The Monogram Murders (32 page)

The Older Woman and the Younger

Man

“SO,” SAID POIROT ONCE our visitor had left us and we

were alone. “Nancy Ducane agrees with Margaret

Ernst that the Ives committed suicide, but the official

record is of two accidental deaths. Ambrose

Flowerday told this lie in order to protect the

reputations of Patrick and Frances Ive from further

damage.”

“How extraordinary,” I said. “Margaret Ernst said

nothing about that.”

“I wonder, then, if we have found the reason why

she made you promise not to speak to the doctor.

What if Ambrose Flowerday is proud of the lie he

told—proud enough, maybe, to confess if asked. If

Margaret Ernst wished to protect him . . .”

“Yes,” I agreed. “That could have been the reason

she wanted to steer me away from him.”

“The desire to protect—this I understand only too

well!” Poirot’s voice was fierce with emotion.

“You mustn’t blame yourself about Jennie, Poirot.

You could not have protected her.”

“There you have the wisdom, Catchpool.

Protecting Jennie would have been impossible for

anyone, even Hercule Poirot. It was too late to save

her even before I met her—this I now understand.

Much, much too late.” He sighed. “It is interesting, is

it not, that this time there is blood, when before there

was poison and no blood?”

“What I keep wondering is: where is Jennie’s

body? The Bloxham has been searched from top to

bottom, and nothing!”

“Do not ask yourself where, Catchpool. Where

does not matter.
Ask yourself why.
Whether the body

was removed from the hotel by laundry cart, suitcase

or wheelbarrow, why was it removed? Why was it

not left in the hotel room, as the other three were?”

“Well? What’s the answer? You know what it is,

so tell me.”

“Indeed,” said Poirot. “All of this can be

explained, but I am afraid it is not a happy

explanation.”

“Happy or not, I’d like to hear it.”

“In the fullness of time you will hear everything.

For now I will tell you this: no employee of the

Bloxham Hotel saw either Harriet Sippel, Ida

Gransbury or Richard Negus more than once, apart

from one man: Thomas Brignell. He saw Richard

Negus twice: once when Negus arrived at the hotel on

the Wednesday and Brignell attended to him, and

again on Thursday evening when he bumped into Mr.

Negus in the corridor and Mr. Negus asked him for a

sherry.” Poirot gave a self-satisfied little chuckle.

“Reflect upon that, Catchpool. Do you start to see

what is suggested by that fact?”

“No.”

“Ah!”

“For pity’s sake, Poirot!” Never had one syllable

—
Ah!—
been enunciated in such an infuriating fashion.

“I have told you, my friend: do not expect always

to be given the answer.”

“I’m well and truly stumped! From several angles,

it looks as if Nancy Ducane
must
be our killer, but she

has an alibi from Lady Louisa Wallace. So. Who else

might want to kill Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury,

Richard Negus and now Jennie Hobbs too?” I

stamped up and down the drawing room, angry with

myself because I couldn’t see a way out of the bind.

“And—though I still think you’re crazy to suspect

them—if the murderer is Henry Negus, or Rafal

Bobak, or Thomas Brignell, what could the motive

have been? What connection do any of those people

have to the tragic events in Great Holling sixteen

years ago?”

“Henry Negus has the oldest and most common

motive in the world: money. He told us, did he not,

that his brother Richard had been squandering his

wealth? He told us, also, that his wife would on no

account banish Richard from her home. If Richard

Negus dies, Henry Negus does not have to pay for his

upkeep. If Richard does not die, he might end up

costing his brother a small fortune.”

“And Harriet Sippel and Ida Gransbury? Jennie

Hobbs? Why would Henry Negus kill them too?”

“I do not know, though I could speculate,” said

Poirot. “As for Rafal Bobak and Thomas Brignell—I

can think of no possible motive for either man, unless

one of them is not who he purports to be.”

“I suppose we could do a bit of digging around,” I

said.

“While we are compiling a list of possible

suspects, what about Margaret Ernst and Dr. Ambrose

Flowerday?” Poirot suggested. “They were not in

love with Patrick Ive, but they might nevertheless

have been motivated by the desire to avenge him.

Margaret Ernst was, by her own account, sitting in her

house alone on the night of the murders. And we do

not know where Dr. Flowerday was because you

promised you would not seek him out and—alas!—

you kept your promise. Poirot will have to go to Great

Holling himself.”

“I did say that you ought to come with me,” I

reminded him. “But I suppose if you had, you

wouldn’t have been able to talk to Nancy Ducane and

Rafal Bobak and the others. Incidentally, this younger

man and older woman that Bobak overheard Harriet,

Ida and Richard Negus talking about, assuming we

believe his account—I’ve been pondering, and I’ve

even made a list of all the romantically linked couples

I can think of.” I produced the list from my pocket. (I

will admit that I was hoping to impress Poirot, but

either he wasn’t impressed or else he hid it well.)

“George and Harriet Sippel,” I read aloud.

