The Monogram Murders(47)
And using correct grammatical constructions, I thought to myself. Oh, please let no one open their mouths. Three mouths, each one with a monogrammed cufflink inside it: grammatically satisfactory. Confound it all, Poirot had probably been right about that too.
“Ambrose said that Jennie altered her voice in imitation of Patrick and Frances Ive. They were both educated, and spoke very well.”
“Margaret, please tell me the truth: why are you so determined that I should not speak to Ambrose Flowerday? Are you afraid of his telling me something you would rather I didn’t know?”
“It would be of no help to you to speak to Ambrose, and it would be a great hindrance to him,” Margaret said firmly. “You have my permission to terrify the life out of any other villagers you come across.” She smiled but her eyes were hard. “They are scared already—the guilty are being picked off one by one, and deep down they must know they are all guilty—but they would be even more afraid if they heard you say that, in your expert opinion, the killer will not be content until all who helped to destroy Patrick and Frances Ive have been dispatched to the fiery pits of hell.”
“That’s rather extreme,” I said.
“I have an unorthodox sense of humor. Charles used to complain about it. I never told him this, but I don’t believe in heaven and hell. Oh, I believe in God, but not the God we hear so much about.”
I must have looked nervous. I did not want to discuss theology; I wanted to return to London as soon as I could and tell Poirot what I had found out.
Margaret continued: “There is only one God, of course, but I don’t believe for a moment that he wants us to follow rules without questioning them, or be unkind to anybody who falls short.” She smiled then with more warmth and said, “I think that God sees the world in the way that I see it, and not at all in the way that Ida Gransbury saw it. Would you agree?”
I gave a noncommittal grunt.
“The Church teaches that only God can judge,” said Margaret. “Why didn’t pious Ida Gransbury point that out to Harriet Sippel and her baying flock? Why did she reserve all of her condemnation for Patrick Ive? If one is going to present oneself as a model of Christianity, one should strive to get the basic teachings right.”
“I see you are still angry about it.”
“I will be angry until my dying day, Mr. Catchpool. Greater sinners persecuting lesser sinners in the name of morality—that’s something worth raging about.”
“Hypocrisy is an ugly thing,” I concurred.
“Besides, one could argue that it cannot be wrong to be with the person you truly love.”
“I’m not sure about that. If a person is married—”
“Oh, fiddlesticks to marriage!” Margaret looked up at the paintings on the parlor wall, then addressed them directly: “I’m sorry, Charles, dear, but if two people love one another, then however inconvenient it is for the Church and however against the rules it might be . . . well, love is love, isn’t it? I know you don’t like it when I say that.”
I can’t say I liked it much either. “Love can cause a whole heap of trouble,” I said. “If Nancy Ducane had not loved Patrick Ive, I would not now have three murders to investigate.”
“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.