The Monogram Murders (42 page)

food at a quarter past seven wasn’t part of it either.”

“That’s right,” said Jennie. Offered a way out of

the trap by her quick-thinking former fiancé, she

appeared to have recovered her composure. “I can

only conclude that my failure to arrive at six as

agreed caused a delay. The others would have wanted

to discuss my failure to present myself. I should have,

in their place. The discussion about what to do might

have taken some time.”

“Ah,
bien sûr
. You did not correct me a few

moments ago, however, when I asserted that the

deaths took place as planned: between a quarter past

seven and eight o’clock. Neither did you say that the

ordering of the very late afternoon tea was not part of

the plan.”

“I’m sorry. I should have corrected you,” said

Jennie. “I’m . . . I mean, this is all rather

overwhelming.”

“You now say that the plan was for the three

killings to take place at six o’clock?”

“Yes, and all be done by fifteen minutes before

seven so that I could get to Pleasant’s by half past.”

“In that case, I have a different question for you,

mademoiselle. Why did the plan require Mr. Kidd to

wait
a full hour
once Harriet, Ida and Richard were

all dead, and once you had left the hotel, before

placing the note on the front desk? Why was it not

agreed that Mr. Kidd should do this at, for example, a

quarter past seven, or even half past seven? Why eight

o’clock?”

Jennie recoiled as if from a blow. “Why
not
eight

o’clock?” she said defiantly. “What was the harm in

waiting a while?

“You ask some daft questions, Mr. Poirot,” said

Sam Kidd.

“No harm whatever in waiting, mademoiselle—I

agree entirely. Therefore we must ask ourselves: why

leave a note at all? Why not wait for the hotel maids

to find the three bodies the following morning?

Jennie? Do not look at Samuel Kidd. Look at Hercule

Poirot! Answer the question.”

“I . . . I don’t know! I think maybe Richard . . .”

“No! Not maybe Richard!” Poirot spoke over her.

“If you will not answer my question, allow me to do

so. You told Mr. Kidd to leave the note on the desk

just after eight because it was
always part of the plan

for the murders to appear to have been committed

between a quarter past seven and eight o’clock
!”

Poirot turned once again to the silent, wide-eyed

crowd. “Let us think about the afternoon tea for three

that was ordered, and delivered to Room 317—Ida

Gransbury’s room. Let us imagine that our three

voluntary victims, puzzled by the absence of Jennie

Hobbs, were unsure what to do, and so went to Ida

Gransbury’s room to discuss the matter. Catchpool, if

you were about to allow yourself to be executed for a

past sin, would you order scones and cakes

immediately beforehand?”

“No. I would be too nervous to eat or drink

anything.”

“Perhaps our trio of executioners thought it

important to keep up their strength for the important

task ahead,” Poirot speculated. “Then, when the food

arrived, they could not bring themselves to eat it. But

to where did all this food disappear?”

“Are you asking me?” said Jennie. “I’m afraid I

don’t know, since I wasn’t there.”

“To return to the timing of these killings,” said

Poirot. “The police doctor’s view was that death

occurred in all three cases between four and half past

eight. Circumstantial evidence later narrowed this

down to between a quarter past seven and ten past

eight.
Eh bien,
let us examine that circumstantial

evidence. The waiter Rafal Bobak saw all three

victims alive at a quarter past seven when he made

his delivery to Room 317, and Thomas Brignell saw

Richard Negus alive at half past seven in the hotel

lobby, when Negus complimented Brignell on his

efficiency, asked him to make sure the tea and cakes

were put on his bill, and requested a sherry. So it

seems that none of the killings can have happened

before fifteen minutes past seven, and that the murder

of Richard Negus cannot have happened before half

past.

“However, there are a handful of details that do

not fit to make the neat picture. First, there is the

disappearing food that we know was not eaten by

Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus. I

do not believe that anyone about to kill for the first

time would imagine he might first want to eat a scone.

So why order food that one has no intention of eating

unless to establish in the eyes of a witness that you

are alive at a quarter past seven
? And why should it

be necessary for our three victims to be seen alive at

that specific time? I can think of just one possible

explanation that is consistent with Jennie Hobbs’s

story: if our conspirators knew, somehow, that Nancy

Ducane had no credible alibi for the hour between a

quarter past seven and a quarter past eight, they might

have wished to make it look as if that was when the

killings took place. But Nancy Ducane has a very

solid alibi for that hour, does she not, Lady Wallace?”

Louisa Wallace rose to her feet. “Yes, she does.

She was with me and my husband until around ten

o’clock that evening, dining in our home.”

“
Merci beaucoup, madame.
Alors,
I can think of

only one reason why it should be of such vital

importance to create the appearance of the three

deaths having taken place between a quarter past

seven and ten past eight: between those times, Jennie

Hobbs has an unshakeable alibi. I, Hercule Poirot,

know perfectly well that she cannot have been at the

Bloxham Hotel then. She was with me at Pleasant’s

Coffee House between thirty-five and fifty minutes

past seven, and I have already spoken about the

traveling times involved.

