Read The Monogram Murders Online

Authors: Sophie Hannah

The Monogram Murders

Dedication

For Agatha Christie

Acknowledgments

I am enormously grateful to the following people: the

inimitable Peter Straus, who is to literary agenting

what Poirot is to mystery-solving; Mathew and James

Prichard, who have been so inspiring, kind, helpful

and supportive throughout this whole process; the

brilliant Hilary Strong, who is a joy both to work

with and to have fun with; the wonderful teams at

HarperCollins UK and US, especially Kate Elton and

Natasha Hughes (for enthusiastic and incisive

editorial input), David Brawn (for the same, and also

for many conversations about dogs, and for fielding

the odd cryptic, semi-hysterical phone call! As David

handles literary estates, it’s rare that an author who

isn’t dead gets to work with him, and all those not-

dead authors are missing a treat, let me tell you.)

Thanks to Louisa Joyner, who was so lovely and

enthusiastic about this book in advance and who

played a significant part in getting it off the ground.

Thank you to Lou Swannell, Kathy Turtle, Jennifer

Hart, Anne O’Brien, Heike Schüssler, Danielle

Bartlett, Damon Greeney, Margaux Weisman, Kaitlin

Harri, Josh Marwell, Charlie Redmayne, Virginia

Stanley, Laura Di Giuseppe, Liate Stehlik, Kathryn

Gordon, and all the other fantastic people who have

been involved—you have all made this an amazingly

wonderful experience. (There is no such thing as too

many adjectives on an Acknowledgments page.) And

thanks to Four Colman Getty, who did a brilliant job

of marketing the book.

A special bursting-into-song kind of thank you,

requiring its own paragraph, to the inspirational Dan

Mallory, who has reminded me of everything I love

about writing and books.

Thank you to Tamsen Harward for making a

crucial plot suggestion just in time.

Hodder

&

Stoughton,

who

publish

my

psychological thrillers, have been exceptionally jolly

and excited about my fleeting elopement with Poirot,

and asked only that I return to Hodder Towers without

a big swirly moustache. I am enormously grateful to

them.

Thank you to everybody who has been lovely

about this book on Twitter and in the real world—

Jamie Bernthal and Scott Wallace Baker spring to

mind particularly, and I am very grateful to both of

them for welcoming me into the world of Agatha

fandom.

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

1. Runaway Jennie

2. Murder in Three Rooms

3. At the Bloxham Hotel

4. The Frame Widens

5. Ask a Hundred People

6. The Sherry Conundrum

7. Two Keys

8. Assembling Our Thoughts

9. A Visit to Great Holling

10. Slander’s Mark

11. Two Recollections

12. A Grievous Wound

13. Nancy Ducane

14. The Mind in the Mirror

15. The Fourth Cufflink

16. A Lie for a Lie

17. The Older Woman and the Younger Man

18. Knock and See Who Comes to the Door

19. The Truth at Last

20. How It All Went Wrong

21. All the Devils Are Here

22. The Monogram Murders

23. The Real Ida Gransbury

24. The Blue Jug and Bowl

25. If Murder Began with a D

Epilogue

About the Author

Also by Sophie Hannah

Also by Agatha Christie

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

Runaway Jennie

“ALL’S I’M SAYING IS, I don’t like her,” the waitress

with the flyaway hair whispered. It was a loud

whisper, easily overheard by the solitary customer in

Pleasant’s Coffee House. He wondered whether the

“her” under discussion on this occasion was another

waitress or a regular patron like himself.

“I don’t have to like her, do I? You want to think

different, you feel free.”

“I thought she was nice enough,” said the shorter

waitress with the round face, sounding less certain

than she had a few moments ago.

“That’s how she is when her pride’s taken a knock.

Soon as she perks up, her tongue’ll start dripping

poison again. It’s the wrong way round. I’ve known

plenty of her sort—never trust ’em.”

“What d’you mean it’s the wrong way round?”

asked the round-faced waitress.

Hercule Poirot, the only diner in the coffee house

at just after half past seven on this Thursday evening

in February, knew what the waitress with the flyaway

hair meant. He smiled to himself. It was not the first

time she had made an astute observation.

