Read Closed Casket: The New Hercule Poirot Mystery (Hercule Poirot Mystery 2) for Free Online

ludicrous, I decided.
    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