The Killings at Kingfisher Hill. Sophie Hannah

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      Once inside, I saw that most of the coach’s seats were empty. There was a simple explanation for this: many people had dropped back, eager to overhear my questioning of the woman with the unfinished face. Now that was concluded, everybody had remembered how cold they were. There was a build up of impatient bodies in the aisle behind me. ‘Forward march,’ someone muttered.

      ‘Yes, do hurry, Catchpool,’ said Poirot.

      I followed his instruction and walked on along the aisle, only to come to a sharp halt a few moments later. In my peripheral vision, I had glimpsed a book that was sitting open on one of the coach’s seats, with its cover facing upwards and its title clearly visible. Could it be …? No, how could it possibly?

      Exclamations of impatience erupted, not least from Poirot, as I stepped backwards, forcing those behind me to do the same, in order to get a closer look at the book’s cover. I had indeed made a mistake. The title of the book was Midnight Gathering. I blinked and looked again. Yes, definitely Midnight Gathering. Yet I had been left with the powerful impression that I had seen two quite different words.

      ‘What’s that bunny up to?’ I heard an American voice call out from the logjam that I had created in the aisle. ‘We’re all waiting here!’

      ‘Alors, on y va, Catchpool,’ said Poirot behind me.

      A woman’s hand reached out and snatched the book from the seat. Her swift action broke my trance, and I looked up. It was the rude woman with the diamond voice. She clutched the book close to her body and glared at me, as if by merely looking at it I might have tarnished it beyond repair.

      ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to …’ I mumbled. She glared more fiercely. Her face had much in common with her voice. With the addition of kindness and compassion to either or both, the effect would have been charming. I felt a jolt of recognition: this young lady, with her exquisitely sculpted cheekbones, delicate features, blue eyes and fine golden hair, was in every way my mother’s favourite type—in a physical sense at least. All of the women she insisted I ought to want to marry looked more or less like this one, minus the furious grimace.

      On the third finger of her left hand, the owner of Midnight Gathering wore a ring: a large ruby. Sorry, Mother, too late, I thought to myself. She’s already promised to another chap. I hope he’s not the sensitive sort or he’ll never survive the ordeal.

      I turned away from her and was about to advance along the coach’s aisle when she did the most peculiar, petty thing. She moved as if it was her intention to replace the book in its former position, and then she very pointedly stopped just before doing so. She allowed the hand in which she held it to hover in mid-air above the seat between us. Her meaning was unambiguous, and she aimed a spiteful smile at me, knowing that I knew it. What an unpleasant woman! She was thoroughly enjoying her silent persecution of me. Her smile said, I don’t mind anybody else seeing the book—only you. It was my punishment for having been a nosy nuisance. Well, there she perhaps made a fair point. I had probably peered rather intrusively.

      Once Poirot and I were seated side by side towards the back of the coach, he said, ‘Tell me, Catchpool, what did you see that was so interesting to you that you felt compelled to keep us all trapped in the aisle for so long?’

      ‘It was nothing. I made a mistake. And it wasn’t long—the whole thing was over in seconds.’

      ‘What mistake?’

      ‘Did you see the book that woman was reading?’

      ‘The beautiful, angry woman?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I saw a book, yes. She held it very tightly.’

      ‘I think she feared I might tear it away from her,’ I told him. ‘That was what I wanted to get a second look at—her book. It was called Midnight Gathering. When I first saw it, I was certain I saw the words “Michael Gathercole” as the title. It must have been the M and the G.’

      ‘Michael Gathercole.’ Poirot sounded interested. ‘The solicitor Michael Gathercole? That is curious.’ He and I had become acquainted with Gathercole the previous year during an eventful stay in Clonakilty in the Irish Free State. ‘Why would the name of Michael Gathercole, an unremarkable practitioner of the law, be the title of a book, Catchpool?’

      ‘Well, it wouldn’t. And it wasn’t. I was mistaken. We needn’t discuss it further.’

      ‘It is more likely for Gathercole to have written a book and for his name to be on its cover as the author,’ said Poirot.

      ‘Gathercole has nothing to do with anything. Some other person wrote a book called Midnight Gathering.’ Please, I thought, let this be the end of it.

      ‘I think I comprehend why you saw a name that was not there, Catchpool—and why it was this name in particular.’

      I waited.

      ‘You are preoccupied with the unhappy woman who accuses you of impersonating Inspector Edward Catchpool of Scotland Yard. She tells us that she is not in need of help, but you disagree, and so you are alert to danger. To harm. Alors, in the part of your mind that does not perceive its own workings, you make a connection between this incident today and the events of last year in Clonakilty, where danger was present and terrible harm was done.’

      ‘You’re probably right. She hasn’t got on yet, has she?’

      ‘I cannot tell you, mon ami. I have not been keeping watch. Now, we have important matters to attend to.’ He produced a small, folded piece of paper from his coat pocket. ‘Read this before the coach departs. It is unwise to read while in motion. It makes for the bilious stomach.’

      I took the paper from his hand, hoping that whatever was written on it would tell me why we were going to Kingfisher Hill. Instead, I found myself looking at an excessive number of the tiniest words I had ever seen on a page. ‘What is this?’ I asked. ‘A set of instructions? For what?’

      ‘Turn it over, Catchpool.’

      I did so.

      ‘Now do you see? Yes, instructions. Rules. The rules of a game played with a board and a number of round discs with eyes on them—the game of Peepers!’

      ‘Eyes? Human eyes, or the letter “I”?’

      ‘Eyes, Catchpool.’ Poirot fluttered his own open and closed. He looked absurd, and I would have laughed had I not felt so frustrated.

      ‘What’s this about, Poirot? Why do you have the rules for a board game in your pocket?’

      ‘I do not.’ His green eyes glittered. ‘You have them in your hand.’

      ‘You know what I mean.’

      ‘I have brought with me more than the rules of Peepers. I have too the game itself—it is in a box inside my suitcase!’ He made this announcement triumphantly. ‘I tell you to read the rules now because, as soon as possible, you and I will play Peepers together. We become the great experts and enthusiasts of Peepers! You will note that it says two players is СКАЧАТЬ