The Monogram Murders(25)

“Yes, sir, numbers. Like, you know, one hundred, two hundred . . .”

“I know what numbers are,” I said brusquely.

“Were those, in fact, the numbers you saw on the keys, Mr. Kidd?” Poirot asked. “One hundred and two hundred?”

“No, sir. One of them was a hundred and summat, if I’m not mistaking. The other . . .” Kidd scratched his head vigorously. Poirot averted his eyes. “It was three hundred and summat, I think, sir. Though I couldn’t swear to it, you understand. But that’s what I’m seeing now in my mind’s eye: one hundred and summat, three hundred and summat.”

Room 121, Harriet Sippel’s room. And Ida Gransbury’s, Room 317.

I felt a hollow space open up in my stomach. I recognized the sensation: it was how I had felt when I first saw the three dead bodies and was told by the police doctor that a gold monogrammed cufflink had been found in each of their mouths.

It now seemed likely that Samuel Kidd had been within inches of the murderer last night. A frightful-looking lady. I shivered.

“This woman that you saw,” said Poirot, “did she have fair hair and a brown hat and coat?”

He was, of course, thinking of Jennie. I still believed there was no link, but I could see Poirot’s reasoning: Jennie had been running around London last night in a state of great agitation and so had this other lady. It was just about possible they were one and the same person.

“No, sir. She had a hat on but it were pale blue, and her hair were dark. Curled and dark.”

“How old was she?”

“Wouldn’t like to guess a lady’s age, sir. Between young and old, I’d say.”

“Apart from the blue hat, what was she wearing?”

“Can’t say I took that in, sir. I was too busy looking at her face when I could.”

“Was she pretty?” I asked.

“Yes, but I wasn’t looking for that reason, sir. I was looking because I know her, see. I took one look and I thought to meself, ‘Sammy, you know that lady.’ ”

Poirot shifted in his chair. He looked at me, then back at Kidd. “If you know her, Mr. Kidd, please tell us who she is.”

“I can’t, sir. That’s what I was trying to get straight in my head when she ran away. I don’t know how I know her, or her name, or nothing like that. It’s not from making boilers I know her, I can say that much. She looked refined. A proper lady. I don’t know anybody like that, but I do know her. That face—it’s not a face I saw last night for the first time. No, sir.” Samuel Kidd shook his head. “It’s a puzzle all right. I might have asked her, if she’d not run away.”

I wondered, out of all the people who ever ran away, how many did so for that very reason: because they would rather not be asked, whatever the question might be.

SHORTLY AFTER I HAD sent Samuel Kidd packing with orders to search his memory for the name of this mysterious woman and details of where and when he might have made her acquaintance, Constable Stanley Beer delivered Henry Negus to Pleasant’s.

Mr. Negus was considerably more pleasing to the eye than Samuel Kidd: a handsome man of around fifty with iron-gray hair and a wise face. He was smartly dressed and soft spoken. I liked him instantly. His grief at the loss of his brother was palpable, though he was a model of self-control throughout our conversation.

“Please accept my condolences, Mr. Negus,” said Poirot. “I am so sorry. It is a terrible thing to lose one so close as a brother.”

Negus nodded his gratitude. “Anything I can do to help—anything at all—I will gladly do. Mr. Catchpool says that you have questions for me?”

“Yes, monsieur. The names Harriet Sippel and Ida Gransbury—they are familiar to you?”

“Were they the other two who were. . . ?” Henry Negus stopped talking as Fee Spring approached with the cup of tea he had asked for on arrival.

Once she had retreated, Poirot said, “Yes. Harriet Sippel and Ida Gransbury were also murdered at the Bloxham Hotel yesterday evening.”

“The name Harriet Sippel means nothing to me. Ida Gransbury and my brother were engaged to be married years ago.”

“So you knew Mademoiselle Gransbury?” I heard the flare of excitement in Poirot’s voice.

“No, I never met her,” said Henry Negus. “I knew her name, of course, from Richard’s letters. He and I rarely saw one another while he lived in Great Holling. We wrote instead.”

I felt another piece of the puzzle slide into position with a satisfying click. “Richard lived in Great Holling?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice even. If Poirot shared my surprise at this discovery, he did not show it.

One village, linking all three murder victims. I repeated its name several times in my mind: Great Holling, Great Holling, Great Holling. Everything seemed to point in its direction.

“Yes, Richard lived there until 1913,” said Negus. “He had a law practice in the Culver Valley. It’s where he and I grew up—in Silsford. Then in 1913 he came to live in Devon with me, where he’s lived ever since. I mean . . . where he lived,” he corrected himself. His face looked suddenly haggard, as if the knowledge of his brother’s death had landed violently upon him once again, crushing him.

“Did Richard ever mention to you anyone from the Culver Valley by the name of Jennie?” asked Poirot. “Or anyone at all with that name, perhaps from Great Holling or perhaps not?”