“I’m afraid I disagree with you,” I said with some trepidation. “If I had to guess, I should say that the intended meaning was something along these lines: before she let herself go, this chap didn’t especially mind or notice the age difference between them. Maybe it wasn’t quite so visible. However, now that she is no longer in tip-top shape, the chap has moved on to a younger, more attractive companion, the one he now confides in—”
Poirot had begun to speak over me, red faced and impatient. “There is no point in your guessing, Catchpool, when I know! Listen to Poirot! Listen one more time to exactly what was said, and in what order: ‘He’d hardly be interested in her now—she’s let herself go, and she’s old enough to be his mother!’ Reason one that he would no longer be interested in her, followed by reason two! The construction of the sentence makes it clear that both of these unfortunate circumstances that are the case now were once not the case.”
“There is no need to shout at me, Poirot. I have grasped your point, and I still disagree. Not everybody is as precise in their speech as you are. My interpretation has to be the correct one, and yours incorrect, because, as you have pointed out, it makes no sense otherwise. You said it yourself: if she is old enough to be his mother now, then she must always have been old enough to be his mother.”
“Catchpool, Catchpool. How I begin to despair of you! Think of what came later in the same conversation. Rafal Bobak heard Samuel Kidd, posing as Richard Negus, say, ‘I dispute the old-enough-to-be-his-mother claim. I dispute it utterly.’ To which Nancy, posing as Harriet, replied, ‘Well, neither of us can prove we’re right, so let’s agree to disagree!’ But why could neither prove they were right? Surely it is a matter of simple biological fact whether or not a woman is old enough to be a man’s mother? If she is four years older than him, then she is not old enough. No one would dispute this! If she is twenty years older, then she is old enough to be his mother—that is equally certain.”
“What if she were thirteen years older?” said Jennie Hobbs, who had closed her eyes. “Or twelve? One does hear of rare cases . . . That does not apply here, of course.”
So Jennie knew where Poirot was going with all this. I was the only ignorant one in the room.
“Thirteen, twelve—it is irrelevant! One asks a doctor, a medical expert: is it theoretically possible for a female of thirteen, or twelve, to give birth to a child? The answer is either yes or no. Please let us not debate the borderline cases of potential childbearing ages! Have you forgotten the other intriguing statement made by Samuel Kidd in connection with this allegedly younger man: ‘His mind? I’d argue he has no mind.’ No doubt you will say that Mr. Kidd meant nothing more than that the man in question was an imbecile.”
“No doubt I will,” I said peevishly. “Why don’t you tell me what I’m missing, since you’re so much cleverer than I am?”
Poirot made a dismissive clicking noise. “Sacré tonnerre. The couple under discussion in Room 317 were Harriet Sippel and her husband George. The conversation was not a serious debate—it was mockery. George Sippel died when he and Harriet were both very young. Samuel Kidd argues that he has no mind because, if George Sippel exists at all after his death, it is not in human form. He is a ghost, n’est-ce pas? Since the mind is inside the brain, and the soul does not possess human organs, George Sippel the ghost cannot have a mind.”
“I . . . Oh, heavens. Yes, now I see.”
“Samuel Kidd introduces his point of view in the way that he does—‘I would argue . . .’—because he expects Nancy Ducane to disagree. She might well have said, “Of course a ghost must have a mind. Ghosts have agency, do they not, and free will? From where do these things come if not the mind?”
Philosophically, it was an interesting point. In different circumstances, I could imagine taking a view on the matter myself.
Poirot continued: “Nancy’s ‘old-enough-to-be-his-mother’ remark was based on her belief that, when a man dies, his age is then fixed forevermore. In the afterlife, he does not age. George Sippel, if he were to return as a spirit to visit his widow, would be a young man in his twenties, the age he was when he died. And she, as a woman in her forties, is now old enough to be his mother.”
“Bravo,” said Jennie in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “I was not there, but the conversation was continued later in my presence. Monsieur Poirot really is formidably perceptive, Mr. Catchpool. I hope you appreciate him.” To Poirot, she said, “The argument went on . . . oh, just for ever! Nancy insisted she was right, but Sam would not concede the point. He said ghosts do not exist in the dimension of age—they are timeless, so it is incorrect to say that anyone could be old enough to be a ghost’s mother.”
Poirot said to me, “It is distasteful, is it not, Catchpool? When Rafal Bobak delivered the food, Nancy Ducane, with the dead body of Ida Gransbury propped up in a chair beside her, was mocking the woman in whose murder she had conspired earlier that same day. Poor stupid Harriet: her husband is not interested in talking directly to her from beyond the grave. No, he will speak only to Jennie Hobbs, leaving Harriet with no choice if she wants to receive his message: she must meet Jennie at the Bloxham, and, in doing so, meet her own doom.”
“Nobody has ever deserved to be murdered more than Harriet Sippel did,” said Jennie. “I have many regrets. Killing Harriet is not one of them.”
“WHAT ABOUT IDA GRANSBURY?” I asked. “Why did she go to the Bloxham Hotel?”
