The Monogram Murders(38)
“Come back and ask me that question tomorrow.” Her tone was generous but firm.
“To Patrick and Frances Ive?”
“Tomorrow, Mr. Catchpool.”
“What can you tell me about Richard Negus?” I asked.
“Precious little, I’m afraid. He left Great Holling soon after Charles and I arrived. I think he was an authoritative presence in the village—a man people listened to and took advice from. Everybody speaks of him with the greatest respect, apart from Ida Gransbury. She never spoke of him at all after he left both her and Great Holling behind.”
“Was it his decision or hers to call off the marriage plans?” I asked.
“His.”
“How do you know that she never spoke of him afterward? Perhaps to others she did, even if not to you?”
“Oh, Ida wouldn’t have spoken to me about Richard Negus or anything else. I know only what I have been told by Ambrose Flowerday, the village doctor, but there is no more reliable man on earth. Ambrose gets to hear about most things that go on, as long as he remembers to leave the door to his waiting room ajar.”
“Is this the same Dr. Flowerday that I am supposed to forget about? I had better forget his Christian name too, I dare say.”
Margaret ignored my mischievous remark. “I have it on good authority that after Richard Negus abandoned her, Ida resolved never to speak or think of him again,” she said. “She showed no outward signs of upset. People remarked upon it: how strong and resolute she was. She announced her intention to reserve all her love for God thenceforth. She found him to be more reliable than mortal men.”
“Would it surprise you to learn that Richard Negus and Ida Gransbury took afternoon tea together in her hotel room in London last Thursday evening?”
Margaret’s eyes widened. “To hear that the two of them took tea alone together—yes, it would surprise me greatly. Ida was the sort who drew firm lines and did not cross them. By all accounts so was Richard Negus. Having decided he didn’t want Ida as a wife, he is unlikely to have changed his mind, and I cannot think that anything short of prostrate penitence and a renewed declaration of love would have persuaded Ida to agree to a meeting with him in private.”
After a pause, Margaret went on, “But since Harriet Sippel was at the same London hotel, I assume that she too was present at this afternoon tea ceremony?”
I nodded.
“Well, then. The three of them obviously had something to discuss that was more important than the lines any of them had drawn in the past.”
“You have an idea about what that thing might be, don’t you?”
Margaret looked out of the window toward the rows of graves. “Perhaps I shall have some ideas by the time you visit me tomorrow,” she said.
Two Recollections
WHILE I STRUGGLED IN vain to persuade Margaret Ernst to tell me the story of Patrick and Frances Ive before she was ready to do so, Hercule Poirot was at Pleasant’s Coffee House in London, engaged in an effort of equal futility: that of trying to persuade the waitress Fee Spring to tell him what she could not remember.
“All I can tell you’s what I’ve already told you,” she said several times, with increasing weariness. “I noticed something not right about Jennie that night. I tucked it away to fret about later, and now it’s buried somewhere and won’t come out. You pestering me won’t change that, if anything will. Chances are you’ve scared it away for good. You’ve no patience about you, that’s for sure.”
“Please continue to try to retrieve the memory, mademoiselle. It might be important.”
Fee Spring looked over Poirot’s shoulder toward the door. “If it’s memories you’re after, there’ll be a man bringing one in for you soon. He was in round about an hour ago. Shown the way here by a policeman, he was—escorted, like royalty. Must be someone important, I thought. You weren’t here, so I told him to come back now.” She was looking up at the clock that was wedged in between two teapots on a bowed shelf above her head. “I knew you’d be in again at least once today, looking for Jennie when I’ve told you you won’t find her.”
“Did this gentleman tell you his name?”
“No. He was nice and polite, though. Respectful. Not like the one who was all mucky looking and spoke with your voice. He had no right doing that, however clever it was.”
“Pardon, mademoiselle. The man to whom you refer—Mr. Samuel Kidd—he did not speak with my voice. He attempted to replicate it, but no person can replicate the voice of another.”
Fee laughed. “He did yours pretty darn good! I’d not know the difference, with my eyes closed.”
“Then you do not pay attention when people talk,” said Poirot irritably. “Each of us has a speaking voice that is unique, a cadence that belongs to that individual alone.” To illustrate his point, Poirot held up his cup. “As unique as the tremendous coffee of Pleasant’s Coffee House.”
“You’re drinking far too much of it,” said Fee. “It’s not good for you.”
“From where did you get this idea?”
“You can’t see your eyes, Mr. Poirot. I can. You should try drinking a cup of tea once in a while. Tea doesn’t taste like mud, and there’s no such thing as too much of it. Tea’s only ever good for a person.” Having delivered her speech, Fee smoothed down the front of her apron. “And I do listen when people talk—to the words, not the accent. It’s what people say that counts, not whether they say it Belgian-sounding or English-sounding.”