The Monogram Murders(73)
Beds, and deathbeds . . .
Patterns, and the disruption of patterns . . .
“Richard Negus committed suicide,” I heard myself declare. “He must have. He tried to make it look like murder—the same pattern as the other two, so that we would suspect the same killer—but he had to lock his door from the inside. Then he hid the key behind a fireplace tile to make it look as if the murderer had taken it, and opened a window to its full extent. If the hidden key was ever found, we would have wondered, as we did, why the murderer chose to lock the door from the inside, hide the key in the room and escape via the window, but we would still have believed there was a murderer. That was all that mattered to Negus. Whereas if the window was shut and by some chance the key was found, we would draw the only possible conclusion: that Richard Negus had taken his own life. He couldn’t risk our arriving at that conclusion—do you see? If we did, then the framing of Nancy Ducane for all three deaths would fail. We would be more likely to assume that Negus killed Harriet Sippel and Ida Gransbury before killing himself.”
“Yes,” said Jennie. “I think you are right.”
“The different positioning of the cufflink . . .” Poirot murmured before raising his eyebrows at me, indicating that he wished me to continue.
I said, “The cufflink was close to Negus’s throat because his death convulsions from the poison caused his mouth to open. He had carefully positioned himself in a straight line on the floor and placed the cufflink between his lips, but it fell to the back of his mouth. Unlike Harriet Sippel and Ida Gransbury, Richard Negus did not have a killer present when he died, and so the cufflink could not be carefully positioned in the agreed place.”
“Mademoiselle Jennie, you believe that Mr. Negus would swallow the poison, lie down and die without first attempting to discover why you had failed to arrive at the hotel?” Poirot asked her.
“I did not think he would, until I read of his death in the newspaper.”
“Ah.” Poirot’s expression was unreadable.
“For so long, Richard had been expecting to die on that Thursday night, looking forward to the end of his guilt and torment after so many years,” said Jennie. “I believe that all he wanted, once he arrived at the Bloxham, was for it to be over for him, and so, when I did not arrive to kill him as planned, he did it himself.”
“Thank you, mademoiselle.” Poirot rose to his feet. He wobbled a little to find his balance after so long in a seated position.
“What will happen to me, Monsieur Poirot?”
“Please stay here in this house until I or Mr. Catchpool return with more information. If you make the mistake of running away a second time, things will go very badly for you.”
“As they will if I stay put,” said Jennie. There was a blank, faraway look in her eyes. “It’s all right, Mr. Catchpool, you needn’t be sorry for me. I am prepared.”
Her words, no doubt intended to reassure me, filled me with dread. She had the manner of one who had looked into the future and seen terrible events contained within it. Whatever they were, I knew that I was not prepared and did not wish to be.
All the Devils Are Here
APART FROM TELLING ME twice that we must go to Great Holling without delay, Poirot remained silent all the way home. He looked preoccupied, and it was clear that he did not want to talk.
We arrived at the lodging house to find young Stanley Beer waiting for us. “What is the matter?” Poirot asked him. “Are you here about the work of art I created?”
“Pardon, sir? Oh, your crest? No, that was perfectly all right, sir. As a matter of fact . . .” Beer reached into his pocket and handed over an envelope. “You’ll find your answer in there.”
“Thank you, Constable. But then it must be that something else is wrong? You are anxious, non?”
“Yes, sir. We’ve had word at Scotland Yard from an Ambrose Flowerday, the Great Holling village doctor. He’s asked for Mr. Catchpool to go there immediately. He says he’s needed.”
Poirot looked at me, then turned back to Stanley Beer. “It was our intention to go there immediately. Do you know what has provoked Dr. Flowerday to request Catchpool’s presence?”
“I’m afraid I do. It’s not a happy business, sir. A woman by the name of Margaret Ernst has been attacked. She is likely to die—”
“Oh, no,” I murmured.
“—and she says she needs to see Mr. Catchpool before she does. After speaking to Dr. Flowerday, I would advise you to hurry, sir. There’s a car waiting outside to take you to the station.”
Thinking of Poirot’s methodical nature and his dislike of any hectic activity, I said, “Might we take half an hour to ready ourselves?”
Beer looked at his watch. “Five, ten minutes at a stretch, but no longer, sir—not if you want to catch the next train.”
I must admit with some shame that, in the event, Poirot was downstairs with his suitcase before I was. “Hurry, mon ami,” he urged.
In the car, I decided that I needed to speak, even if Poirot was not feeling talkative. “If I had only stayed away from that infernal village, Margaret Ernst would not have been attacked,” I said grimly. “Someone must have seen me go to her cottage and noticed how long I stayed.”
“You stayed long enough for her to tell you everything, or nearly everything. What is achieved by trying to kill her when she has already shared her knowledge with the police?”