous to them. After communication had been re-established by letter, Frank had given them the news of his engagement to a woman they did not know. What is more, he proposed to bring her with him. A stranger! Lilian made a point of telling me that she had nothing against the young lady—not before that terrible day, I mean to say—but both she and Sidney would have preferred Frank to arrive alone for his first visit after the period of estrangement.’

  ‘Did they communicate this to Frank?’ Poirot asked.

  ‘No,’ said Capeling. ‘They assured me that they offered Helen their warmest welcome and kept their preferences to themselves.’

  ‘They did not wish to endanger the rapprochement.’

  ‘Indeed they did not, M. Poirot. But let me tell you who they made unwelcome that day: everybody else. Some good friends of the family were staying with the Devonports at the time: Godfrey and Verna Laviolette, whom you’ve met, of course. Well, they and the rest of the Devonport family were told that Sidney and Lilian would need to be alone with Frank and Helen when they first arrived, and I have the impression that no one is ever willing to argue with Sidney Devonport when he gets a bee in his bonnet about something—so they were ejected from the house, one and all.’

  ‘Ejected,’ Poirot repeated in a neutral voice.

  ‘That’s right. They went to the home of a neighbour, though not a near neighbour. It was a house on the other side of the Kingfisher Hill Estate: Kingfisher’s View, that was its name. Daisy Devonport complained to me that it had taken an age to walk there and back.’

  ‘Kingfisher’s View?’ I looked at Poirot. ‘Wasn’t that the name of Little Key when it belonged to the Laviolettes, before the Devonports changed it?’

  ‘Non. Little Key was originally called Kingfisher’s Rest.’

  ‘Oh, yes. You are right. Why do you suppose everybody on the estate feels compelled to name everything they own Kingfisher this or that? Kingfisher’s Rest, Kingfisher’s View, the Kingfisher Coach Company. It’s a bit much. The Devonports must be the only residents with some imagination.’

  ‘Mon ami, only a moment ago you complained that they are all liars with too much of the imagination! Continue, please, Inspector Capeling.’

  ‘Sidney and Lilian had their reunion with Frank and they met Helen. All went well from what I understand. The only other person in the house at the time was Winnifred Lord, a servant. The Laviolettes and Richard and Daisy Devonport were at Kingfisher’s View, and Winnifred—Winnie, as I believe she is commonly known—was going to fetch them once Sidney had given permission for them to return. She did this at around two o’clock in the afternoon—though, before that, at a quarter to two, Oliver Prowd had returned from London, and he went straight to Kingfisher’s View as he had been instructed. Then they all waited there—Richard, Daisy, Oliver and the Laviolettes—until they were summoned.’

  ‘So, to summarize: Frank Devonport and Helen Acton arrived at Little Key at ten; and then Oliver Prowd, the Laviolettes and Richard and Daisy Devonport arrived at two o’clock or shortly afterwards,’ said Poirot.

  ‘I believe Oliver stayed a little longer than the others at Kingfisher’s View,’ said Marcus Capeling. ‘But, yes, he too arrived at Little Key in due course. After that, nothing remarkable happened until the murder itself, as far as I am aware and going by what I was told. Frank, Richard and Daisy were all overjoyed to see each other again, from all accounts, and spent much of the afternoon in lively conversation, catching up on each other’s news. The Laviolettes, who were Frank’s godparents, were delighted to see him. It was a happy occasion—everyone says so. And then, at twenty minutes before six o’clock …’ Marcus Capeling stopped. His expression had grown more solemn.

  ‘Go on,’ Poirot urged.

  ‘At twenty minutes before six, Frank Devonport fell to his death from the landing, high up in that enormous entrance hall. He’d been pushed over the banana-leaf balcony. Fell and cracked his head open on the hard floor beneath.’

  ‘Banana-leaf?’ I said.

  Poirot gave me an impatient look. ‘Do you not observe what is in front of your eyes, Catchpool? The iron of the balcony has the pattern of many little leaves.’

