The Monogram Murders (49 page)

muttered to myself, checking I had it all straight in my

mind. “So that, when you came to tell us your story—

the one we heard at Mr. Kidd’s house—it all

appeared to fit: Richard Negus hid the key to make it

look as if a murderer had taken it because he was

involved in a plan to frame Nancy Ducane.”

“Which he was,” said Poirot. “Or rather, he

thought he was. When Jennie handed him a glass of

poisoned water, as agreed, he believed she would

stay alive and do her best to ensure that Nancy was

found guilty of the three Bloxham Hotel murders. He

believed that she would speak to the police in such a

way as to ensure that they suspected Nancy. He did

not know that Nancy had arranged a cast-iron alibi

with Lord and Lady Wallace! Or that, after his death,

the cufflink would be pushed to the back of his mouth,

the key hidden behind the tile, the window opened . . .

He did not know that Jennie Hobbs, Nancy Ducane

and Samuel Kidd would arrange it so that it appeared

to the police that the killings must have taken place

between a quarter past seven and ten minutes past

eight!”

“No, Richard was not privy to those details,”

Jennie agreed. “Now you can see why I described

Nancy’s plan as brilliant, Monsieur Poirot.”

“She was a talented artist, mademoiselle. The best

artists, they have the eye for detail and for structure:

how all the components fit together.”

Jennie turned to me. “Neither Nancy nor I wanted

any of this. You have to believe me, Mr. Catchpool.

Richard would have killed me if I had resisted him.”

She sighed. “We had it all worked out. Nancy was

supposed to get off scot-free, and Sam and I were to

be punished for trying to frame Nancy, but not by

death. A short term of imprisonment would suffice,

we hoped. After which we intended to marry.” Seeing

our surprised faces, Jennie added, “Oh, I don’t love

Sam as I loved Patrick, but I am very fond of him. He

would have made a good companion if I had not

ruined it all by stabbing Nancy.”

“It was already ruined, mademoiselle. I knew that

you had murdered Harriet Sippel and Richard

Negus.”

“I did not murder Richard, Monsieur Poirot. That’s

one thing you’re wrong about. Richard wanted to die.

I gave him the poison with his full consent.”

“Yes, but under false pretenses. Richard Negus

agreed to die because
you
agreed to his plan that all

four of you would die. Then it became five when you

involved Nancy Ducane. But you did not
really
agree.

You betrayed him and plotted behind his back. Who

knows whether Richard Negus would have chosen to

die at that moment and in that way if you had told him

the truth of your secret pact with Nancy Ducane.”

Jennie’s expression hardened. “I did not murder

Richard Negus. I killed him as an act of self-defense.

He would have murdered me otherwise.”

“You said that he did not explicitly threaten this.”

“No—but I
knew
it. What do you think, Mr.

Catchpool? Did I murder Richard Negus or not?”

“I don’t know,” I said, confused.

“Catchpool,
mon ami,
do not be absurd.”

“He is not being absurd,” said Jennie. “He is using

his brain where you refuse to, Monsieur Poirot.

Please think about it, I beg of you. Before I hang, I

hope to hear you say that I did not murder Richard

Negus.”

I stood up. “Let us leave now, Poirot.” I wanted to

end the interview while the word “hope” still hung in

the air.

Epilogue

FOUR DAYS LATER I was sitting in front of one of

Blanche Unsworth’s roaring fires, sipping a glass of

brandy and working on my crossword puzzle, when

Poirot walked into the drawing room. He stood

silently by my side for several minutes. I did not look

up.

Eventually

he

cleared

his

throat.

“
Still,

Catchpool,” he said. “Still you avoid the discussion

of whether or not Richard Negus was murdered, was

assisted in taking his own life, or was killed in self-

defense.”

“I hardly see that it would be a profitable debate,”

I said, as my stomach clenched. I did not want to talk

about the Bloxham Murders ever again. What I

wanted—needed
—
was to write about them, to set

down on paper every detail of what had happened. It

mystified me that I was so eager to do the latter and

so reluctant to undertake the former. Why should

writing about a thing be so different from speaking

about it?

“Do not alarm yourself,
mon ami
,” said Poirot. “I

will not raise the matter again. We will talk of other

things. For example, I visited Pleasant’s Coffee

House this morning. Fee Spring asked me to pass the

message to you that she would like to speak to you at

your earliest convenience. She is displeased.”

“With me?”

“Yes. One moment, she says, she is sitting in the

Bloxham Hotel’s dining room hearing the explanation

of everything, and the next it is all over. A murder

takes place in front of all our eyes, and the story, for

our audience, is left incomplete. Mademoiselle Fee

wishes you to relate the tale to her in its fullest form.”

