The Monogram Murders: The New Hercule Poirot Mystery

by Sophie Hannah

  “What a nonsensical thing to say.” Margaret wrinkled her nose at me. “It is hate that makes people kill, Mr. Catchpool, not love. Never love. Please be rational.”

  “I have always believed that the hardest rules to follow are the best tests of character,” I told her.

  “Yes, but what aspect of our characters do they test? Our credulity, perhaps. Our cloth-headed idiocy. The Bible, with all its rules, is simply a book written by a person or people. It ought to carry a disclaimer, prominently displayed: ‘The word of God, distorted and misrepresented by man.’ ”

  “I must go,” I said, uncomfortable about the turn our discussion had taken. “I have to get back to London. Thank you for your time and your help. It has been invaluable.”

  “You must forgive me,” Margaret said as she followed me to her front door. “I do not usually speak my mind quite so bluntly, apart from when I am speaking to Ambrose and Charles-on-the-wall.”

  “I suppose I should feel honored, in that case,” I said.

  “I have spent my whole life following most of the rules in the dusty old Book, Mr. Catchpool. That is how I know it’s a foolish thing to do. Whenever lovers throw caution to the wind and meet when they ought not to . . . I admire them! And whoever murdered Harriet Sippel, I admire that person too. I can’t help it. That doesn’t mean that I condone murder. I don’t. Now, go away before I become even more outspoken.”

  As I walked back to the King’s Head, I thought to myself that a conversation was a strange thing that could take you almost anywhere. Often you were left stranded miles from where you had started, with no idea about how to get back. Margaret Ernst’s words rang in my ears as I walked: However against the rules it might be, love is love, isn’t it?

  At the King’s Head, I strode past a snoring Walter Stoakley and a pruriently peering Victor Meakin and went upstairs to pack my things.

  I caught the next train to London and bade a joyous farewell to Great Holling as the train pulled out of the station. As happy as I was to be leaving the village, I wished I could have spoken to the doctor, Ambrose Flowerday. What would Poirot say when I told him about my promise to Margaret Ernst? He would disapprove, for sure, and say something about the English and their foolish sense of honor, and I would no doubt hang my head and mumble apologetically rather than voice my true opinion on the matter, which is that one always manages to extract more information from people in the end if one respects their wishes. Let people think that you have no wish to force them to tell you what they know, and it’s surprising how often they approach you of their own accord in due course with the very answers you were looking for.

  I knew Poirot would disapprove, and I decided not to care. If Margaret Ernst could disagree with God, then it was perfectly all right for me to disagree with Hercule Poirot occasionally. If he wished to interview Dr. Flowerday, he could go to Great Holling and speak to the man himself.

  I hoped that it would not be necessary. Nancy Ducane was the person we needed to concentrate on. That and saving the life of Jennie, assuming we were not too late. I was full of remorse on account of having dismissed the possible danger to her. If we did manage to save her, the credit would be all Poirot’s. If we solved the three Bloxham Hotel murders satisfactorily, that would be down to Poirot too. Officially, at Scotland Yard, it would be noted as one of my successes, but everyone would know that it was Poirot’s triumph and not mine. Indeed, it was thanks to my bosses’ knowledge of Poirot’s involvement in the case that they were content to leave me to my own—or rather, to my Belgian friend’s—devices. It was the famous Hercule Poirot they trusted to do as he wished, not me.

  I started to wonder if I might not prefer to fail alone and entirely under my own steam than succeed only thanks to Poirot’s involvement, and I fell asleep before I had reached a conclusion.

  I had a dream—my first on a train—about being condemned by everybody I knew for something I hadn’t done. In it, I saw my own gravestone clearly, with my name instead of Patrick and Frances Ives’ carved on it, and the “slander’s mark” sonnet beneath. In the earth beside the grave, there was a glint of metal, and I knew somehow that it was a cufflink bearing my initials that was partially buried there. I woke as the train pulled into London, bathed in sweat, my heart beating fit to burst from my chest.

