if I had imagined a problem that did not exist.
‘No, thank you.’ She sounded vague and seemed distracted.
‘Are you quite certain?’
‘Yes. I … Yes. Thank you.’ She took four or five steps away from me and closer to the coach.
I could hardly insist on helping her if she was determined to forbid it, so I returned to Poirot and Alfred Bixby, but kept an eye on her movements, which soon grew more agitated. She started to walk round and round in little circles, her mouth moving silently. At no point did the terrible expression leave her face, not for a second.
I was about to interrupt Bixby’s monologue and draw Poirot’s attention to the object of my concern when I heard a loud, disdainful female voice to the left of me say, ‘Do you see that young woman over there? What on earth is wrong with her? Perhaps her mother dropped her hard on her head when she was a baby.’
The mother of the bundled infant gasped and held her child closer to her body. ‘There’s no need to be insulting, miss,’ said an old man, which remark inspired a general murmur of agreement. The only people who seemed not to notice all of this activity were the woman with the unfinished face and Alfred Bixby, who was still talking to Poirot, though Poirot was no longer listening.
‘She does appear to be disturbed,’ someone said. ‘We ought to check that her name is on the passenger manifest.’
This provoked a chorus of observations:
‘Mr Bixby said we’re all here.’
‘Then what’s keeping him from opening the doors? Driver! You’re the driver, aren’t you? May we board now?’
‘I suppose if her name is on the list then she cannot be an escaped lunatic from a nearby asylum, though her behaviour indicates otherwise,’ said the loud, rude woman. She too was young—around the same age as the woman with the unfinished face. Her voice was severely at odds with the viciousness of her words. It was a strikingly musical and feminine voice—light, bright, almost sparkling. If a diamond could speak, it would sound like her, I thought.
‘That gentleman was speaking to her a few seconds ago.’ An elderly lady gestured in my direction, then turned to face me. ‘What did you say to her? Do you know her?’
‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘I simply noticed that she looked … disturbed and asked if she needed help. “No, thank you,” she said.’
‘Now, then, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Alfred Bixby, eager to redirect our attention to his pride and joy. ‘Is it time to reveal the luxurious interior of this brand new beauty? Why, I believe it is!’
As several people rushed forward in their eagerness to climb on board and escape the cold, I stood to one side and watched as the woman with the unfinished face backed away from the coach’s open doors as though afraid they might swallow her up. I heard Poirot’s voice behind me. ‘Let us proceed, Catchpool. I have taken enough of your English fresh air for one day. Oh—you observe la pauvre mademoiselle.’
‘What the devil is the matter with her, Poirot?’
‘I do not know, my friend. It is likely that her mental faculties are impaired.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I told him. ‘When I spoke to her, she appeared sane and lucid.’
‘In that case, she has since deteriorated.’
I walked over to her once more and said, ‘I’m terribly sorry to intrude again, but … I am quite certain that you are in need of help. My name is Edward Catchpool. I’m a police inspector with Scotland Yard, and …’
‘No!’ Her mouth contorted around the word. ‘You cannot be. It’s impossible!’ She backed away from me, knocking into the woman with the baby. She seemed aware of nothing and no one but me. The first time I had spoken to her, she had been too preoccupied by her own fears and torments to notice me. Now she seemed entirely fixated on me to the exclusion of all else. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded to know. ‘Who are you, really?’
Poirot came quickly to my defence. ‘Mademoiselle, I can assure you that it is true. Inspector Catchpool and I, we travel together. I am M. Hercule Poirot.’
His words had a visible effect. All at once, her demeanour changed. She looked around. She seemed to notice for the first time that her behaviour had attracted many avid spectators. Then she hung her head and whispered, ‘Forgive me, Inspector. Of course you are who you say you are. I don’t know what came over me.’
‘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.
‘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