Chapter 20: The Letters Arrive
Chapter 21: The Day of the Typewriters
Chapter 22: The Solitary Yellow Square of Cake
Chapter 25: Poirot Returns to Combingham Hall
Chapter 26: The Typewriter Experiment
Chapter 27: The Bracelet and the Fan
Chapter 28: An Unconvincing Confession
Chapter 30: The Mystery of Three Quarters
Chapter 31: A Note for Mr Porrott
Chapter 32: Where Is Kingsbury?
Chapter 33: The Marks on the Towel
Chapter 38: Rowland Without a Rope
Read on for the first chapter of Sophie Hannah’s new book, The Killings at Kingfisher Hill
Hercule Poirot smiled to himself as his driver brought the motorcar to a stop with satisfying symmetry. As a lover of neatness and order, Poirot appreciated such perfect alignment with the entrance doors of Whitehaven Mansions where he lived. One could draw a straight line from the middle of the vehicle to the exact point where the doors met.
The luncheon from which he was returning had been très bon divertissement: the most excellent of food and company. He alighted, bestowed a warm thank-you upon his driver, and was about to go inside when he had a peculiar feeling that (this was how he put it to himself) something behind him was in need of his attention.
He expected, on turning, to observe nothing out of the ordinary. It was a mild day for February, but perhaps a light breeze had put a tremor in the air around him.
Poirot soon saw that the disturbance had not been caused by the weather, though the well-turned-out woman approaching at a great pace did, in spite of her fashionable pale blue coat and hat, resemble a force of nature. ‘She is the whirlwind most fierce,’ Poirot murmured to himself.
He disliked the hat. He had seen women in town wearing similar ones: minimal, without ornament, fitted close to the scalp like bathing caps made of cloth. A hat ought to have a brim or some manner of embellishment, thought Poirot. At least, it should do something more than cover the head. No doubt he would soon get used to these modern hats—and then, once he had, the fashion would change as it always did.
The blue-clad woman’s lips twitched and curled, though no sound came from her. It was as if she was rehearsing what she would say when she finally reached Poirot’s side. There was no doubt that he was her target. She looked determined to do something unpleasant to him as soon as she was close enough. He took a step back as she marched towards him in what he could only think of as a stampede—one consisting of nothing and nobody but herself.
Her hair was dark brown and lustrous. When she came to an abrupt halt directly in front of him, Poirot saw that she was not as young as she had looked from a distance. No, this woman was more than fifty years old. She was perhaps sixty. A lady in her middle age, expert at concealing the lines on her face. Her eyes were a striking blue, neither light nor dark.
‘You are Hercule Poirot, are you not?’ she said in the loudest of whispers. Poirot noted that she wished to convey anger but without being overheard, though there was nobody nearby.
‘Oui, madame. I am he.’
‘How dare you? How dare you send me such a letter?’
‘Madame, pardon me, but I do not believe we know one another.’
‘Don’t act the part of the innocent with me!