  Nancy Ducane

  I DIDN’T KNOW, OF course, that Poirot was already aware of the probable involvement of Nancy Ducane in our three murders. As I made my escape from Great Holling by train, Poirot was busy making arrangements, with the help of Scotland Yard, to visit Mrs. Ducane in her London home.

  This he managed to do later that same day, with Constable Stanley Beer as his escort. A young maid in a starched apron answered the door of the large white stucco townhouse in Belgravia. Poirot was expecting to be shown to a tasteful drawing room where he would wait to be seen, and he was surprised to find Nancy Ducane herself standing in the hall at the foot of the stairs.

  “Monsieur Poirot? Welcome. I see you have brought a policeman with you. This all seems rather unusual, I must say.”

  Stanley Beer made a strange noise in his throat and turned beet red. Nancy Ducane was an unusually beautiful woman with a peaches-and-cream complexion, lustrous dark hair and deep blue eyes with long lashes. She looked to be somewhere in the region of forty and was stylishly dressed in peacock blues and deep greens. For once in his life, Poirot was not the most elegantly attired person present.

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Madame Ducane.” He bowed. “I am in awe of your artistic abilities. I have been fortunate enough to see one or two of your paintings in exhibitions in recent years. You have a talent most rare.”

  “Thank you. That is kind of you. Now, if you will give your overcoats and hats to Tabitha here, we can find somewhere comfortable to sit and talk. Would you care for some tea or coffee?”

  “Non, merci.”

  “Very well. Follow me.”

  They proceeded to a small sitting room that I was pleased only to hear about later and not to have to sit in myself, since Poirot reported it as being full of portraits. All those watchful eyes hanging on the wall . . .

  Poirot asked if all of the paintings were by Nancy Ducane.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Very few of these are mine. I buy as many as I sell, which is as it should be, I think. Art is my passion.”

  “It is one of mine also,” Poirot told her.

  “Looking at nothing but one’s own pictures would be unbearably lonely. I always think when I hang a painting by another artist that it’s like having a good friend on my wall.”

  “D’accord. You put it succinctly, madame.”

  Once they were all seated, Nancy said, “May I get straight to the point and ask what has brought you here? You said on the telephone that you would like to search my house. You are welcome to do so, but why is there a need?”

  “You might have read in the newspapers, madame, that three guests of the Bloxham Hotel were murdered last Thursday night.”

  “At the Bloxham?” Nancy laughed. Then her face fell. “Oh, heavens—you’re serious, aren’t you? Three? Are you sure? The Bloxham’s a super place, I’ve always thought. I can’t imagine murders happening there.”

  “So you know the hotel?”

  “Oh yes. I’m often there for afternoon tea. Lazzari, the manager—he’s a darling. They’re famous for their scones, you know—the best in London. I’m sorry . . .” She broke off. “I don’t mean to babble about scones if three people have really been murdered. That’s terrible. I don’t see what it has to do with me, though.”

  “Then you have not read about these deaths in the newspapers?” Poirot asked.

  “No.” Nancy Ducane’s mouth set in a line. “I don’t read newspapers and I won’t have them in the house. They are full of misery. I avoid misery if I can.”

  “So you do not know the names of the three murder victims?”

  “No. Nor do I wish to.” Nancy shuddered.

&n
bsp; “I am afraid I must tell you whether you wish it or not. Their names were Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus.”

  “Oh, no, no. Oh, Monsieur Poirot!” Nancy pressed her hand against her mouth. She was unable to speak for almost a full minute. Eventually she said, “This is not some sort of joke, is it? Please say that it is.”

  “It is not a joke. I am very sorry, madame. I have distressed you.”

  “Hearing those names has distressed me. Whether they’re dead or alive, it doesn’t matter to me, as long as I don’t have to think about them. You see, one tries to avoid upsetting things, but one doesn’t always succeed, and . . . I am more averse to unhappiness than most people.”

  “You have suffered very much in your life?”

  “I do not wish to discuss my private affairs.” Nancy turned away.

  It would not have done Poirot any good whatever to state that his wishes were the precise opposite of hers in this respect. Nothing fascinated him more than the private passions of strangers he would probably never meet again.

