Читать книгу The Killings at Kingfisher Hill онлайн | страница 9

‘What’s the matter with you?’ I asked her bluntly.

‘Nothing. I’m perfectly all right.’

‘I find that difficult to believe.’

‘If I needed help, I’d ask for it, Inspector, sir. Please, you mustn’t trouble yourself on my account.’

‘Very well,’ I said, dissatisfied. ‘Shall we?’ I gestured towards the motor-coach, curious to see if she would behave sensibly henceforth. In spite of her erratic behaviour, I was convinced of the soundness of her faculties. She was not afflicted by any mental infirmity. The problem was an emotional one.

‘I … you …’ she stammered.

‘Let us take our seats, Catchpool,’ said Poirot firmly. ‘You and me. This young lady wishes to be left alone.’

At this, the woman with the unfinished face looked distinctly relieved and, with her and Poirot united against me, I admitted defeat. As we climbed on board, having left our valises with all the others, she retreated. Perhaps her name was not on Alfred Bixby’s manifest and she was not and never had been bound for Kingfisher Hill. Now that I came to think of it, she did not seem to have any suitcases with her and was carrying no bag or purse. She might have put herself among us to hide from somebody. I decided that, since I would never know, there was no point in speculating further.

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.