The Monogram Murders(56)

Once we were on our way, Poirot said, “I hoped very much to prevent a fourth murder, mon ami. I have failed.”

“I wouldn’t look at it that way,” I said.

“Non?”

“You did all you could. Just because the killer succeeded, it does not mean you failed.”

Poirot’s face was a mask of contempt. “If that is your opinion, then you must be every murderer’s favorite policeman. Of course I have failed!” He raised his hand to stop me from speaking. “Please, say no more absurd things. Tell me about your stay in Great Holling. What did you discover, apart from the surname of Jennie?”

I told him all about my trip, feeling gradually more like my normal self as I went on, making sure to leave out no detail that a thorough chap like Poirot might consider relevant. As I spoke, I noticed the strangest thing: his eyes were growing greener. It was as if someone were shining small torches on them from inside his head, to make them glow brighter.

When I had finished, he said, “So, Jennie was a bed-maker for Patrick Ive at the University of Cambridge’s Saviour College. That is most interesting.”

“Why?”

No answer was forthcoming, only another question.

“You did not lie in wait for Margaret Ernst and follow her, after your first visit to her cottage?”

“Follow her? No. I had no reason to think that she would go anywhere. She seems to spend all her time staring out of her window at the Ives’ gravestone.”

“You had every reason to think she would go somewhere, or that someone would come to her,” said Poirot severely. “Think, Catchpool. She would not tell you about Patrick and Frances Ive on the first day that you spoke to her, n’est-ce pas? ‘Come back tomorrow,’ she said. When you did, she told you the whole story. Did it not strike you that the reason for this postponement might have been her desire to consult with another person?”

“No. As a matter of fact, it didn’t. She struck me as a woman who would want to think carefully and not rush an important decision. Also as a woman determined to make up her own mind, not one who would rush to a friend for advice. Hence, I suspected nothing.”

“I, on the other hand, suspect,” said Poirot. “I suspect that Margaret Ernst wished to discuss with Dr. Ambrose Flowerday what she ought to say.”

“Well, it would likely be him if it were anyone,” I conceded. “She certainly brought his name into the conversation plenty of times. She clearly admires him.”

“Yet you did not go in search of Dr. Flowerday.” Poirot made a small snorting sound. “You were too honorable to do so, having made your vow of silence. And is it your English sense of decorum that causes you to substitute the word ‘admire’ for the word ‘love?’ Margaret Ernst loves Ambrose Flowerday—this is clear from what you have told me! She is filled with passionate emotion when discussing this vicar and his wife that she never once met? No, her passion is for Dr. Flowerday—she feels his feelings about the tragically deceased Reverend Ive and his wife—they were his dear friends. Do you see, Catchpool?”

I gave a noncommittal grunt. Margaret Ernst had seemed to me to be passionate about the principles at stake as much as anything else—about the idea of the injustice that had been done to the Ives—but I knew that to say so would be foolish. Poirot would only lecture me about my inability to recognize amorous feelings. To give him something to think about apart from my countless mistakes and inadequacies, I told him about my visit to Pleasant’s, and what Fee Spring had told me. “What do you think it means?” I asked as our car bumped over something bulky that must have been lying on the road.

Once more, Poirot ignored my question. He asked me if I had told him everything.

“Everything that took place in Great Holling, yes. The only other news is the inquest, which was today. The three victims were poisoned. Cyanide, as we thought. Here’s a strange puzzle, though: no recently consumed food was found in their stomach contents. Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus had not eaten for several hours before they were murdered. Which means we have a missing afternoon tea for three to account for.”

“Ah! That is one mystery solved.”

“Solved? I’d say it was a mystery created. Am I wrong?”

“Oh, Catchpool,” said Poirot sadly. “If I tell you the answer, if I take pity on you, you will not hone your ability to think for yourself—and you must! I have a very good friend that I have not spoken of to you. Hastings is his name. Often I entreat him to use his little gray cells, but I know that they will never be a match for mine.”

I thought he was limbering up to give me a compliment—“You, on the other hand . . .” —but then he said, “Yours, too, will never match mine. It is not the intelligence that you lack, nor the sensitivity, nor even the originality. It is merely the confidence. Instead of looking for the answer, you look around for somebody to find it and tell it to you—eh bien, you find Hercule Poirot! But Poirot is not only a solver of puzzles, mon ami. He is also a guide, a teacher. He wishes you to learn to think for yourself, as he does. As does this woman that you describe, Margaret Ernst, who relies not upon the Bible but upon her own judgment.”

“Yes. I thought that rather arrogant of her,” I said pointedly. I would have liked to elaborate, but we had arrived at the Bloxham Hotel.