  Instead he said, “Then let us return to the business of the police investigation that brings me here. You are familiar with the names of the three murder victims?”

  Nancy nodded. “I used to live in a village called Great Holling, in the Culver Valley. You won’t know it. Nobody does. Harriet, Ida and Richard were neighbors of mine. I haven’t seen or heard tell of them for years. Not since 1913, when I moved to London. Have they really been murdered?”

  “Oui, madame.”

  “At the Bloxham Hotel? But what were they doing there? Why had they come to London?”

  “That is one of the many questions for which I do not yet have an answer,” Poirot told her.

  “It makes no sense, them getting killed.” Nancy sprang up from her chair and started to walk back and forth between the door and the far wall. “The only person who would do it didn’t do it!”

  “Who is that person?”

  “Oh, pay no attention to me.” Nancy returned to her chair and sat down again. “I’m sorry. Your news has shocked me, as you see. I can’t help you. And . . . I don’t mean to be rude, but I think I should like you to leave now.”

  “Were you referring to yourself, madame, as the only person who would commit these three murders? And yet you did not?”

  “I did not . . .” Nancy said slowly, her eyes flitting around the room. “Ah, but now I see what you’re about. You’ve heard some story or other and you think I killed them. And that is why you wish to search my house. Well, I didn’t murder anybody. Search to your heart’s content, Monsieur Poirot. Ask Tabitha to take you through every room—there are so many, you’ll miss one if you don’t have her as a guide.”

  “Thank you, madame.”

  “You will find nothing incriminating because there’s nothing to find. I wish you would leave! I can’t tell you how you have upset me.”

  Stanley Beer rose to his feet. “I’ll make a start,” he said. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Ducane.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.

  “You’re clever, aren’t you?” Nancy Ducane said to Poirot as if this counted as a point against him. “As clever as people say you are. I can tell by your eyes.”

  “I am thought to have a superior mind, oui.”

  “How proud you sound. In my opinion, a superior mind counts for nothing unless accompanied by a superior heart.”

  “Naturellement. As lovers of great art, we must believe this. Art speaks to the heart and soul more than to the mind.”

  “I agree,” said Nancy quietly. “You know, Monsieur Poirot, your eyes . . . they are more than clever. They’re wise. They go back a long way. Oh, you won’t know what I mean by that, but it’s true. They would be wonderful in a painting, though I can never paint you, not now that you have brought those three dreaded names into my home.”

  “That is unfortunate.”

  “I blame you,” Nancy said bluntly. She clasped her hands together. “Oh, I suppose I might as well tell you: I was talking about myself before. I am the person who would murder Harriet, Ida and Richard if anyone did, but, as you heard me say, I did not. So I don’t understand what can have happened.”

  “You disliked them?”

  “Loathed them. Wished them dead many a time. Oh, my!” Nancy clapped her hands to her cheeks suddenly. “Are they really dead? I suppose I should feel thrilled, or relieved. I want to be happy about it, but I can’t be happy while thinking about Harriet, Richard and Ida. Isn’t that a fine irony?”

  “Why did you dislike them so?”

  “I would rather not discuss it.”

  “Madame, I would not ask if I did not judge it necessary.”

  “Nevertheless, I am unwilling to answer.”

  Poirot sighed. “Where were you on Thursday evening of last week, between a quarter past seven and eight o’clock?”

  Nancy frowned. “I haven’t the faintest idea. I have enough trouble remembering what I need to do this week. Oh, wait. Thursday, of course. I was across the road, at my friend Louisa’s house. Louisa Wallace. I had finished my portrait of her, so I took it round there and stayed for dinner. I think I was there from about six until nearly ten. I might have even stayed longer if Louisa’s husband St. John had not been there too. He’s an appalling snob. Louisa is such a darling, she’s incapable of recognizing fault in anyone—you must know the type. She likes to believe that St. John and I are desperately fond of one another because we’re both artists, but I can’t abide him. He’s certain that his sort of art is superior to mine, and he takes every opportunity to tell me so. Plants and fish—that’s what he paints. Dreary old leaves and chilly-eyed cods and haddocks!”

