The Monogram Murders (11 page)

people . . .” Poirot turned back to the crowd. “Ladies

and gentlemen, we have heard that Richard Negus,

Harriet Sippel and Ida Gransbury were friends, and

that their food was delivered to Room 317 at fifteen

minutes past seven. Yet at half past seven, Mr.

Brignell saw Richard Negus on
this
floor of the hotel,

walking toward the lift. Mr. Negus must have been

returning,
n’est-ce pas,
either to his own room, 238,

or to Room 317 to join his two friends? But returning

from where? His sandwiches and cakes were

delivered only fifteen minutes earlier! Did he

abandon them immediately and set off somewhere? Or

did he eat his share of the food in only three or four

minutes before rushing off? And to where did he rush?

What was the important errand for which he left

Room 317? Was it to ensure that the food should not

end up on the bill of Harriet Sippel or Ida Gransbury?

He could not wait twenty or thirty minutes, or an hour,

before setting off to attend to this matter?”

A sturdily built woman with curly brown hair and

severe eyebrows sprang to her feet at the back of the

room. “You keep asking all these questions as if I

might know the answer, as if we all might know the

answers, and we don’t know nothing!” Her eyes

darted around the room as she spoke, settling on one

person after another, though her words were

addressed to Poirot. “I want to go home, Mr.

Lazzari,” she wailed. “I want to look in on my kiddies

and see that they’re safe!”

A younger woman sitting beside her put a hand on

her arm and tried to calm her. “Sit down, Tessie,” she

said. “The gentleman’s only trying to help. Your

bairns won’t have come to any harm, not if they’ve

been nowhere near the Bloxham.”

At this remark, intended as a comfort, both Luca

Lazzari and Sturdy Tessie made anguished noises.

“We won’t keep you much longer, madam,” I said.

“And I’m sure Mr. Lazzari will allow you to pay a

visit to your children afterward, if that is what you

feel you need to do.”

Lazzari indicated that this would be permissible,

and Tessie sat down, slightly mollified.

I turned to Poirot and said, “Richard Negus did not

leave Room 317 in order to clear up the matter of the

bill. He ran into Thomas Brignell on his way
back

from somewhere, so he had already done whatever it

was that he set out to do by that point. He then

happened to spot Mr. Brignell and decided to clear up

the matter of the bill.” I hoped, with this little speech,

to demonstrate to all present that we had answers as

well as questions. Perhaps not
all
the answers yet, but

some, and some was better than none.

“Monsieur Brignell, did you have the impression

that Mr. Negus
happened
to see you and take his

opportunity, as Mr. Catchpool describes? He was not

looking for you? It was you who attended to him when

he arrived at the hotel on Wednesday, yes?

“That’s right, sir. No, he wasn’t looking for me.”

Brignell seemed happier about speaking while seated.

“He chanced upon me and thought, ‘Oh, there’s that

chap again,’ if you know what I mean, sir.”

“Indeed. Ladies and gentlemen,” Poirot raised his

voice. “After committing three murders in this hotel

yesterday evening, the killer, or somebody who

knows the identity of the killer and conspired with

him, left a note on the front desk: ‘MAY THEY

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

anybody happen to observe the leaving of this note

that I show to you now?” Poirot produced the small

white card from his pocket and held it up in the air. “It

was found by the clerk, Mr. John Goode, at ten

minutes past eight. Did any of you, perhaps, notice a

person or persons near the desk who seemed to be

conducting themselves in an unusual way? Think hard!

Someone must have seen something!”

Stout Tessie had screwed her eyes shut and was

leaning against her friend. The room had filled with

whispers and gasps, but it was only the shock and

excitement of seeing the handwriting of a killer—a

souvenir that made the three deaths seem more vividly

real.

Nobody had anything more to tell us. It turned out

that if you asked a hundred people, you were likely to

be disappointed.

The Sherry Conundrum

HALF AN HOUR LATER, Poirot and I sat drinking coffee

in front of a roaring fire in what Lazzari had called

“our hidden lounge,” a room that was behind the

dining room and not accessible from any public

corridor. The walls were covered with portraits that I

tried to ignore. Give me a sunny landscape any day of

the week, or even a cloudy one. It’s the eyes that

bother me when people are depicted; it doesn’t seem

to matter who the artist is. I’ve yet to see a portrait

and not be convinced that its subject is regarding me

with searing scorn.

After his exuberant performance as master of

ceremonies in the dining room, Poirot had lapsed

once more into quiet gloom. “You’re fretting about

Jennie again, aren’t you?” I asked him.

He admitted that he was. “I do not want to hear that

she has been found with a cufflink in her mouth, with

the monogram PIJ. That is the news I dread.”

“Since there is nothing you can do about Jennie for

the time being, I suggest you think about something

else,” I advised.

“How practical you are, Catchpool. Very well. Let

us think about teacups.”

“Teacups?”

“Yes. What do you make of them?”

After some consideration, I said, “I believe I have

no opinions whatever on the subject of teacups.”

