The Killings at Kingfisher Hill Read online

  ‘This is not as unusual as you may think,’ Poirot told her. ‘Some murderers hate their victims, but those who kill loved ones are as numerous, and suffer all the more.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that.’

  ‘Did he betray you?’

  ‘Yes. At least, I think he did. He would have denied it, and you would probably have taken his side. I think most people would. In any case, his betrayal of me was not the reason I killed him. I did it for … for the sake of my family. You see, he’d committed a crime. He stole from my father—a lot of money. Afterwards, my father insisted that I was to have nothing to do with him. He was evil, an enemy, no longer allowed to come to our house. My parents were not willing to see him or speak to him. They refused to listen to his side of the story—and do not tell me, M. Poirot, that a thief cannot have a defence that is worth attending to!’

  ‘I had not thought to do so. However, your father’s anger is understandable, is it not? I take it he trusted this young man?’

  ‘He would have trusted him with his life before the theft of the money, yes. The thing is, the man would never have stolen from anybody if the predicament had not been dire. His theft was not for his own benefit. He worked for my father, you see, and my father rewarded him generously. But while he was doing well financially, he had a friend whose family had lost everything when the stock market fell apart two years ago. Everything. And his father was sick and very old, and … well, our thief, if we can call him that, could not bear to see to his friend consumed by the fear of ending up in a workhouse—and, being in charge of my father’s investments and business affairs, he thought … well, he knew that my father would not miss a certain amount. There would be no hardship for our family, none at all, if he were to take this money and give it to his friend. So that was what he did. But he didn’t see it as giving the money, or even theft, really. He saw it as a loan, and that was certainly the spirit in which his friend accepted it. It was offered not as charity but in the form of a challenge.’

  ‘What challenge?’ asked Poirot.

  ‘The thief and his friend were great believers in enterprise. In that respect, they and my father were all cut from the same cloth. They all believe—believed—that anyone can start with not very much at all and go on to build empires and create riches beyond the wildest dreams of most. The agreement was that the friend would borrow the money and use it shrewdly to produce more money.’

  ‘With the stock market as it was two years ago—as it remains to this day—this is not so easy,’ Poirot observed.

  ‘No, it is not,’ The Sculpture agreed. ‘But the man I loved had always had this belief that … well, that absolutely anything was possible, and that if you wanted something enough, you could always find a way to get it. He made other people believe it too. I wish …’ She looked down at her hands. ‘I wish you could meet him, M. Poirot.’

  ‘You say this now, yet only minutes ago you said you were glad to have killed him.’

  ‘I mean that I wish you could have met him before … while we were all still happy.’

  ‘I see. Please, continue with your story,’ said Poirot.

  She dabbed at her eyes a few times, then said, ‘Together, the thief and his friend made several extremely risky investments. Most of them failed, as risky investments tend to, but one succeeded beyond anything they had hoped for—and it was enough to enable the thief to put back quite a bit more than he had stolen from my family, and for his friend to ensure a life of comfort for himself and his elderly father. There was plenty left over too, and the thief and his friend used it to set up some excellent schools in which pupils are treated with respect—as if they are proper people who matter. That ought to happen in ordinary schools but rarely does. And then …’ She choked on the words.

  Poirot noted that it was not easy for her to tell this story and wondered why she was putting herself through the ordeal. ‘Then the thief made a terrible mistake: he told my father, told both of my parents, what he had done.’

  ‘Ah! He preferred the honesty to the concealment.’

  ‘He was an honourable man, M. Poirot. He valued integrity above all else and had always planned to tell the truth as soon as the money was returned. He knew how my father admired him and could not allow that admiration to continue based on a false premise. Of course, he anticipated that my father would be angry at first, but he believed that if he apologized and described the precise circumstances …’ She was speaking quickly now, and breathlessly, as if trapped in a nightmare she was desperate to escape, appearing to have forgotten that these were past events. ‘He thought that if he made it clear that he would not have rested easy until every single penny taken had been returned … But my father is an unforgiving man, and my mother agrees with my father about everything. She cannot even bring herself to say that a book or play that he likes is not to her taste, for fear of one of his tyrannical outbursts. And so the thief was …’ She stopped and covered her mouth with her handkerchief. ‘Sent away. He was banished.’