“Anyone can be forgiven for saying a sharp word

when they’re up against it—I’ve done it myself, I

don’t mind admitting. And when I’m happy, I want

other folks to be happy. That’s the way it should be.

But then there’s those like
her
who treat you worst

when things are going their way. Them’s the ones you

want to watch out for.”

Bien vu,
thought Hercule Poirot.
De la vraie

sagesse populaire.

The door of the coffee house flew open and banged

against the wall. A woman wearing a pale brown coat

and a darker brown hat stood in the doorway. She had

fair hair. Poirot could not see her face. Her head was

turned to look over her shoulder, as if she was

waiting for someone to catch up with her.

A few seconds of the door standing open was long

enough for the cold night air to drive out all the

warmth from the small room. Normally this would

have infuriated Poirot, but he was interested in the

new arrival who had entered so dramatically and did

not appear to care what impression she made.

He placed his hand flat over the top of his coffee

cup in the hope of preserving the warmth of his drink.

This tiny crooked-walled establishment in St.

Gregory’s Alley, in a part of London that was far from

being the most salubrious, made the best coffee Poirot

had tasted anywhere in the world. He would not

usually drink a cup before his dinner as well as after

it—indeed, such a prospect would horrify him in

ordinary circumstances—but every Thursday, when

he came to Pleasant’s at 7:30 P.M. precisely, he made

an exception to his rule. By now, he regarded this

weekly exception as a little tradition.

Other traditions of the coffee house he enjoyed

rather less: positioning the cutlery, napkin and water

glass correctly on his table, having arrived to find

everything all askew. The waitresses evidently

believed it was sufficient for the items to be

somewhere—anywhere—on

the

table.

Poirot

disagreed and made a point of imposing order as soon

as he arrived.

“ ’Scuse me, miss, would you mind shutting the

door if you’re coming in?” Flyaway Hair called out to

the woman in the brown hat and coat who was

gripping the door frame with one hand, still facing the

street. “Or even if you’re not coming in. Those of us

in here don’t want to freeze.”

The woman stepped inside. She closed the door

but did not apologize for having left it open so long.

Her jagged breathing could be heard across the room.

She seemed not to notice that there were other people

present. Poirot greeted her with a quiet “Good

evening.” She half turned toward him but made no

response. Her eyes were wide with alarm of an

uncommon kind—powerful enough to take hold of a

stranger, like a physical grip.

Poirot no longer felt calm and contented as he had

when he’d arrived. His peaceful mood was shattered.

The woman hurried over to the window and

peered out. She will not see whatever she looks for,

Poirot thought to himself. Staring into the blackness of

night from a well-lit room, it is impossible to see

very much at all when the glass reflects only an image

of the room you are in. Yet she continued to stare out

for some time, seemingly determined to watch the

street.

“Oh, it’s
you,
” said Flyaway Hair a touch

impatiently. “What’s the matter? Has something

happened?”

The woman in the brown coat and hat turned

around. “No, I . . .” The words came out as a sob.

Then she managed to get herself under control. “No.

May I take the table in the corner?” She pointed to the

one farthest from the door to the street.

“You’re welcome to any table except the one

where the gentleman’s sitting. They’re all laid.”

Having reminded herself of Poirot, Flyaway Hair said

to him, “Your dinner’s cooking nicely, sir.” Poirot

was delighted to hear it. The food at Pleasant’s was

almost as good as the coffee. Indeed, when he

considered the two together, Poirot found it hard to

believe what he knew to be the case: that everybody

who worked in the kitchen here was English.

Incroyable.

Flyaway Hair turned back to the distressed

woman. “You sure there’s nothing wrong, Jennie? You

look as if you’ve come face to face with the devil.”

“I’m all right, thank you. A cup of strong, hot tea is

all I need. My usual, please.” Jennie hurried over to a

table in the far corner, passing Poirot without looking

at him. He turned his chair slightly so that he could

observe her. Most assuredly something was the matter

with her; it was something she did not wish to discuss

with the coffee house waitresses, evidently.

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