“Ah!” said Poirot, who never tired of sharing the endless knowledge that he alone seemed to possess. “Ida also accepted an irresistible invitation, from Richard Negus. Not to be put in communication with a dead loved one, but to meet, after sixteen years apart, her former fiancé. It is not hard to imagine what the lure would have been. Richard Negus abandoned Ida and, no doubt, broke her heart. She never married. I expect he alluded in a letter to the possibility of a reconciliation, maybe matrimony. A happy ending. Ida agreed—which lonely individual would not choose to give a second chance to true love?—and Richard told her that he would come to her room at the Bloxham Hotel at half past three or perhaps four o’clock on the Thursday. Do you remember your remark, Catchpool, about arriving at the hotel on Wednesday, so that the whole of Thursday could be devoted to getting murdered? That makes more sense now, yes?”
I nodded. “Negus knew that on the Thursday he would have to commit murder, and also to be killed himself. It is only natural that he would wish to arrive a day early to prepare himself mentally for a double ordeal of that sort.”
“Also to avoid the delayed train or something similar that might have interfered with his plans,” said Poirot.
“So Jennie Hobbs murdered Harriet Sippel, and Richard Negus murdered Ida Gransbury?” I said.
“Oui, mon ami.” Poirot looked at Jennie, who nodded. “At around the same time of day, in rooms 121 and 317 respectively. In both rooms, the same method was used, I imagine, to induce Harriet and Ida to drink the poison. Jennie said to Harriet, and Richard Negus to Ida, ‘You will need a glass of water before you hear what I have to say. Here, let me fetch one for you. You sit down.’ While fetching the water, using the glass next to the basin, Jennie and Negus slipped in the poison. The glasses were then handed to the two victims to drink. Death would have followed shortly thereafter.”
“What about Richard Negus’s death?” I asked.
“Jennie killed him, according to the plan the two of them made.”
“Much of what I told you at Sam’s house was true,” said Jennie. “Richard did write to me after years of silence. He was torn apart by guilt for what he had done to Patrick and Frances, and he saw no way out—no possibility of justice or peace of mind—unless we all paid with our own lives, all four of us who were responsible.”
“He asked you . . . to help him kill Harriet and Ida?” I said, working it out as I spoke.
“Yes. Them, and him, and myself as well. It had to be all of us, he insisted, or else it was meaningless. He did not want to be a murder
er but an executioner—he used that word a lot—and that meant that he and I could not avoid punishment. I agreed with him that Harriet and Ida deserved to die. They were evil. But . . . I didn’t want to die, nor did I want Richard dead. It was enough for me that he was truly sorry for his part in Patrick’s death. I . . . I knew it would have been enough for Patrick too, and for any higher authority that might or might not exist. But there was no way to persuade Richard of this. I saw at once that there was no point trying. He was as intelligent as he always had been, but something in his mind had slipped and turned him peculiar, given him weird ideas. All those years of brooding on it, the guilt . . . He had become a strange species of zealot. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would murder me too if I did not go along with what he was proposing. He didn’t say so explicitly. He didn’t want to threaten me, you see. He was kind to me. What he wanted and needed was an ally. Someone of like mind. He honestly believed I would agree to his scheme because, unlike Harriet and Ida, I was reasonable. He was so certain he was right—that his solution was the only way for all of us. I thought perhaps he was right, but I was afraid. I’m not any more. I don’t know what has changed me. Maybe then, even in my unhappiness, I still entertained the notion that my life might improve. Sadness is different from despair.”
“You knew that you would have to pretend in order to save your life,” said Poirot. “To lie convincingly to Richard Negus—it was your only possible escape from death. You did not know what to do, so you went to Nancy Ducane for help.”
“Yes, I did. And she solved my problem, or so I thought. Her plan was brilliant. Following her advice, I suggested to Richard only one deviation from his proposed plan. His idea was that once Harriet and Ida were dead, he would kill me and then himself. Naturally, as an authoritative man accustomed to being in charge of whatever mattered to him, he wanted to be the one in control until the end.
“Nancy told me I had to persuade Richard that I should kill him rather than have him kill me. ‘Impossible!’ I said. ‘He will never agree.’ But Nancy said that he would if I approached him in the right way. I had to pretend to be more committed to our goal than he was. She was right. It worked. I went to Richard and said that it was not enough for the four of us to die: me, him, Harriet and Ida. Nancy had to be punished too. I pretended that I would be happy to die only once she was dead. She was more evil than Harriet, I said. I related an elaborate tale of how Nancy had callously plotted to seduce Patrick away from his wife, and would not take no for an answer. I told Richard she had confessed to me that her true motive for speaking up at the King’s Head was not to help Patrick but to hurt Frances. She hoped that Frances would take her own life, or abandon Patrick at the very least and return to her father in Cambridge, leaving the way clear for Nancy.”
“More lies,” said Poirot.
“Yes, of course, more lies—but ones suggested to me by Nancy herself, and ones that did the trick! Richard agreed to die before me.”
“And he did not know that Samuel Kidd was involved, did he?” said Poirot.
“No. Nancy and I brought Sam into it. He was part of our plan. Neither of us wanted to climb out of that window and down the tree—we both feared we would fall and break our necks—and after locking the door from the inside and hiding the key behind the tile, that was the only way to leave Room 238. That’s why Sam was needed—that and the impersonation of Richard.”
“And the key had to be hidden behind the tile,” I 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 sitti
ng 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!”
The Monogram Murders Page 29