  ‘Did your parents know that you loved this man?’

  ‘Oh, yes—but it made no difference to them. My father told me that if I had any more contact with him, ever, I would be cut off without so much as a farthing to my name. I believed at the time that I had no choice but to obey.’

  ‘May I ask … before these events occurred, were you betrothed to this thief?’

  ‘No.’ She looked amused. ‘What makes you ask that?’

  ‘I just wondered. I notice that you wear the ruby ring now …’

  ‘Oh, that. Yes, well … I am now engaged to be married.’

  ‘To somebody else?’

  The Sculpture made an impatient noise. ‘I like to think that I am a person of the highest determination and ingenuity, but even I could not succeed in marrying a dead man.’

  ‘The man you intend to marry … do you love him?’

  Her expression grew solemn and studious, as if she was concentrating on something important. ‘Yes, I do. If you’re about to ask me if I love my fiancé as much as I loved the thief—though goodness knows why you’re interested in that when it is hardly the point of my story—the answer is no, I do not. I hope this doesn’t disturb you, M. Poirot. It does not pose a problem for me. My love for the thief could not have been more different in character, and the thief is dead.’ This last emphasized word provoked more tears. ‘I tried as hard as I could to persuade Daddy to forgive him, but it proved impossible! Have you ever tried to persuade a stubborn man that he is wrong and, at the same time, to convince him that you do not disagree with him at all?’

  ‘Is that not a contradiction?’ asked Poirot. ‘Nobody could do both at once.’

  ‘Oh, yes, they could. I did. I said, “Come now, Daddy, you are so wise and fair—everybody knows this. And the wise and fair thing to do here is exactly as you have done so far, because it would have been a mistake to be too lenient when you first heard of the offence. But now, the next correct thing to do is to give him another chance, as I’m sure you’ll be the first to see. I’m sure, in fact, that you have had this brilliant idea yourself and do not need me to suggest it to you.” I thought if I poured on the flattery …’ She sighed. ‘That strategy sometimes works with Daddy.’

  ‘But this time it did not?’

  ‘No. It only made him angrier. He made ever more extravagant threats against me: I would be penniless, without a home, without kin. If I betrayed our family by siding with a thief, he would revenge himself upon me in terrible ways that I could not imagine.’

  ‘You were afraid of him?’

  ‘I am afraid of him.’

  ‘I still do not see the shape of the picture,’ said Poirot. ‘You loved the thief, and you do not love your father. I wonder if, by your own assessment, you have perhaps murdered the wrong person.’

  ‘Oh, I love Daddy,’ said The Sculpture. ‘I fear him, dislike him and cannot bear to be in his company, but I think I also love him in a way. Mother too, though she sat demurely by
his side and uttered not one word of protest when he made those vile threats to me.’

  ‘Even so,’ said Poirot, ‘what you have told me is not the story of a daughter who murdered her father. Anyone would expect him to be your chosen victim, non?—not the thief whom you so loved and admired. What, I beg to know, can have led you to kill him?’

  ‘What indeed?’ she said, as if the two of them were trying to solve the puzzle together. ‘All of the events I have described took place between November of 1929 and March of last year, when the thief was cut off by my parents. Idiotically, I believed that I had no choice but to cut him off, too. I was not asked for my opinions: they were given to me by my father—forced upon me! The thief was the human embodiment of evil and must under no circumstances be allowed back into our lives. I must stop loving him—my father said those words to me. “You do not love him any more. You see him for the enemy he is. He is dangerous. He is wicked. He is a threat to this family.” I had to endure hours of it. Daddy would not leave me alone until he was confident that he had removed all my thoughts and feelings and replaced them with his own. And then five months later, in August of last year, my mother was told that she was dying.’

  ‘I am sorry, mademoiselle.’

