The Monogram Murders

by Sophie Hannah

  “And now,” said Poirot, “another woman who knew and loved Patrick Ive will speak: his former servant, Jennie Hobbs. Mademoiselle Hobbs?”

  Jennie stood up and went to stand where Nancy had stood. She too looked unsurprised to be asked. In a shaking voice, she said. “I loved Patrick Ive as much as Nancy did. But he did not reciprocate my love. To him, I was no more than a loyal servant. It was I who started the wicked rumors about him. I told an unforgivable lie. I was jealous because he loved Nancy and not me. Although I did not kill him with my own hands, I believe that, in slandering him as I did, I caused his death. I and three others: Harriet Sippel, Richard Negus and Ida Gransbury, the three people who were murdered at this hotel. All four of us later came to regret what we had done. We regretted it profoundly. And so we made a plan to put things right.”

  I watched the astonished faces of the Bloxham Hotel staff as Jennie described the same plan that she had described to Poirot and me at Samuel Kidd’s house, as well as how and why it went wrong. Louisa Wallace squealed in horror at the part about framing Nancy Ducane for the three murders and making sure she hanged. “Arranging for an innocent woman to be put to death for three murders she didn’t commit is not righting a wrong!” St. John Wallace called out. “That is depravity!”

  Nobody disagreed with him, at least not out loud. Fee Spring, I noticed, did not look as shocked as most people did. She seemed to be listening intently.

  “I never wanted to frame Nancy,” said Jennie. “Never! You may believe that or not, as you wish.”

  “Mr. Negus,” said Poirot. “Mr. Henry Negus—do you think it likely that your brother Richard would make such a plan as you have heard?”

  Henry Negus stood up. “I would not like to say, Monsieur Poirot. The Richard I knew would not have dreamed of killing anyone, of course, but the Richard who came to live with me in Devon sixteen years ago was not the Richard I knew. Oh, the physicality of him was the same, but he was not the same man on the inside. I’m afraid to say that I never got to know the man that he had become. I cannot, therefore, comment on how likely he was to behave in a particular way.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Negus. And thank you, Miss Hobbs,” Poirot added with a marked absence of enthusiasm. “You may now sit down.”

  He turned to the crowd. “So you see, ladies and gentlemen, that Miss Hobbs’s story, if true, leaves us with no murderer to arrest and convict. Ida Gransbury killed Harriet Sippel—with her permission. Richard Negus killed Ida Gransbury—again, with her permission—and then killed himself when Jennie Hobbs did not arrive to kill him as she was supposed to. He took his own life and made it look like murder by first locking his door and hiding the key behind a loose tile in the fireplace, and then opening the window. The police were supposed to think that the murderer—Nancy Ducane—took the key with her and escaped through the open window and down a tree. But there was no murderer, according to Jennie Hobbs—nobody who killed without permission of the victim!”

  Poirot looked around the room. “No murderer,” he repeated. “However, even if this were true, there would still be two criminals who are alive and deserving of punishment: Jennie Hobbs and Samuel Kidd, who conspired to frame Nancy Ducane.”

  “I hope you’re going to lock them both up, Monsieur Poirot!” called out Louisa Wallace.

  “I do not lock or unlock the prison gate, madame. That is the job of my friend Catchpool and his associates. I unlock only the secrets and the truth. Mr. Samuel Kidd, please stand.”

  Kidd, looking uncomfortable, rose to his feet.

  “Your part in the plan was to place a note on the front desk of this hotel, was it not? ‘MAY THEY NEVER REST IN PEACE. 121. 238. 317.’ ”

  “Yes, sir. It was, like Jennie said.”

  “You had been given the note by Jennie in good time to do this?”

  “Yes. She gave it to me earlier in the day. In the morning.”

  “And you were to put it on the desk when?”

  “Shortly after eight o’clock in the evening, like Jennie said. As soon as I could after eight, but first making sure no one was close enough to see me put it there.”

  “You had this instruction from whom?” Poirot asked.

  “Jennie.”

  “And also from Jennie you had the instruction to plant the room keys in the pocket of Nancy Ducane?”

