Gathercole left me to go and refill his glass. Behind me, Harry Playford was talking enthusiastically to Orville Rolfe about taxidermy. I did not care to hear a step-by-step account of his method, so I crossed the room and listened instead to Randall Kimpton’s conversation with Poirot.
‘I hear you set great store by psychology in your solving of crimes, what?’
‘I do.’
‘Ah! Well, if you will permit me, I should like to disagree with you. Psychology is so intangible a thing. Who knows if it is even real?’
‘It is real, monsieur. Let me assure you, it is real.’
‘Is it? I do not deny that people have thoughts in their heads, of course, but the notion that one can deduce anything from one’s assumptions about what those thoughts might be and why they are there—I’m not convinced by that, I’m afraid. And even when a murderer confirms that you’re right—even when he says, “Quite so. I did it because I was wild with jealousy, or because the old lady I coshed over the head reminded me of a nanny who was cruel to me”—how do you know the blighter’s telling the truth?’
This was accompanied by many a triumphant eye-flare, each one seeming to revel in the superiority of Kimpton’s arguments. The doctor sounded, furthermore, as if he was not about to drop or change the subject. I thought of what Claudia had said about him winning her over twice and wondered if there had been an element of browbeating involved. She did not seem the type who would allow herself to be coerced, but all the same … there was something frightening about the unswerving and arrogant determination exuded by Kimpton—to win, to prevail, to be right.
Perhaps, after all, it would be more relaxing to listen to Harry describing how he had removed the dead leopard’s brain.
I was saved by Joseph Scotcher, who had been wheeled over to me by Sophie Bourlet. ‘You must be Catchpool,’ said Scotcher warmly. ‘I have so looked forward to meeting you.’ He extended a hand, and I shook it as gently as I could. His voice was more robust than his outward appearance had led me to expect. ‘You seem surprised that I know who you are. I have heard of you, of course. The Bloxham Hotel murders in London, February of this year.’
I felt as if I had been slapped in the face. Poor Scotcher; he could not have known his words would have this effect.
‘Sorry, I have neglected to introduce myself: Joseph Scotcher. And this is the light of my life—my nurse, friend and good luck charm, Sophie Bourlet. It is thanks to her and her alone that I am still here. A patient who has Sophie to look after him scarcely needs medicine.’ At these lavish compliments, the nurse looked overcome by emotion, and had to turn away. She loves him, I thought. She loves him and she cannot bear it.
Scotcher said, ‘Cunningly, Sophie keeps me alive by refusing to become my wife.’ He winked at me. ‘You see, I can’t possibly die until she has agreed.’
Sophie turned back to face me with pink spots on her cheeks and her sensible smile restored. ‘Pay no attention, Mr Catchpool,’ she said. ‘The truth is that Joseph has never asked me to marry him. Not once.’
Scotcher laughed. ‘Only because if I were to go down on one knee, it is unlikely I should be able to rise again. It’s easy for the sun, but not so easy for me in my condition.’
‘Rising or setting, Joseph, you shine more brightly than the sun ever could.’
‘See what I mean, Catchpool? She is worth staying for, even though I have to contend with what I like to call my devilled kidneys.’
‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ said Sophie. She walked over to the writing desk, sat down at it and busied herself with the papers she had put there earlier.
‘What a selfish oaf I am!’ Scotcher declared. ‘You don’t want to talk about my kidneys, and I should far rather talk about you than about myself. It must be terribly difficult for you.’ He nodded in the direction of Poirot. ‘I was sorry to see the newspapers ridicule you so cruelly. It was almost as if they didn’t notice the part you played in wrapping up that nasty Bloxham affair. I hope you don’t object to the mention of it?’
‘Not at all,’ I was obliged to say.
‘I read all about it, you see. The whole story. I found it fascinating—and without your brilliant deduction in the graveyard, the case might never have been solved. It seems to me that everybody missed that aspect of the matter.’
‘They did, rather,’ I mumbled.
Scotcher had left me with no alternative: I was forced to think once again about the killings that were known at the time—and doubtless always would be—as the Monogram Murders. The case had been solved most ingeniously by Poirot, but it had also attracted much unfortunate publicity—unfortunate if you were me, at any rate. Poirot came out of it all very well, but I was not so lucky. Newspapermen had accused me of being inadequate as a detective and relying too much on Poirot to get me out of a tight spot. Naïvely, I had made some remarks when interviewed that were a little too honest, about how I would have been lost without Poirot’s help, and these had appeared in the papers. A few letters were published asking why Edward Catchpool was employed by Scotland Yard if he couldn’t handle the work without bringing in a friend of his who was not even a policeman. In short, I became an object of ridicule for a few weeks, until everybody forgot about me.
Since then—as I found myself telling Joseph Scotcher, who seemed truly to care about my predicament—my work had brought me into contact with another murder case, one that I was ultimately unable to solve, but this time I was praised for doing everything I could, and doggedly pursuing the elusive truth. I was astonished to read in the letters pages of the newspapers that I was a plucky hero; no one could have been braver or more conscientious than I had been—that was the general consensus.
I drew the only possible conclusion: that I was better off failing alone than succeeding with the help of Hercule Poirot. That was why I had been avoiding him (I refrained from sharing this particular revelation with Joseph Scotcher): because I could not trust myself not to ask for help with the murder I had failed to solve. There was simply no way to explain this to Poirot that would not lead to him demanding to know all the details.
‘I’m sure many people noticed the shoddy way the newspapers treated you and thought it was jolly unfair,’ said Scotcher. ‘Indeed, I wish I had written a letter to the Times to that effect. I meant to, but—’
‘You must concentrate on looking after yourself and not worry about me,’ I told him.
‘Well, you should know that I admire you inordinately,’ he said with a smile. ‘I could never have slotted that piece of the puzzle into place the way you did. It would not have occurred to me, nor to most people. You evidently have an extraordinary mind. Poirot too, of course.’
Embarrassed, I thanked him. I knew that my mind was nothing special and that Poirot would have solved the Bloxham Hotel murders with or without my solitary moment of insight, but I was nevertheless greatly heartened by Scotcher’s kind words. That he was dying made it all the more touching, somehow. I don’t mind admitting that I was quite overcome.
A hush began to spread across the room, like a flood of silence. I turned and saw that Hatton the butler was standing in the doorway, looking as if there was something important that he must on no account tell us. ‘Oh!’ declared Lady Playford, who was standing with Sophie next to the writing desk. ‘Hatton has come to announce—or to hear me announce—that dinner is about to be served. Thank you, Hatton.’
The butler looked mortified to be accused of almost saying something to so many people. He gave a small bow and withdrew.
As everyone moved towards the door, I hung back. Once I was alone in the room, I made for the writing desk. The