The Monogram Murders (48 page)

let herself go, and she’s old enough to be his mother!’

Reason one that he would no longer be interested in

her, followed by reason two! The construction of the

sentence makes it clear that
both
of these unfortunate

circumstances that are the case
now
were once
not
the

case.”

“There is no need to shout at me, Poirot. I have

grasped your point, and I still disagree. Not

everybody is as precise in their speech as you are.

My interpretation has to be the correct one, and yours

incorrect, because, as you have pointed out, it makes

no sense otherwise. You said it yourself: if she is old

enough to be his mother now, then she must always

have been old enough to be his mother.”

“Catchpool, Catchpool. How I begin to despair of

you! Think of what came later in the same

conversation. Rafal Bobak heard Samuel Kidd,

posing as Richard Negus, say, ‘I dispute the old-

enough-to-be-his-mother claim. I dispute it utterly.’ To

which Nancy, posing as Harriet, replied, ‘Well,

neither of us can prove we’re right, so let’s agree to

disagree!’ But why could neither prove they were

right? Surely it is a matter of simple biological fact

whether or not a woman is old enough to be a man’s

mother? If she is four years older than him, then she is

not old enough. No one would dispute this! If she is

twenty years older, then she is old enough to be his

mother—that is equally certain.”

“What if she were thirteen years older?” said

Jennie Hobbs, who had closed her eyes. “Or twelve?

One does hear of rare cases . . . That does not apply

here, of course.”

So Jennie knew where Poirot was going with all

this. I was the only ignorant one in the room.

“Thirteen, twelve—it is irrelevant! One asks a

doctor, a medical expert: is it theoretically possible

for a female of thirteen, or twelve, to give birth to a

child? The answer is either yes or no. Please let us

not debate the borderline cases of potential

childbearing ages! Have you forgotten the other

intriguing statement made by Samuel Kidd in

connection with this allegedly younger man: ‘His

mind? I’d argue he has no mind.’ No doubt you will

say that Mr. Kidd meant nothing more than that the

man in question was an imbecile.”

“No doubt I will,” I said peevishly. “Why don’t

you tell me what I’m missing, since you’re so much

cleverer than I am?”

Poirot made a dismissive clicking noise. “
Sacré

tonnerre.
The couple under discussion in Room 317

were Harriet Sippel and her husband George. The

conversation was not a serious debate—it was

mockery. George Sippel died when he and Harriet

were both very young. Samuel Kidd argues that he has

no mind because, if George Sippel exists at all after

his death, it is not in human form. He is a ghost,
n’est-

ce pas
? Since the mind is inside the brain, and the

soul does not possess human organs, George Sippel

the ghost cannot have a mind.”

“I . . . Oh, heavens. Yes, now I see.”

“Samuel Kidd introduces his point of view in the

way that he does—‘I would argue . . .’—because he

expects Nancy Ducane to disagree. She might well

have said, “Of course a ghost must have a mind.

Ghosts have agency, do they not, and free will? From

where do these things come if not the mind?”

Philosophically, it was an interesting point. In

different circumstances, I could imagine taking a view

on the matter myself.

Poirot continued: “Nancy’s ‘old-enough-to-be-his-

mother’ remark was based on her belief that, when a

man dies,
his age is then fixed
forevermore
. In the

afterlife, he does not age. George Sippel, if he were

to return as a spirit to visit his widow, would be a

young man in his twenties, the age he was when he

died. And she, as a woman in her forties, is
now
old

enough to be his mother.”

“Bravo,” said Jennie in a matter-of-fact tone of

voice. “I was not there, but the conversation was

continued later in my presence. Monsieur Poirot

really is formidably perceptive, Mr. Catchpool. I

hope you appreciate him.” To Poirot, she said, “The

argument went on . . . oh, just for ever! Nancy insisted

she was right, but Sam would not concede the point.

He said ghosts do not exist in the dimension of age—

they are timeless, so it is incorrect to say that
anyone

could be old enough to be a ghost’s mother.”

Poirot said to me, “It is distasteful, is it not,

Catchpool? When Rafal Bobak delivered the food,

Nancy Ducane, with the dead body of Ida Gransbury

propped up in a chair beside her, was mocking the

woman in whose murder she had conspired earlier

that same day. Poor stupid Harriet: her husband is not

interested in talking directly to her from beyond the

grave. No, he will speak only to Jennie Hobbs,

leaving Harriet with no choice if she wants to receive

his message: she must meet Jennie at the Bloxham,

and, in doing so, meet her own doom.”

“Nobody has ever deserved to be murdered more

than Harriet Sippel did,” said Jennie. “I have many

regrets. Killing Harriet is not one of them.”

“WHAT ABOUT IDA GRANSBURY?” I asked. “Why did she

go to the Bloxham Hotel?”

“Ah!” said Poirot, who never tired of sharing the

endless knowledge that he alone seemed to possess.