  ‘I did not notice, no.’

  ‘They’re banana leaves,’ Capeling repeated. ‘Verna Laviolette told me all about it. The balcony was designed by a friend of hers and her husband’s. It was a later addition to the house once they’d bought it. The original balcony was ugly, she said. I didn’t ask her about the balcony, you understand. But she seemed to want to talk about it. All that mattered to me was whether a woman of Helen Acton’s height and frame could have pushed Frank Devonport over it and to his death. My men and I soon saw that it was easily possible. Frank was tall and the balcony is not especially high. Helen would only have needed to give him a hard shove to the back and he’d have gone flying over. Well, as he did.

  ‘I shall never forget all that blood,’ Capeling went on. ‘When I first arrived at the scene—only for an instant, mind you—I thought I was looking at a large dark-red rug with a man lying on it.’ He shook his head to banish the image.

  ‘So, you established that Helen Acton was also on this high landing when Frank fell,’ Poirot said.

  ‘Oh, yes, there’s no doubt about that,’ said Capeling. ‘Helen was up there, all right. She wasn’t the only one—Sidney and Lilian were up there too, and Daisy, and Verna Laviolette. As soon as Frank hit the ground, Helen came running down the stairs like a rocket on fire and announced that she was the one who’d done it. Ask Oliver Prowd—he’ll tell you. They all will. Nearly all of them heard her, though it was Prowd she landed on at the bottom of the stairs. She grabbed him by the arms and said, “I killed him, Oliver. God help me, Frank’s dead and I’m the one who killed him.”’

  CHAPTER 9

  The Training of the Brain

  Before we left Marcus Capeling’s house, Poirot asked him for a pencil and some paper, which he supplied. Once we were alone and on our way back to London, Poirot offered both to me.

  ‘What am I supposed to do with these?’ I said tersely. Then I felt ungracious and tried to soften it with a joke. ‘If you’re thinking that you and I might design a board game together, I’m afraid you will have to find a different partner.’

  ‘We can now forget about the board games, my friend. Never again shall I ask you to think about Peepers. Not even when we return to Kingfisher Hill. We are now in the advantageous position in relation to the Devonport family. The truth about us is known and we need pretend no more.’ As an afterthought, he said, ‘Peepers needs much consolidation and revision if it is ever to succeed a
s a commercial enterprise. I do not think this will happen. The vanity of its creators will prevent it. Even when they speak of making the improvements, what they suggest is superficial. They cannot see that the entire structure of the game needs to change.’

  ‘Why don’t you offer them your services?’ I suggested. ‘They would probably make more money from the game with you as co-designer than they will otherwise, even if they had to split the profits three ways.’

  ‘Undoubtedly they would. They will make no money without my intervention. Of course, they are both rich men who require no more wealth than they presently possess—that is perhaps part of the problem. If I were to share with them my vision for Peepers, they would make their fortunes all over again. However, the board game design, it does not interest Hercule Poirot especially. Now, take the pencil and paper.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You said before that you do not understand why I bother with the murder of Frank Devonport. If it were up to you, you would not wish to bother, n’est-ce pas? You are full of the nonchalance.’

  ‘Not nonchalance. Frustration. I don’t believe we stand a chance of making sense of the whole mess. Oh, I know you will never give up. But if you want my honest opinion, I think in this instance we’re going to fail.’

  ‘But Hercule Poirot never fails. You know this, Catchpool. Once I put my mind to the solving of a puzzle, it is immediately in no doubt that the puzzle will be solved.’

  ‘You are assuming that the future can always be accurately predicted from the past,’ I said.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Poirot. ‘My assumption is quite different: the results I have achieved in the past were only achieved because I applied to those problems the highest levels of expert knowledge and deduction as well as the strongest resolve and determination. That is why my record contains only successes. I know, therefore, that if I continue to provide all of those elements—and, note, Catchpool, that they all are supplied by me, not by the circumstances of the case in question—then it is certain that I will achieve more successes in the future.’ He smiled.