The Killings at Kingfisher Hill. Sophie Hannah

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.”’