“Patrick and Frances Ive. Patrick Ive and Nancy

Ducane. William Ducane and Nancy Ducane. Charles

and Margaret Ernst. Richard Negus and Ida

Gransbury. In none of these pairings is the woman

older than the man, certainly not by enough to be

described as ‘old enough to be his mother.’ ”

“Tsk,” said Poirot impatiently. “You do not think,

my friend. How do you know that this couple exists,

with the older woman and the younger man?”

I stared at him, wondering if he had lost his reason.

“Well, Walter Stoakley talked about them at the

King’s Head, and Rafal Bobak overheard—”

“
Non, non,
” Poirot interrupted gracelessly. “You

do not pay attention to the details: in the King’s Head

Inn, Walter Stoakley spoke of
the woman putting an

end to her romantic involvement with the man,
did

he not? Whereas the conversation that Rafal Bobak

overheard between the three murder victims was

about
a man no longer romantically interested in a

woman who still craved his love
. How can these be

the same people, the same couple? The very opposite

must be true: they
cannot possibly
be the same

people!”

“You’re right,” I said, dejected. “I didn’t think of

that.”

“You were too delighted with your pattern—that is

why. A much older woman and much younger man

over
here
, and a much older woman and much

younger man over
there
.
Voilà,
you assume they must

be the same!”

“Yes, I did. Perhaps I’m in the wrong job.”

“
Non.
You are perceptive, Catchpool. Not always,

but sometimes. You have helped to steer me through

the tunnel of confusion. Do you remember when you

said that whatever Thomas Brignell was withholding,

he was doing so for reasons of personal

embarrassment? That was a remark that proved very

helpful to me—very helpful indeed!”

“Well, I’m afraid I’m still in the tunnel and can’t

see a flicker of light at either end.”

“I will make you a promise,” said Poirot.

“Tomorrow, immediately after breakfast, we will pay

a little visit, you and I. After that, you will

comprehend more than you do now. I hope that I will

also.”

“I don’t suppose I am permitted to ask whom we

will be visiting?”

“You may ask,
mon ami
.” Poirot smiled. “I

telephoned to Scotland Yard for the address. It is one

you would recognize, I think, if I told it to you.”

Which, needless to say, he had no intention of

doing.

Knock and See Who Comes to the

Door

AS WE MADE OUR way across town the following

morning to pay our mysterious “visit,” Poirot’s mood

was as changeable as the London weather, which

could not make up its mind between sunny and cloudy.

At one moment he would appear to be pleased with

himself and at ease, and the next he would furrow his

brow as if worrying away at something.

We finally arrived at a modest house on a narrow

street. “Number 3 Yarmouth Cottages,” said Poirot,

standing outside it. “From where do you know this

address, Catchpool? It is familiar to you, no?”

“Yes. Hold on a moment. It will come to me.

That’s right—it’s Samuel Kidd’s address, isn’t it?”

“Indeed. Our helpful witness who saw Nancy

Ducane run from the Bloxham Hotel and drop two

keys,
even though Nancy Ducane could not have

been at the Bloxham Hotel just after eight o’clock

on the night of the murders.
”

“Because she was at Louisa Wallace’s house,” I

agreed. “So we’re here to give Mr. Kidd a scare, are

we, and find out who put him up to lying?”

“
Non.
Mr. Kidd is not at home today. He has gone

to work, I expect.”

“Then . . .”

“Let us play a little game, called Knock-and-See-

Who-Comes-to-the-Door,” said Poirot with an

enigmatic smile. “Go ahead. I would knock myself if

it were not for my gloves. I do not wish to make them

dirty.”

I knocked and waited, wondering why Poirot

expected anyone to come to the door of a house

whose only known occupant was elsewhere. I opened

my mouth to ask him, then closed it again. There was,

of course, no point. Wistfully, I remembered a time

(less than a fortnight ago) when I believed that asking

a straight question of someone who knew the answer

was a worthwhile thing to do.

The front door of number 3 Yarmouth Cottages

opened, and I found myself looking into the large eyes

of a person who was not Samuel Kidd. At first I was

puzzled, for this was a face I did not know. Then I

watched as terror twisted the features, and I knew

who it had to be.

“Good morning, Mademoiselle Jennie,” said

Poirot. “Catchpool, this is Jennie Hobbs. And this,

mademoiselle, is my friend Mr. Edward Catchpool.

You might remember that we talked about him at

Pleasant’s Coffee House. Allow me to express my

profound relief at finding you alive.”

That was when I knew for sure that I knew nothing.

The few paltry scraps of certainty upon which I had

been relying had proved themselves untrustworthy.

How the deuce had Poirot known he would find

Jennie Hobbs here? It was simply impossible! And

yet, here we were.

After Jennie had composed herself and arranged

her expression into something less abject and more

guarded, she invited us into the house and bade us

wait in a small dark room with shabby furniture. She

then excused herself, saying that she would be back

shortly.

“You said it was too late to save her!” I said

angrily to Poirot. “You lied to me.”

He shook his head. “How did I know that I would