“Ida also accepted an irresistible invitation, from

Richard Negus. Not to be put in communication with a

dead loved one, but to meet, after sixteen years apart,

her former fiancé. It is not hard to imagine what the

lure would have been. Richard Negus abandoned Ida

and, no doubt, broke her heart. She never married. I

expect he alluded in a letter to the possibility of a

reconciliation, maybe matrimony. A happy ending. Ida

agreed—which lonely individual would not choose to

give a second chance to true love?—and Richard told

her that he would come to her room at the Bloxham

Hotel at half past three or perhaps four o’clock on the

Thursday. Do you remember your remark, Catchpool,

about arriving at the hotel on Wednesday, so that the

whole of Thursday could be devoted to getting

murdered? That makes more sense now, yes?”

I nodded. “Negus knew that on the Thursday he

would have to commit murder, and also to be killed

himself. It is only natural that he would wish to arrive

a day early to prepare himself mentally for a double

ordeal of that sort.”

“Also to avoid the delayed train or something

similar that might have interfered with his plans,”

said Poirot.

“So Jennie Hobbs murdered Harriet Sippel, and

Richard Negus murdered Ida Gransbury?” I said.

“
Oui
,
mon ami.
” Poirot looked at Jennie, who

nodded. “At around the same time of day, in rooms

121 and 317 respectively. In both rooms, the same

method was used, I imagine, to induce Harriet and Ida

to drink the poison. Jennie said to Harriet, and

Richard Negus to Ida, ‘You will need a glass of water

before you hear what I have to say. Here, let me fetch

one for you. You sit down.’ While fetching the water,

using the glass next to the basin, Jennie and Negus

slipped in the poison. The glasses were then handed

to the two victims to drink. Death would have

followed shortly thereafter.”

“What about Richard Negus’s death?” I asked.

“Jennie killed him, according to the plan the two of

them made.”

“Much of what I told you at Sam’s house was

true,” said Jennie. “Richard
did
write to me after

years of silence. He
was
torn apart by guilt for what

he had done to Patrick and Frances, and he saw no

way out—no possibility of justice or peace of mind—

unless we all paid with our own lives, all four of us

who were responsible.”

“He asked you . . . to help him kill Harriet and

Ida?” I said, working it out as I spoke.

“Yes. Them, and him, and myself as well. It had to

be all of us, he insisted, or else it was meaningless.

He did not want to be a murderer but an executioner

—he used that word a lot—and that meant that he and

I could not avoid punishment. I agreed with him that

Harriet and Ida deserved to die. They were evil. But

. . . I didn’t want to die, nor did I want Richard dead.

It was enough for me that he was truly sorry for his

part in Patrick’s death. I . . . I knew it would have

been enough for Patrick too, and for any higher

authority that might or might not exist. But there was

no way to persuade Richard of this. I saw at once that

there was no point trying. He was as intelligent as he

always had been, but something in his mind had

slipped and turned him peculiar, given him weird

ideas. All those years of brooding on it, the guilt . . .

He had become a strange species of zealot. I knew

beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would murder me

too if I did not go along with what he was proposing.

He didn’t say so explicitly. He didn’t want to threaten

me, you see. He was kind to me. What he wanted and

needed was an ally. Someone of like mind. He

honestly believed I would agree to his scheme

because, unlike Harriet and Ida, I was reasonable. He

was so certain he was right—that his solution was the

only way for all of us. I thought perhaps he
was
right,

but I was afraid. I’m not any more. I don’t know what

has changed me. Maybe then, even in my unhappiness,

I still entertained the notion that my life might

improve. Sadness is different from despair.”

“You knew that you would have to pretend in order

to save your life,” said Poirot. “To lie convincingly to

Richard Negus—it was your only possible escape

from death. You did not know what to do, so you went

to Nancy Ducane for help.”

“Yes, I did. And she solved my problem, or so I

thought. Her plan was brilliant. Following her advice,

I suggested to Richard only one deviation from his

proposed plan. His idea was that once Harriet and Ida

were dead, he would kill me and then himself.

Naturally, as an authoritative man accustomed to

being in charge of whatever mattered to him, he

wanted to be the one in control until the end.

“Nancy told me I had to persuade Richard that I

should kill him rather than have him kill me.

‘Impossible!’ I said. ‘He will never agree.’ But Nancy

said that he would if I approached him in the right

way. I had to pretend to be more committed to our

goal than he was. She was right. It worked. I went to

Richard and said that it was not enough for the four of

us to die: me, him, Harriet and Ida. Nancy had to be

punished too. I pretended that I would be happy to die

only once she was dead. She was more evil than

Harriet, I said. I related an elaborate tale of how

Nancy had callously plotted to seduce Patrick away

from his wife, and would not take no for an answer. I

told Richard she had confessed to me that her true

motive for speaking up at the King’s Head was not to

help Patrick but to hurt Frances. She
hoped
that

Frances would take her own life, or abandon Patrick

at the very least and return to her father in Cambridge,

leaving the way clear for Nancy.”

“More lies,” said Poirot.

“Yes, of course, more lies—but ones suggested to

me by Nancy herself, and ones that did the trick!

Richard agreed to die before me.”

“And he did not know that Samuel Kidd was

involved, did he?” said Poirot.

“No. Nancy and I brought Sam into it. He was part

of
our
plan. Neither of us wanted to climb out of that

window and down the tree—we both feared we

would fall and break our necks—and after locking the

door from the inside and hiding the key behind the

tile, that was the only way to leave Room 238. That’s

why Sam was needed—that and the impersonation of

Richard.”

“And the key
had to be hidden behind the tile,
” I