  “That’s right,” said Kidd in a sullen voice. “I don’t know why you’re asking me all this when she’s only just now finished telling you.”

  “I will explain. Bon. According to the original plan, as we have all heard Jennie Hobbs say, the keys to all three rooms—121, 238 and 317—would be removed from Richard Negus’s room by Jennie after she had killed him, and given to Samuel Kidd, who would place them somewhere that would implicate Nancy Ducane—her coat pocket, as it turned out. But Jennie Hobbs did not go to the Bloxham Hotel at all on the night of the murders, according to her story. She was not brave enough. I therefore ask you, Mr. Kidd: how did you get hold of the keys to rooms 121 and 317?”

  “How did I . . . how did I get hold of the two keys?”

  “Yes. That is the question I asked you. Please answer it.”

  “I . . . well, if you must know, I got hold of those keys thanks to my own wits. I had a word in the ear of a member of the hotel staff and asked if they’d be good enough to let me have a master key. And they did. I then returned it to them, once I’d used it. All discreet, like.”

  I was standing close enough to Poirot to hear the noise of disapproval that he made. “Which member of staff, monsieur? They are all here in this room. Point to the person who gave you this master key.”

  “I can’t remember who it was. A man—that’s all I can tell you. I’ve a pitiful memory for faces.” As he said this, Kidd rubbed the red scratches on his own face with his thumb and forefinger.

  “So, with this master key you let yourself into all three rooms?”

  “No, only Room 238. That’s where all the keys ought to have ended up, waiting for Jennie to take them, but I could only find two. As you’ve said, one was hidden behind a tile in the fireplace. I didn’t like to stay and search the room for the third key, what with Mr. Negus’s body being there and all.”

  “You are lying,” Poirot told him. “It does not matter. You will discover, in due course, that you cannot lie your way out of this predicament. But let us move on. No, do not sit down. I have another question—for you and Jennie Hobbs. It was part of the plan, was it not, that Jennie should bring her tale of mortal fear to me at Pleasant’s Coffee House at just after half past seven on the night of the murders?”

  “Yes,” said Jennie, looking not at Poirot but at Samuel Kidd.

  “Forgive me, then, but I do not understand something important. You were too afraid to go through with the plan, you say, and so you did not arrive at the hotel at six o’clock. Yet the plan went ahead without you, it seems. The only deviation was that Richard Negus killed himself, yes? He put the poison into his own drink, rather than having it put in his drink by you. Is everything that I have said so far correct, mademoiselle?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “In that case, if the only altered detail was Richard Negus killing himself instead of being killed, we can assume that the deaths took place as planned: after the ordering of the sandwiches and scones, between a quarter past seven and eight o’clock. Yes, Miss Hobbs?”

  “That is right,” said Jennie. She did not sound quite as certain as she had a moment ago.

  “Then how, might I ask, can it ever have been part of the plan for you to kill Richard Negus? You have told us that you intended to find me at Pleasant’s Coffee House shortly after half past seven on that same night, knowing I would be there for my regular Thursday evening dinner. It is impossible to get from the Bloxham Hotel to Pleasant’s Coffee House in less than half an hour. It cannot be done, no matter how one travels. So, even if Ida Gransbury had killed Harriet Sippel and Richard Negus had killed Ida Gransbury as soon as was possible after a quart
er past seven, there would not have been time for you to kill Richard Negus in Room 238 after that time, and still arrive at Pleasant’s when you did. Are we supposed to believe that, in all the meticulous planning that you undertook, none of you thought of this practical impossibility?”

  Jennie’s face had turned white. I expect mine had too, though I could not see it myself.

  It was such an obvious flaw in her account that Poirot had pointed out, and yet I had failed to spot it. It simply had not occurred to me.

  The Real Ida Gransbury

  SAMUEL KIDD CHUCKLED, TURNING round so that more people could see him. He said, “Mr. Poirot, for a man who takes pride in his powers of detection, you’re not the sharpest of instruments, are you? I’ve heard Jennie talk about this more often than you have, I think I can safely say. The plan was not for the killings to take place after a quarter past seven. I don’t know where you’ve caught hold of that idea. The plan was for them to happen just after six o’clock. The ordering of 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, t
here 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?”