  “He is a zoological and botanical artist?”

  “I am not interested in any painter who never paints a human face,” said Nancy flatly. “I’m sorry, but there it is. St. John insists that you can’t paint a face without telling a story, and once you start to impose a story, you inevitably distort the visual data, or some such nonsense! What is wrong with telling a story, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Will St. John Wallace tell me the same story that you have told me about last Thursday evening?” asked Poirot. “Will he confirm that you were in his house between six and nearly ten o’clock?”

  “Of course. This is absurd, Monsieur Poirot. You’re asking me all the questions you would ask a murderer, and I’m not one. Who has told you that these murders must have been committed by me?”

  “You were seen running from the Bloxham Hotel in a state of agitation shortly after eight o’clock. As you ran, you dropped two keys on the ground. You bent to pick them up, then ran away. The witness who saw you, he recognized your face from the newspapers and identified the famous artist Nancy Ducane.”

  “That is simply impossible. Your witness is mistaken. Ask St. John and Louisa Wallace.”

  “I shall, madame. Bon, now I have another question for you: are the initials PIJ familiar to you, or perhaps PJI? It could be somebody else from Great Holling.”

  All the color drained from Nancy’s face. “Yes,” she whispered. “Patrick James Ive. He was the vicar.”

  “Ah! This vicar, he died tragically, did he not? His wife too?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “I won’t talk about it. I won’t!”

  “It is of the utmost importance. I must implore you to tell me.”

  “I shan’t!” cried Nancy. “I couldn’t if I tried. You don’t understand. I haven’t spoken of it for so long, I . . .” Her mouth opened and closed for a few seconds, while no words came out. Then her face twisted in pain. “What happened to Harriet, Ida and Richard?” she asked. “How were they killed?”

  “With poison.”

  “Oh, how awful! But fitting.”

  “How so, madame? Did Patrick Ive and his wife die as a result of poisoning?”

  “I won’t talk about them, I tell you!”

  “Did you also know
a Jennie in Great Holling?”

  Nancy gasped and put her hand to her throat. “Jennie Hobbs. I have nothing to say about her, nothing whatsoever. Do not ask me another question!” She blinked away tears. “Why do people have to be so cruel, Monsieur Poirot? Do you understand it? No, don’t answer! Let us talk about something else, something uplifting. We must talk about art since we both love it.” Nancy stood and walked over to a large portrait that hung to the left of the window. It was of a man with unruly black hair, a wide mouth and a cleft chin. He was smiling. There was a suggestion of laughter.

  “My father,” said Nancy. “Albinus Johnson. You might know the name.”

  “It is familiar, though I cannot immediately place it,” said Poirot.

  “He died two years ago. I last saw him when I was nineteen. I am now forty-two.”

  “Please accept my condolences.”

  “I didn’t paint it. I don’t know who did, or when. It isn’t signed or dated, so I don’t think much of the artist, whoever he is—an amateur—but . . . it’s my father smiling, and that’s why it’s up on the wall. If he had smiled more in real life . . .” Nancy broke off and turned to face Poirot. “You see?” she said. “St. John Wallace is wrong! It is the job of art to replace unhappy true stories with happier inventions.”

  There was a loud knock at the door, followed by the reappearance of Constable Stanley Beer. Poirot knew what was coming from the way that Beer looked only at him and avoided Nancy’s eye. “I’ve found something, sir.”

  “What is it?”

  “Two keys. They were in a coat pocket, a dark blue coat with fur cuffs. The maid tells me it belongs to Mrs. Ducane.”

  “Which two keys?” asked Nancy. “Let me see them. I don’t keep keys in coat pockets, ever. I have a drawer for them.”

  Beer still didn’t look at her. Instead, he approached Poirot’s chair. When he was standing beside him, he opened his closed fist.

  “What has he got there?” said Nancy impatiently.

  “Two keys with room numbers engraved upon them, belonging to the Bloxham Hotel,” said Poirot in a solemn voice. “Room 121 and Room 317.”