“It’s hardly my fault that there was another

murder,” I muttered under my breath. “Can she not

read the story in the newspapers like everybody

else?”

“
Non.
She wishes to discuss it with you in

particular. For a waitress, her intelligence is

impressive. She is an estimable young woman. Do

you not think so,
mon ami
?”

“I know your game, Poirot,” I said wearily.

“Really, you must desist. You are wasting your time,

as is Fee Spring, assuming . . . Look, buzz off, can’t

you?”

“You are angry with me.”

“A little, yes,” I admitted. “Henry Negus and the

suitcase, Rafal Bobak and the laundry cart, Thomas

Brignell and his lady friend in the hotel garden, who

happened to be wearing a light brown coat like half

the women in England. The wheelbarrow . . .”

“Ah!”

“Yes, ‘ah.’ You knew perfectly well that Jennie

Hobbs wasn’t dead, so why make such an effort to

mislead me into suspecting that her body might have

been removed from room 402 by three of the most

unlikely means imaginable?”

“Because, my friend, I wanted to encourage you to

imagine. If you do not consider the unlikeliest of

possibilities, you will not be the best detective that

you can be. It is the education for the little gray cells,

to force them to move in unusual directions. From this

comes the inspiration.”

“If you insist,” I said doubtfully.

“Poirot, he goes too far, you think—beyond what is

necessary. Perhaps.”

“All that fuss you made about the trail of blood in

room 402 leading from the pool of blood in the center

of the room toward the door, all your exclaiming

about the width of the doorway—what was that

about? You knew that Jennie Hobbs had not been

murdered and dragged anywhere!”

“I did, but you did not. You believed, as did our

friend Signor Lazzari, that Mademoiselle Jennie was

dead and that it was her blood on the floor.
Alors,
I

wanted you to demand of yourself: a suitcase, a

laundry cart on wheels—both of these are objects that

could have been brought into room 402, right to the

spot where the dead body was. Why, then, would a

killer pull the body toward the door? He would not!

She
would not! The trail of blood going in the

direction of the door was a hoax; its aim was to

suggest to us that the body had been dragged out of the

room, since it was not
in
the room. It was the small

detail of verisimilitude, so important to lend credence

to the murder scene.

“But for Hercule Poirot, it was a detail that

allowed him to know what he already strongly

suspected: that Jennie Hobbs had not been murdered

in that room and neither had anybody else. I could

imagine no method of removing a corpse that would

necessitate the trail of blood smears going toward the

door. No killer would take his victim’s body out into

the public corridor of a hotel without first hiding it

inside some sort of receptacle—a container. Every

container I could think of could easily have been

taken into the room, traveling toward the body rather

than requiring the body to travel toward it. It was such

simple logic, Catchpool. I was surprised you did not

grasp this point at once.”

“Handy tip for you, Poirot,” I said. “Next time

you’d like me to grasp something at once, open your

mouth and tell me facts, whatever they are. Be

straightforward about it. You’ll find it saves a lot of

bother.”

He smiled. “
Bien.
From my good friend

Catchpool,

I

shall

endeavor

to

learn

the

c
omportement
straightforward. I start immediately!”

He produced an envelope from his pocket. “This

arrived for me an hour ago. You might not welcome

my interference in your personal affairs, Catchpool—

you may think, ‘Poirot, he sticks in his oar where it is

not wanted’—but this letter expresses gratitude for

that very vice of mine that you find so intolerable.”

“If you’re referring to Fee Spring, she is not my

‘personal affairs’ and never will be,” I said, eyeing

the missive in his hand. “Which poor stick’s private

business have you meddled in now? And gratitude for

what?”

“For bringing together two people who love each

other very much.”

“Who is the letter from?”

Poirot

smiled.

“Dr.

and

Mrs.

Ambrose

Flowerday,” he said. And he handed it to me to read.

THE END

About the Author

SOPHIE HANNAH
is the internationally bestselling

author of nine psychological thrillers, which have

been published in more than twenty countries and

adapted for television. Sophie is an Honorary Fellow

of Lucy Cavendish College, Cambridge.

Visit
www.AuthorTracker.com
for exclusive

information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

www.agathachristie.com

www.sophiehannah.com

Also by Sophie Hannah

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The Truth-Teller’s Lie

The Wrong Mother

The Dead Lie Down

The Cradle in the Grave

The Other Woman’s House

Kind of Cruel

Also by Agatha Christie

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The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

The Hound of Death

The Listerdale Mystery

Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?

Parker Pyne Investigates

Murder Is Easy

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

Crooked House

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Spider’s Web
*

The Unexpected Gues
t
*