“I put all this together with my conviction that the

three deaths did not occur between a quarter past

seven and ten minutes past eight, and I begin to

wonder: why go to such trouble to make it look as if

Jennie Hobbs could not have committed these

murders,
unless in fact she did commit them
?”

Jennie leapt up out of her chair. “I didn’t kill

anybody! I swear I didn’t! Of course they died

between quarter past seven and eight o’clock—it’s

clear to everybody but you!”

“Sit down and remain silent, Miss Hobbs, unless I

ask you a direct question,” said Poirot coldly.

Samuel Kidd’s face was contorted with rage.

“You’re making all this up, Mr. Poirot! How do you

know they didn’t order that food because they were

ravenous hungry? Just because you wouldn’t be or I

wouldn’t be, doesn’t mean they weren’t.”

“Then why did they not eat the food, Mr. Kidd?” I

asked. “Where did all those sandwiches and cakes

vanish to?”

“The finest afternoon tea in all of London!”

murmured Luca Lazzari.

“I will tell you where it went, Catchpool,” said

Poirot. “Our murderer made a mistake relating to the

afternoon tea—one of many. If the food had been left

on the plates in Room 317 for the police to find, there

would have been no mystery. It would have been

assumed that the killer arrived and interrupted the

happy occasion before the feast could begin. But the

killer thinks it will arouse suspicion, all that uneaten

food. He does not want anyone to ask the question,

“Why order food and then not eat it?”

“Then what became of the food?” I asked. “Where

did it disappear to?”

“The conspirators removed it from the scene. Oh,

yes, ladies and gentlemen, there was most assuredly a

conspiracy to commit these three murders! In case I

have not yet made it clear: Harriet Sippel, Ida

Gransbury and Richard Negus were all dead long

before a quarter past seven o’clock on the Thursday

in question.”

Luca Lazzari stepped forward. “Monsieur Poirot,

please forgive my intrusion, but I must tell you that

Rafal Bobak, my most loyal of waiters, would not lie.

He saw the three murder victims alive and well when

he delivered the food at a quarter past seven. Alive

and well! You must be mistaken in what you are

saying.”

“I am not mistaken. Though in one respect you are

correct: your waiter Rafal Bobak is indeed an

exemplary witness. He certainly saw three people in

Room 317 when he delivered the afternoon tea—
but

those people were not Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury

and Richard Negus.
”

All over the room there were gasps of shock. I

gave one myself, wracking my brains to think who

else the three might have been. Not Jennie Hobbs, for

she would have been on her way to Pleasant’s Coffee

House at that time. Who, then?

“Poirot,” I said nervously. “Is it your contention

that three people
impersonated
the murder victims in

order to make it look as if they were still alive when

the food was delivered?”

“Not precisely, no. In fact,
two
people

impersonated
two
of the murder victims. The third

person, Ida Gransbury . . . she was not an

impersonation, I am sorry to say. No, she was

unfortunately the real Ida Gransbury. Mr. Bobak, do

you remember what you told me about what you

overheard and what you witnessed when you took the

afternoon tea to Room 317? I recall every word, since

you have given me your account twice. Would you

mind if I repeat it now for the benefit of us all?”

“No, sir, I would not.”

“
Merci.
You arrived to find the three murder

victims apparently alive and talking about people they

knew. You heard Harriet Sippel, or the woman later

referred to as ‘Harriet’ by the man in the room, say,

‘She had no choice, did she? She’s no longer the one

he confides in. He’d hardly be interested in her now

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

mother. No, if she wanted to find out what was going

on in his mind, she had no choice but to receive the

woman he
does
confide in, and talk to her.’ This was

when the man in the room broke off from attending to

you and to the food, and said, ‘Oh, Harriet, that’s

hardly fair. Ida’s easily shocked. Go easy on her.’

Have I been accurate so far, Mr. Bobak?”

“You have, sir.”

“You then told me that
either Ida or Harriet
said

something else that you could not remember, and then

the man you assumed was Richard Negus said, ‘His

mind? I’d argue he has no mind. And I dispute the

old-enough-to-be-his-mother claim. I dispute it

utterly.’ At which point the woman going by the name

of Harriet laughed and said, ‘Well, neither of us can

prove we’re right, so let’s agree to disagree!’

Correct?”

Rafal Bobak confirmed that, once again, Poirot had

got it right.

“
Bon.
May I suggest to you, Mr. Bobak, that the

remark made by
either Ida or Harriet
that you do not

remember was in fact made by Harriet? I am

convinced—absolutely convinced!—that you did not

hear Ida Gransbury speak
one single word
while you

were in that room, and that you did not see her face

because she was sitting with her back facing the

door.”

Bobak frowned, concentrating. Eventually he said,

“I think you are right, Mr. Poirot. No, I did not see the

face of Miss Ida Gransbury. And . . . I don’t think I

heard her speak at all, now that you bring it up.”

“You did not hear her speak, monsieur—for the

simple reason that Ida Gransbury, propped up in a

chair with her back facing the door,
was already

murdered by a quarter past seven. The third person

in Room 317 when you took up the afternoon tea

was a dead woman!
”