The Monogram Murders (41 page)

King’s Head Inn, and told the villagers of Great

Holling about her love affair with Patrick Ive, which

was not chaste, though she had pretended at the time

that it was. Her voice shook as she told of the tragic

deaths by poisoning of Patrick and Frances Ive. I

noted that that was all she said about the cause of

death: poisoning. She did not specify accident or

suicide. I wondered if Poirot had asked her not to, for

the sake of Ambrose Flowerday and Margaret Ernst.

Before sitting down, Nancy said, “I am as devoted

to Patrick now as I ever was. I will never stop loving

him. One day, he and I will be reunited.”

“Thank you, Madame Ducane.” Poirot bowed. “I

must now without delay tell you something that I have

recently discovered, for I believe it will be a comfort

to you. Before his death, Patrick wrote . . . a letter. In

it, he asked for you to be told that he loved you and

always would.”

“Oh!” Nancy clapped her hands over her mouth

and blinked many times. “Monsieur Poirot, you cannot

imagine how happy you have made me.”

“
Au contraire, madame.
I can imagine only too

well. The loving message, conveyed after the death of

the loved one . . . It is an echo, is it not, of the untrue

rumors about Patrick Ive: that he conveyed messages

from beyond the grave? And who, I ask you, would

not wish to receive such a message from one they

have loved very much and lost?”

Nancy Ducane made her way back to her chair and

sat down. Louisa Wallace patted her arm.

“And now,” said Poirot, “another woman who

knew and loved Patrick Ive will speak: his former

servant, Jennie Hobbs. Mademoiselle Hobbs?”

Jennie stood up and went to stand where Nancy

had stood. She too looked unsurprised to be asked. In

a shaking voice, she said. “I loved Patrick Ive as

much as Nancy did. But he did not reciprocate my

love. To him, I was no more than a loyal servant. It

was I who started the wicked rumors about him. I told

an unforgivable lie. I was jealous because he loved

Nancy and not me. Although I did not kill him with my

own hands, I believe that, in slandering him as I did, I

caused his death. I and three others: Harriet Sippel,

Richard Negus and Ida Gransbury, the three people

who were murdered at this hotel. All four of us later

came to regret what we had done. We regretted it

profoundly. And so we made a plan to put things

right.”

I watched the astonished faces of the Bloxham

Hotel staff as Jennie described the same plan that she

had described to Poirot and me at Samuel Kidd’s

house, as well as how and why it went wrong. Louisa

Wallace squealed in horror at the part about framing

Nancy Ducane for the three murders and making sure

she hanged. “Arranging for an innocent woman to be

put to death for three murders she didn’t commit is not

righting a wrong!” St. John Wallace called out. “That

is depravity!”

Nobody disagreed with him, at least not out loud.

Fee Spring, I noticed, did not look as shocked as most

people did. She seemed to be listening intently.

“I never wanted to frame Nancy,” said Jennie.

“Never! You may believe that or not, as you wish.”

“Mr. Negus,” said Poirot. “Mr.
Henry
Negus—do

you think it likely that your brother Richard would

make such a plan as you have heard?”

Henry Negus stood up. “I would not like to say,

Monsieur Poirot. The Richard I knew would not have

dreamed of killing anyone, of course, but the Richard

who came to live with me in Devon sixteen years ago

was not the Richard I knew.
Oh, the physicality of

him was the same, but he was not the same man on the

inside. I’m afraid to say that I never got to know the

man that he had become. I cannot, therefore, comment

on how likely he was to behave in a particular way.”

“Thank you, Mr. Negus. And thank you, Miss

Hobbs,” Poirot added with a marked absence of

enthusiasm. “You may now sit down.”

He turned to the crowd. “So you see, ladies and

gentlemen, that Miss Hobbs’s story, if true, leaves us

with no murderer to arrest and convict. Ida Gransbury

killed Harriet Sippel—with her permission. Richard

Negus killed Ida Gransbury—again, with her

permission—and then killed himself when Jennie

Hobbs did not arrive to kill him as she was supposed

to. He took his own life and made it look like murder

by first locking his door and hiding the key behind a

loose tile in the fireplace, and then opening the

window. The police were supposed to think that the

murderer—Nancy Ducane—took the key with her and

escaped through the open window and down a tree.

But there was no
murderer,
according to Jennie

Hobbs—nobody who killed without permission of the

victim!”

Poirot looked around the room. “No murderer,” he

repeated. “However, even if this were true, there

would still be two criminals who are alive and

deserving of punishment: Jennie Hobbs and Samuel

Kidd, who conspired to frame Nancy Ducane.”

“I hope you’re going to lock them both up,

Monsieur Poirot!” called out Louisa Wallace.

“I do not lock or unlock the prison gate, madame.

That is the job of my friend Catchpool and his

associates. I unlock only the secrets and the truth. Mr.

Samuel Kidd, please stand.”

Kidd, looking uncomfortable, rose to his feet.

