The Monogram Murders (28 page)

might be here waiting for Jennie Hobbs to reappear.”

“Jennie Hobbs, is it? So you’ve found a family

name for her. Mr. Poirot’ll be pleased to know who

he’s been fretting over all this time. Maybe now he’ll

stop pestering me. Every time I turn around, there he

is under my feet, asking me all the same questions

about Jennie that he’s already asked me. I never ask

him where you are—never!”

I was rather stumped by this last statement. “Why

would you?” I said.

“I wouldn’t and I don’t. You’ve got to be careful

what questions you ask the question-asking sort. Did

you find out anything else about Jennie?”

“Nothing I can tell you, I’m afraid.”

“Then why don’t I tell you something instead? Mr.

Poirot’ll want to know.” Fee propelled me toward an

unoccupied table. We sat down. She said, “That night

Jennie came in, when she was all sixes and sevens—

last Thursday. I told Mr. Poirot I noticed something,

and then it escaped me. Well, I’ve remembered what

it was. It was dark, and I hadn’t pulled the curtains

across. I never do. Might as well light up the alley, I

always think. And folk who can see in are more likely

to come in.”

“Especially if they catch sight of you in the

window,” I teased her.

Her eyes widened. “That’s just it,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“After I made her shut the door, Jennie darted over

to the window and stared out. She was acting as if

someone out there was after her. She stared and stared

out of the window, but all she would have seen was

herself, this room, and me—my reflection, I mean.

And I saw her. That’s how I knew who she was. You

ask Mr. Poirot, he’ll tell you. I said, ‘Oh, it’s you, is

it?’ before she’d turned round. The window was like

a mirror, see, with it being all lit up in here and dark

outside. Now, you might say that maybe she was

trying
to see outside even if she wasn’t having much

luck, but that’s not true.”

“What do you mean?”

“She wasn’t looking out for anyone following her.

She was watching me, like I was watching her. My

eyes could see hers reflected, and hers could see mine

—like with a mirror, if you know how that is?”

I nodded. “Whenever you can see someone in a

mirror, they can always see you too.”

“Right enough. And Jennie was watching me, I

swear: waiting to see what I’d say or do about her

coming in all of a pet. This’ll sound funny, Mr.

Catchpool, but it was like I could see
more
than her

eyes. I could see her mind, if that don’t sound too

fanciful. I’d swear she was waiting for me to take

charge.”

“Anyone sensible would wait for you to take

charge.” I smiled.

“
Tschk
.” Fee made a noise that suggested

irritation. “I don’t know how I forgot it, if you must

know. I want to grab hold of me and give me a good

shaking for not remembering before now. I swear I

didn’t imagine it. Her reflection was staring mine

right in the eyes, as if . . .” Fee frowned. “As if
I
was

the danger and not nobody outside on the street. But

why would she look at me that way? Can you make

sense of it? I can’t.”

AFTER LOOKING IN ON things at Scotland Yard, I

returned to the lodging house to find Poirot

endeavoring to leave it. He was standing by the open

front door in his hat and coat, with high color in his

face and an unsettled air about him, as if he was

having trouble keeping still. This was a problem that

did not normally afflict him. Unusually for her,

Blanche Unsworth showed no interest in my arrival,

and was instead fussing about a car that was late. She

too was pink-faced.

“We must leave at once for the Bloxham Hotel,

Catchpool,” said Poirot, adjusting his mustache with

gloved fingers. “As soon as the car arrives.”

“It should have been here ten minutes ago,” said

Blanche. “I suppose the boon of it being late is you

can take Mr. Catchpool with you.”

“What is the emergency?” I asked.

“There has been another murder,” said Poirot. “At

the Bloxham Hotel.”

“Oh, dear.” For several seconds, abject panic

coursed through my veins. On it went: the laying out

of the dead. One, two, three, four . . .

Eight lifeless hands, palms facing down . . .

“Hold his hand, Edward . . .”

“Is it Jennie Hobbs?” I asked Poirot, as the blood

pounded in my ears.

I should have listened to him about the danger.

Why didn’t I take him seriously?

“I do not know. Ah! So you too know her name.

Signor Lazzari sent a summons by telephone, since

when I have been unable to contact him.
Bon,
here at

last is the car.”

As I moved toward it, I felt myself pulled back.

Blanche Unsworth was tugging at my coat sleeve. “Be

careful at that hotel, won’t you, Mr. Catchpool. I

couldn’t bear it if you were to come to any harm.”

“I shall, of course.”

Her face set in a ferocious grimace. “You

shouldn’t have to go there, if you ask me. What was

this fellow doing there anyway, the one that got

himself killed this time? Three people have been

murdered already at the Bloxham, and only last week!

Why didn’t he go and stay somewhere else if he

didn’t want the same to happen to him? It’s not right,

him ignoring the danger signs and putting you to all

this bother.”

“I shall say so to his corpse in no uncertain terms.”

I reasoned to myself that if I smiled and said all the

right words, I might soon feel more settled.

“Say something to the other guests while you’re

about it,” Blanche advised. “Tell them I’ve two spare

rooms here. It might not be as grand as the Bloxham,

but everybody’s still alive when they wake up in the

morning.”

