Closed Casket: The New Hercule Poirot Mystery. Агата Кристи
forward and addressed Scotcher, ‘How do you feel about all this, old boy? Bit rum, what?’
‘Harry, you must believe me. I neither asked for this, nor hoped for it—ever. I do not want it! Though I am, of course, deeply moved to learn that dear Athie cares for me to this extent, I never imagined …’ He grimaced and changed course. ‘I should very much like to understand what is behind it, that is all. I cannot truly believe that she envisages a cure for me.’
‘You say you do not want it—then write down your wishes on a piece of paper!’ said Dorro. ‘That is all you need do! Write down that you want everything to go to me and Harry, and we will sign our names as witnesses.’
‘All to go to you and Harry?’ said Claudia. ‘What was it you said to Joseph about not even being family?’
‘I meant to you and Harry.’ Dorro blushed. ‘You must forgive me. I scarcely know what I am saying! All I want is to make this right!’
‘You spoke of my wishes, Dorro,’ said Scotcher. ‘I have only one wish. Sophie … I would kneel if I could, but I am feeling particularly unwell after all this commotion. Sophie, would you do me the great honour of agreeing to become my wife, as soon as it can be arranged? That is all I want.’
‘Oh!’ Sophie exclaimed, taking a step back. ‘Oh, Joseph! Are you sure you want this? You have had a shock. Maybe you should wait before—’
‘I have never been more certain of anything in my life, my dearest one.’
‘That is what I call Claudia,’ Kimpton muttered. ‘Kindly invent your own endearments, Scotcher.’
‘What would you know about kindness?’ Sophie turned on him. ‘What would any of you know about it?’
‘We should all leave you and Mr Scotcher alone, mademoiselle,’ said Poirot. ‘Come—let us give them some privacy.’
Privacy! That was rich, coming from Poirot, the world’s most zealous interferer in other people’s romantic affairs.
‘You are taking this proposal of marriage seriously, then, Monsieur Poirot?’ asked Claudia. ‘You do not wonder what is the point of it when Joseph has only weeks to live? Surely a sensible invalid would rather not be concerned with arduous wedding preparations.’
‘You are as bad as Randall! You are heartless tormentors, both of you!’ Loathing seemed to pour from Sophie’s eyes as she stared at Kimpton and Claudia.
‘Heartless?’ said Kimpton. ‘Incorrect. I have the valves, the chambers, the arteries that make a heart. My blood is pumped around my body in the same way yours is.’ He turned to Poirot. ‘This is what your psychology does, my friend—it has us all speaking as if muscle tissue were capable of finer feelings. Believe me, Sophie, when you’ve opened up as many bodies as I have and seen the hearts inside them—’
‘Will you stop talking about disgusting, blood-soaked organs, while our plates are heaped with meat?’ Dorro spat at him. ‘I cannot bear the sight of it, nor the smell.’ She pushed away her plate.
None of us had managed to eat very much, apart from Orville Rolfe, who had wolfed his entire dinner within a few seconds of it being placed in front of him.
‘Dearest Sophie,’ said Scotcher. ‘Randall and Claudia are right: I do not have long to go. But I should like to spend what time I have left with you, as your faithful and loving husband. If you will have me, that is.’
The sound of a strangled cry, cut off at its mid-point, made everyone look up. It had come from nobody in the room.
‘Which nosy so-and-so has his or her waxy lug-hole pressed up against the door?’ said Kimpton loudly.
We all heard the flurry of footsteps as the listener ran away.
‘Joseph, you know I love you more than anything,’ said Sophie. She sounded—and it struck me as rather odd—as if she was pleading with him. ‘You know I would do anything for you.’
‘Well, then!’ Scotcher smiled. At least, I think it was a smile. He appeared to be in a certain amount of pain.
‘Monsieur Poirot is right,’ said Sophie. ‘We should be sensible and discuss this in private.’
Two by two, the rest of us filed out of the room. Claudia and Kimpton went first, then Harry and Dorro. Ahead of Poirot and me were Gathercole and Rolfe. I overheard Rolfe’s complaint that he had been promised a lemon chiffon cake for pudding; how, now that he had been forced away from the table, was he to be served this cake, and could Mr Scotcher not have been a little less inconsiderate and postponed his proposal until dinner was properly concluded?
As for me, I had completely lost my appetite. ‘I need fresh air,’ I muttered to Poirot. ‘Sorry. I know you find that incomprehensible.’
‘Non, mon ami,’ he replied. ‘Tonight, I comprehend it only too well.’
The first thing I did, as Poirot and I stepped outside, was gulp in air as if I’d been starved of it. There was something stifling about Lillieoak, something that made me want to escape its confines.
‘This is the best time of day to walk in a garden,’ said Poirot. ‘When it is dark and one sees no plants or flowers.’
I laughed. ‘Are you being deliberately silly? No gardener would agree with you.’
‘I like to savour the smell of a garden I cannot see. Do you smell it? The pine, and the lavender—oh, yes, very strongly the lavender. The nose is as important as the eyes. Ask any horticulturalist.’ Poirot chuckled. ‘I think that if you and I were to meet the one who created this garden, I would make the more favourable impression upon him.’
‘I expect you think that about anyone the two of us might meet, whether they were a gardener or a postman,’ I said curtly.
‘Who was at the door?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Someone was listening at the door—someone who made an unhappy exclamation immediately after Joseph Scotcher asked the nurse Sophie to marry him.’
‘Yes, and who then ran away.’
‘Who was it, do you think?’
‘Well, we know it was nobody in the dining room—so not you, me, Harry, Dorro, Claudia, Kimpton. It wasn’t the two lawyers, Gathercole and Rolfe. It wasn’t poor old Joseph Scotcher, whose running days are over, and nor was it his nurse, Sophie. That leaves Lady Playford, who had left the room by then, Brigid the cook, Hatton the butler, Phyllis the maid. It could have been any of them. I am inclined to believe it was Phyllis—she is besotted with Scotcher. She told me so herself, before dinner.’
‘And that is why you arrived late to the dining room?’
‘Yes, it was.’
Poirot nodded. ‘Shall we walk a little?’ he suggested. ‘I can see the path now. It goes all the way around the lawn and will bring us back to the house.’
‘I have no wish to be brought back,’ I told him. I did not want to walk a neat square on a paved path. I should have liked to stride out across the grass, with no thought about how or when I would return.
‘You are wrong,’ Poirot told me as we set off on the safe route of his choosing.
‘About what?’
‘The listener at the door who ran away—yes, it could have been Lady Playford, or the maid Phyllis, or Hatton, but it could not have been Brigid the cook. I caught