Closed Casket: The New Hercule Poirot Mystery (Hercule Poirot Mystery 2) by Sophie Hannah Page B

they are in no position to say anything about it.’
    ‘I do not want to think or talk about death!’ said Dorro. ‘Please.’
    ‘In what way do you owe your career in medicine to the play
King John
?’ Poirot asked Kimpton.
    ‘Hm? Oh, that. Yes indeed. I could probably have got away with
Julius Caesar
. Yes, I think I could have. It’s a respectable if uncommon choice. One would not have to suffer the condemnation of one’s peers or participate in ceaseless arguments that can have no clear winner. As a Shakespeare scholar, I was told every day that
Hamlet
and
King Lear
and
Macbeth
were vastly superior to
King John
. I disagreed, but how could I conclusively prove I was right? I could not! My enemies were able to produce many scholars who agreed with them, as if an army of head-nodders were proof of anything. One only has to look at the political situation to see that it is not so. Vast numbers of people on this tiny island believe they would be better off as an entirely separate country—’
    ‘Please, can we not discuss politics, after all that has happened tonight?’
    ‘Bless you, Dorro,’ said Kimpton. ‘Present me with a list of topics I am allowed to refer to, and the authority by which you seek to enforce your restrictions—moral or legal, I will allow either—and I will give your document my full consideration. In the meantime, I will finish my explanation to Poirot. Many in the Irish Free State view the English not as an asset but as an antagonist—which tells us, in my opinion, that many people are fools. It does not, however, settle the matter in dispute. What I am trying to say—circuitously, I will admit—is that some things are subjective and cannot be proven in an absolute sense. Whether or not
King John
is William Shakespeare’s finest play is one of those things.’
    ‘While medicine is not,’ said Poirot.
    ‘Quite correct.’ Kimpton smiled. ‘As someone who likes to win and prefers each victory to be unambiguous, I realized that I was better suited to a different kind of work. I am pleased to say that I made the right decision. Now my life is much more straightforward. I say, “If we don’t amputate this chap’s leg, he will die,” or “This lady was killed by a brain tumour—here it is, the size of a melon.” Nobody argues with me because they cannot. There is the melon-sized tumour for them all to see, or the dead fellow—dead from gangrene, with both of his legs still attached, thanks to an idiot optimist who erred on the side of hope rather than caution.’
    ‘You chose a profession that enables you to prove you are right,’ Poirot summarized.
    ‘I did, yes. The study of literature is for those who enjoy speculation. I prefer to
know
. Tell me—all these murderers you’ve caught … in how many cases did you have absolute proof that would have held up in court if the beggar in question had not confessed? Because a confession proves nothing at all. I will prove it: I, Randall Kimpton, murdered Abraham Lincoln. I was not born when it happened, but nevertheless … I’m an ambitious young cove, so I did not let that stop me. I killed President Lincoln!’
    Claudia cackled in appreciation. It was an alarming sound, but Kimpton seemed to like it.
    ‘There are mysteries, also, in medicine, and much that cannot be proven,’ said Poirot. ‘The tumour in the brain, the missing leg … you choose examples that serve your purpose. You do not mention the patients who come to you with pain for which you are unable to find a cause.’
    ‘There have been a few, I will grant you that. But generally, if a chap sneezes and has a runny nose and swollen red nostrils, I can say he has a cold and no one will waste hours trying to prove me wrong. That is why I would far rather do my work than yours, old boy.’
    ‘And I,
mon ami
, would rather do mine. If anyone can look at the running nose and take the temperature and see the influenza, what then is the challenge?’
    Kimpton started