“Catchpool, please hurry,” Poirot called from the

car.

Hurriedly, I handed my cases to Blanche and did

as I was told.

Once we were on our way, Poirot said, “I hoped

very much to prevent a fourth murder,
mon ami.
I have

failed.”

“I wouldn’t look at it that way,” I said.

“
Non?
”

“You did all you could. Just because the killer

succeeded, it does not mean you failed.”

Poirot’s face was a mask of contempt. “If that is

your opinion, then you must be every murderer’s

favorite policeman. Of course I have failed!” He

raised his hand to stop me from speaking. “Please,

say no more absurd things. Tell me about your stay in

Great Holling. What did you discover, apart from the

surname of Jennie?”

I told him all about my trip, feeling gradually more

like my normal self as I went on, making sure to leave

out no detail that a thorough chap like Poirot might

consider relevant. As I spoke, I noticed the strangest

thing: his eyes were growing greener. It was as if

someone were shining small torches on them from

inside his head, to make them glow brighter.

When I had finished, he said, “So, Jennie was a

bed-maker for Patrick Ive at the University of

Cambridge’s Saviour College. That is most

interesting.”

“Why?”

No answer was forthcoming, only another

question.

“You did not lie in wait for Margaret Ernst and

follow her, after your first visit to her cottage?”

“Follow her? No. I had no reason to think that she

would go anywhere. She seems to spend all her time

staring out of her window at the Ives’ gravestone.”

“You had
every
reason to think she would go

somewhere, or that someone would come to her,” said

Poirot severely. “Think, Catchpool. She would not

tell you about Patrick and Frances Ive on the first day

that you spoke to her,
n’est-ce pas
? ‘Come back

tomorrow,’ she said. When you did, she told you the

whole story. Did it not strike you that the reason for

this postponement might have been her desire to

consult with another person?”

“No. As a matter of fact, it didn’t. She struck me as

a woman who would want to think carefully and not

rush an important decision. Also as a woman

determined to make up her own mind, not one who

would rush to a friend for advice. Hence, I suspected

nothing.”

“I, on the other hand, suspect,” said Poirot. “I

suspect that Margaret Ernst wished to discuss with

Dr. Ambrose Flowerday what she ought to say.”

“Well, it would likely be him if it were anyone,” I

conceded. “She certainly brought his name into the

conversation plenty of times. She clearly admires

him.”

“Yet you did not go in search of Dr. Flowerday.”

Poirot made a small snorting sound. “You were too

honorable to do so, having made your vow of silence.

And is it your English sense of decorum that causes

you to substitute the word ‘admire’ for the word

‘love?’ Margaret Ernst
loves
Ambrose Flowerday—

this is clear from what you have told me! She is filled

with passionate emotion when discussing this vicar

and his wife
that she never once met
? No, her

passion is for Dr. Flowerday—she feels
his
feelings

about the tragically deceased Reverend Ive and his

wife—they were
his
dear friends. Do you see,

Catchpool?”

I gave a noncommittal grunt. Margaret Ernst had

seemed to me to be passionate about the principles at

stake as much as anything else—about the idea of the

injustice that had been done to the Ives—but I knew

that to say so would be foolish. Poirot would only

lecture me about my inability to recognize amorous

feelings. To give him something to think about apart

from my countless mistakes and inadequacies, I told

him about my visit to Pleasant’s, and what Fee Spring

had told me. “What do you think it means?” I asked as

our car bumped over something bulky that must have

been lying on the road.

Once more, Poirot ignored my question. He asked

me if I had told him everything.

“Everything that took place in Great Holling, yes.

The only other news is the inquest, which was today.

The three victims were poisoned. Cyanide, as we

thought. Here’s a strange puzzle, though: no recently

consumed food was found in their stomach contents.

Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus had

not eaten for several hours before they were

murdered. Which means we have a missing afternoon

tea for three to account for.”

“Ah! That is one mystery solved.”

“Solved? I’d say it was a mystery created. Am I

wrong?”

“Oh, Catchpool,” said Poirot sadly. “If I tell you

the answer, if I take pity on you, you will not hone

your ability to think for yourself—and you must! I

have a very good friend that I have not spoken of to

you. Hastings is his name. Often I entreat him to use

his little gray cells, but I know that they will never be

a match for mine.”

I thought he was limbering up to give me a

compliment—“
You
, on the other hand . . .” —but then

he said, “Yours, too, will never match mine. It is not

the intelligence that you lack, nor the sensitivity, nor

even the originality. It is merely the confidence.

Instead of looking for the answer, you look around for

somebody to find it and tell it to you—
eh bien,
you

find Hercule Poirot! But Poirot is not only a solver of

puzzles,
mon ami
. He is also a guide, a teacher. He

wishes you to learn to think for yourself, as he does.

As does this woman that you describe, Margaret

Ernst, who relies not upon the Bible but upon her own

judgment.”

“Yes. I thought that rather arrogant of her,” I said

pointedly. I would have liked to elaborate, but we had

arrived at the Bloxham Hotel.