Poirot made an impatient noise. “Three teacups are

brought to Ida Gransbury’s room by the waiter Rafal

Bobak. Three teacups for three people, as one would

expect. But when the bodies of the three are found,

there are only two teacups in the room.”

“The other one is in Harriet Sippel’s room with

Harriet Sippel’s dead body,” I said.

“
Exactement.
And this is most curious, is it not?

Did Mrs. Sippel carry her teacup and saucer back to

her room before or after the poison was put into it? In

either scenario, who would carry a cup of tea along a

hotel corridor, and then take it into a lift or walk

down two flights of stairs with it in their hands?

Either it is full and there is a risk of spillage, or it is

half full or almost empty, and hardly worth

transporting. Usually one drinks a cup of tea in the

room in which one pours the cup of tea,
n’est-ce

pas
?”

“Usually, yes. This killer strikes me as being as far

from usual as it’s possible to be,” I said with some

vehemence.

“And his victims? Are they not ordinary people?

What about their behavior? Do you ask me to believe

that Harriet Sippel carries her tea down to her room,

sits in a chair to drink it, and then almost immediately

the murderer knocks on her door and finds an

opportunity to put cyanide in her drink? And Richard

Negus, remember, has also left Ida Gransbury’s room

for some unknown reason, but he arranges to be back

in his own room soon afterward, with a glass of

sherry that nobody at the hotel gave him.”

“I suppose when you put it like that . . .” I said.

Poirot carried on as if I had not just conceded the

point. “Ah, yes, Richard Negus too, he is sitting alone

with his drink when the killer pays him a visit. He too

says, ‘By all means, drop your poison into my sherry.’

And Ida Gransbury, she is all the while waiting

patiently in Room 317, alone, for the murderer to

come calling? She sips her tea
very slowly
. It would

be inconsiderate of her to finish it before the killer

arrives, of course—how then would he poison her?

Where would he put his cyanide?”

“Damn it, Poirot—what do you want me to say? I

don’t understand it any more than you do! Look, it

seems to me that the three murder victims must have

had some kind of altercation. Why else would they

plan to dine together and then all go their separate

ways?”

“I do not think a woman leaving a room in anger

would take a half-finished cup of tea with her,” said

Poirot. “Would it not in any case be cold by the time it

reached Room 121?”

“I often drink tea cold,” I said. “I quite like it.”

Poirot raised his eyebrows. “If I did not know you

to be an honest man, I should not believe it possible.

Cold tea!
Dégueulasse!
”

“Well, I should say I’ve
grown
to like it,” I added

in my defense. “There’s no hurry, with cold tea. You

can drink it at a time to suit you, and nothing bad’s

going to happen to it if you take a while. There’s no

time constraint and no pressure. That counts for a lot,

in my book.”

There was a knock at the door. “That will be

Lazzari, coming to check that no one has disturbed us

during our important conversation,” I said.

“Enter, please,” Poirot called out.

It was not Luca Lazzari but Thomas Brignell, the

junior clerk who had spoken up about having seen

Richard Negus by the lift at half past seven. “Ah,

Monsieur Brignell,” said Poirot. “Do join us. Your

account of yesterday evening was most helpful. Mr.

Catchpool and I are grateful.”

“Yes, very much so,” I said heartily. I’d have said

almost anything to make it easier for Brignell to cough

up whatever was bothering him. It was obvious that

something was. The poor chap looked no more

confident now than he had in the dining room. He

rubbed the palms of his hands together, sliding them

up and down. I could see sweat on his forehead, and

he looked paler than he had before.

“I’ve let you down,” he said. “I’ve let Mr. Lazzari

down, and he’s been so good to me, he has. I didn’t

. . . in the dining room before, I didn’t . . .” He broke

off and rubbed his palms together some more.

“You did not tell us the truth?” Poirot suggested.

“Every word I spoke was the truth, sir!” said

Thomas Brignell indignantly. “I’d be no better than

the murderer myself if I lied to the police on a matter

as important as this.”

“I do not think that you would be quite as guilty as

him, monsieur.”

“There were two things I neglected to mention. I

can’t tell you how sorry I am, sir. You see, speaking

in front of a room full of people isn’t something as

comes easy to me. I’ve always been that way. And

what made it harder in there, before”—he nodded in

the direction of the dining room—“was that I’d have

been reluctant to say the other thing Mr. Negus said to

me because he paid me a compliment.

“What compliment?”

“It wasn’t one I’d done anything to deserve, sir,

I’m sure. I’m just an ordinary man. There’s nothing

notable about me at all. I do my job, as I’m paid to,

and I try to do my best, but there’s no reason for

anyone to single me out for special praise.”

“And Mr. Negus did this?” asked Poirot. “He

singled you out for praise?”

Brignell winced. “Yes, sir. Like I said: I didn’t ask

for it and I’m sure I’d done nothing to earn it. But

when I saw him and he saw me, he said, ‘Ah, Mr.