“Your part in the plan was to place a note on the

front desk of this hotel, was it not? ‘MAY THEY

NEVER REST IN PEACE. 121. 238. 317.’ ”

“Yes, sir. It was, like Jennie said.”

“You had been given the note by Jennie in good

time to do this?”

“Yes. She gave it to me earlier in the day. In the

morning.”

“And you were to put it on the desk when?”

“Shortly after eight o’clock in the evening, like

Jennie said. As soon as I could after eight, but first

making sure no one was close enough to see me put it

there.”

“You had this instruction from whom?” Poirot

asked.

“Jennie.”

“And also from Jennie you had the instruction to

plant the room keys in the pocket of Nancy Ducane?”

“That’s right,” said Kidd in a sullen voice. “I don’t

know why you’re asking me all this when she’s only

just now finished telling you.”

“I will explain.
Bon.
According to the original

plan, as we have all heard Jennie Hobbs say, the keys

to all three rooms—121, 238 and 317—would be

removed from Richard Negus’s room by Jennie after

she had killed him, and given to Samuel Kidd, who

would place them somewhere that would implicate

Nancy Ducane—her coat pocket, as it turned out.
But

Jennie Hobbs did not go to the Bloxham Hotel at all

on the night of the murders, according to her story.

She was not brave enough. I therefore ask you, Mr.

Kidd: how did you get hold of the keys to rooms 121

and 317?”

“How did I . . . how did I get hold of the two

keys?”

“Yes. That is the question I asked you. Please

answer it.”

“I . . . well, if you must know, I got hold of those

keys thanks to my own wits. I had a word in the ear of

a member of the hotel staff and asked if they’d be

good enough to let me have a master key. And they

did. I then returned it to them, once I’d used it. All

discreet, like.”

I was standing close enough to Poirot to hear the

noise of disapproval that he made. “Which member of

staff, monsieur? They are all here in this room. Point

to the person who gave you this master key.”

“I can’t remember who it was. A man—that’s all I

can tell you. I’ve a pitiful memory for faces.” As he

said this, Kidd rubbed the red scratches on his own

face with his thumb and forefinger.

“So, with this master key you let yourself into all

three rooms?”

“No, only Room 238. That’s where all the keys

ought to have ended up, waiting for Jennie to take

them, but I could only find two. As you’ve said, one

was hidden behind a tile in the fireplace. I didn’t like

to stay and search the room for the third key, what

with Mr. Negus’s body being there and all.”

“You are lying,” Poirot told him. “It does not

matter. You will discover, in due course, that you

cannot lie your way out of this predicament. But let us

move on. No, do not sit down. I have another question

—for you and Jennie Hobbs. It was part of the plan,

was it not, that Jennie should bring her tale of mortal

fear to me at Pleasant’s Coffee House at just after half

past seven on the night of the murders?”

“Yes,” said Jennie, looking not at Poirot but at

Samuel Kidd.

“Forgive me, then, but I do not understand

something important. You were too afraid to go

through with the plan, you say, and so you did not

arrive at the hotel at six o’clock. Yet the plan went

ahead without you, it seems. The only deviation was

that Richard Negus killed himself, yes? He put the

poison into his own drink, rather than having it put in

his drink by you. Is everything that I have said so far

correct, mademoiselle?”

“Yes, it is.”

“In that case, if the only altered detail was Richard

Negus killing himself instead of being killed, we can

assume that the deaths took place as planned: after the

ordering of the sandwiches and scones, between a

quarter past seven and eight o’clock. Yes, Miss

Hobbs?”

“That is right,” said Jennie. She did not sound

quite as certain as she had a moment ago.

“Then how, might I ask, can it ever have been part

of the plan for you to kill Richard Negus? You have

told us that you intended to find me at Pleasant’s

Coffee House shortly after half past seven on that

same night, knowing I would be there for my regular

Thursday evening dinner. It is impossible to get from

the Bloxham Hotel to Pleasant’s Coffee House in less

than half an hour. It cannot be done, no matter how

one travels. So, even if Ida Gransbury had killed

Harriet Sippel and Richard Negus had killed Ida

Gransbury as soon as was possible after a quarter

past seven, there would not have been time for you to

kill Richard Negus in Room 238 after that time, and

still arrive at Pleasant’s when you did. Are we

supposed to believe that, in all the meticulous

planning that you undertook, none of you thought of

this practical impossibility?”

Jennie’s face had turned white. I expect mine had

too, though I could not see it myself.

It was such an obvious flaw in her account that

Poirot had pointed out, and yet I had failed to spot it.

It simply had not occurred to me.

The Real Ida Gransbury

SAMUEL KIDD CHUCKLED, TURNING round so that more

people could see him. He said, “Mr. Poirot, for a man

who takes pride in his powers of detection, you’re not

the sharpest of instruments, are you? I’ve heard Jennie

talk about this more often than you have, I think I can

safely say. The plan was not for the killings to take

place after a quarter past seven. I don’t know where

you’ve caught hold of that idea. The plan was for

them to happen just after six o’clock. The ordering of