  ‘She is still alive now, but she won’t be for very long,’ said The Sculpture. ‘She has an illness that is causing her to waste away before our eyes.’ In a falsely bright and jocular tone, The Sculpture went on, ‘Anyway, you will never guess what happened two weeks after she received her diagnosis, M. Poirot. It was such a delightful surprise. My father summoned me to the room he infuriatingly calls …’ She stopped. Whatever her father called the room, she had decided against sharing it. ‘To his study,’ she said instead. ‘He told me that, now Mother had only limited time left, the thief was to be readmitted to the fold.’

  ‘I see.’ Poirot had not expected the story to take this turn.

  ‘A delightful surprise,’ she repeated, her voice throbbing with anger. ‘I’m afraid I cannot tell you why my mother’s impending death made it so urgent for us all to forgive the thief and invite him back into our lives—not without revealing certain particulars that I would prefer not to discuss. All that matters is that Mother and Daddy were suddenly ready to welcome him back—and I was told that I must do the same. And so back he came, and once again he was put in charge of managing my father’s business affairs. Not only was I ordered to forgive him—that would have been bad enough—but I was also told that I would be cut off and reviled forever if I did not participate in the pretence that nothing had ever happened.’

  ‘Incroyable,’ Poirot breathed.

  ‘Quite,’ said The Sculpture. ‘I’m so glad you agree.’

  ‘Please go on, mademoiselle.’

  ‘There’s not much more to say. The thief was happy to return and happy to collude in the pretence that nothing unfortunate had ever occurred. He came back at the end of August … and a little over three months later, I killed him. There. That’s the whole story. The End.’

  ‘Why did you kill him? When the motive is unknown, the story is always incomplete. It is missing its most vital part.’

  The Sculpture laughed. ‘Pardon me, but have I been under a misapprehension all this time? Are you not Hercule Poirot? Surely I do not need to tell you why I did it. You’re the great detective, are you not? I would hate to deprive you of the opportunity to work it out for yourself. I have told you everything that you need to know. Why do you think I killed this man I loved so much?’

  ‘You said before that you did it for the sake of your family … and I tell you again that this makes no sense to me. To kill a man you love so much for the sake of … who? Your parents? You claim to love them also—but did you not love the thief more?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Much more.’

  ‘Then why kill him, and why for your family’s sake? Explain it to me.’

  ‘No,’ said The Sculpture. ‘Making sense of things like this is what you’re supposed to be good at. And … what if it’s not true that I did it for the sake of my parents?’

  ‘You told me that was your reason.’

  ‘Then you should ask yourself: why would I say that if it wasn’t true?’

  ‘Mademoiselle, you confuse me greatly.’

  ‘That is certainly not my intention,’ she said solemnly. Her eyes, once again, were full of tears. ‘I shall be quiet and say no more.’

  Poirot wondered if he had ever before had such a discomforting exchange with another human being. He tried every tactic he could think of to persuade her to explain herself, but her resolve did not weaken, and he arrived at Cobham with his bewilderment fully intact.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Devonport Family

  My first impression of Kingfisher Hill was that it was well protected from the outside world. Even knowing it was a private estate, I had not anticipated the outer walls that seemed higher than any wall would need to be in the middle of the tranquil English countryside.

  There were two sets of gates with a reinforced look about them, as if designed to withstand a siege. These had to be traversed if we were to cross over from the common outskirts to the hallowed ground within. I remarked to Poirot that it was as if someone feared imminent invasion.

  ‘Not from Hercule Poirot!’ He laughed at his own witticism. ‘He is an invited guest. Though there is perhaps somebody at Kingfisher Hill who has much to fear now that I am here.’

  ‘You mean …’

  ‘Whoever murdered Frank Devonport, if it was not Helen Acton. Ah, you do not see. Richard Devonport did not say so in as many words, but he wishes me to find out which member of his family, or which family friend or servant, killed his brother.’

  ‘Those are the possibilities, are they?’ I asked. ‘Do you know who was there when the death occurred?’

