Sophie Hannah - The Killings at Kingfisher Hill

‘I do not have any antics, mon ami. Now, read the rules, please. Do not delay. Soon we will be moving.’

Sighing, I started to read. Or rather, I looked at the minuscule words and did my best to concentrate on them, but, hard as I tried, I could not take them in. I was about to say so when I heard Alfred Bixby’s indignant voice rise above the general murmurs of conversation around me. ‘I’m afraid this is your last chance, miss,’ he said. I was in an aisle seat and so was he and I saw him as he leaned forward; he was sitting in one of the front seats immediately behind the driver and level with the doors, and was addressing his remarks to someone outside. ‘No Kingfisher Coach Company coach has ever been as much as a minute late in departing, and that’s a tradition I intend to keep up! You’re not the only pebble on the beach, young lady! I’ve got twenty-nine other passengers to think of who don’t want to be late—one with an infant! So, are you joining us for the journey or not?’

‘It’s her,’ I muttered as, a moment later, the woman with the unfinished face appeared in the aisle. She cowered there as if afraid Bixby might rise from his seat and give her a walloping. For his part, he looked as if he wished to do that very thing. ‘Driver, close the doors,’ he said. The driver did as instructed and started up the engine.

The woman, whose face showed traces of tears, stood immobile at the front of the coach. ‘Take your seat, miss, please,’ Bixby said to her. ‘There’s only one left. It’s not as if there are dozens to choose between!’ He rose to his feet and pointed. ‘There—seventh row.’

‘I think that perhaps you were right, Catchpool,’ said Poirot. ‘The behaviour of la pauvre begins to interest me. See how she thinks most intensively. There is a puzzle in her mind. Until she solves it, she cannot know …’

‘Know what?’

‘If she wishes to accompany us or not. Her indecision causes her great distress.’

As the disapproving noises of the other passengers started to rise in volume, the unhappy woman hurried forward and sat down. Seconds later, we set off, and it wasn’t long before Bixby was on his feet again. He walked up and down the aisle, intent on telling every single one of us how deeply he regretted that we had very nearly had to experience a delay to what would undoubtedly turn out to be the most comfortable and blissful journey of our lives. I missed the odd word thanks to the excessively loud growl of the engine. Bixby made no mention of this unfortunate circumstance—no apology or explanation—and I deduced from his silence on the matter that the din would accompany us all the way to Kingfisher Hill.

He had taken his little speech almost to the back of the coach, and we had been travelling for no more than ten minutes, when I heard a loud squeal of distress. It had come from several rows in front of me. Immediately after the noise, the woman with the unfinished face appeared in the aisle again. ‘Stop, please!’ she called out to Bixby. Then she turned and addressed the driver, ‘Stop this coach. I must … Please, open the doors. I cannot stay here, sitting there.’ She pointed at her seat. ‘I … unless someone will take my seat in exchange for theirs, you must let me get out.’

Bixby shook his head. His upper lip curled. ‘Now, you listen to me, miss,’ he said as he walked slowly towards her.

Poirot rose to his feet and put himself in the aisle between the woman and Bixby. ‘Monsieur, if you will allow me to intervene?’ he said with a bow.

Bixby looked uncertain, but he nodded. ‘As long as it doesn’t lead to a delay, M. Poirot. I’m sure you understand. These good people have homes and families waiting for them.’

‘ Bien sûr .’ Poirot turned to face the woman. ‘Mademoiselle, you wish to sit in a different seat?’

‘Yes. I must. It’s … it’s important. I would not ask otherwise.’

A sharp, bright voice that I recognized only too well said, ‘M. Poirot, please be kind enough to grant her wish and give her your seat. I should much rather sit beside a world-renowned detective than a gibbering fool. She’s done nothing but gasp and shudder for the last fifteen minutes. It’s fatiguing in the extreme.’

So la pauvre mademoiselle , as Poirot had called her, had been sitting beside the owner of that wretched book all this while! No wonder she didn’t want to stay there any longer. She had probably made the mistake of glancing at the book’s cover and received a thorough savaging.

‘What is wrong with your seat?’ Poirot asked. ‘Why do you wish to move?’

She shook her head wildly. Then she cried out, ‘You won’t believe me, but … I will die if I sit there. Someone will kill me!’

‘Please explain to me what you mean,’ said Poirot. ‘Who will kill you?’

‘I don’t know!’ the woman sobbed. ‘But I know that it’s this seat. Next to the aisle, seven rows back, on the right. Only this seat, and none of the others. That’s what he said. Nothing will happen to me if I sit anywhere else. Please, sir, let me take your place and you take mine?’

‘Who said this to you?’

‘The man! A man. I … I don’t know who he was.’

‘And if you sit in this particular seat, what did the man say would happen?’ asked Poirot.

‘Haven’t I just told you?’ the woman wailed. ‘He said I’d be murdered! “Mark my words,”’ he said. ‘“You heed this warning, or you won’t get off that coach alive.”’

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