  ‘Apart from Richard himself and Helen Acton, there were seven people in the house when Frank Devonport died: Sidney Devonport, the head of the household; his wife Lilian, their daughter Daisy, her fiancé Oliver Prowd, a servant called Winnifred Lord, and two very good friends of the family—Americans—Godfrey and Verna Laviolette.’

  We were through both sets of gates at last, but another step was required, it seemed, before we could think of ourselves as having arrived. The driver parked the coach in a gravelled area where another blue and orange Kingfisher Coach Company coach was already parked, along with an impressive row of motorcars. Most of these had people leaning against them, some of whom were waving. A number of our fellow passengers waved back at them. I wondered if anyone was waiting to collect Poirot and me, and, if not, how long we would need to walk before we reached the Devonport home. Alfred Bixby hopped out of the vehicle to speak to the occupant of a small rectangular booth: a square-faced man whose hairline started halfway down his forehead. This man’s job, apparently, was to question those intent on crossing the Kingfisher Hill Estate’s threshold.

  ‘Does Richard Devonport believe that one of those seven people killed his brother?’ I asked Poirot. ‘I suppose he must. Did he give you a steer as to who he thinks it might be?’

  ‘No. And you suppose incorrectly, Catchpool. It is true that if Helen Acton did not commit the murder and neither did Richard Devonport himself, then it must have been one of those seven other people. There exist other possibilities too.’

  ‘That Richard killed his brother Frank—of course.’

  ‘Oui. Or that Helen Acton did so, and Richard Devonport refuses to allow this explanation because it so distresses him.’

  ‘That strikes me as more likely,’ I said. ‘If Devonport himself committed the crime, he’d be a damned fool to solicit the presence of one of the finest crime-solving minds …’ Seeing Poirot’s grimace, I went back and corrected my error: ‘The finest crime-solving mind in England.’

  ‘I have rarely met a man or woman who was not capable of being the damned fool, should the conditions prove favourable for such a thing,’ said Poirot. ‘Richard Devonport might be not as clever a
s he believes himself to be.’ He leaned forward to watch what appeared to be an altercation between the hirsute man in the booth and Alfred Bixby.

  ‘He wishes to see the list of people Monsieur Bixby brings to Kingfisher Hill, mais ce n’est pas possible. The passenger manifest has been stolen. Thanks to The Sculpture, we must now all be detained unnecessarily.’

  I exhaled slowly. ‘Does this not feel like the longest journey you have ever undertaken?’ I said.

  ‘Ah, we are saved! Le portier, he has taken pity on our friend Bixby.’

  Soon we were able to alight and retrieve our suitcases. ‘What now?’ I asked as everybody else made their way towards the motorcars and their drivers. Enthusiastic greetings echoed in the air.

  ‘Someone will drive us to the house,’ said Poirot. ‘It is one of the furthest from the entrance gates. Richard Devonport told me we would be collected.’

  ‘I hope our collector arrives soon,’ I said. ‘A person can only take so much exposure to this weather before hypothermia sets in.’

  ‘Console yourself with the knowledge that it is worse for me than for you, mon ami. My constitution was not designed for such conditions. You Englishmen enjoy the heroic freezing to death.’

  ‘That is quite untrue.’

  ‘Do not tell me that you have not heard of Robert Falcon Scott and his doomed voyage to the Antarctic—was he not an Englishman?’

  ‘Poirot … about the book, Midnight Gathering.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Why did you ask her about it? The Sculpture. And why ask if she stole it?’

  ‘She did not steal it. Though if she had, it might explain why she was so enraged to find a Scotland Yard inspector casting his eye over it. But no—it was a gift. From whom, I cannot tell you. She came close to revealing the name of the person, and then she stopped. She did not want Poirot to know. The book interests me greatly, Catchpool. Not its contents, you understand. Whether it is an adventure story, a romance or un policier, it matters not. Her anger when you looked at its cover … I do not believe it had anything to do with Midnight Gathering itself. It was all about its significance in the mind of The Sculpture and nothing to do with the words on its pages.’